Eighty Days Red

by Vina Jackson

  ‘Yes. It’s the material of novels. Or life …’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘From your own experience, might there have been anyone actively seeking the instrument out? Mr LaValle did give me that impression.’

  ‘Well, there are always collectors out there seduced by an intriguing story,’ he mused. ‘But you know I can’t give you any specific names. I am bound by confidentiality, you understand.’

  ‘Of course, I realise that, but—’

  ‘I can say one thing, though …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is a particular gentleman, a noted collector, not just of instruments but who also dabbles in artworks, who recently had the item you are investigating taken off his list. Maybe he happened to come across it, and felt it best to eliminate any evidence of his past interest.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, it would be unwise to retain a specific item on a want list once it has finally come, by hook or by crook, into one’s hands. Wouldn’t want some enterprising freelancer to come and steal it from you and confuse matters, would you?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Dominik agreed. He knew Cavalier would not release any names; he hadn’t expected him to. But there was a streak of vanity in the man, a pride in the treasure chest of knowledge he stored which made his ego vulnerable, if stroked smoothly enough, he reckoned.

  ‘Would Viggo Franck, the musician, mean anything to you?’

  There was a glint of recognition in Cavalier’s eyes. Though he quickly reined himself in and continued, ‘I certainly have read about him in the newspapers. Something of a ladies’ man, no?’

  ‘And an eminent collector?’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘A man of means?’

  ‘Undeniably.’

  Dominik stirred the sugar that had settled at the bottom of his tall glass of lemon juice and watched it dissolve.

  The two men looked silently at each other, both lost in thoughts.

  ‘If I didn’t know you wrote books,’ the Frenchman said, ‘I would have said you had the potential to make a good private investigator, Mr Dominik.’

  ‘You compliment me.’

  Dominik was aware he would get no more pointers from Cavalier, but his gut feeling told him he was on the right trail.

  Even though Summer had suggested he pursue that line of enquiry, he also knew she would not be pleased when he reported back to her that her intuition was being confirmed by other parties and that she was possibly sleeping with a man who had been directly involved in the theft of her precious violin.

  ‘Their’ violin, Dominik felt.

  The auditorium lights at La Cigale dimmed and you could make out the dark shapes of mountainous towers of amplifiers on the instrument-laden stage and musicians shuffling to their places. Small red lights flickered from various control panels as the audience held its collective breath in anticipation.

  A couple of spotlights picked out the tall, thin silhouettes of Chris and his cousin as they positioned themselves behind the two main microphones at the front of the stage.

  ‘A one, a two, a three, a four …’ Ella’s voice, counting down.

  The opening song of the Groucho Nights set was an acappella ballad sung by the two front men. It was a loose adaptation of an old English folk melody given a more rhythmic twist, and it always caught the audience’s immediate attention with its stark melody and simplicity. The essential quietness of this initial part of the concert, combined with the bare nature of the lighting picking the two men out like an island in the midst of darkness, made this a striking introduction to the group’s music, setting the mood for the rest of the evening.

  As the voices began to fade and with no pause for the audience to applaud, the bass guitar began plucking the rhythm of their second song. The whole stage lit up, the drums joined in and Groucho Nights went electric. Chris’s guitar spelled out a sinuous melody while his cousin’s bass underpinned it, and the music took full flight, as the front rows of the audience, no doubt already familiar with some of the band’s songs, began to clap along.

  Seated on the balcony, Dominik watched as heads nodded and bodies began to sway to the rhythm of the music. The club was full to the rafters with people even standing in the aisles on the ground floor. All ages and classes were represented: the democracy of rock ’n’ roll. He wondered which were here for Groucho Nights and which had been attracted by Summer’s appearance, out of curiosity for the uncommon blend of rock and classical that was about to unfold. Following the initial four opening songs, Chris stepped towards the mike, milking the cheers from the crowd as he unplugged his Gibson and picked up a different guitar, a sleeker silver Gretsch that drew further applause from some of the connoisseurs in the audience.

  ‘And now for our first special guests …’

  The crowd roared.

  But, to Dominik’s surprise, it wasn’t Summer’s turn to make an appearance.

  Trooping out from the wing were three brass players, holding their instruments aloft. Two men and a woman. They installed themselves at the back of the stage, to the right of Ella’s drums. On her signal on the hi-hat, they brought their shiny instruments to their mouths and in unison with the rest of the group launched into a funky blues riff. With the addition of the newly arrived brass section, the group sounded ten times as powerful, loud, swinging infectiously, the music wrapping itself like a cloud around the high-ceilinged auditorium of the Paris club, notching up a measured sense of frenzy with every note. The effect of the transformation was mesmerising, Dominik had to admit. How would Summer cope with such a barrage of noise and emotion with just a fragile violin? By now Chris was literally screaming into his mike to make his voice heard above the roaring sound of the augmented band, his lyrics stretched to abstraction.

  Back on her drum stand, Ella was sweating madly, her backing vocals almost inaudible, arms beating a wild, frantic tattoo, while Ted stood motionless to the right, a fixed point of steadfast calm, anchoring the din, his thumb attacking the strings of his bass with metronomic repetition.

  The whole hall shook.

  As the song climaxed with a final flourish, the brass players sustaining their ultimate notes until they almost ran out of breath, Dominik noticed a large smile of satisfaction spread across Chris’s face as he realised he had the audience eating out of his hand.

  From his vantage point up on the balcony and his sideways view of the stage, Dominik could see a gathering of onlookers standing in the wings, clapping along and watching the group; road crew, friends, guests. There was no sign of Summer, but he thought he caught a glimpse of Viggo Franck in his customary tight trousers and studied bohemian state of vestimentary disarray.

  There was a brief lull between songs as both the crowd and the musicians onstage caught their breath, Chris and Ella taking a sip of water and towelling themselves while Ted remained his steadfast immobile self.

  Chris then switched back to his original Gibson and launched into a delicate riff as the lights dimmed.

  Then Summer walked on to the stage from the opposite wing.

  She was all in white, picked out by a single spotlight, a flowing dress that reached to her ankles, her violin a delicate shade of reddish orange that almost rhymed with the thousand curls in her hair. She wore shiny, heavy black boots, a deliberately coarse contrast with the frailty of her dress.

  There was a hush in the audience as she plugged her lead into one of the massive Marshall amplifiers dotted around the stage. Her bow rose in her hand and slowly alighted on the violin and the first, heartbreakingly pure note rose, echoing the sound of Chris’s guitar.

  It was a while until the rest of the band joined in, the mellifluous melody unfolding on just violin and guitar, although Chris was still hidden in the penumbra as the sole spotlight remained on Summer, her small figure dominating the immensity of the dark stage.

  Dominik felt his heart jump. It was as if, once again, she was playing just for him.

  Beneath the
white dress he could guess the unforgettable shape of her body. An image long carved into the deepest level of his brain.

  His eyes fixed on Summer, he abandoned himself to her music and the spectacle of her movements on stage as she played, caressed and tamed the new electric violin, her sound soaring above the rest of the band then blending in with uncanny precision before taking off again as she dived into one of her fiery solos. All too soon the song came to an end in a flurry of feedback and the stage was bathed in lights of all colours.

  Chris nodded at her and they began a new song, echoes of which Dominik now recalled having heard filter its way towards him from the bowels of the Brighton Centre when they had rehearsed. As the tune grew faster and faster, Summer was sketching little dance steps while she played. Her white dress floated around her with every successive movement. Dominik remembered her dancing on that New Orleans stage after the New Year, back when they were together. It now felt like a century ago. He closed his eyes, forcibly dragging images from that time to the surface of his mind.

  There was a tap on his shoulder.

  ‘Hello.’ A strong foreign accent. A woman.

  Dominik turned round to see who was sitting in the row behind him and attempting to catch his attention.

  He identified her the moment he looked back.

  The dancer from New Orleans.

  Serendipity or what?

  ‘I know who you are,’ she said over the increasing sound of ‘Roadhouse Blues’, the new song Groucho Nights were now attacking with much gusto down on stage.

  He smiled back at the enigmatic beauty.

  ‘And I know you.’

  The volume became deafening, and she made a sign that she could no longer hear him, shrugged her shoulders and began watching the stage again.

  Intrigued by the brief encounter, Dominik also turned his attention back to the music.

  Ella was now dictating the beat with frenzied authority, her arms flailing away in wild abandon, her drums carrying the band onwards and upwards to new heights as Chris sang, Ted harmonised in counterpoint and Summer undulated on the spot to the fearsome beat generated by her Groucho Nights bandmates. The brass trio was swinging from side to side, punctuating the rhythm like a Soul Revue section in overdrive.

  The sound rose to a roaring crescendo as the number reached its climax, the final note sustained by Chris’s guitar and Summer’s plugged-in violin, then it suddenly fell, and the applause burst out. Triumphant, Baldo, Marija and Alex all raised their instruments to the sky while the core members of the band took a bow.

  Dominik had to admit to himself that the way they had integrated Summer’s violin and the newly acquired brass section propelled the music into another, altogether more exhilarating, dimension.

  Basking in the crowd’s adoration, the musicians set their instruments down and, with Ted and Ella waving their hands at the crowd in acknowledgment, began to walk in single file back to the wings. The steady applause continued even after they disappeared. Dominik, like most of the spectators, was standing and still clapping. He glanced across his shoulders but Luba was gone.

  The whole club vibrated with the sustained waves of continuous cheering. The roar rose in volume when Ella made her way back onto the stage. She had swapped her previously sweatdrenched top for a torn Holy Criminals-logoed shirt. The others followed with Summer coming last.

  Dominik’s heart tightened.

  She was still wearing the flowing white dress she had performed in earlier, but had now put on a corset over it. The combination was remarkably effective. The tightness of the new garment as it imprisoned her slim waist and emphasised her shape, and the deep contrast between light and dark, was like a shot across his bow, dredging back so many memories that only belonged to the two of them. He immediately recognised the corset he had once bought her and which she had modelled for him in the most private of circumstances.

  Dominik now knew what she had meant on the phone. It was like a signal. Just for him. So much more than a wink.

  The musicians all plugged in again and the crowd’s applause subsided now that it had been granted its obligatory encore.

  Ella gave the signal and the sound of Summer’s violin pierced the buzzing silence with a distinctive melody soon punctuated by the rhythm of the bass.

  Vivaldi.

  The lead melody from one of the movements of The Four Seasons.

  It was as if she was talking directly to him.

  The rest of the band quickly joined in and the collective improvisation soon drowned Summer’s pure line of sound, the piece fracturing into a mass of showcasing solos before Summer, with a sharp movement of her wrist, re-established the main melody and her authority and, stamping her booted left foot in the most unclassical manner, brought the first encore to an end. Chris segued immediately into ‘Sugarcane’, but Dominik’s mind was already drifting.

  The first people Dominik came across backstage as he was guided by a stagehand to the dressing room area were Edward and Clarissa.

  Before he could wonder if this was all some sort of bizarre BDSM reunion, and speculate as to whether his old foe, Victor, was also in Paris on some nefarious business too, he was effusively greeted by the American couple as if he was a long-lost relative. As they noted the puzzlement on his face at finding them here, they quickly explained that their son, Alex, was in the brass section and they had taken advantage of the occasion to drop in as they happened to be holidaying in Europe.

  ‘Nothing sinister, sweetheart,’ Clarissa had said, noting his wariness. ‘We’re just here on a civilian mission. Supporting the family, so to speak.’

  ‘We leave for Italy in the morning. We’ve always wanted to see Capri. Paris is just a pit stop,’ Edward declared with a benevolent smile.

  The band’s dressing room was swamped with guests and freeloaders. Dominik noticed Viggo Franck in one corner, nursing a can of beer, in deep conversation with Chris. Hanging on his arm was Luba. Next to them was, he assumed, Fran, Summer’s sister. There was a distinct likeness, although to him she looked like a preliminary sketch rather than the real article, but they had the same nose and chin and her laughter had the same deep growl. But her shorter hair was an identikit shade of bottle blond and lacked the fire and shine of Summer’s.

  He couldn’t see Summer. Maybe she was still somewhere else in the backstage area, changing or showering after her exertions?

  Waiting for her to make an appearance, Dominik fell into a desultory conversation with Edward and Clarissa and they were soon joined by Chris and Fran. Noticing Dominik’s presence, there was a look of disapproval in Chris’s eyes, but this soon passed as the adrenalin from the recent show, alcohol and Fran’s roving hands and closeness quickly saw him relax and become mellower.

  Although they were at least a generation older than anyone else in the crowded room and in no way rock ’n’ roll in either appearance or attitude, Edward and Clarissa looked as if they owned the joint, effortlessly gliding along the flow of half-snatched conversations, introducing people to each other, kindly social overseers intent on ensuring everyone present remained in the best of moods.

  Fending off the questions of a couple of leather-jacketed youthful French rock journalists who’d just been informed by Edward that he was a bona fide novelist, Dominik noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Fran whispering something in Chris’s ear, with a mischievous gleam lighting up her eyes. Shortly after, the two excused themselves from the improvised party and left the room together.

  Summer entered the room shortly after. She’d changed into a simple choice of white T-shirt and carefully distressed jeans. Her hair was still wet from the shower and more full of curls than ever. She noticed Dominik’s presence and acknowledged him but was called over by Viggo who handed her a drink and then planted himself between her and the majestically tall Luba. He was like a monarch proudly displaying his twin consorts.

  Dominik winced.

  Regardless of the suspicions raised by the disappearance
of Summer’s violin, he had already taken a violent dislike to the rock star.

  He excused himself from Edward and Clarissa, the group of people congregating around them and the members of the brass section they seemed to have taken under their wing, and moved to the bar – which had been set up at one end of the room on a trestle table – in search of something non-alcoholic.

  Perusing the varied bottles, cans and plastic cups scattered randomly across the table, he took hold of a half-full bottle of San Pellegrino and brought it directly to his mouth in the absence of any clean glass.

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather have something stronger?’ a voice suggested in his ear. That familiar accent. Luba, who had detached herself from the Viggo triptych.

  ‘No, this is good enough for me,’ Dominik replied. She wore a thin silk tunic which glittered with every movement of her body, and barely reached her knees. It clung to her form as if it had been painted on.

  ‘How disciplined,’ she remarked. ‘My friend Viggo, he never says no to a drink … or a drug.’ She nodded in Viggo Franck’s direction. The singer had his arm around Summer’s waist as he gesticulated for his audience of attentive fans.

  ‘It’s a long way from New Orleans,’ Dominik said.

  ‘I was only there on a short engagement,’ Luba replied. ‘Yesterday New Orleans, then Seattle. Have you been there? It’s very rainy but quite vibrant. Then I go to London. Who knows where tomorrow?’

  ‘You like to travel?’

  ‘There is always something new, someone new. Life would be very boring if you stuck to just one thing, one person. Don’t you agree?’ Her breath smelled of vodka. No doubt authentic Russian vodka, as she didn’t seem like the sort of girl who sampled anything but the best things in life.

  ‘Are you with Viggo Franck?’

  ‘With? Yes and no – he’s convenient, just the right man at the right time. That’s how it plays,’ she said, as if bored by the prospect of further questions of a personal nature. ‘And you? Still friendly with our pretty fiddle player?’