by Paul Adam
“You look nice in the clothes you already have,” Serafin said. “Why do you need more?”
“Just this once. I promise I’ll be a good girl. I’ll get only a few things.”
“No.”
“Aw, Vincenzo, don’t be such a spoilsport.”
Maddalena slipped off the desk and went round behind Serafin’s chair. She put her arms round him, her face nuzzling the side of his neck. I turned away in embarrassment and went to the window and looked out. Guastafeste’s car was directly below me, though I couldn’t see Antonio. How much time has passed? I wondered. Five minutes? Another fifteen and he’d be coming in. I tried to shut out the voices behind me, Maddalena’s coy and wheedling, Serafin’s holding firm. I’ve negotiated fees with him often enough to know that once his mind is made up, he is utterly intractable. Maddalena must have known that, too, but she continued to niggle away at him until, frustrated by his intransigence, she lost her temper and started hurling abuse at him, completely oblivious to my presence in the room.
I looked over my shoulder. Maddalena was snatching up her leather handbag from the desk and walking away in a rage. She threw open the door, paused to fire one last parting insult at Serafin, then stalked out, slamming the door behind her so hard, I could feel the vibrations through the floor.
Serafin waited a few seconds, then said dryly, “Hell hath no fury like a woman refused a credit card.”
“I came at the wrong moment. I’m sorry,” I said.
“You weren’t to know. Never get yourself a high-maintenance woman, Gianni. Sometimes they’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
“You wanted me to look at a violin,” I said.
“It’s on the table over there.”
I took the violin out of its case and held it in my hands for a while. When you’ve been examining and authenticating string instruments for as long as I have, you develop an instinct for a fake. That sounds like arrogance, but it’s really simply experience. All violins have a “feel” to them. You pick them up and you sense at once whether they are genuine or not. I say “sense” because it’s very much an intuitive process. You cannot know for certain whether a particular instrument is by, say, Stradivari, or anyone else. You were not present, after all, when it was made. But you can nevertheless be pretty sure of its provenance. You can give your opinion of a violin’s authenticity with a clear conscience, and that is all I am required to do. To give my opinion, based on knowledge and experience. My nose for a fake is not infallible, but I use it as a starting point—an initial impression, which a closer examination will either confirm or refute.
“It’s labelled Bergonzi,” Serafin said. “But you know how unreliable that can be.”
I nodded, tilting the instrument towards the light so that I could peer through the bass sound hole. The label was grey and dirty, but I could make out the words “Anno 1732, Carlo Bergonzi fece in Cremona.”
Bergonzi’s labels varied during his career. That particular wording was certainly one he used on many of his instruments, but a label, of course, does not make a violin genuine. It is probably the least reliable indicator of an instrument’s provenance, because it can be so easily faked—and I’d seen a lot of fakes labelled as Bergonzis.
I turned my attention to the rest of the instrument, to the plates, the scroll, the varnish. It was a fine-looking violin. I would expect nothing less if it were a genuine Bergonzi. Carlo was the first, and best, of three generations of luthiers. He lived and worked in Cremona during the last two decades of the seventeenth century and the first half of the eighteenth. He was a contemporary of Stradivari and Guarneri del Gesù and, not surprisingly, has always been overshadowed by those two great craftsmen.
At one time, it was thought that he had been a pupil of Stradivari, who was almost forty years his senior, but now it is believed he may have been taught by the Giuseppe Guarneri who is always known as “filius Andreae,” to distinguish him from his more famous namesake, his son, Giuseppe del Gesù. Bergonzi certainly had close relations with Stradivari and Guarneri del Gesù—in a city as small as Cremona, where violin making was an important established business, it would have been unthinkable that he didn’t—and his instruments show their influences. His f-holes are very like Stradivari’s and his sound boxes have narrow waists and squarish upper corners similar to del Gesù’s. But his craftsmanship is much more refined than Guarneri’s. His scrolls, in particular, have a symmetry and delicacy that few other luthiers, Stradivari included, have ever managed to achieve.
“What do you think?” Serafin said.
“Where did you acquire it?” I asked.
Serafin didn’t reply immediately. I lowered the violin and looked at him. He was squirming slightly in his chair, his arms bent, elbows tucked into his sides, his palms out flat, a pose that, I knew from long experience, preluded some kind of evasive answer.
“Well, you know how these things are,” he said vaguely.
“No, I don’t,” I said. “Where did you get it?”
“Is that really relevant?”
“Of course it is. Did it come with any paperwork, any provenance? Where’s it been for the last three hundred– odd years?”
“Is it genuine? That’s all I want to know,” Serafin said. “You’re the expert; just give me your opinion.”
I said nothing, just kept gazing at him. Serafin squirmed a bit more, then looked away. I waited.
“You don’t need to know the details, Gianni,” he said.
“That’s exactly what I need to know. Bergonzi is one of the forger’s favourite makers.”
“Is it a forgery?”
“The provenance first, Vincenzo. Then I’ll give you my opinion.”
Serafin sniffed. He stroked his sleek black beard with his fingertips.
“It belonged to an old lady,” he said.
I’d heard Serafin’s “old lady” story before, but I was prepared to hear it again. You never knew; this time it might actually be true.
“Yes?” I said.
“She died a few weeks ago, leaving all her possessions to her nephew. It was the nephew who contacted me, asked me to go and look at the violin.”
“Go where?”
“To her house, in Stresa.”
“On Lake Maggiore?”
“Yes. You know I have a country place out there. Someone had told the nephew that I was a violin dealer. He thought I might be able to help.”
“And?”
“That’s it. I went out to the house. The nephew showed me the violin. I said I’d have to take it away and get a full assessment before I could give him a valuation.”
“You haven’t bought it, then?”
“Not yet. I need to know if it’s genuine first.”
“What was the old lady’s name?”
“Look, Gianni, we’re wasting time.”
“Her name?”
Serafin sighed.
“Nicoletta Ferrara.”
“And what did the nephew tell you about the violin? Where did his aunt get it?”
“He said it had been in the family for generations. He thought his great-grandfather might have acquired it back in the nineteenth century, but he didn’t know from whom.”
“There was no paperwork? No bill of sale or invoice? No dealer’s certificate of authenticity?”
“No, nothing. That’s all he knew, Gianni. Now, can we get on? Don’t keep me on tenterhooks. Is it a genuine Bergonzi?”
“You’ve looked at it. What do you think?”
“I’m not an expert like you. I can’t be sure.”
“Well, the scroll looks like one of Bergonzi’s.” I took the violin across to the desk and showed him. “See how beautifully it’s carved. Those clean lines, that perfect spiral. Then the f-holes and the archings, they’re consistent with it being by Bergonzi.”
“Yes, that’s all very well. But all I really want to know is—”
Serafin broke off as the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and liste
ned for a moment. Then he said, “Now? I’m engaged. . . . Very well, send him up.”
He replaced the receiver and looked at me. He was frowning, his manner distracted. The violin seemed to have slipped from his thoughts.
“The police want to talk to me.”
“Shall I . . .” I put the violin back in its case.
“No, stay. It won’t take long,” Serafin said.
The door opened and Guastafeste came in. His double take as he saw me was worthy of some kind of acting award. Even I could believe that this meeting was entirely coincidental.
“Gianni . . . what’re you doing here?”
“Business,” I said.
Guastafeste turned to Serafin.
“My apologies, Signor Serafin. Am I interrupting?”
“No, we were just finishing.”
Serafin peered at Guastafeste.
“Aren’t you . . . You were at the reception in Cremona, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I met you there.”
Serafin’s eyes went from Guastafeste to me, then back to Guastafeste, suspicious but not absolutely sure whether his suspicion was justified.
“You’re Gianni’s friend?” he said.
“That’s right,” Guastafeste replied. “I hope I won’t take up too much of your time. I wanted to ask you about François Villeneuve.”
“Villeneuve? What about him?”
Guastafeste pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the desk. He took out his notebook and pen.
“We spoke about him on the phone two days ago. You remember?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I just want to check one or two details. You’d known François Villeneuve how long?”
“A few years.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Two years, maybe three.”
“And you met him how?”
“I believe it was at a fine-arts convention.”
“In France?”
“No, it was here in Milan. I was one of the speakers. François was a delegate from Paris.”
“But you kept in touch with him?”
“We got on well. We shared a common interest in the arts.”
“Was he a close friend?”
“I wouldn’t say close, no. He was more a business contact. Globalisation is shrinking the world. Nothing is purely local any longer; we all operate on an international stage. François found it useful to have a person he could trust in Milan and I found it useful to have someone in Paris. It was as simple as that.”
“So you did business together?”
“Yes.”
“Often?”
“Once or twice a year.”
“But you told me on the phone that you didn’t do business with him.”
Serafin gave Guastafeste a narrow look.
“I told you that on this occasion we weren’t doing business.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“You’re saying that Villeneuve came all the way from Paris to Milan, but he wasn’t doing business with you?”
“That is correct.”
“Who was he doing business with?”
“I have no idea. He didn’t tell me.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“No, that wouldn’t have been diplomatic. In my business, it’s not polite to pry.”
“You say you do business with him once or twice a year. What kind of business?”
“It varies. I put work his way; he puts work my way.”
“What sort of work?”
“I deal in violins, as Gianni here will be able to tell you. If François came across an instrument he thought might be of interest to me, he would let me know. If I came across paintings or antiques that might be of interest to him, I would let him know. We exchanged information, I suppose you could say.”
“And shared in the proceeds of that information?”
“If the information made money for either of us, yes, we would apportion the proceeds. That is only fair.”
Guastafeste wrote something in his notebook. Serafin looked at me.
“Have you two known each other long?”
“Years,” I said.
“Is that so?” Serafin gave me a nod, filing the fact away in his head. Then he turned back to Guastafeste.
“Have you made any progress in your search for François’s killer?”
Guastafeste looked up from his notes. He must have heard the question, but he didn’t answer it.
“Do you know anything about a gold box that François Villeneuve had with him?” he asked.
“A gold box?” Serafin said. “What kind of gold box?”
“About this big,” Guastafeste held up his hands. “With an engraving of Moses on the lid.”
“Moses?”
“Holding the Ten Commandments. You know the ones I mean—‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbours’ goods,’ ‘Thou shalt not lie,’ that kind of thing.”
It wasn’t subtle. Even Serafin, notoriously insensitive though he was, must have got the message. He gazed coolly at Guastafeste.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Villeneuve didn’t mention a gold box to you?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know where he might have got it?”
“No. Is this box relevant to his murder?”
“When did you last see Villeneuve?”
“On Saturday evening, at the reception in the town hall in Cremona.”
“You didn’t see him on Sunday morning?”
“No.”
“Can you prove that?”
Serafin stared at Guastafeste, not blinking for several seconds.
“You’re asking me for an alibi? I was in my apartment all Sunday morning. I have a friend who can vouch for that.”
“And your friend’s name?”
“Is this necessary? François Villeneuve was a friend. Why would I kill him?”
“It’s just routine,” Guastafeste said. “The name, please.”
“Maddalena Fraschini.”
“And her address and phone number?”
Serafin gave him the information.
“How many times did you see Villeneuve during his stay?” Guastafeste asked.
“Just on the Saturday evening. At the recital, and the reception afterwards.”
“Not before that?”
“No.”
“Did you speak to him on the phone?”
“Yes, I believe I did.”
“How many times?”
“I forget.”
“Let me refresh your memory. Villeneuve rang you on Thursday evening, shortly after he’d checked in at the Hotel San Michele. And he rang you again on Friday morning.”
“Yes, that’s right. I remember now.”
“Why did he ring you?”
“To say hello, to chat. We were catching up with each other.”
“Both phone calls?”
“Certainly Thursday’s. On Friday morning, I think we discussed Yevgeny Ivanov’s recital and I said I’d try to get him a ticket. The concert was sold out, but there are always ways of obtaining tickets, if you know the right people.”
“And at no time did he say why he was in Cremona?”
“As I’ve already said, no.”
Guastafeste gave him a hard, concentrated look. Serafin gazed back with wide-eyed innocence.
“If that’s all . . .” he said.
“Yes, thank you, Signor Serafin.”
Guastafeste put away his notebook and pen and turned to me.
“Are you going back to Cremona, Gianni?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You want a lift?”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll be outside.”
Guastafeste left the room. There was silence for a time; then Serafin said, “So you mix with policemen, Gianni?” There was a steely edge to his tone.
“
Antonio and I go back a long way,” I said.
“Do you, now?”
“He’ll be waiting for me.”
“Let him wait. We haven’t finished our business yet. The violin? Your verdict?”
A part of me would have enjoyed telling him that the Bergonzi was a fake. I knew he’d cheat Nicoletta Ferrara’s nephew, offer him much less than the instrument was worth, then sell it on at a huge profit to one of the many rich collectors he had on his list. That was how the violin-dealing world worked—how all buying and selling worked. Serafin had the contacts; he controlled access to the customers. If I had one piece of advice to give anyone thinking of venturing into business, it would be “Become the middleman.” They’re always the ones who do the least work for the greatest reward.
“It’s genuine,” I said.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
I took my leave then and went out to Guastafeste’s car. He was sitting behind the wheel, scribbling more notes in his notebook. I glanced up as I climbed into the car. Serafin was watching me from the window of his office.
Guastafeste finished his notes. He started the car and we drove off, heading for the inner ring road.
“I hope I haven’t damaged your relationship with Serafin,” Guastafeste said.
“I don’t care if you have,” I replied. “I don’t need him.”
“So what do you think? You’ve known him for years. Was he telling me the truth?”
“Some of the time, yes.”
“But not all the time?”
“Serafin is a practised liar. He’s good at telling half the truth, being open about some things and hiding others. The trick is knowing which is which.”
“Which bits weren’t true?”
“His claim not to know why Villeneuve was down here. That rubbish about being diplomatic. What did he say? ‘In my business, it’s not polite to pry.’ I almost burst out laughing when he said that. Not polite? Serafin has never worried about being polite, and prying is second nature to him. He can’t bear to be cut out of a deal. If Villeneuve was holding out on him—and I don’t believe he was—Serafin would have hammered away at him remorselessly until Villeneuve cracked.”
“You think they were, in fact, doing business together?”
“I’m not sure. If it was as simple as that, Villeneuve would have gone to Milan, maybe even stayed with Serafin. But he came to a hotel in Cremona. Why? What was he doing in Cremona?”
