The Engagements

by J. Courtney Sullivan

  So many people just vanished, her father said, the things they left behind the only proof that they had ever been there at all. His Jewish next-door neighbors in the Marais were taken from their house one night. Later he learned that they had died at Auschwitz, the thin and quiet father who was always reading a book, the exuberant mother who sang as she hung her laundry, and the twin boys, just eight years old.

  She thought about all this now, but only said, “It would be impossible for us to give it away. And how could you ever be sure that this was one of the violins in question?”

  Delphine knew that the world of rare instruments was notoriously secretive. Unlike paintings or sculpture, some instruments came with little documentation, so you couldn’t always be sure where they had lived before they came to you.

  “In the past, we have been very successful at recovering things that the Nazis took from our people—bank accounts and paintings and such. Those were easier to trace. These will be harder, but we believe it’s an essential task. Perhaps our most important. A painting would have just hung on a wall. But a violin tells the story of the ancestor who played it.”

  Delphine told her she would speak with her husband. After the woman left, she felt rattled. She couldn’t sleep that night, thinking about it. Sometime after three a.m., she went into Henri’s study and unlocked the glass case. She stared at the violin for a long while, as if she might be able to coax its story from the wood.

  Her father was only twelve years old in 1940. He had not been part of the Resistance. But he worshipped those who were, even in some small way.

  If you dared to align yourself with the movement, you were generally arrested and killed within six months. They estimated that maybe thirty thousand had died that way. But even normal people made their statements. Each morning, all the passengers would stand up when the Metro pulled into the George V station and then sit again when the train pulled away, a salute to the king.

  Her father liked to tell the story of Hitler’s trip to the Eiffel Tower. Hitler admired Paris. He wanted it to be the second city of the Reich, although he visited only once. Her father’s uncle had employment at the Eiffel Tower, and when word arrived that Hitler wished to go to the top, he and his fellow workers quickly disabled the elevator.

  He often spoke of the great heroes: Jean Moulin. Lucie Aubrac. And his favorite, Rose Valland. He once told Delphine that he had wanted to name her Rose, but her mother said no.

  Valland was the overseer of the Galerie nationale du Jeu de Paume during the occupation. The Germans had said in advance that they would leave art collections and museums alone, but the French didn’t trust them. By the time troops arrived in 1940, the Louvre was half empty. The French people had been hiding artwork for two years—in the crypt at Saint-Sulpice, out in the countryside, wherever they thought it would be safe. The Mona Lisa was taken to Toulouse by ambulance.

  The French had been wise to do this, because whatever art remained was stolen. The Nazis used the Jeu de Paume to sort and store all the artwork that they plundered from the great museums and private collections of Paris, distributing it to German VIPs and high-ranking officers. What the Nazis did not know was that Rose Valland spoke German, and was recording where each piece of art came from, and where it went. After the liberation of Paris, she was personally responsible for recovering forty-five thousand works of art. Delphine wondered why she had chosen to make a hero of herself. What qualities did such a person have?

  When Henri returned, she told him about their visitor.

  “I think we need to do something about this,” she said.

  He waved her away. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Suppose it’s true. Suppose the Nazis stole the Salisbury from its rightful owner. Now we’re part of that.”

  Henri sighed. “It’s an absurd assumption that just because the Nazis may have done this terrible thing, we ought to make reparations now—we who weren’t even alive during the war. And besides, you cannot own a Stradivarius. You can only protect it for a time, then pass it along to its next protector.”

  She thought there was a tinge of desperation to his words, as if perhaps he was trying to convince himself of their truth.

  Henri continued, “We don’t know the story of any of the instruments we sell or collect, really. They may have had the happiest of pasts, or something tragic behind them. But how can that matter now?”

  She supposed he was correct, but from then on, each time Delphine caught sight of the violin, she felt a slight chill. When Henri traveled, she put a sheet over the glass case. Anytime anyone mentioned a prospective buyer, be it the Rogue or someone else, she grew animated, writing down all the information, and reminding Henri of the possibility for days and days.

  Only five months after Helena Kaufman’s visit, terrorists flew planes into the World Trade Center in New York. Watching it on television was horrible, something Delphine had never imagined she would see in her lifetime. She cried, thinking of all the families torn apart in an instant.

  “This will be terrible for us,” Henri said.

  She was embarrassed by how selfish he sounded, even though no one else was listening. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

  But he was right. Their business fell apart. Americans wouldn’t fly, and no one cared about buying instruments. The worst year they had ever had followed.

  Henri was severely depressed. He grew quiet, going entire days sometimes without saying a word.

  The shop stood empty much of the time. Their debts climbed. They had seen dips like this before for a month or two, always leading to relief at the last possible moment, but this dip had lasted ten months and showed no signs of stopping. In June, he told her with tears in his eyes that he would part with the Salisbury to save the shop. The Rogue was scheduled to record Bach’s Double Concerto with the principal violinist of the Paris Opera in late July, and so it was decided that he would come in person to get it then.

  Leading up to his arrival, Henri sat alone with the Stradivarius nearly every night after dinner. He stroked its side gently with the palm of his hand, as if petting a beloved old dog that was about to be put down. Delphine imagined that he might like to bring it to bed at night if she’d let him.

  She was relieved to be rid of the thing, and yet she ached for her husband. On the last night, they both sat up late, gazing into the glass case. She squeezed Henri’s hand. He was so sensitive, so easily bruised. She wondered how long it would be before he recovered.

  “When we start doing a better business, we’ll buy it back from him,” she said, though they both knew it would not happen.

  The next day, they waited at home, leaving the shop closed. Their apartment seemed funereal to her, but she tried to make it feel festive. She put out bowls of salted peanuts and olives, and a tray of canapés.

  Twenty minutes after the appointed meeting time, the Rogue had still not appeared.

  “M’a posé un lapin,” Henri said.

  “No, he’ll be here.”

  He arrived half an hour late, dressed in dark jeans, an untucked button-down shirt, and Converse sneakers. He was as handsome as she remembered. In every way, a large man—his deep booming laugh, his voice, his broad shoulders and swath of thick black hair. His largeness hadn’t seemed so pronounced when they saw him perform in Berlin, but here in their apartment, so close up, he seemed to almost fill the room.

  He insisted they call him P.J., a name that to her sounded slightly whimsical, and distinctly American. They all spoke English, not a single word of French.

  She had worried about how Henri would behave, but as soon as he was in the Rogue’s presence, he seemed happy. Henri brought out the Strad and asked him to play. She wasn’t sure if this was asking too much; she had read in a newspaper article that the Rogue sometimes got paid a thousand dollars a minute for his performances. But of course, it was important that he try it, and he didn’t seem to mind if they watched.

  Over the years, there had been several blind tests
in which the listeners could not discern any difference whatsoever between the sound of a Stradivarius and that of a child’s violin. But when P.J. sat on her sofa and played Albinoni’s Adagio, she could tell this was an extraordinary pairing. Delphine heard color in his music. Deep sapphire blues and bursting reds. The sound was so sweet and beautiful, yet there was something mournful in it, too. When he played it, all the sadness of her life returned and gathered in her throat, spilling over into tears.

  They took him to dinner that night at Le Florimond.

  This time, he was fifteen minutes late.

  “Bonjour!” he said, pronouncing the r, when he walked in the door of the restaurant. “I got lost. All the streets around here look the same.”

  Throughout dinner, Henri behaved as if he were conducting an official interview.

  “So you are from the state of Ohio.”

  “Right.”

  “You made your professional debut at age sixteen with the Cleveland Orchestra, am I correct? Your first album followed the next year. You completed your studies at Juilliard and then received an Avery Fisher Career Grant for promising American classical performers.”

  Delphine frowned. Henri sounded like he was trying to educate P.J. on his own life.

  “That’s right. I won the grant when I was twenty-one. That was a thrill,” he said, although the way he said it made it sound far from thrilling.

  “Formidable,” Henri said. “Now tell us about this recording you’re working on while you’re here. We are both Bach enthusiasts.”

  P.J. opened his mouth to respond, but her husband kept going. “It’s exceptionally difficult, given that Bach didn’t put in any dynamic markings. How to be true to his intentions when none of the original scores survive.”

  “Except for the harpsichord concertos,” Delphine pointed out.

  “Well, yes, but what would Bach have made of hearing those played on a piano?” Henri said.

  She laughed. “Next you’ll be telling P.J. that the concerto must only be played with gut strings.”

  “It’s amazing to think that his music has lived almost three hundred years,” P.J. said. “Sometimes I wonder what Bach would make of that. I’ve spent more hours than I can say studying the dynamics, the ornamentation. It may be my favorite piece.”

  “And what of the new composers?” Henri asked. “You don’t play much of them, am I right?”

  “No, I’m embarrassed to say I don’t. I’m still learning one concerto a year, and I feel I’ve barely scratched the surface of the classics. But I do enjoy them,” P.J. said. “I’m a fan of Arvo Pärt. I’d love to perform his Spiegel im Spiegel someday. But it seems like the audiences want more traditional works. They want Brahms. It’s all so predictable.”

  Delphine was pleased with his assessment. “I agree completely,” she said.

  “And what do you make of our French composers? Ravel?” Henri asked.

  “Oh, I love his music, of course.”

  “I think it’s interesting that you’ve chosen to record the Double Concerto with a Frenchman,” Henri said. “Are there any differences between the way we play versus the Americans, in your opinion?”

  Delphine sighed, shaking her head. The only answer that would do would be for him to say that the French were superior in every way.

  P.J. shrugged. “I’ve noticed that the French keep the bow high off the string, with the right arm being higher up. It makes for a slightly glassier sound.”

  She laughed; it was such a small thing, so insignificant, really. Neither of them seemed to notice.

  “I’ve decided to play the Salisbury for the actual recording tomorrow,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d be able to get used to it so fast, but I feel we’ve been together forever. I brought my old Guarneri, just in case, though I’ll be selling it when I get home to New York. I’ve already got a buyer lined up.”

  “How long have you been playing the Guarneri?” she asked.

  “Three years. I got it when I was twenty. My teacher, the late great George Sennett, left it to me in his will.”

  “What type of case do you use?” Henri asked.

  “A Bam backpack.”

  Henri smiled, satisfied. It was a good company, and, most important, a French one. But what a dull question!

  “What made you want the Salisbury so much?” she asked.

  “I’ve always dreamed of owning a Stradivarius. The depth of the sound is unreal,” P.J. said.

  “A musician of your caliber should be playing an instrument as good as that one,” Henri said.

  “Until I was twenty, I played a Strad, but it was just a loaner.”

  Henri sighed. “A hundred years ago, any serious musician could have gotten his hands on a Guarneri or a Stradivarius. Now, most have to borrow their instruments from some foundation or sponsor, and there are all these limitations on how they can play them. It’s ridiculous.”

  P.J. nodded, but she tensed up. She wished Henri would stop acting like such an authority.

  “It can be really frustrating being at the beck and call of a patron,” P.J. said. “You have to go and play for them whenever they ask.”

  Something about him reminded her of her father. Though it was ludicrous to compare them, she thought of how her father had been at the whim of Madame Delecourt downstairs. She would ask him to come in and play Chopin while she wrote letters in the afternoon, or perform Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words during the cocktail hour of one of her dinner parties. Delphine’s father acted cheerful about it. He loved playing her beautiful piano, he said, and it gave him a chance to practice the classics again.

  “It breaks your heart when you have to give those loaners back,” P.J. said. “It just isn’t right. Outside of the strings, musicians can afford their own instruments. But a good violin and bow can cost more than the roof over your head.”

  “Now when you sign a management contract, is that part of the arrangement?” Henri asked. “You were what, sixteen, when you first did that?”

  “Right,” P.J. said. “My teacher arranged for me to play on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson when I was only twelve, the year I got to the Cleveland Institute. Carson was the greatest. I can’t imagine any of today’s talk-show hosts allowing kids to come on and play complete movements of Vivaldi. Anyway, management interest flowed out of that, but I didn’t sign for a few more years. And I was lucky because so many young people today have to enter competition after competition. For me it was much easier. I owe it all to George Sennett, really. I was so lucky to get to study with him.”

  They were both annoying her now. It was clear that P.J. was accustomed to being the star. He hadn’t asked them a single question about themselves all night. He was gushing about a man they’d never met, whose prized violin he was about to sell to the highest bidder.

  As they parted ways afterward, Henri quickly said, “Let us take you out again tomorrow after your recording is finished. There’s a place we love in the Marais. Nine o’clock?”

  P.J. looked surprised, but he said yes. She wondered if perhaps Henri was trying to hold on to his beloved Strad by holding on to the American. She half expected him to ask her if they could adopt him.

  “I may just let the two of you go tomorrow,” she said as they walked home.

  He nodded. “Fine, fine.”

  But in the morning, when Henri woke, he gripped his stomach and said he felt ill. She wondered for a moment if he was depressed. Sometimes that started as a stomachache. The episodes often came on without warning: they might have tickets to the symphony, or plans to go to Brittany for the weekend, and everything would have to be canceled. When her husband got that way, there was hardly anything she could do to pull him out. She would try jokes and stories, his favorite CDs on the stereo, lingerie and home-cooked dinners. But he would slink around for days in despair, returning to her only when it chose to release him. Delphine feared that someday he might go to that dark place and never come back.

  But in this insta
nce, it seemed Henri really was sick. She watched him run to the bathroom, and could hear him vomiting from behind the closed door.

  “I’m absolutely fine!” he said as he came back into the room. He promptly collapsed onto the bed. “Merde! How can this be happening when we have the dinner tonight?”

  Delphine raised an eyebrow. In all their years, she had rarely heard him swear.

  “I’m sure the Rogue will find something better to do than have dinner with us,” she said.

  “No!” Henri said. “We can’t be rude and leave him alone. You’ll go.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “I don’t think he brought a cell phone. We have no way of reaching him to say we can’t make it.”

  “We could leave a message at his hotel.”

  “Just show him a nice time, darling. I know you didn’t care much for him, but be polite. This is business.”

  She knew it was much more than that, but she did not contradict him.

  Delphine arrived at the restaurant right at nine. She wore a red knee-length skirt, a sleeveless white silk blouse, a scarf tied around her neck, and nude heels, the same thing she had worn to work. Her hair was up in a loose knot.

  He arrived fifteen minutes late, just as he had the night before. “Wow, you look nice,” he said. “Where’s Henri?”

  She felt flattered, even as she took note of the fact that he hadn’t apologized for keeping her waiting. As they sat down, she told him that her husband was home in bed with the flu.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “You didn’t have to meet me. You should have stayed home and taken care of him.”

  “He can take care of himself,” she said.

  “Okay then. If you’re sure.” He scanned the menu. “What’s good here?”

  The couple beside them glanced over. The place was small, with only ten tables clustered together. P.J.’s voice was louder than the rest, but he didn’t seem to notice. She lowered her own to almost a whisper, hoping he might do the same.