by Paul Adam
‘No.’
‘Tomaso never mentioned it?’
‘Not that I can recall.’
‘I’ll leave you the list. Will you have a look through it? See if you recognise any of the numbers?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m going home to bed. I was up all night. Thanks for the wine.’
I went into the house after Guastafeste had left and made myself a light supper. Then I poured another glass of Valpolicella and retired to the armchair in my back room to study the list of phone numbers. Several entries I recognised as my own – Tomaso and I had spoken on the phone almost every week – and there were others I knew: mutual friends, other luthiers in Cremona, for we are a close-knit community of craftsmen. Most of the calls were local. Only three – the three to England Guastafeste had mentioned – were international. Next to most of the numbers was the name of the subscriber. There were lengthy calls to Tomaso’s daughter, Giulia, and his granddaughter, Sofia, who was studying music at the Conservatorio in Milan. There were calls to members of Clara’s extended family, who were spread all over northern Italy.
I took a sip of my wine and turned to the final page of the list of calls from Tomaso’s workshop. One number stood out immediately – a number in Milan that I could identify even without the subscriber’s name written next to it. It was Vincenzo Serafin’s office line. I felt my pulse rate increase and sat back in my armchair until the throbbing had subsided. Serafin? Tomaso had called Serafin just five days before he died; a call that had lasted nearly six minutes. And yet when I’d visited Serafin in Milan last week he’d told me he didn’t know Tomaso.
* * *
Our passage through life is marked by births and weddings and funerals, though when you get to my age the last seem to predominate. I am not an unduly old man – sixty-three is not a great age these days – but I am aware that the years are ticking away. In my more morbid moments I feel the darkness drawing nearer. Perhaps He does not have me in His sights just yet, but I am acutely conscious that I am within range.
For my generation, our births and marriages are long behind us. When we gather together now it is more likely to be grief than joy that unites us. In the last few years I must have attended half a dozen funerals; some for family members or close friends, others for little more than acquaintances. And now Tomaso was gone. He had been so much a presence in my life that it was almost impossible to believe that he would no longer be around – that I would never again hear his voice, share a bottle of wine with him or play quartets beside him. Irrationally, I was angry with him for leaving me, for pulling such a monstrous disappearing trick on us all, and as I watched his coffin being carried into the church I half expected him to leap out suddenly and laugh at us for our gullibility.
We were in San Sigismondo – after the cathedral, the most magnificent church in Cremona. Built by Francesco Sforza, the Duke of Milan, and his wife Bianca Maria Visconti in the fifteenth century, almost every centimetre of the interior – from the walls to the vaulted ceiling – is decorated with elaborate paintings of Biblical scenes. The ostentation is quite overwhelming. It was in this church that the young Luigi Tarisio – the itinerant dealer who bought Le Messie from Cozio di Salabue – is said to have acquired his remarkable gift for discovering precious violins. At harvest time San Sigismondo was famous for its Festival of the Dove. A high tower was erected outside the church with a wire stretching from the top of the tower through the main doors to the altar. A ‘dove’ made of straw and gunpowder, said to be a manifestation of the Lord, was attached to the wire and set alight. The gunpowder ignited, sending the blazing dove whizzing along the wire. It was considered a blessing to touch the flames. Tarisio, the story goes, stretched up his arm as the dove sped by and his hand passed directly through the fire.
I thought briefly of that tale as Tomaso’s coffin was placed on the catafalque before the high altar and I saw the flickering light of candles reflected in its polished sides. The church was crowded with mourners, almost every seat occupied. Tomaso had been a sociable man. He had had many friends. Then Father Arrighi turned to face the congregation, his sombre, powerful voice reaching out to us, joining with us in a celebration of Tomaso’s life.
I listened to Father Arrighi’s words, but I didn’t really hear them. I knew the kind of man Tomaso had been. I didn’t need a priest’s oration, however heartfelt and eloquent, to tell me his qualities. His personality, his being had infected my life for more than half a century. In the days since his death I had thought at length about him, reconciled myself to his passing and tried to make some kind of peace with my emotions. The funeral was simply a formal valediction, a ceremony to bring us all together and send Tomaso on his way. But I had already said my farewell to him.
I looked around the walls of the church, at the frescoes of saints and apostles and angels, and I thought of a different place, a different funeral. It was six years since my wife had died, but I still thought about her every day. At strange moments – at my workbench, in the garden, even doing mundane things like the washing up – I felt she was beside me. Sometimes I woke in the middle of the night with the feeling that she had been watching over me while I slept. And I found my pillow damp from my tears as I wondered who was watching over her while she slept.
Father Arrighi was asking us to join him in prayer now and I slipped to my knees automatically though I was no longer sure I was a believer. Once I had had faith in the goodness and the mercy of the Lord, but the day Caterina was taken from me I knew it was all a lie. I knew then that He did not exist, yet even so I raged against Him like a madman chasing a shadow, for who else could I blame for my grief? He had taken her from me. Taken her in suffering and pain and for that I could never forgive Him.
But listening to the voices around me, the voices of Tomaso’s friends and family murmuring in prayer for him, I wondered whether I had been unjust. I looked up at the figure of Christ above the altar and thought of Tomaso, and of my wife, two souls lost to me for eternity, and I hoped with every particle of my being that I had been wrong about God.
* * *
You could feel the sense of relief sweeping through the room. A collective sigh as the people seemed to exhale as one, letting go of their emotions, shrugging off the solemn traces of the funeral, their damp eyes and heavy hearts, and returning to a state of welcome – if slightly subdued – normality. They could talk of other things than Tomaso, catch up with old acquaintances, drink wine, even laugh. I felt my own shoulders lighten, my spirits lift. It was over.
‘How are you doing, Gianni?’ Guastafeste put a solicitous hand on my shoulder.
‘I’m all right.’
‘You want a drink?’
He squeezed his way across the crowded room and returned with two glasses of red wine.
‘It was a fitting send-off,’ he said. ‘Father Arrighi excelled himself. And so many people. If I have a quarter that number at my own funeral, I’ll be amazed.’
‘You won’t be around to be amazed,’ I said and Guastafeste smiled.
‘It’s nice for the family,’ he said. ‘To see how well loved Tomaso was. Who are they all, violin-makers?’
‘A lot of them, yes,’ I replied. ‘He’ll be missed. Tomaso had that knack of getting on with almost everyone. That’s a rare virtue.’
I saw Tomaso’s daughter, Giulia, coming towards us through the throng, pausing to exchange greetings, to receive words of condolence as she passed.
‘Good, you’ve both got a drink,’ she said, coming to a halt before us. ‘There’s some food in the kitchen. Please have some. Mama has overcatered, as usual.’
‘How is she?’ I said.
‘Coping. She’s lifted herself for the occasion. All the preparations have kept her busy, taken her mind off things a little. But it’s what happens now that worries me. When all the fuss is over and she’s left on her own.’
I nodded. The funeral had brought to an end that first, intense period of grief, but I knew it w
ould be years – if ever – before Clara fully recovered from her loss. People talk of closure, but most of us who have lost a partner never truly achieve closure. Reconciliation, resignation perhaps, but rarely closure.
‘Is she staying here in the house?’ I said.
‘She wants to. I’m trying to persuade her to come and stay with us for a few weeks, but she’s reluctant to leave. I don’t want her here on her own, getting depressed.’
‘It will take her a long time to adjust.’
‘I know.’
I took Giulia’s hand. I knew money would be tight for Clara. Tomaso had been a man who had lived for the moment. Pension plans, savings had not been a priority for him.
‘If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know. You only have to ask, you know that.’
‘Thank you, Gianni. There was something…’ Giulia paused. ‘I don’t know if this is the right moment. Not about Mama, but about Sofia.’
‘Sofia?’
Giulia turned to scan the room. She caught the eye of her daughter and beckoned her over. I’d noticed Tomaso’s granddaughter in the church, but hadn’t spoken to her. She was tall and willowy, dark hair falling around her shoulders. I’d met her only infrequently over the past few years. My last vivid memory of her was of a shy, awkward fifteen-year-old girl winning first prize at the Cremona Music Festival. Seeing this confident, self-possessed young woman before me now was a salutary reminder of how quickly children grow up.
‘You remember Sofia, don’t you?’ Giulia said.
‘Of course I do,’ I said, smiling at Sofia. ‘Your grandfather used to talk about you. How are your studies at the Conservatorio?’
‘Fine. They’re fine,’ Sofia replied. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. To ask you a favour.’ She glanced at Guastafeste. ‘To ask both of you a favour.’
‘Please, ask away.’
‘It’s about my recital. My debut recital,’ Sofia began.
‘Ah yes, I remember,’ I said. ‘Your grandfather mentioned a recital. It’s soon, isn’t it?’
‘The day after tomorrow. I wasn’t sure whether to go ahead with it. It doesn’t seem, well, appropriate with Grandpa dying.’
‘My goodness, you mustn’t think about cancelling,’ I said hurriedly. ‘That’s not at all what Tomaso would have wanted.’
‘That’s what I said,’ Giulia interjected, then turned to her daughter. ‘It’s an important day for you. Very important.’
‘Well, I know it is, but…’ Sofia hesitated, looking at Guastafeste, then me. ‘But there’s a problem. Grandpa was going to do some work on my violin for me – fit a new bridge, check the soundpost. I only left it with him last week. I don’t think he will have had time to do the work. I have another instrument – one Grandpa made – but I’d rather have my other one back for my recital, if possible.’
‘Leave it to me,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a look at it.’
Sofia’s eyes went to Guastafeste. ‘Unfortunately, the violin is in Grandpa’s workshop. And the police have sealed it off. I went over there yesterday and was told that no one is allowed into the workshop and nothing can be taken out of it.’
‘What sort of violin is it?’ Guastafeste asked.
‘A Romeo Antoniazzi. It’s in a black case with my name on the outside. There was a policeman guarding the workshop door. He said I’d need a court order to get the violin back.’
‘Put your mind at rest,’ Guastafeste said reassuringly. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
* * *
The photocopies of Tomaso’s phone records were on the table in my back room where I’d left them the previous evening. I picked up the sheets of paper and leafed through them pensively. The international calls to England had been heavily underlined in black ink: the Marlborough Hotel, London; the Randolph Hotel, Oxford; and a Mrs V. Colquhoun, whom the police – as far as I was aware – had still not managed to contact. I stared at her number for a while, then picked up the phone. I suppose, technically, I was interfering in police business, but Guastafeste had said I was ‘inside the loop’, hadn’t he? I was trying to help. What harm would it do? I dialled the number and waited. It rang for a long time. I was contemplating abandoning the call when I heard a click and a voice came on the line, speaking English.
‘Hello.’
It was a woman. She sounded elderly, perhaps a little frail.
‘Is that Mrs Colquhoun?’ I said in English.
‘Yes, I’m Mrs Colquhoun.’
‘My name is Castiglione.’
‘Speak up, I can hardly hear you.’
‘I’m sorry, the line is bad. I’m ringing from Italy.’
‘Did you say Italy?’
‘Yes.’
‘How wonderful. Whereabouts in Italy?’
‘Cremona.’
‘Ah, I’ve never been there. How is the weather?’
What? ‘Well, it’s hot,’ I said.
‘It’s overcast here. A bit muggy.’
Muggy? What did that mean?
‘I’m sorry to trouble you…’
‘Cremona, did you say? I don’t know Cremona, but Florence, ah, now there’s a city. Firenze, you call it, don’t you? It must be … let me see, twenty, no, thirty years since I was there, but one never forgets Florence, does one? Or is that Sorrento? I’m not sure…’ She broke off. ‘Timmy, get down from there. You know you’re not allowed on the table. Such a mischievous little thing. Now where were we?’
‘Mrs Colquhoun, I wanted to ask you about a friend of mine, Tomaso Rainaldi. I believe he telephoned you recently.’
‘Signor Rainaldi? Oh, yes, I remember…’ She broke off again, her voice getting fainter. ‘Timmy, I won’t tell you again, you naughty boy. Get down at once.’ Her voice became stronger again. ‘Do you have cats, Mr … I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Castiglione. No, I don’t have cats.’
‘I’m very fond of cats. You Italians love cats, don’t you? I remember in the Forum in Rome once, there were hundreds of them. All over the place they were.’
‘Could you tell me why he telephoned you?’ I said, steering the conversation back on track.
‘Who?’ said Mrs Colquhoun.
‘Signor Rainaldi.’
‘Such a nice man. He brought me a box of chocolates, you know. Most kind of him. Thornton’s Continentals, they were. I’m very fond of Thornton’s Continentals. Do you have them in Italy?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘How odd. They call them Continentals, but they aren’t available on the Continent.’
‘He came to your house?’ I said.
‘Oh, yes. We had such a nice chat. His English was a little, well, strange, but I have some Italian. Your English is very good, Signor … I’m sorry, it keeps going.’
‘Castiglione.’
‘Where did you learn it?’
‘I’ve picked it up over the years. Could you tell me why Signor Rainaldi came to see you?’
‘To look at some papers. Old family letters.’
My heart gave a sudden jolt.
‘Old letters?’ I said.
‘Yes, they’ve been in a trunk for years, centuries actually.’
‘What was in the letters?’
‘Oh, I don’t know that. I’ve never really looked at them properly.’
‘Do you still have the letters?’
‘Of course, they’re upstairs.’
‘Would it be possible for me to look at them?’
‘But you’re in Italy.’
‘To come over and look at them.’
‘If you wish. I don’t believe they’re very interesting though. Just old family correspondence.’
‘Whereabouts in England are you?’
‘Highfield Hall.’
‘And where exactly is that?’
‘In Derbyshire, the Peak District. Near Manchester.’
‘May I call you back to arrange an appointment?’
‘Of course. Come whenever
you like.’
‘You’ve been very kind. I look forward to meeting you.’
‘Bring some of that Italian sun with you. Goodbye.’
I replaced the receiver, then called Guastafeste at the Questura.
‘Now I know I shouldn’t have done this,’ I said. ‘But I think I have something.’
8
I have lived in the Lombardy countryside for seven years and would not want to be anywhere else. I enjoy the space, the scents of my garden, the blue sky filling the horizon wherever I look. But increasingly, when I venture into Cremona, I feel a strange, almost maudlin nostalgia for my time in the city.
My youth and middle age were spent there. My most enduring memories are inextricably bound up with the friends and experiences of that time. I miss the companionship of my urban days, the comforting feeling that one is not entirely alone, and I take great pleasure in wandering around my old haunts. I call in at my old workshop which has been taken over by a younger luthier, share a drink or a meal with some of my former neighbours and for a time I bask in the warmth of friendship and shared recollection that, more than anything these days, bring a genuine happiness into my life.
The Piazza Roma was cool and quiet. Cremona is something of a backwater. The adjective most frequently applied to the city – when anyone bothers to describe it at all – is ‘sleepy’. Comatose would be a better word. Everything passes us by. If Milan is the beating heart of northern Italy, the motorways radiating out from it like arteries, then Cremona is a bit like the appendix: people have heard of it, know vaguely where it is, but they can’t quite recall what it’s for. The local tourist board and the city fathers make earnest but essentially doomed attempts to attract visitors to the area – tourists, businessmen, students. But despite these valiant efforts the place remains noticeably uncontaminated by outsiders.
I sat on a bench under the trees in the piazza and watched the water dancing in the fountain in the centre of the square. Three hundred years ago this was the Piazza San Domenico. It had a church in the centre and a row of houses across the far side where Stradivari lived and worked. The houses and the church have long since been demolished, but there is a pinkish marble copy of Stradivari’s tombstone set amidst the flower beds. The original headstone is in the civic museum, but Stradivari’s bones have been lost. In one of the more shameful episodes in the city’s history, the great man’s remains were dug up and dumped in an unknown mass grave when the church of San Domenico was razed.
