by Paul Adam
Guastafeste was walking around the glass case, taking in every detail of the violin.
‘And what’s your view?’ he said. ‘Do you think Vuillaume faked it?’
Did I? I’ve often wondered whether Jean-Baptiste and I had more in common than just our Christian names.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘You must judge for yourself.’
Guastafeste stared at me pensively. ‘Let me get this right,’ he said. ‘This violin might, or might not, be a fake. This fellow Tarisio might, or might not, have owned a perfect, unplayed Stradivari. Am I correct so far?’
‘Yes.’
‘But we know for certain – and it’s about the only thing we do know for certain – that Count Cozio di Salabue did own an outstanding 1716 Stradivari.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That fact is documented beyond doubt.’
‘So if this isn’t that 1716 Stradivari, then what happened to it? What if the violin Cozio gave to Thomas Colquhoun – that went missing somewhere on its journey to England – was the 1716 Stradivari?’
‘That’s possible.’
Guastafeste’s eyes were gleaming with suppressed excitement.
‘So what we’re looking for … might not be a sister to the Messiah. It might be the Messiah itself.’
12
Violin auctions are not overtly exciting events – you’d probably see more explicit passion in a village cattle sale – but it is their very restraint that, to me, makes them so gripping. On the surface everyone is so controlled, so reticent, so perfectly well-mannered, yet underneath I know the emotions are seething away, a cauldron bubbling over with the basest human impulses. I love that charged atmosphere, the sense of anticipation, the smell of desire and greed in the air. It is one of life’s most intoxicating experiences.
The room was almost full. There were one or two empty seats scattered around the floor, but then a great crowd of people standing up at the back, talking in low murmurs, waiting impatiently for the auction to begin. We were five minutes past the scheduled start time, but that was all part of the game – keep the audience waiting, build up the heat until the pressure cooker was ready to explode.
I could see Rudy Weigert at the front, pink-faced and spruce in a dark suit and red bow-tie. He was chatting to one of his colleagues. I saw him glance at his watch, gauging the moment at which to make his entrance, then he stepped up on to the podium and the whole room fell silent. Rudy checked his lapel mike. Above his head the digital electronic display lit up to show the lot numbers and the prices in sterling, US dollars, Swiss francs, euros and Japanese yen.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen…’ Rudy rattled off his opening patter, smooth, relaxed, putting us at our ease. He announced a couple of withdrawals, outlined the rules of bidding, then the show began.
‘Lot 1, a violin by Giuseppe Zamberti. I’ll start with twelve hundred pounds. Twelve hundred with me … thirteen hundred … fourteen hundred … fifteen hundred … with you, sir, at fifteen hundred … fifteen hundred … do I have any more bids?’ Rudy’s gavel banged down. ‘Sold to you, sir, for fifteen hundred pounds. Could I see your paddle, please?’
The successful bidder held up his numbered paddle and Rudy moved swiftly on to Lot 2, a violin by Otto Moeckel. The early lots were mostly the cheaper instruments, interspersed with groups of bows, scraps thrown out to get the buyer’s salivary glands going before the real meat came out and Rudy – he hoped – stepped back to watch the feeding frenzy. He went through the lots at a lick – a hundred in just over an hour. It was a pleasure to watch him in action, the master of ceremonies playing to the crowd, his innate showmanship to the fore.
‘Have I missed anything?’ a voice whispered beside me.
I turned my head to see Vincenzo Serafin slipping into the adjacent empty seat.
‘Not much,’ I said.
‘Good.’
He adjusted his trousers to preserve their knife-edge creases and opened his catalogue. I could smell his aftershave lotion, hear the faint hiss of his breathing as if he’d had to hurry to get here and overexerted himself in the process. It must have been a long walk from the taxi to the kerb.
‘What lot are we on?’ he asked, though the number was prominently displayed at the front of the room.
‘Lot 109,’ I said. ‘Carlo Loveri.’
Serafin flicked through his catalogue without haste. He hadn’t come all the way to London to buy a Carlo Loveri.
‘Now, Lot 110,’ Rudy said. ‘A violin circa 1900, labelled Josephus Cerutti filius Joannis Baptistae Cremonensis fecit anno 1825. Who will give me two thousand? Thank you, sir. Two two … two five … two eight … three thousand.’ The bidding went up steadily. ‘Do I have four five?’ Rudy asked. ‘Four five, thank you, sir … four eight … five … five five on the telephone…’ Rudy turned his gaze to the side of the room, to the row of telephones manned by the thin-lipped thoroughbred women all the London auction houses seemed to employ. ‘Five five with Emily on the phone … six thousand, thank you, sir … six five on the phone … seven … seven five?’ Rudy looked to the phones. Emily shook her head. ‘Do I have seven five? Seven five at the back there … eight … with you, sir, for eight thousand pounds … eight … eight five … nine, with you, sir…’
The bidding kept going. ‘Ten … eleven … Do I have twelve? Twelve … thirteen.’ I felt the change in the atmosphere. The people in front of me began to turn round in their seats, looking to see who was bidding so much for such an apparently undistinguished instrument. The catalogue estimate was only £2,500 to £4,500, but the bidding kept going up. Someone obviously knew more about the violin – or thought they did – than the rest of us. I twisted round too, watching the two men at the back vying with each other, upping the ante like guys in a bar staring each other out to see who would blink first.
‘Twenty-two thousand,’ Rudy said finally. ‘With you, sir, at twenty-two thousand pounds.’ The gavel came down. ‘Sold!’
I turned back to the front, shifting a little in my seat. The steel-framed plastic chairs were uncomfortable and so hard I was starting to lose all sensation in my buttocks. I looked down at my catalogue. The supporting acts were all over. It was time for the leads to come out centre stage.
‘Lot 111,’ Rudy announced. ‘A viola by Giovanni Battista Gabrielli…’
I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye – a man walking down the aisle and taking one of the unoccupied seats two rows in front of me. It was Christopher Scott. I sat up abruptly, staring at his sandy hair, his freckled cheek as he turned to look across to the table beside the podium where an attendant in a navy-blue apron was holding up the next instrument to be sold. I heard Serafin suck in air between his teeth, as if he’d bitten on a lemon. I glanced sideways. He was glaring at Scott with undisguised loathing.
‘I’ve had some interest in this. We’ll start at seventeen thousand pounds. Who will give me eighteen? Thank you, sir, I have eighteen here at the front … nineteen … twenty … twenty-two…’
I watched Scott as the lots were knocked down one after the other. The Gabrielli went for £38,000, a Tomaso Balestrieri for £75,000, a Vuillaume for £42,000. He bid for none of them, though I could see he had a numbered paddle on his knee.
Then came the real star of the show – a 1698 Pietro Guarneri of Mantua which had an estimate of £200,000 to £250,000. Pietro Guarneri was the uncle of the great ‘del Gesù’. He made outstanding violins, but not many of them for – unusually for a luthier of the time – he also held an appointment as a violinist in the orchestra of the Gonzaga court at Mantua.
Rudy started the bidding at £140,000, going up in intervals of £10,000. Scott came in early, registering his interest with a bid of £170,000. This was the violin he’d told Guastafeste he’d been engaged to acquire for Enrico Forlani. He certainly wasn’t bidding for Forlani today.
‘One eighty,’ Rudy said, looking at Serafin who’d nodded at the rostrum. Scott turned his head to see whom he was up against
and his mouth curled at the corners. Serafin avoided his eye, his gaze fixed on Rudy.
‘One ninety? Do I have one ninety?’
Scott swivelled back to face the front and held up a finger.
‘One ninety, thank you, sir.’
Serafin bid two hundred thousand.
‘Two hundred thousand,’ Rudy said. ‘I have two hundred thousand … two ten … two twenty … two thirty…’ I watched the red glowing numbers on the digital display change as the price went up. There were only two bidders in the race – Scott and Serafin. ‘Two forty … two fifty … with you, sir, at two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’ Rudy looked expectantly at Serafin. I was tempted to put in a bid myself – though I hadn’t registered for a paddle – just to annoy Serafin.
Serafin gave a nod. Then Scott raised his finger. I wondered for whom they were bidding. I doubted it was on their own accounts – they were vying against each other with the casual enthusiasm of men spending someone else’s money.
The bidding reached £300,000 – fifty thousand above the upper end of the estimate – and kept going. Scott bid three ten, Serafin three twenty. I glanced at Serafin. His expression was unnaturally calm, but there was a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. Scott bid three thirty, Serafin three forty.
‘Three fifty? Do I have three fifty?’ Rudy said, looking at Scott.
Scott seemed to hesitate. I could sense everyone around me willing him to continue. Keep it going, I thought. Let’s see how high this can go.
Scott raised his finger.
Rudy looked at Serafin.
‘Three fifty. I have three fifty. Do I have three sixty?’
I could hear my own heartbeat, thought – impossibly – that I could hear Serafin’s too, racing away next to me. He was holding his breath – that I could hear. Waiting. Thinking. Maybe praying. Rudy kept looking at him.
‘I have three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Do I have any more bids?’
Serafin was in agony. I could see it in his face. Did he have a ceiling? Everyone has a ceiling, even someone like Serafin. What was it?
‘Do I have any more bids?’ Rudy repeated.
Serafin didn’t move. His features were set rigid, his mouth a tight line. He still hadn’t breathed. His eyes were staring at the rostrum, cold, unblinking. Come on, Vincenzo, I urged him silently. Do something.
Serafin inhaled sharply, the sound audible throughout the room. With an effort that seemed to take every last remaining ounce of his energy, he shook his head and looked at the floor, grimacing as if he were in pain.
Rudy’s gavel hammered down. ‘Sold! For three hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’
Christopher Scott held up his paddle, then turned round in his seat and gave a thin smile of triumph at Serafin.
* * *
Rudy came towards me across the crowded lobby, manoeuvring his way around the clusters of people – the dealers huddled together in conspiratorial groups, the long line of successful bidders waiting to settle their bills at the sales counter.
‘Gianni,’ he said. ‘My apologies for not speaking to you earlier. You know how it is.’
‘Of course I do,’ I said. ‘Don’t let me get in your way now. I know you’re very busy.’
‘Not at all. I’ve done my bit. Others take over now. So how was your trip to Derbyshire?’
‘Good.’
‘Where exactly did you go?’
‘A place called Highfield Hall.’
‘Never heard of it. You must tell me all about it. What are you doing for lunch? I know what you’re doing, you’re having it with me.’
‘My friend, Antonio … he’s meeting me here any moment,’ I said. ‘He couldn’t face sitting through the auction.’
‘Then you’re both coming for lunch,’ Rudy said. ‘I know a little place around the corner.’
He took me by the arm to lead me towards the exit. As I turned, I almost bumped into a figure who had been standing right behind me. It was Christopher Scott. I wondered how long he’d been there. He gave me a hard stare, his pale blue eyes cold and hostile, then he nodded brusquely at Rudy and pushed past us to the sales counter.
Rudy’s ‘little place around the corner’ was an expensive French restaurant which specialised in the kind of rich, high-cholesterol food that provided so many English heart specialists with their second homes in Tuscany.
We had barely sat down before Rudy ordered two bottles of red wine – ‘I can’t stand the wait while they bring out the second’ – and a plate of hors d’oeuvre. He waited for the wine to arrive and drank down his first glass in two long gulps.
‘That’s better.’ He sighed deeply and relaxed back in his seat. ‘How do you think it went?’
‘The auction?’ I said. ‘I think your job’s secure.’
‘Quite a few lots unsold.’
‘There always are. The important ones all went. Were you surprised by the Guarneri? A hundred thousand above the upper estimate.’
‘It was a very good violin.’
‘Serafin was livid that he didn’t get it.’
‘He should have kept bidding then. I’m surprised he didn’t. Especially against Christopher Scott. Losing to Scott must have been especially galling.’
Guastafeste looked up, frowning. He’d been struggling to follow the conversation in English, but he’d caught the mention of the name.
‘Christopher Scott?’ he said.
‘He was at the auction,’ I replied in Italian. ‘Snatched the prize lot from under Serafin’s nose.’
Then, reverting to English, I said to Rudy, ‘Why especially galling?’
‘You must have seen,’ Rudy said. ‘There’s not exactly any love lost between them.’
‘They’re dealers, what do you expect?’
‘It’s more than professional rivalry. I know a lot of dealers. They compete with each other, but most of them are realistic about the business. If they lose a violin, they shrug their shoulders. They know there’ll be another one along at the next sales. Scott and Serafin are different. There’s a real personal animosity there.’
‘Based on?’
‘Well, this is just trade gossip, you understand,’ Rudy said. ‘I probably shouldn’t be repeating it.’
‘But you will,’ I said.
‘Why break the habit of a lifetime? You know that woman of Serafin’s – the coiffeured stick insect? What’s her name? Marietta?’
‘Maddalena.’
‘Yes, Maddalena. Expensive little piece to run. She was here with Serafin for the spring sales. Not that I saw very much of her. Complete shopaholic, she seemed. Must have almost cleaned out Harrods, not to mention Serafin. Well, they say – and this, of course, is unsubstantiated rumour – that Scott had a fling with her.’
‘In the spring?’
Rudy nodded.
‘And Serafin found out?’
‘I’m not sure about that. But relations between the two men have been somewhat frosty ever since.’
‘Maddalena and Serafin still seem to be together.’
‘Perhaps it’s all wrong then.’ Rudy helped himself to a couple of stuffed olives.
‘You know Scott well?’ I said.
‘Well enough.’ Rudy pulled a face. I could tell he didn’t like him, and there aren’t many people Rudy dislikes.
‘You’ve had bad experiences with him?’
‘Let’s just say he’s not the most pleasant person I’ve ever had dealings with.’
‘But he’s big.’
Rudy nodded. ‘And getting bigger. Does a lot of business, buys a lot, has good contacts…’
‘But…’
‘He’s a little too aggressive, too nakedly ambitious for my liking.’ Rudy refilled his glass with wine. ‘There are others like him. Brash young men in a hurry. He’s bright, educated, the type who could have gone into the City. You know, been a commodity broker or an investment banker. But he chose violin dealing instead – saw it as a way to make a fortune. He knows his stuf
f all right, jets around the world doing deals. Breakfast in Hong Kong, dinner in LA, that kind of thing. But he’s not … well, my type. He has no graces, no manners. Everything is up front, take it or leave it.’
‘So he’s simply more honest than other dealers,’ I said. ‘The one shark in the pool who doesn’t trouble to hide his teeth.’
Rudy chuckled. ‘You could say that. You know how the business works, Gianni.’ He picked up the menu. ‘Now what do you fancy?’
I usually get by with just a light lunch, but Rudy insisted we work our way through starter, fish, meat and dessert courses, a culinary marathon that made me feel as if I’d been force fed like some foie gras goose.
‘You don’t do this every lunchtime, do you?’ I asked.
‘Good God, no,’ Rudy said. ‘Only three, four times a week. I’m on a diet, you see.’
My mouth was empty or I would have choked.
‘A diet?’
‘Ruth’s insisting. So’s my quack. He says I’m in line for a massive coronary if I don’t cut down on the food and drink. What he doesn’t realise is that that’s the whole bloody point. I want a massive coronary.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘Seems a good way to go, if you ask me. I don’t want to end up some doddering old fool in an armchair, or get Alzheimer’s or a horrible lingering cancer when they pump you full of chemicals which don’t do a damn thing except make you wish you were already dead. No, a heart attack seems a pretty merciful end. A couple of glasses of good claret and a Tournedos Rossini, then bam! Lights out. That’ll do me fine.’
Rudy polished off what was left of the second bottle of wine and smiled contentedly. ‘I’m making a bit of an effort, for Ruth’s sake really, but lunch is my raison d’être. It’s the only reason I bother getting up in the mornings and going to work. And I don’t have so many lunchtimes left that I can afford to waste any of them on cheese sandwiches.’
‘And are you losing any weight?’
‘Oh, yes. I lost a couple of pounds last month. I’m being very disciplined. Within reason, of course. Now how about a brandy?’
