by Paul Adam
‘I don’t want money,’ I said.
‘Gianni…’
‘No, let me finish. I’d like something else. When I visited your uncle in Venice, he showed me all the violins he had on display. He played a little game with me, asking me to identify the violins. It was an awesome collection – certainly the finest I’ve ever seen. Every instrument was of the highest quality, its pedigree unquestionable – except for one. One of his violins was a fake.’
Margherita stared at me. ‘A fake?’
‘I didn’t tell him, of course. He was immensely fond of that particular instrument. It’s a good fake, good enough to fool most experts, but it’s a fake nonetheless. For my fee, I’d like that violin.’
‘The fake?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘There are reasons. It has curiosity value, but its monetary value is slight – a few thousand euros perhaps. Would you regard that as an excessive fee?’
‘Not at all. Which violin is it?’
‘A Guarneri “del Gesù”, dated 1740. Your uncle believed it had once belonged to Louis Spohr, but he was deceived.’
Margherita regarded me curiously. ‘I’m intrigued. It’s a strange request, but I sense your reluctance to tell me more.’
‘This isn’t some devious way of getting my hands on a priceless “del Gesù”,’ I said. ‘You have my word on that. But I don’t want to say any more at the moment. Will you accept that?’
‘Of course. And I accept your terms. I’ll contact my uncle’s lawyers. They’ll be in touch to arrange for you to go to Venice to examine the collection.’
‘Is it urgent?’
‘They’re lawyers,’ Margherita said dryly. ‘To them, nothing is urgent – except the settlement of their bills.’
We finished our iced tea and I took her into my workshop. There is nothing particularly interesting about a luthier’s bench, his tools and forms and moulds. But I wanted her to see it, I wanted to share with her the place in which I spent my working hours, the place which more than anywhere in my house I consider my true home.
I showed her one of my finished violins, then others in progress, some in the white, some just a promise of things to come, mere rough-cut tables and half-assembled ribs. I explained to her the process, how the raw planks of spruce and maple that were stacked to the ceiling in my wood store were transformed into the rich, varnished instruments of the concert hall. She listened quietly, attentively, and when I looked up I saw she was smiling at me.
‘What?’
‘You love your work, don’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘It’s good to find a man with such a passion – such a talent – for creating something beautiful.’
‘All I do is make violins,’ I said. ‘I know it seems a little absurd to get so worked up about a few bits of wood, but I can’t help it. These things have been my life. All I hope is that my instruments have made a few people happy, have given music and joy to many others. That seems to me a worthwhile achievement.’
‘And to me.’
‘Now let me show you my garden, my other enduring passion.’
We went back out on to the terrace and for half an hour we explored the pathways and shrubberies, my apple and plum orchards, my herb and rock and water gardens which for the past seven years, with Nature’s help, I have tended with the love and patience of a doting father.
Then we grew tired of the heat of the afternoon and went inside the house. Margherita noticed the piano in my back room.
‘You play the piano too?’
‘No, my wife was the pianist.’
Margherita ran her fingers lightly over the keys, then looked at the piles of sheet music on the lid.
‘You like Brahms?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps some time we could try a duet together.’
‘Perhaps.’ Her hand touched my arm. ‘I really have to be going now.’ She kissed me on the cheek. ‘I’ll be in touch, Gianni.’
That kiss stayed with me long after she’d gone. I had grown accustomed to being alone, to spending the dark hours of the night – and often the day – in quiet contemplation of my own end. I prepared myself for it long ago. The whole of life, I suppose, is a preparation for death, but when we are young it is easier to forget that fact. Only in middle age, when my mother died, did the chilling realisation of my own mortality really hit me. I started then to count the years, to dwell a little more on eternity. There were distractions – my wife, my children, my work – that gave some form, some purpose, to my life. But when my wife died everything seemed to disintegrate around me. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of desolation, of guilt – that Caterina was gone while I, such a worthless creature in comparison to her, was still alive. Then when the grief subsided I began to feel a strange sensation of relief, almost of comfort that I would not have to endure many more years alone. That sounds morbid, despondent, but it is perhaps a misleading description for I had not been unhappy all that time. Rather I had found an equilibrium, a contentment that in some ways had been fulfilling. I believed that if my life ended tomorrow, I would not much mind.
But that equilibrium had now been disturbed. The reassuring routine of my life had been thrown out of kilter and I was feeling confused and disorientated. This was not supposed to happen. Not at my age. I found the experience bewildering. Bewildering, yet somehow liberating.
* * *
It was evening before Vittorio Sicardo called me back.
‘Cesare Garofalo,’ he said. ‘Not a name I was very familiar with. I’m afraid I couldn’t find out all that much about him.’
‘Just an outline will do,’ I said.
‘Well, he was born in Cameriano, near Novara, in 1642 and died in Casale Monferrato in 1704, aged sixty-two. He was believed to have been a pupil of Francesco Cairo, in Milan, somewhere around the 1660s, then later moved to Turin and finally Casale where he spent the last thirty years of his life. I’ve only managed to find a couple of illustrations of his work – both portraits of minor noblemen – but they’re remarkably good. I’m surprised he isn’t better known. If you want more, the city art gallery in Casale might be able to help you.’
‘What was the year of his death again?’
‘1704.’
‘Thanks, Vittorio.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of greater assistance.’
‘You’ve given me exactly what I needed.’
I broke the connection without replacing the receiver, keeping my finger on the button for a moment. Then I called Guastafeste.
* * *
‘Remember this?’ I held up one of the photocopied letters from the archives in Casale. ‘From Thomas Colquhoun to Michele Anselmi, thanking him for the painting.’
Guastafeste settled himself down in the armchair by the piano. ‘I remember. What of it?’
‘Let me read you a bit.’ I translated the section into Italian. ‘“The riddle to which you allude escapes me for the moment, but I have grown accustomed to your love of japes and I will endeavour over time to attempt to solve the puzzle.”’
‘Yes?’
‘I think I know what the riddle was. The painting at Highfield Hall is by Cesare Garofalo. If you recall, it shows a man in a music room with a violin in his arms. A Guarneri “del Gesù” violin, to be exact.’ I paced across the room to the French windows. I was too excited to sit down. ‘I’ve done some research. Cesare Garofalo was a Casale artist so it’s quite possible that Michele Anselmi knew his work, perhaps owned some of his paintings. There’s just one problem. Garofalo died in 1704.’
‘So?’
‘Giuseppe Guarneri “del Gesù” was born in 1698. When Garofalo died, Guarneri was just six years old. So how was it possible for Garofalo to incorporate a “del Gesù” into the painting?’
‘The painting’s a fake?’ Guastafeste said.
‘It has to be.’
‘Maybe you’re wrong about the violin. Maybe it
’s not a “del Gesù”, but a violin by some earlier maker. It’s a painting, after all, not the real thing. What if Garofalo didn’t reproduce it very accurately?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s a “del Gesù” all right. I’d stake my life on it.’
‘Why would Anselmi send Colquhoun a forged painting?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I think we ought to take another look at it.’
* * *
Guastafeste’s superiors at the Questura baulked at the idea of him returning to England to examine an old painting, so he took a couple of days’ leave and paid for the air flight himself. At Manchester airport I noticed a Thornton’s chocolate shop and we bought the biggest box they sold before picking up our hire car and driving to Highfield Hall. Mrs Colquhoun was wearing the same tweed skirt and cardigan as before, though with the addition of a few more silvery cat hairs, and her feline friends were still in smug occupation of her sitting room. We went into the kitchen, where only a couple of ‘Timmies’ were ensconced in front of the stove, and Mrs Colquhoun made us tea.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ she said, opening the box of chocolates we’d brought. ‘Oh, how wonderful. You must have one. These ones, with the dusting of sugar, are particularly good. Go on, I can’t eat them all myself. Well, I can, but it would be very naughty.’
An hour later we were still there, on our third pot of tea, the chocolate box looking severely depleted. I decided it was time to make a move if we were to get away by the evening – neither Guastafeste nor I being particularly anxious to spend another night in the house.
‘The painting,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes, of course. I’m so sorry, I’m talking too much. Let me show you.’
‘No, please. Don’t trouble yourself. We know where it is.’
We went upstairs by ourselves and studied the painting on the landing. I ran my eyes slowly over every centimetre of the canvas, taking in the man holding the violin, the virginal to one side, the detail of the walls and floor, the trees and church tower beyond the window of the room.
‘You’re still sure it’s a “del Gesù”?’ Guastafeste asked.
‘There’s no doubt about it. The painting has to be a forgery.’
Guastafeste touched the gilt frame of the picture. It looked original.
‘Is that the only riddle?’ he said reflectively. ‘Or is there something more? Help me get it down.’
It was a big painting, the frame thick and heavy. We lowered it carefully to the floor and turned it round so we could examine the back. A protective cloth covering was stretched across the frame. I’d hoped for some writing, a significant mark or two, but the cloth, beneath its coating of dust, was completely blank. I took out my pocket knife and cut a slit along the top edge of the cloth, then slid my hand in and felt around in the gap between cloth and canvas. There was nothing there.
‘Maybe there’s something on the back of the canvas,’ Guastafeste said.
I hesitated. That would mean removing the cloth covering entirely.
Guastafeste saw me pause. ‘She’ll never know. We can borrow some tape on some pretext or other and stick it back.’
I nodded. Now we were here, there was no sense in having too many scruples. With my knife I cut away the piece of cloth to expose the canvas back of the painting itself. We both crouched down and examined it closely.
‘You see anything?’ Guastafeste asked.
‘No.’
‘Me neither.’
I felt around the edges of the frame with my fingertips, hoping to find … what? Some piece of paper, some conveniently hidden clue that would lead us to the violin? I was dreaming. There was never going to be anything so simple.
‘It must be in the painting itself,’ Guastafeste said. ‘The picture, the subject matter.’
We turned the painting round and propped it up against the landing wall. I studied it again.
‘Maybe it’s the man holding the violin?’ I said.
‘We don’t know who he is.’
‘But if we did, perhaps he’s the key.’
‘Mrs Colquhoun didn’t even know who he was. How are we supposed to find out?’
The man was staring directly out from the canvas. He was young – maybe in his mid twenties – with a fresh complexion. The painting was dirty, but I thought I could detect a slight flush on the young man’s cheeks. A flush of what? Embarrassment? Good health?… Guilt? I moved back a little to get a better perspective, taking in the whole of the young man’s person. The expression in his eyes, the set of his mouth, seemed troubled. Or was I simply imagining it all, seeing things that weren’t there?
I scrutinised the rest of the painting, going backwards and forwards over the oils, peering minutely at every detail in case there was something I’d missed. The virginal to one side of the music room was beautifully captured. The lid was raised to reveal a scene of bucolic tranquillity painted on its underside. In the centre was a lake overhung with exotic trees while around the edges were figures – a couple out for a stroll, the woman holding a parasol; two men in earnest conversation; another man on horseback; a family sharing a picnic with a group of ducks loitering nearby for titbits. The sides and front of the instrument were decorated with an inlaid pattern of ivory and different coloured woods and on the panel behind the keyboard was a marquetry rose surrounded by intricate fretwork like handwriting. Handwriting? I stared at the fretwork, hoping to make out words amidst the curlicues and arabesques, but I sought in vain.
‘Well?’ Guastafeste said.
I shook my head. In Italy I’d been so sure there would be something in the painting. Now we were here before it, I could see nothing.
‘Just move aside, Gianni.’
Guastafeste had brought a digital camera with him. He crouched down and took several shots of the painting.
‘I’ll get them blown up in the lab,’ he said. ‘We can study them when we get home.’
I was still looking at the painting. It had to be there. Why couldn’t I see it?
‘Gianni…’
I nodded and tore my eyes away from the picture. There was no point in lingering.
Mrs Colquhoun tried to persuade us to stay longer, but we politely declined. We drove away from the house in silence. In stark contrast to our previous visit there was no mist on the moors. The heather and the sandstone crags were illuminated in brilliant sunshine, but neither of us was interested in the scenery. We dropped down off the plateau, past the coniferous plantations, the reservoir, the enclosed fields of grazing sheep. We passed under a railway bridge, the outskirts of a village closing in around the road. I saw a pub, rows of stone houses, the tower of a church on the hillside in the distance … and it came to me suddenly, as if a magnesium flare had erupted inside my skull.
‘Pull over…’
Guastafeste turned his head. ‘What?’
‘Stop the car.’
‘Here?’
‘Anywhere.’
Guastafeste slowed, pulled in to the kerb. A driver behind sounded his horn and overtook us with an angry rev of his engine. Guastafeste looked at me. I was trembling, my stomach gripped in a tourniquet of sickness and excitement.
‘I know what it is,’ I said, my voice little more than a croak. ‘The riddle, the clue. And the violin. I know where it is.’
18
For a long time neither of us moved. I stared straight ahead through the windscreen, listening to the racing beat of my heart. Cars went past in both directions. I was aware vaguely of their shapes, the noise of their engines, but my gaze was focused intently on the hillside beyond the village; on the tower of a church just visible above a line of trees.
‘I’m waiting,’ Guastafeste said calmly.
I blinked and turned to look at him. Then I slid my hand into the inside pocket of my jacket and pulled out an envelope containing the photocopies of the letters we had found at Highfield Hall and in the archives at Casale Monferrato. I unfolded the last of the letters from Michele Anselmi
to Thomas Colquhoun, dated some time in 1804 – the letter revealing that the violin Cozio had sent to Colquhoun in lieu of his debt had disappeared en route to England.
‘Let me read you a few passages,’ I said.
‘“It is impossible, at the moment, to be certain whether the instrument ever left Paris or if it did, at what point in the journey to England it was stolen. As the months go by, I begin to fear that the violin will never be recovered and the thief will take the secret of its whereabouts to the grave with him.”
‘Then later in the letter, Anselmi writes, “As it was through my negligence that this unfortunate loss occurred, I feel honour bound to make due recompense to you. I am therefore enclosing a banker’s order for the full amount of the debt owed to you by His Excellency.” That was a noble, generous act on Anselmi’s part. It was Cozio who owed Colquhoun the money, yet Anselmi paid it in full.
‘He was clearly a man of great integrity. At the end of the letter he writes, “It is my fervent wish that this debt should be honourably discharged, for only then will my conscience rest easy.” He uses the word honour at least twice in one paragraph and is clearly very troubled by the loss of the violin. Perhaps a little too troubled.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Guastafeste asked. ‘He undertook to send the violin to England, but it never got there. Wouldn’t you feel troubled by that?’
‘Certainly I would. But I wonder whether there was more on his conscience than just the disappearance of the violin.’
‘More? What do you mean?’
‘That by the time he wrote this letter, Michele Anselmi knew what had happened to the violin, and it was that knowledge that weighed so heavily on his conscience.’
I paused. Was I right? Was the evidence really there to support me, or was I simply deceiving myself?
‘I think his son stole it,’ I said.
‘His son?’ Guastafeste frowned at me.
‘Paolo Anselmi. His father gave him the job of transporting the violin to Paris and finding a courier to take it on to England. But Paolo didn’t find a courier, he may not even have taken the violin to Paris. We know from Marinetti’s letter that Paolo was a violinist himself. I think he saw the violin, was overcome by the desire to possess it, and kept it for himself.’
