by Paul Adam
‘I’m sorry we’re late,’ I said, pulling out a chair.
Guastafeste sat down next to me and glanced idly around the room. It was a quiet time of day. There were one or two music students scattered around the other tables, but none of them was close enough to overhear what we were saying.
‘Allow me to introduce a friend of mine,’ I said. ‘Antonio Guastafeste, of the Cremona Police Department.’
Ludovico Scamozzi frowned at Guastafeste. Then he ran his fingers through his hair and made a petulant gesture.
‘Police? What’s this all about?’
‘Violins,’ Guastafeste said.
‘What about them?’
‘Gianni?’ Guastafeste invited me to speak.
I looked at Scamozzi. ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘That men only have one name throughout their lives, but women generally have two, sometimes more.’
‘What?’
‘Katarina Guarneri, for instance. She had three. Her maiden name, Rota, her first husband’s name, Guarneri, and then her second husband’s name, Horak.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Scamozzi snapped. ‘Look, I have a departmental meeting in half an hour. Get to the point. Your phone call was cryptic enough, but this is even worse.’
‘Half an hour will be plenty of time,’ I said.
‘Plenty of time for what?’
I turned to the woman sitting next to Scamozzi, her features almost hidden by the unruly bush of dark hair that framed her face.
‘Signora Scamozzi, you too have had three names, and you too – like Katarina Guarneri – have chosen, or been forced, to live your life in the shadow of your husband.’
‘What rubbish is this?’ Scamozzi demanded impatiently.
‘Let him speak,’ Magda said. Her voice was quiet, curious. She was watching me, her eyes narrowing warily behind her curls.
‘You are Magda Scamozzi now,’ I continued. ‘Before that you were Magda Erzsébet, but you were born Magda Borsos.’
‘So?’ Scamozzi said.
‘Be quiet, Ludovico,’ Magda said.
Scamozzi glanced at her in surprise, but he held his tongue.
‘People think you’re Hungarian,’ I said.
‘I am Hungarian.’
‘But you’re not from Hungary. You’re from Romania, from Oradea – Nagyvárad, in Hungarian – one of the Hungarian-speaking territories Hungary lost after the First World War.’
‘What has this to do with violins?’
‘Because in 1920, a man from Oradea named Imre Borsos bought a Maggini violin, a distinctive, particularly fine Maggini known as the Snake’s Head because of the pattern in the wood of its back.’
Magda Scamozzi took a sip of her mineral water, her eyes never leaving my face.
‘Who was he?’ I said. ‘Your grandfather?’
‘I don’t know anything about a Maggini violin.’ She pushed back her chair to get to her feet.
‘Murder is a serious business,’ Guastafeste said. ‘I think you’d better stay.’
‘Murder?’ It was Ludovico Scamozzi who’d spoken. He leaned towards Guastafeste, pushing his long hair back behind his ears to stop it falling over his face. ‘Did you say murder?’
Guastafeste was spared the need to reply immediately by the sudden ring of his mobile phone. He put it to his ear and listened for a moment, then murmured, ‘Thank you’, and put the phone back in his pocket.
‘What’s going on?’ Scamozzi said in a puzzled voice, half looking at Guastafeste, half at his wife.
‘Nothing,’ Magda said defiantly. ‘I don’t know what they’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about Enrico Forlani,’ Guastafeste said. ‘The man you killed.’
‘You’re out of your mind,’ Ludovico Scamozzi said. ‘I’ve never heard of an Enrico Forlani. How dare you make such a ludicrous accusation. Come on, Magda, we don’t have to sit here and listen to this.’
‘Sit down!’ Guastafeste said sharply. ‘And shut up. You may never have heard of Enrico Forlani, but your wife has, haven’t you, signora? And you’ve also heard of Tomaso Rainaldi, a luthier from Cremona who was on the trail of a violin, a very special violin. Rainaldi approached Vincenzo Serafin, looking for money to pursue the search, but Serafin turned him down. Your friend Maddalena, Serafin’s mistress, told you all about it. You wanted that violin. You wanted the information Rainaldi had, but Rainaldi was killed before you could obtain it. So you went to Forlani, the collector who was financing Rainaldi’s search. How did you know about Forlani? Maddalena again, perhaps. Did Serafin know Rainaldi had gone to Forlani? The details aren’t important right now. But you went to Forlani’s house in Venice, that much is certain. What happened while you were there? Did you have some kind of an argument with him? Did you lose your temper and push him into the glass case?’
Magda drank some more of her mineral water. I watched her. Her husband was watching her too. He wanted to know the answer as much as I did.
‘You have some concrete evidence to back up this interesting theory?’ Magda said.
‘My phone call just now,’ Guastafeste replied. ‘It was from the Milan police. They were at your apartment, with a warrant to search it. Under your bed they found the Snake’s Head Maggini that was stolen from Forlani’s house after he was murdered.’
Magda said nothing. Scamozzi was staring at her, his eyes wide with horror.
‘Is this true?’ he said.
Magda ignored him. She was concentrating on Guastafeste and me. I’d expected a show of defiance, angry denials, perhaps even physical assault, but she was subdued. The fight had gone out of her.
‘I didn’t steal it,’ she said. ‘The Maggini was mine. Yes, it was my grandfather who bought it. It was in our family between the wars. Then in 1945 the Red Army came to Oradea. I won’t tell you what atrocities they committed. Compared to those dreadful acts, stealing a violin was nothing. But it was taken nonetheless. When I went to Forlani’s and saw the violin in his collection I was incensed. That vile, smelly, greedy old man had my grandfather’s Maggini in a glass case. Something inside me exploded. I attacked him. I didn’t mean to kill him. He was unsteady on his feet. He toppled over, put out his arms and crashed through the case. There was nothing I could do for him.’
‘You could have called an ambulance,’ Guastafeste said.
‘He’d have been dead long before an ambulance arrived.’ Her eyes flared for a moment. ‘I’m not a thief. I only took back what was rightfully mine.’
Scamozzi edged away from his wife, as if he feared she might be contagious.
‘You admit you killed him?’ he said.
‘I did it for you.’
‘For me? You killed him for me?’
‘You could have been a great virtuoso, Ludovico. You should have been. Up there with Heifetz and Oistrakh and Perlman.’
She reached out to take his hand, but Scamozzi snatched his arm away, the revulsion clear in his face. Magda looked at him. The rejection had hurt. She seemed like a young girl now, puzzled, confused, not fully comprehending what she’d done.
‘For me?’ he said again. ‘Why?’
‘I love you, Ludovico. I’ve given up everything for you.’ Her eyes were locked on her husband’s face. Guastafeste and I might not have been there. ‘You were so gifted, you had such potential. What happened? It was your violin. You never had the right one, always an inferior instrument. As soon as Maddalena told me about this violin, this new Messiah, I knew I had to have it, whatever it cost. It was for you. I wanted it for you. I knew it wasn’t too late to bring back your career. You shouldn’t be here, teaching these stupid, talentless children. You should be on stage, in the bright lights, an international star. Don’t you understand, Ludovico? The Maggini is for you too. Everything I did was for you.’
‘Not for me,’ Scamozzi said harshly. ‘It wasn’t for me. For God’s sake, Magda, you think I wanted you to kill for me? You’re mad.’
She reached out her
hand again, but Scamozzi backed away once more. Tears flooded down her face.
‘Please, Ludovico. You have to understand. It was an accident. I meant well. I need you. I love you. You love me, don’t you?’
Scamozzi didn’t reply. Magda gazed at him imploringly. He turned his head away, unable to look at her.
Guastafeste said quietly, ‘I think it’s time to go, signora.’
* * *
‘You found it?’ Serafin said incredulously. ‘You actually found it?’
He very nearly leapt out of his padded leather chair, which for a man of such ingrained laziness was a quite remarkable reaction.
‘Yes, I found it,’ I said casually. ‘Though not without difficulty.’
‘So let me see it.’
‘In a moment.’
I wanted to take my time, make him suffer a little. After all I’d put up with from him over the years it was the least I deserved.
‘Come on, Gianni, show me.’ He was leaning over his desk in a state of considerable agitation. If he’d been a dog, he’d have been drooling all over the polished mahogany surface.
‘I want to agree terms first,’ I said.
‘Terms? What do you mean?’ He tried to look wounded but I knew it was only a negotiating ploy. With Serafin, everything is a negotiating ploy. ‘You know me, Gianni. I’ve always been generous. You’ll get a fair price from me, you know that.’
‘Maybe,’ I said coolly. ‘But perhaps I’ll get more from somebody else.’
That gave him a shock. He sat back heavily and stared at me.
‘You’d take it elsewhere?’ he said, aghast.
I could feel the warm glow of power seep through my bones. So this is what it felt like. I could see why it was so addictive.
‘I’d obviously prefer not to,’ I said. ‘But if you give me no choice…’
‘Who would you go to?’ Serafin said, regaining some of his customary cocksuredness. ‘There’s no one else with my kind of contacts, my list of private collectors.’
‘I could put it into an auction.’
Serafin was horrified. ‘What, and give a fat commission to one of those parasitical auction houses? You wouldn’t want to do that. Besides, if you sell privately you know you’ll get a better price.’
‘Will I?’
‘Don’t play games, Gianni. This isn’t fun.’
I begged to differ, but it seemed cruel to point it out so I contented myself with a non-committal murmur.
‘How much do you want?’ Serafin said, a note of such desperation creeping into his voice that I almost felt bad about tormenting him. Almost.
‘What do you think it might be worth?’ I asked.
‘Anything you want. I have clients who would…’ He’d been about to say ‘kill’ but changed his mind. ‘… who would give their entire fortunes for a new Messiah. Is it in good condition?’
‘Perfect. It’s better than the Messiah. Original fingerboard and tailpiece. It’s in mint condition, unplayed for a hundred and fifty years.’
‘And its provenance? My clients will want to be sure it’s genuine.’
‘Oh, it’s genuine all right. I have historic letters, witnesses who will swear affidavits as to its origins. I’ve been over every grain of the wood, examined every minute detail. It’s the real thing, Vincenzo, you can be absolutely sure of that.’
‘How much?’
‘Ten million dollars.’
Even Serafin was taken aback a little. ‘Ten million?’ he said with a gasp.
‘It’s not negotiable,’ I said. ‘I’m not greedy. You can take your twenty per cent commission. Eight million for me and my partners, two for you.’
That appealed more to him. I saw him reconsidering the price, maybe even coming round to the view that it was a bit of a bargain.
‘It’s a lot,’ he said.
‘It’s a lot of violin. I want the money in a Swiss bank account before I release the violin. Can you find a buyer at that price?’
‘Yes, I can guarantee that.’
‘So you agree to the terms?’
Serafin stroked his silky black beard for a few seconds. I could almost see the dollar signs clicking through his eyeballs like a character in a cartoon.
‘Okay, you have a deal,’ he said. ‘Now, for God’s sake, show me the bloody violin.’
I took the instrument out of its case and passed it across the desk.
‘I cleaned it up a little,’ I said. ‘So you could see it at its best.’
‘Dio,’ Serafin said, unable to take his eyes off the violin. ‘That is one magnificent little lady.’
He turned the violin around in his hands, studying the belly, the back, the ribs, the scroll, before peering through the f-hole at the label.
‘“Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1716,”’ he read. ‘The same year as the Messiah.’
‘Its sister,’ I said.
Serafin held the violin up so that the sunlight glanced off its belly, making the varnish glow like the embers of a wood fire.
‘It’s his, there’s no doubt about it,’ he said fervently. ‘Look at it. You can see the true hand of genius in it.’
‘You can, can’t you?’ I said.
* * *
I paused for a time outside the door of the practice room, listening to the sound coming from within – the endless repetition of scales and arpeggios, of runs and exercises, a violinist warming up before the real work began. Then I knocked on the door and went in.
Sofia glanced round and her bow skittered to a stop.
‘Signor Castiglione!’
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Not at all. I love interruptions. Come in.’
‘I’ve brought you something,’ I said.
I put the violin case down on a chair and opened it.
‘Put away your violin, Sofia,’ I said. ‘You won’t be needing it any more.’
I handed her the Guarneri ‘del Gesù’. ‘Take it. It’s yours.’
Her fingers closed tentatively around the neck of the violin. The great instruments have a special feel. You can tell the moment you touch them. Sofia’s other hand cupped the lower bouts, cradling the violin in front of her. She gazed at it uncertainly.
‘For me?’
I nodded. ‘You need each other.’
‘What is it?’
‘Look at the label.’
She peered into the f-hole. I saw her stiffen, then her eyes came back to mine.
‘It’s genuine,’ I said.
‘I can’t afford anything like this,’ she said.
‘I’m not selling it to you. It’s a gift. It needs a good home.’
‘A gift? From you?’
‘From your grandfather. He would have wanted you to have it.’
‘Grandpa?’
‘It’s yours, Sofia. A talent like yours deserves a violin like this. And a violin like this deserves a player like you.’
Her eyes were glistening. ‘This is too much.’
‘Try it.’
She ran her bow hesitantly over the strings, then more confidently, getting a feel for the instrument.
‘Play something for me,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘The D Minor Chaconne.’
I sat down in a chair and closed my eyes. From the first notes I knew they were made for each other. When Delphin Alard first played the Messiah, Vuillaume said he heard the angels singing. As I listened now to the ‘del Gesù’, I heard not the sound of angels, but the voice of God himself. I felt my eyes moisten, the tears well up and trickle down my cheeks. Never in all my life had I heard such a perfect combination of violin and player.
As the final chord rang out across the practice room, I opened my eyes and saw the look of pure, unconcealed joy on Sofia’s face. She glanced at me, uncertain again.
‘I can’t live up to it,’ she said.
‘You can, and you will. That violin has been waiting a quarter of a millennium for the right
companion. I think it’s found its soulmate now.’
Sofia put the ‘del Gesù’ down in its case and came to me, sobbing openly. I held her for a moment, then stepped back and smiled at her.
‘Not you too.’ I gave her a handkerchief.
‘How can I ever thank you?’ she said.
‘Thank your grandfather, not me. Let it remind you of him. Play it for him, Sofia.’
* * *
Guastafeste eased himself down into a chair and looked at the bottle of champagne that was chilling in an ice bucket on my garden table.
‘I thought we’d earned ourselves a little celebration,’ I said.
‘Everything’s arranged?’ he said.
‘More or less. I’ve given Clara the sum we agreed, more than enough to provide for her old age. And I’ve sent a cheque to Mrs Colquhoun to cover the cost of repairing Highfield Hall. There’s still plenty left.’
‘You thought any more about what we should do with it?’
‘That’s what I wanted to discuss. I want you to have some of it, Antonio.’
Guastafeste shook his head. ‘No, I told you, I don’t want any of the money. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘Why not? You’ve earned it. Why should you be the only person to come out of this with nothing?’
‘I’m not the only person. There’s you too.’
‘I’ve not come away with nothing.’
‘But … you said that…’
‘I don’t mean money.’
‘Then what…’ Guastafeste stopped. He was looking over my shoulder. I turned and saw Margherita standing at the side of the terrace. She was carrying a violin case.
‘I’m sorry, is this…’ she began.
I stood up. ‘Let me introduce you. This is Antonio.’
Margherita came forward, her hand outstretched. ‘Ah, at last. Gianni’s told me all about you.’
Guastafeste glanced at me. ‘He has?’
‘This is Margherita Severini,’ I said. ‘Enrico Forlani’s niece. Margherita and I are setting up a trust fund to lend out her late uncle’s violins to young, promising musicians. Her idea, not mine.’
‘It was both of us, Gianni, you know that,’ Margherita said.
I looked at Guastafeste. ‘You asked if I’d thought any more about the rest of the money. What would you say to adding it to the trust fund to provide music scholarships to young players?’
