Goodbye, Paris

by Anstey Harris

  I wish they were alive for me to tell them. I wish I could tell them that they made all the right decisions.

  “I thought I was a rubbish player,” I say quietly into the night. “I thought he threw me out because I couldn’t play well enough.”

  “Grace,” says Shota, “you were the best cellist in our year. Probably in the whole college. I’ve rarely met anyone as gifted as you.”

   Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was a late night. I wake with a splitting headache but an immense feeling of calm. Shota and I stayed out till the small hours. In the busy bits of conversation, where everyone was laughing and no one particularly listening to what we said, he filled me in on more details about Nikolai. I thought that Marion would worry about Shota being so late but he explained, gently, that she already knew all the things I didn’t, that she understood that we had a lot of talking to do.

  I’ve missed my alarm—I have no idea how—and Nadia is due at the bus station in less than twenty minutes. I don’t even know where the bus station is yet. We argued, Nadia and I, about her ability to get to Italy on her own, let alone to get from the airport to Cremona. She petulantly held out and insisted she could manage; it turns out I wouldn’t have made it to the airport at all. She would have been catastrophically triumphant.

  “You’re having a good time, then?” she asks as soon as she sees me.

  “I think I am—no, I really am. Why?”

  “Because you look like shit.” She beams at me. “But in a good way.”

  “Is that a compliment?” I ask her.

  “Yeah, sort of,” she says, and grabs her bag from the hold of the bus. I go to help her with it but it weighs a ton.

  “What on earth have you got in there?”

  “Clothes. Bit of makeup.” She shrugs and a cloud crosses her face. “I’m on fucking holiday.”

  I squeeze her tight. “You are; we are. We’re going to have fun. I’ve made a bunch of new friends and you’ll love them. They’re all musicians.”

  She brightens as swiftly as she had previously darkened; I love how she can do this. I wish I could wipe away this headache as quickly.

  “How about we eat,” I say, “and then I tell you everything I’ve done so far. Which is mostly get pissed, if I’m honest . . .”

  * * *

  We are late to breakfast and most places are bustling to get their lunch menus out. We find a restaurant in the lea of the looming cathedral and sit outside sucking in the atmosphere and the Italian sunshine.

  I have ordered a frittata, yellow with egg and speckled with pink ham. Nadia has a long bread roll, dripping with mozzarella and vivid tomatoes. Even the orange juice we’ve ordered seems brighter, more real. I wonder if I have been living in a dream.

  “So this old perv . . .” Nadia speaks with her mouth full. “This old perv blackmailed girls at the college for years?”

  “Decades.”

  She nods. “I’ve heard about him, and a couple of other disgusting old men, at the national youth orchestra. People tell you who to avoid. How come you never knew?”

  “Because I didn’t stay in touch with anyone. If I were still friends with Catherine, with any of them, I’d have known about it. I wasn’t, and I made sure I never talked about being kicked out of college with my customers, so I just never heard any of the rumors.”

  “Why didn’t you stay in touch with Catherine? I thought she was your best friend.” Nadia has almost finished her bread. With her spare hand she holds the menu, looking for pudding while she talks.

  “Because she slept with my . . . you know.” I remember as I speak that teenagers make terrible mistakes; that they don’t think about the things they do.

  “Oh, fucking hell, that old chestnut,” says Nadia and puts her head in her hands. She’s not angry; she seems more amused than anything.

  I move the conversation swiftly forward. “We need to get a move on. Mr. Williams will be in Cremona by now. He’s going to text when he’s had a rest. He does all right for eighty, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s not eighty,” says Nadia.

  “Really?”

  “We were looking at passports, just before he left for Venice. He’s eighty-six.”

  “I don’t believe it.” I am genuinely shocked.

  “I asked him why he says he’s eighty and he said it’s because he’s vain.” She shrugs her shoulders as if to emphasize the obviousness of this fact. “Bless his little heart.”

  Around us, Italy goes about its business. The town is busy with visitors and the market is bustling. In the time that we’ve sat here, almost all the tables nearby have been filled; genteel women sip prosecco and their well-groomed husbands knock back red wine with a midmorning biscuit. Like anywhere, the people with the time to watch the world go by are all older but, unlike most places I know, that doesn’t seem to mean that they can let themselves go. From the back, most of these women look like they’re in their twenties. On more than one occasion I point out a wrinkly old man, well turned out but definitely ancient, sitting with a remarkably young woman. When we peer closer, look at her face instead of the back of her solid-set blond hair, we realize that the women are almost certainly their wives, and have been for a very long time.

  By the time Mr. Williams texts, Nadia and I have been back to the hotel and dropped off her things. Nadia will share my room for the next few nights; I can’t believe she doesn’t object. Maybe the sunshine is mellowing her.

  We arrange to meet Mr. Williams in the warm afternoon, near the exhibition of instruments. We will be among the first people into the hall, provided there is no queue.

  I almost don’t recognize him as he ambles towards the bar where we are waiting. Venice seems to have invigorated him; his skin is tanned and glowing, his hair whiter than ever.

  “You look fabulous.” I kiss him on both cheeks.

  “Thank you, dear, I certainly feel it. It’s the Mediterranean diet, isn’t it? And the sunshine.”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, “but I want some, whatever it is.” I hope I don’t still look as hungover as I did this morning.

  * * *

  The exhibition of instruments is extraordinary. All three of us gasp out loud as we walk through the ornate double doors.

  In an exercise in alchemy, a dusty old hall has been transformed into a maze of stringed instruments, a labyrinth of wood and satin varnish. Hundreds of instruments hang, hovering in midair, tethered by fine nylon wires that are invisible to the imaginative eye.

  It is the hall of mirrors from a dream.

  “Well, I’ll be,” says Mr. Williams. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  I am so glad that the three of us share this, that we all love violins, violas, and cellos with just the same passion. Involuntarily, I reach out to either side of me and take their hands.

  “It’s absolutely beautiful,” says Nadia.

  All we can see is this forest of wood, turned and polished and shaped into large or small versions of the same thing. It’s like magic.

  The legions of violins are first, all facing forward, angled to the door but with enough space for visitors to walk around and wonder at the smooth backs, the standard of the carpentry, and the delicate layers of varnish. By each instrument is a small white label, hanging on a see-through thread of its own, that gives the name of the maker and their country. Behind the violins hang the violas, and behind them the cellos. The double basses are arranged on a wide plinth, too heavy to be suspended from the ceiling.

  The idea that my little cello is in this room, is part of this enchantment, is indescribable. I am so proud. I stare past the violins and through the violas to look for it, but there are simply too many instruments to see clearly.

  At the very end of the room are five instruments; a violin, a viola, two cellos, and a double bass. The way they are separated off means that they are—without doubt—the winners, and I can’t wait to see them in all their splendor. Just to be included in this company is accolade enoug
h for me; the level of skill is breathtaking.

  Most people in here are like us. They are players or makers. The general public will, I’m sure, pick up the scent of this extraordinary exhibition over the next few days, but for now it is the participants and those looking for a scoop—a bargain—who make up the majority of the human souls in the room. These are people who can pick out the minuscule knife marks around the f-holes, see the tiny traces of tools in the shoulders; they know the pattern of the blockwork inside the instrument without having to open it for proof. This is the epicenter of my work world, and the people in here are the major movers and shakers.

  I wander around the wildwood of violins, each scroll level with my chin, each neck curling like mine as I bend to look at the details on the label. I recognize many of the names. Some are people I trained with, some were even tutors at my violin-making school. There are instruments here from all over the world.

  The three of us have separated slightly, strung out as we pause at different points or stop to look at different things. I will eventually come back and look again at these instruments, inspect them in more detail. There is a lot to learn from other modern makers, just as much as from the old masters. The etiquette of the competition means that I have to find the maker and ask permission to touch their instrument. They will watch me as a ritual begins. We violin makers know how to hold instruments, how to turn them in our hands and see all sides, all angles. We are looking for different things from players and we stand out in a crowd, we are quite obvious. All this is for tomorrow.

  Already I have made a mental note of three instruments that I must know more about. There is one stunning little Amati model violin that I want to examine at close quarters, and two violas that look Cremonese, although I can’t quite attribute the shape and style of them to any one maker.

  If this is the standard of the entries, I’m more thrilled than ever to have been included. It makes me happy to know that this is going on all over the world; people are gouging and shaping and varnishing by hand, there is still no better way to do it.

  “Awesome.” Nadia is beside me. “I’m really glad I’ve seen it. Lost in a sea of violins.”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Just the sheer number.”

  “It makes me want to write music for all of them, all of them at once like a giant orchestra.” Nadia is bewitched, her voice is a whisper.

  We wander through into the violas, the scent of spirit varnish is stronger here and it makes me smile to know that I wasn’t the only person to put an instrument in its case when it was only just dry. All this wood is yet to stretch and wake. Each one of these instruments will improve over the years to come and the thought dwarfs me that some of them will still be played hundreds of years from now. I feel part of something amazing.

  The cellos are perfect. They are too perfect at the moment, test pieces of the makers’ skill. The beauty of the instrument will appear with every dint and mark that history will leave on the smooth belly and the tiny scratches of dirt that will work their way into the back. Time is the missing ingredient in these liquid-skinned masterpieces.

  There are makers from America, Korea, and Finland, from China and Japan and Italy. When I look in more detail at the people whose work I don’t know, have never heard of, I see simple mistakes that I made myself once upon a time. These are the best of a new generation of makers, in a profession that can only teach through trial and error, and it is wonderful that they can exhibit here alongside the leaders in the field.

  “I can’t find the cello, Grace. Your cello.” Mr. Williams is concerned. His glasses are propped on the very end of his nose and he looks around him as if my cello might jump out at him at any time. “I thought I’d recognize it anywhere.”

  As he speaks, I am staring at the five instruments standing alone on the plinth at the end. One of the cellos, the one on the edge, slightly apart from the others, has a dark mark just to the right of the bridge. I daren’t hope.

  I walk towards the end of the room as if my feet are stuck in treacle. This is the fairy-tale ending, the delicious dream sequence, it cannot be real life. I slow down as I move. It is my cello. I know those shoulders, that waist, those fat round bouts, that replacement front and all its history.

  The closer I get, and I am only feet away from it now, the more obvious it becomes that the cello is on its own, that the winning instruments are in one group. A terrified child inside me is suddenly petrified of a dunce’s hat, of a worst-in-show prize.

  Nadia strides past. She is animated and bold; she isn’t frightened of the caption in front of my cello. She isn’t remotely worried what the little card says.

  “Holy fucking shit,” she says, and the words echo around the hallowed space.

  I lean down towards my frozen feet. There it is; the truth. Words that I will never be able to pretend I didn’t read.

  GRACE ATHERTON. UK. TONE PRIZE.

  “What the fuck is the tone prize?” asks Nadia, taking the words straight out of my mouth.

  “Oh, Grace; oh, my dear.” Mr. Williams is lost for words.

  The front of the cello shines under the lights, unapologetic, not even the smallest bit ashamed of its knot. It is strong and glossy and vigorous.

  Our little trio of wilting old man, breathless maker, and swearing teenager has attracted attention. An official hurries towards us, his ID card swinging from a lanyard around his neck.

  “Can I help you?” he asks. He is bald and swarthy. The hair he once had must have been as dark as his shiny suit. He needs a curly mustache to complete his look.

  “I’m Grace Atherton. This is my cello.”

  “How do you do, Ms. Atherton?” He bows as gracefully as his suit allows. “Many, many congratulations.”

  My mouth opens and closes but I have no idea what to say.

  “Is this the instrument with the best tone in the competition?” Mr. Williams asks. “Is that what the prize is for?”

  “Sì, of course.” The man shrugs his shoulders as if it couldn’t possibly be anything else.

  “I thought the winners already knew.” Even as I say it I’m checking for my phone in my bag. “I thought you let them know before the exhibition.”

  “We have left messages for you on your phone and at your hotel, Ms. Atherton. All day.”

  The red circle on my phone has a number six inside it. Six missed calls, six messages.

  “I was out,” I say, as if everyone should already know.

  I turned the ringer off on my phone straight after Mr. Williams texted me. I didn’t want my time with Nadia interrupted and I really wasn’t expecting any other calls. I have spent eight years with my phone on, ready to leave any situation to talk to David. It feels like a relief now to turn it off.

  “Six missed calls,” I tell Nadia, Mr. Williams, and the man. “Six missed calls.”

  “At least six,” the man says, a little put out. “But now you are here and now you know. We have a bit of paperwork to do and some photographs and so on.” His accent is thick, although I’m not sure it’s Italian.

  “And the knot doesn’t matter?” I ask. “The funny front?” I look at my cello like it’s human; what I did to it was unforgiveable and yet it has come back from the ashes, stronger and bolder than it ever was. I want to tell it that I’m proud.

  The man clicks his tongue. “You are the winner of the tone prize. Our judges were most insistent.” He shakes my hand, pumps it up and down. “This cello is worth a lot of money now. The city of Cremona will buy it for the prize money. Your instrument is now valued at thirty thousand euros.”

  A knowledge comes up from inside me; I didn’t see it arrive and I had no idea it was there. It takes control of my face, my mouth, my heart.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I say. “This cello isn’t for sale.”

  * * *

  There is a sudden throng of people, of congratulations and questions, of handshakes and back pats. Mr. Williams and Nadia choose to go and sit at the café in t
he cool courtyard of the municipal building. I wonder if this is all a bit too much for them. They must be tired.

  I can’t even think straight. I am walking on air.

  I pinch the skin on the back of my hand; a white mark appears then dissipates as suddenly as it came. I am awake. This stuff of dreams is in my real life.

  I almost cry; I think I will and then I realize on the next breath that I’m not going to. I realize that if I had a choice, I’d go outside and I’d shout and shout. I’d scream out with joy, with newfound freedom, with openness and honesty and all my fresh voice. The scream stays inside me but the smile is wrapped tight around my face. I can’t believe it.

  The official, whose name turns out to be Renato and who is as Italian as Guarneri and as Cremonese as Stradivari himself, shows me around the building, introducing me to all the people I suddenly need to meet.

  There is an older lady who explains that she will sort out my seating for tonight’s concert, that I will no longer be in my box with Nadia and Mr. Williams but on the front row with the other winners. I meet the mayor of the town and she kisses me on both cheeks, babbles at me in incomprehensible Italian. I beam back at her, convinced by now that everything she’s saying is nice. There is a man from the local television channel.

  Renato explains that the television man is bubbling over with excitement that a maker who is also a player has won a prize. “It is in your CV that you went to the Northern conservatoire at the same time as Shota Kinoshita,” he says, the words tumbling out. “And that you studied the cello.”

  The lady from the concert interrupts to say that the television man also thinks I’m perfect television material and rather pretty for a violin maker. I thank him for what I assume is a compliment, at the same time as I desperately try to tell them that they’re wrong. That I can’t do this.

  Before I know it, I am being pampered by a makeup artist. She appears from nowhere with hairspray and a powder puff and begins to dab at me. We are in Renato’s office near the main doors and I look around frantically for Nadia. I’m sure she will be able to convince them; she could play instead.