Lucifer's Shadow

58 An auspicious première

The circus ended on the steps of la Pietà, amid the TV cameras and the last-minute hopefuls trying to find a ticket at any price. Inside, the church was filled with the low buzz of excitement. The orchestra, dressed in black, was at the far end of the nave. Fabozzi towered over them from an exaggerated podium. Amy stood alone, between the conductor and the massed rows of the audience.

Daniel walked to the front, accepting the restrained applause with a wan smile, nodded to Fabozzi, Amy, and, finally, the orchestra, then took his place next to Massiter in the first row. He turned and saw Giulia Morelli three seats behind. The policewoman stared at him, un-smiling. A sound behind, Fabozzi’s baton tapping the stand, announced the start of the performance. Then Daniel closed his eyes and, for the first time in his life, listened to the work he knew as Concerto Anonimo in its entirety, losing himself in the swirling themes and winding alleys of its complexities.

In Ca’ Scacchi, transcribing the notes directly from the mysterious score, he had heard the work as a series of voices, violin and viola, bassoon and oboe, each distinct and fighting for its place in the whole. It amazed him now that any human mind could encompass both the individual clarity of each separate instrument and simultaneously meld them into a greater, harmonious creation more magnificent than the sum of each exquisite part. As always, he found himself fascinated by the identity of its true composer. This was not Vivaldi. There was too much of the modern in the piece, and, if the date on the cover was correct, too much verve for it to have been the work of a man in his fifties approaching the end of his life.

Yet this was not any composer he had ever heard; of that he was sure. There lay the overriding mystery. No other work by the same hand still existed. If such a piece were extant, it would surely have been well-known. The concerto had come out of some sudden flash of inspiration which had then disappeared or perhaps been stifled by mishap or design. Something else, too, puzzled him. There was in the work a sense of distance, of alienation, as if the composer had listened to Vivaldi’s efforts, absorbed them, and, with a sense of both irony and good humour, transformed them into something akin but separate from what had gone before. This was the act of an admirer, not an acolyte. He doubted any close to Vivaldi’s circle would have dared step so closely, and with such impertinent brilliance, on the old man’s toes.

Daniel opened his eyes and saw the astonished faces around him. Amy had moved into her first solo, and the voice of her ancient Guarneri soared to the roof of La Pietà with a bold, savage beauty that filled his mind with wonder. He remembered Massiter’s admonition to her. Perhaps Amy believed that there was some release in the music, that she could earn her escape from Massiter by playing as she had never done before. Enthralled, he watched the intense concentration on her beautiful face as she tore into the notes, clutching the Guarneri to her neck as if it were part of her body. Once the slow, melodious opening had given way to the rising, relentless surge of the first movement, she had, like all of them, been swept away by its merciless, all-encompassing rapture.

He heard every note of the orchestra resound in the body of the church. Daniel Forster no longer felt shame for his act of deception. Without him this wonder would have lain behind brickwork in a crumbling Venetian mansion, perhaps forever. Without him, it might as well never have existed at all.

Amy cut a searing swathe through one of the most difficult passages, double- and treble-stopping her way along the Guarneri’s narrow neck. Close by, someone gasped. It was the only sound that came from the audience throughout the entire concert. There was, as Massiter had predicted, a sense of history in the occasion. For all Daniel knew, this was the first time the work had ever been played in public. Somewhere, he hoped, the shade of its creator could hear a little of its magnificence and feel the awe it inspired in those fortunate enough to share in its debut.

The concerto ran to its own time, trapping them inside the prison of its imagination. It came as a shock when he realised they had reached the closing sections of the third movement, with Amy working desperately hard once more. Daniel racked his head to try to assemble some logical train of events from the opening bars to the fast-approaching conclusion. It was impossible. The work was both a single, simple entity and a collection of complexities, blending seamlessly beneath the surface. Amy stretched for the close. Like those around him, he scarcely dared breathe. Then she was done, in a furious barrage of notes that tore to the roof of La Pietà and continued to resonate, in the church and in their heads, long after she had ceased playing.

When the last tremor of her Guarneri died softly into nothingness, there was a moment of silence. A few seconds later La Pietà erupted with sound. The crowd rose as a mass, not knowing where to applaud. Daniel ducked quickly, squeezed past Massiter without a word, and found a hiding place in the shadow of one of the great pillars. With no composer to cheer, the audience spent its adoration on Amy, who stood before them, shell-shocked, eyes moist and wide, unable to say a word. A small girl in a white dress walked to the front of the nave and handed her a bouquet of red roses. The orchestra put down their instruments and joined the applause, Fabozzi leading them.

Out of view, Daniel watched their faces and wondered. Even Massiter seemed moved, standing to clap furiously and bellow hurrahs. This was a moment to savour. The work was so powerful that none could ever question its value in the future. Amy’s performance, too, had surely marked her step into adulthood, more surely than any mere physical act could have done. A dark thought struck him again: that perhaps some pain, some terrible price, was necessary for such greatness. He wondered about his own part in providing her with the key she needed to unlock the genius inside herself.

But then another noise rose. He heard it with dread. A low, insistent chanting running across the audience, echoed by the orchestra. All except Amy, who stood there alone, frightened perhaps, her eyes crossing the bright body of the church and finding his own as he hid in the shadows.

“Forster, Forster, Forster, Forster…”

The younger Daniel would have fled from the room. He recalled Scacchi and the discussion they had held beneath the Venetian Lucifer. Then he marched out of the darkness, head high, applauding the players as he walked, grinning broadly, hearing the clamour of the crowd’s hands rise with each step, feeling like a bogus god walking into paradise.

Amy’s astonished eyes followed him as he approached her, took the bouquet from her hands, and threw it to the floor, then, to a roar of applause, held her in his arms, kissed both her damp cheeks.

“Daniel?” she whispered.

“You’ve earned this, Amy,” he said quietly. “This is your moment.”

“But…”

She stared at him, suspicious once more. Amy had lived through the piece that night. She knew it better than anyone. She understood, too, Daniel realised, that her first suspicions were correct. He could not be its creator. The puzzlement and the accusation stood in her eyes.

“Tomorrow you must go,” he said, then turned to smile once more at the audience. “Don’t wait for me. Take the plane to Rome. Then go home.”

“I can’t,” she protested. “We must talk.”

The crowd bellowed. He knew he must speak to them.

“Not now,” he said, and kissed her again. Then he turned and, with a theatrical gesture, took her right hand and raised it high, above his, milking the audience for applause.

“Friends!” Daniel bellowed over the noise. “ Friends!”

Slowly they fell into silence, shushing each other in the din.

“Friends,” he repeated, and heard his voice echo off the walls. They were seated again, waiting. He looked at Massiter and then Giulia Morelli. They wore the same expression of intense interest.

“What can I say to you?” he asked. “How do I explain myself?”

“Bravo, Maestro,” Massiter shouted from the audience, and began to clap, starting a ripple of applause which Daniel swiftly waved down.

“No,” he insisted. “Your kindness is overwhelming. I’m not a speaker. When I listen to Amy here and these players of Fabozzi, I wonder whether I’m a musician at all.”

“Such modesty!” someone shouted, and he was unsure whether it was a compliment or a taunt.

“No,” he answered. “I’m not being modest. I gave these musicians paint and pigment in the hope they might create with them. What you heard came as much from them as from the composer. I owe them my congratulations. I owe you my thanks. But now you must give me some rest. Please. Ciao!”

With that, he turned and walked to the back of the church, wandering the narrow corridors until he found a small, empty dressing-room where the clamour outside was reduced to a distant drone. There he sat on a low bench and placed his head in his hands, wishing he had the courage to weep. He felt as if there were poison in his veins.

There were steps outside in the corridor, then a knock on the door. Amy came in. She looked exhausted.

“Dan?” she said. “They want you to go back out there. I don’t think they’ll go till you do.”

He shook his head to clear it and managed to force a smile. “Tell them I’m overwhelmed by their response, Amy. Tell them I’m unwell. Make some excuse for me. Please.”

“OK,” she said softly, but waited at the door. “Did you mean what you said? That I have to go?”

“Of course,” he replied. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

She came over to him. “I wanted you, Dan. All along that’s what I wanted.” She hesitated. “Even if you’re a fake, I want you. I don’t care.”

He looked up at her. “Of course you care, Amy. You must.”

“Let me help you,” she offered.

“You already have. You’ll understand that soon.”

She was close to tears again. “Don’t talk like that. You scare me.”

He stood up, took her face in his hands, kissed her once more, then said, “Go to the reception, Amy. I’ll meet you there. Then tomorrow, first thing, catch that plane.”

She stared at him, mistrust in her eyes. “You’ll come to the party? Just be with me there, Dan. After that I’ll go. I promise.”

“As you see fit,” he said. “Now, be off with you, and talk to those people. This is your night, Amy. Venice belongs to you.”

“I know,” she replied. “And I wish I felt more grateful.”

Then she was gone, and Daniel waited, knowing he would come. After fifteen minutes the noise beyond the door had diminished. He heard the orchestra troop back to their dressing rooms, listened to their low chatter of voices and occasional laughter, feeling painfully distant from their deserved acclaim. A little later Massiter walked in, pulled up the one spare chair, and sat beside him.

“You disturbed me there, Daniel,” he declared. “Please don’t play tricks. I hate that kind of thing.”

“I’m sorry, Hugo. That wasn’t my intention.”

“Of course not,” Massiter observed dryly. “Well. I imagine there’s no time like the present. You don’t really want to go and sip warm champagne with boring people, do you? Everyone’s expecting the pair of us. I think we’ve both sung sufficiently for our supper recently, to be honest.”

Daniel wondered what he was thinking. Massiter seemed resigned to his demands. He had expected more resistance. He wondered, too, about breaking this last promise to Amy. She could never forgive him. Perhaps that was for the best.

Massiter eyed him. He seemed, for the first time in Daniel’s experience, almost worried. “You’re very privileged. Not many men have seen what I’m about to show you.”

“I’m flattered by your offer, Hugo.”

“As if I had a choice.”

“Of course you had a choice. Several, I believe. You’re doing this because you want to, surely?”

Massiter nodded. “True. You’re an amusing soul, Daniel. Scacchi coached you well. As, unwittingly, have I, it seems.”

Daniel rose to leave.

“But nothing comes for free,” Massiter added. “You appreciate that, I hope.”

They left by the side door. It was a warm night with the merest sliver of a moon. The lagoon shimmered, its surface reflecting the stars. In the rear of the water taxi, Daniel closed his eyes, fought to stem his thoughts. The music ran around his head still, refusing to leave, circling constantly, a puzzle without an answer.