Lucifer's Shadow

37 A concert to remember

It was a fine afternoon. A faint wind blew from the northeast across an empty lagoon, and so the air upon the promenade was as sweet as any Venetian might expect of a summer day. Whoever took the proceeds of the gate — Delapole, in the main, I gather — must have been delighted indeed. Every one of La Pietà’s four hundred seats was sold. The tall double doors to the church had been thrown open to entertain those who could not find, or afford, a ticket. The orchestra sat far back behind its shutters, and the airy interior swallowed up most of the sound they made. Still, this was about more than music. The prospect of a new master in the city seemed appropriate to the local mood. The Republic’s fortunes may be on the wane, as Rousseau once warned us. Beneath this manifest grandeur, it is not hard to see the presentiments of decay, like marks on the face of a beauty just passing her prime. The city cries out for genius and hopes the mysterious composer will provide it.

We were late, and that because of the most extraordinary argument between Leo and Delapole. The Englishman, with Gobbo in tow, arrived at Ca’ Scacchi just before noon, smiling at first, making pleasant enquiries about the arrangements Leo and Vivaldi had made for the afternoon. My uncle answered politely, if with little grace. He has, I think, difficulty in maintaining good relations with those who sponsor him. While he desires their money, he hates them for making him so dependent upon their favours. This is a circle Leo may never be able to square, I think, as he knows full well himself, and that makes him madder still.

So, when Delapole asked for copies of the various musical parts, Leo took pleasure in being able to smile for the first time during this interview and shake his head firmly. “No, sir. That I cannot do.”

“Why not?” asked Delapole. “It’s my money that paid for it.”

“Of course,” Leo agreed. “And most grateful we are for that, though I think you will more than recoup your investment from the admissions. But this music is not mine to give. It belongs to its creator, who entrusted its care to me. Until I have some instructions from him, it shall remain in my custody, not hawked around the streets like penny gossip sheets.”

Delapole’s face, normally the picture of English restraint, flushed bright red with fury. “This is ridiculous, man. I am the fellow’s patron. I deserve a little for that, surely.”

“If he so decides,” Leo replied with a wry smile. “It is quite out of my hands.”

“Then what will happen to the musicians’ parts once the concert is over?” Delapole demanded. “You will surely let me have one of them.”

“To be burnt, sir,” Leo announced in triumph. “Every last one, and the plates too. As a publisher of repute…”

Gobbo coughed very purposefully at this point, and I admit I had trouble keeping a straight face. It was clear that Leo was being intentionally annoying while also creating further work for himself in the future, when the music would have to be copied, set, and printed once again.

“… it is my duty to protect the rights of those who choose me as their conduit to the public at large. Should our maestro so decide, I will print this music by the million and hand it out to beggars on the street. But until I have instructions…”

“I have scarcely heard such nonsense, Scacchi. If you burn these parts, then what remains of the work?”

“Why, the original, sir. Nothing more, since I doubt a genius who chooses to keep himself anonymous has sent his manuscript out for copying himself.”

“And where is that now, precisely?”

Oh, how Leo loved this. “In my safekeeping, of course. Where none may find it.”

Delapole picked up his walking stick, a fine wooden one with an ivory head, and banged it on the table in our modest office. I rather think he would have liked to hammer it on Leo’s skull and frankly couldn’t blame him. Delapole is a generous man — as Rebecca already knows. It would cost nothing, and break no great rule, to let him have some paper for his scrapbook. “You play games with me, Scacchi, as if I am some London popinjay. You mistake me greatly.”

Leo opened his arms wide and extended his palms as if to say But what else may I do? “Come,” he urged us. “We will be late for this momentous occasion, Mr. Delapole. Let us bask in this unmerited glory and see what news ensues. This work is no succès d’estime, I assure you. It will please the cognoscenti and the masses too. Once that becomes apparent, our mysterious musician will surely want the world to know his name, and pay you due homage when he does.”

“Harrumph.”

The English make that noise sometimes. Most puzzling. Delapole’s temper was receding. I suspect he felt more hurt than offended. The rich do not like being gulled. Leo would do well to watch his step.

So we walked to Delapole’s gondola and edged our way through the fleet of vessels on the canal, past St. Mark’s, then on to dock at the jetty outside La Pietà. Venice was in a festive mood. A little stage troupe had set up a makeshift platform some way down from the church steps and upon it played the usual cast of brightly coloured characters: Scaramouche and Pantaloon, Punchinello and Harlequin. Harmless, ribald fun for the masses who milled around the waterfront. Here was a seller of sweetmeats, here a fortune-teller. Boats of all kinds thronged the lagoon, fighting for somewhere to disgorge ever more souls onto the seething pavement. Young and old, rich and poor, crooked and honest, comely and hideous, Venice was on show for the world to see, in all its colours: the vermilion of fine silk dresses, the coarse grey weave of a sailor’s jerkin, black and white in the Harlequin’s blouse, a pigment like the yellow gold of the sun in the tresses of the gaudy street women working their trade beneath the Doge’s long, thin nose.

I confess I smiled at this. To think that Rebecca had prompted such commotion. If only they knew… Then Leo pushed his way through the throng, crying, “Ladies, gentlemen! The Englishman Delapole, who favours us with the means to hear this wonder, would kindly have you let him pass and reach his seat.”

That put up a hearty murmuring in the masses. “Aye, these English aren’t so bad.” “A gentleman, no doubt, to grace us with this debut here when he might so easily have thought of his countrymen’s ears.” “Three cheers for Delapole, I say! Hurrah for our English benefactor!”

This last, of course, came from Gobbo himself, fetching up the rear. Soon the hurly-burly was full of applause and commendations. Delapole’s pale, handsome face rose above it all, beaming with pride. Hands were thrust through the pack to pat him on the shoulder, hats waved, carnations flew through the air. Then he waved a handkerchief at them, muttering the words we’ve come to expect of the English, “Jolly good! Too kind! Oh, really, too kind!”

Leo was right. All it took was a little adulation, and his resentment was gone. We pushed through the doors and found ourselves in the nave, where the audience was already seated, every head turned to mark our arrival. The players no longer sat behind screens. They were on the low marble platform in front of the altar, the very picture of a small chamber orchestra, dressed uniformly in black, arranged in a gentle arc. They sat meekly, looking very young. Rebecca was in their centre, the focus of everyone’s gaze. My heart leapt inside my chest. We make ourselves conspicuous; we court disaster. This game now lurches beyond our control.

Vivaldi was in front of the players, naturally, baton in hand, turned to the audience, his grey face quite expressionless.

“See,” Leo whispered to us. “So great is this work that Vivaldi himself feels jealous. He puts the players on show in order that their beauty might distract us from the notes.”

Delapole waved to the pews at the front which had been reserved for us. “Enough talking, sir,” he said in a loud voice so that all might hear. “Let us take our seats so that Venice may judge whether we waste her time or not.”

A low swell of applause ran through the audience as we walked forward. I sat at the end of the pew, next to Gobbo, and tried not to look at Rebecca. She seemed entirely absorbed by the event and I think failed to notice me at all. Perhaps this was deliberate. This was not the Rebecca I knew. Her hair had been brushed so that it might appear as straight as possible, then tied back behind her head. There was a patch of rouge on each cheek. She looked, for all the world, like any mute, obedient player from a provincial orchestra. I puzzled for a moment, then understood. She would never have taken this risk had she known Vivaldi would parade the orchestra to the world with her as its point of focus, as the soloist. She had come expecting to play behind shutters, then, when forced to perform so publicly, made this effort to disguise herself to avoid the awkward questions that might follow her detection. Yet there was not a scintilla of nervousness in her demeanour.

Vivaldi cleared his throat; the audience became silent, followed in degrees by the crowd beyond the door. Then he spoke.

“Fellow citizens,” he said. “This is a most unusual occasion. I am not used to directing the work of others, nor do my players spend much time on any pieces but my own. So I apologise, to you and to our anonymous composer, for whatever mistakes and omissions we may make when we perform. Our English friend…”

Delapole nodded modestly.

“… has been kind enough to offer his patronage for this event in order that we might pass judgement on a work the provenance of which is quite unknown to us. Perhaps its author is in this room now. I have no idea.”

I watched Rebecca closely. She did not even blink.

“It scarcely matters. These are notes upon a page, remarkable notes, too, I think; otherwise, I would not be associated with them. How remarkable, you must judge. Not, I hope, out of curiosity, applauding for no better reason than to see the author make himself public, but out of honest appreciation of this concerto’s faults and merits. We are, if you will, invited into a room to witness a painting which is unsigned or taste a vintage which has no label. Is this Veronese or a third-rate copyist? Does one taste a fine vintage of Trentino or a glass of Lombardy muck? I can offer you no guidance, save to say that I think it is worthy of your consideration. Furthermore—”

“Oh, get on with it, man,” someone cried from the door. There was a murmur of agreement. Delapole whispered to Leo, more loudly than he realised, I think, “The fellow is scared of playing it, surely. Does he think it will sink his reputation or what?”

Leo said nothing. He could not take his eyes off the orchestra and, I fear, Rebecca. Vivaldi understood he could dally no longer. He waved his hand once in the air. His players rose at his bidding. Thus did Concerto Anonimo, the first public work by Rebecca Levi of the ghetto, make its public debut, and none but two in that room knew who had written it.

This was like no concert Venice — or any other city, I’ll warrant — has ever witnessed. Rebecca stood in front of her fellow players, straight-backed, with dark, determined eyes, half watching Vivaldi for guidance (though I doubt she much needed it and wished instead she could both play and conduct the entire proceedings herself, and lecture the audience on the finer points of the piece simultaneously).

I listened, rapt, as the music I had so amateurishly tried out on our old harpsichord found its true home. At times Rebecca’s instrument flew with the speed and agility of African swallows, around themes and inventions that wove in and out of each other, soaring and diving, taking directions none could predict. Then she would settle into deep, slow passages, simple on the surface yet laden with dark sonorities that defied their apparent effortlessness. Finally, she embarked upon a cadenza, one I took to be improvised, since Vivaldi did nothing but raise a single eyebrow and merely let her play her heart out, searing the air with the resonant tones she wrung from Delapole’s most excellent gift.

When the music ended and she sat down, there was for a moment utter silence. I looked at Delapole. He wore the fondest expression I have ever seen on a man. The tears rolled down his cheeks for all to see. Even Leo seemed quite awestruck by what he had heard, and stared at Rebecca — as did most of the room — in open admiration. I caught her eye briefly. She seemed frightened, all the more so when the peace was shattered by a growing roar of applause — cheers and clapping, wild whoops, and cries of “Encore! Encore!”—that threatened to bring the flimsy roof of La Pietà down upon our heads.

Vivaldi let this racket run for a minute or more. I was dismayed to see that all the while he regarded Rebecca in the most intense way. Then he waved his arms for silence and announced, “I would give you more, sirs, but it is not mine to give. I think Venice has issued its opinion. It only remains for our hero to make himself known to us, that we may worship him the greater.”

If I am not mistaken, there was a note of irony in that last comment. Vivaldi looked like a broken man. He had not simply lost his crown; he had, albeit unwittingly, abdicated. Still, he could not take his eyes off Rebecca, and I was not the only one to notice. Leo had a queer expression on his face. I closed my eyes and tried to savour Rebecca’s moment of glory. Yet all that came was the presentiment of some dread turning upon this dangerous road of ours.