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.
38
A brief investigation
Massiter scowled at the police team who were scouring the room in which Paul had died. Daniel felt giddy and ill. It was now eight in the morning. The unconscious Scacchi had been removed by ambulance boat to the Ospedale al Mare on the Lido, where he remained critically ill. Laura had left for the police station in the early hours — to make a statement, they said. Ca’ Scacchi seemed empty without their presence, even though twenty men and women were now examining its every corner in the search for information.
“Damn, damn, damn,” Massiter murmured. He seemed, Daniel thought, genuinely shocked by the attack. In the hard morning light he looked older, almost frail. “Such luck,” he murmured.
“I don’t understand, Hugo.”
“I know the police, Daniel. They phoned me when this dreadful event occurred. I am helping by being here, aren’t I?”
“Of course,” Daniel replied without thinking.
“Well, that’s something, then. I never knew the American, but Scacchi I thought of as a friend, you know.”
The relationship between Scacchi and the Englishman seemed more complex than that, Daniel believed. “I am sure,” he said.
“And they send this… crew! I don’t know a single one of them.”
The police wore dark clothes and seemed singularly obsessed with the house, not its occupants. A quiet, sallow-faced man had interviewed Daniel for half an hour, appearing bored with his own questions. It was as if they knew the answers already and simply sought confirmation. Daniel had lied on several fronts, telling them that he had been in his own bedroom when he was woken by the sound of screaming and that there was nothing of great value that appeared to be missing. Yet they were examining every cupboard, every drawer, even in the adjoining warehouse, and had yet to find an ancient fiddle, a fading manuscript, or the stash of dollars Scacchi must have secreted somewhere. These items were, Daniel knew instinctively, gone from the house.
Finally, to his dismay, Giulia Morelli had arrived and announced she was to take charge of the investigation. The policewoman had nodded gravely to him in the living room and said nothing before disappearing about her business.
“They were robbers,” he said firmly, as much to himself as Massiter. “Whoever it was stole the manuscript, Hugo.”
The older man scowled. “Damned good job you’d copied it. Or we really would be in trouble. Is there anything else missing?”
Daniel stared at him. “A friend of mine has been murdered. Another is at death’s door. I don’t, to be frank, much care about the manuscript. I want the person responsible for this found.”