Then I was out the door, ignoring her calls for me to return, bounding down the staircase like a madman. When I awoke the next morning, with an aching head from the wine I downed upon my return, I found Leo in a sweet and happy mood, dressed in his best finery, thinking of his meeting with the Levis, no doubt. Before he left, he despatched me to the cellar with instructions on what to clean and what to move, what to throw out and what to dust off, and even an order for some amateur attempt at masonry to repair some feeble brickwork in the wall. I listened, watching his eyes, thinking how covetously they would soon regard Rebecca’s form, knowing how foolish I was to let such considerations occupy space in my head at a time when I had other matters on my mind.
It was easier when Leo had gone. I abandoned the cellar and searched the house. Sure enough, I found Rebecca’s music safely deposited behind a painting of ancient Athens that covered up the canal-side wall of the great room downstairs. Leo must have had a space cut out of the brick to provide such a hiding place. More fool him.
I took the score, trying not to feel her presence through the ink upon the page, and deposited it safely in a hiding place which Leo had inadvertently suggested. The concerto was in the cellar, safe from all. Leo hated rats. As with magnets, like repels like.
Then I left the house and began to walk to Ca’ Dario, thinking of how this interview with the Englishman might fruitfully proceed. If Rebecca were to gain a benefactor, it would at least be one she might trust.
43
Music in the dark
Ca’ Scacchi seemed empty save for ghosts and the lingering scent of Laura. When Daniel could stand the loneliness no more, he left for La Pietà, where the second full rehearsal was due to begin at five in the afternoon. The city was a teeming throng of people, surly locals pushing their way through the vaporetto queues and a sea of aimless tourists forever stopping without reason in the most awkward of locations. He was acquiring the local contempt for visitors. Yet he slipped through the mass of bodies like a phantom, unseen, as if he lived on a different plane, wondering at times if the spark of madness which seemed to have infected Laura was now racing through his own veins.
There was a small crowd outside the church, trying in vain to talk their way into the rehearsal. The woman on the door recognised him and was immediately on her feet, barring his entrance.
“Signor Forster?” She seemed distraught. “What has happened to Scacchi? They tell such stories in the papers. I can’t believe a word of it.”
“He’s very ill.”
“You’ve seen him? May I too?”
“Of course. He’s in the Ospedale al Mare. But…” Daniel held out his hands, an Italian gesture, which he realised instantly.
“He’ll not live?” the woman asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll go. And I’ll say a prayer for him tonight. He’s a good man, Mr. Forster. You remember that, whatever else anyone says. He wanted to do something for you. But I think you understand as much.”
Daniel wondered whether he did comprehend fully Scacchi’s motives. Laura had warned him against such naivety.
“I think it would be good if you could visit him,” he told her.
“Who knows if he can hear me or not? Doctors. Pah! And that woman of his. The one they say was responsible?”
“I don’t know,” he said, feeling evasive.
“It’s rubbish. I met her sometimes, when she could bear to bring herself out of the house. She would no more harm Scacchi and his friend than she would hurt you or me.”
He thought of Laura’s histrionic ranting that afternoon. It was an act, and they both knew it.
“I agree,” he said.
“She’ll be free! I shall go to the stupid police and tell them myself!” The small crowd was growing restless. One Japanese couple tried to sneak through the door, only to be halted by a stream of Venetian vernacular.
“Off with you! Off with you! Buy tickets for Friday or be gone.”
The Japanese man scowled at her. “We’re not here Friday.”
“Then wait for it to come to you,” the woman responded. “It will, surely, if it’s as good as they say it is. Ask the composer yourself. Signor Forster?”
The crowd began to murmur and flock around him. Daniel felt the heat rise to his cheeks, found himself apologising, and then, with a sudden urgency, made for the door. Inside, the church was cool and dark. The first movement had just begun. He found a chair to the right of the entrance and sat there in shadow, letting the music absorb him, wondering again what strange provenance the work might have had.
It lasted close to an hour, though he soon lost what little sense of time he possessed. Heard now in its entirety and played by musicians who were becoming familiar with its themes and nuances, the work astonished him. It was bold and dexterous, but its true power lay beyond the technical. For most of the time he listened with his eyes closed and found himself swept along by the swell of its coursing emotions. The music ranged from slow, stately tragedy to quicksilver passages of shimmering beauty and life. It was like the best of Vivaldi but overlaid with something younger and more modern. When it became more widely known, the concerto would, he felt sure, rise rapidly to the status of a new classic, sought after by violinists of a greater stature than Amy, though she performed superbly throughout. With that realisation, too, his mind became more determined than ever. There would be a time when he would reveal his deception, however Massiter felt about the matter. Even if he disappeared entirely from public view after Venice, the knowledge of the sham would remain with him always. He could not, in all conscience, shoulder the deceitful burden any longer than was necessary. The consequences were immaterial. He had played the Venetian game, to the tune of both Scacchi and Massiter, for too long.
The rehearsal came to a close with a show of fireworks from Amy, who tore into the final passages with a verve and resolve that astonished him. Their argument in the Gritti Palace now seemed to exist in another lifetime. He could not countenance the idea that there should be any lasting rift between them. When the final note sounded, Amy sat down, drained, to a round of applause from her fellow players. The entire orchestra seemed exhausted by the work, too, as if they were mesmerised by their own efforts.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the woman who manned the door, asking him to take a call. When he returned, Amy was placing her fiddle in the case. He caught up with her as she emerged into the soft early-evening light. The lagoon was busy with vaporetti. A larger ferry-boat was departing for Torcello. Across the water, the Campari sign was prematurely lit on the Lido. It was an exquisite evening.
“Oh, Dan.” She looked at him with a mixture of grief and pity. “I don’t know what to say. I read it in the paper. Hugo told me he went round after it happened. It’s unbelievable.”
“I know.” She had found the apposite word. “It’s quite unbelievable.”
“How are you? How’s your friend?”
“Laura’s in prison.”
Her eyes grew wide with astonishment. “Laura? I meant the old man. How can you think of her? After what she did?”
The childishness never stayed hidden for long, though he cursed himself for such a stupid mistake. “She didn’t do anything, Amy. She loved both of those men and couldn’t harm them, not for anything. You were on the boat with us all. You know that, surely?”
She folded her arms tightly across her chest and sighed. “Hugo told me she had admitted it. And that the police plan to charge her. Why won’t you face facts, Dan?”
“I’m more than happy to face facts, if only I could find some.”
“Then why would she confess to something she didn’t do?”
“I think because she blames herself for what happened somehow and feels desperate to take the responsibility, for some reason.”