‘He has a musical matter to discuss with you,’ Olga went on, ‘but join us first in a drink.’
The bottle was waiting on ice in a silver cooler. The strong grip made short work of the cork. A flute of champagne was placed in Mel’s right hand.
‘You don’t have to hold on to your viola. You’re with friends here,’ Olga said.
‘I won’t be staying long.’
Hamada said something to Olga and she said, ‘He’s asking if he might see your instrument.’
‘No chance.’
‘He is very knowledgeable about them.’
‘Then it won’t interest him. It’s nothing special.’
‘But it plays well, obviously.’
‘I’m comfortable with it.’
‘Please allow him to see it. He’s not fooling. He’s a true connoisseur.’
‘I don’t care what he is. I was brought here under false pretences.’
‘Believe me, Mel,’ she said. ‘It’s very much in your interest to cooperate. This could be your lucky day.’
‘That’s what the taxi driver said before you got in. If this is luck, it’s not what I expected.’
She smiled. ‘You expected to be here alone with me? That was a little game and I’m sorry. Mr. Hamada is my employer. He has a wife and children. He came to Bath and reserved the suite specially to meet you.’
‘I can’t think why.’
‘Please indulge him. I’ll hold your glass.’ She must have noted the subtle softening of his protest.
Mel sighed. ‘He won’t think anything of this.’ He unfastened his case, removed the viola and handed it to Hamada, who gripped it by the neck and ran his hand lightly across the soundboard. Then he held it horizontally and examined the rib and the purfling along the edges. He studied the dark wood of the underside before speaking again to Olga.
‘He says it’s of English manufacture, early twentieth century.’
‘He’s right about that.’
Mel then heard Hamada say, ‘William Hill.’
‘Spot on,’ Mel said in surprise. ‘You do know your stuff.’
Saying you possessed a Hill viola could be embarrassing even among musicians if they weren’t specialists in stringed instruments. The name didn’t have the cachet of the great Italian instrument makers. Yet William E. Hill of Bond Street produced violins and violas of exceptional quality for fifty years as well as restoring a number of Stradivari instruments.
Nodding his approval, Hamada handed the viola back and spoke more words in Japanese.
‘He’s asking if you would be so good as to play something,’ Olga said.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Please don’t refuse. Just a few bars, to give him the measure of the instrument.’
With reluctance, Mel took the bow from his case, tuned the strings, and played the opening bars of Bach’s Chaconne from the Suite in D minor, but a fifth lower, in G minor. Just a snatch of the entire piece was sufficient to demonstrate the timbre of his viola.
Hamada nodded in approval and spoke again. Mel was getting the impression that this little man had a better understanding of English than he was letting on. The translation process kept him at a distance.
‘He compliments you on the sound of the instrument and the choice of piece,’ Olga said. ‘He says he doesn’t associate Bach with the viola.’
‘It was written for solo violin,’ Mel said, ‘and transposed by Lionel Tertis, the English master.’
Hamada nodded at the name and spoke some more.
‘He says Tertis, more than anyone in the world, raised the status of the viola. He played on an eighteenth century instrument of exceptional quality.’ She turned to Hamada to confirm the name.
‘Montagnana.’
A distinguished, but lesser known maker. Mel couldn’t any longer deny that the man was knowledgeable. ‘I wish I’d heard Tertis play. He lived to a great age, but he was before my time.’
Olga was translating for them both with apparent ease. She’d lured Mel here, but he still found her attractive. His playing of the Bach had been aimed more at her than her employer.
‘Mr. Hamada says when Tertis because of infirmity could no longer play to the standard he set for himself, he presented his precious viola to his pupil, Bernard Shore.’
‘I didn’t know that. How generous.’
This time Hamada didn’t wait for a translation of Mel’s response. He crossed the room to the wardrobe, opened the door and took a bulky object from the top shelf — an instrument case. He brought this to the middle of the room, placed it on the sofa and unzipped it. The case was modern, but the instrument inside was not. It was of viola length, at least the size of his own, but of lighter, thinly varnished wood, almost apricot in colour, obviously antique.
‘So is he a player?’ Mel asked Olga.
‘A collector. What do you think?’
‘It looks special.’
Hamada lifted out the viola and handed it to Mel.
The weight was lighter than his own fiddle.
Olga said, ‘He is inviting you to play the Bach piece again, using his instrument.’
Not unreasonable, Mel thought. If you own a fiddle, you want to hear it. Aside from that, he was curious to try it himself. He liked the feel. Now that it was in his hands he could tell it was a fraction longer than his own, but about the same weight. He ran his fingertips along the board. Using his own bow, he began the tuning process. Then he started playing another excerpt from the Chaconne.
The projecting power was a revelation, the depth and fullness of tone a joy. He knew at once that this was an experience to be savoured, so he continued moving through the daunting multiple stops of Bach’s composition for longer than he intended.
Hamada’s serious look had been supplanted by open-mouthed admiration. And when Mel finally lifted the bow away, Hamada clapped and said, ‘Bravo.’
His pulse racing from the experience, Mel did his best to appear calm. ‘Who is the maker?’
Olga asked the question, listened to the response, turned to Mel and didn’t give an answer. Instead she said, ‘If you would be so kind, he would love to hear you play some more. We both would.’
No hardship. Mel launched into Kreisler’s arrangement of a Tartini fugue written for piano and viola, yet possible to perform as a solo. He gave them the complete piece.
‘Now may I know the history of this instrument?’ he asked after finishing.
For the second time, Olga put the question to Hamada.
Mel listened keenly to the answer and wondered if he could believe his ears, or had confused the sounds.
Olga translated for him and confirmed the name of the maker. ‘It’s an Amati, from 1625.’
‘Christ Almighty — I thought it was special.’
Four generations of the Amati family of Cremona were making stringed instruments from at least 1560. Nicolò Amati was said to have taught the craft to Antonio Stradivari and Andrea Guarneri. Amati violas were particularly prized because of their rarity compared with violins. Mel had heard of a 1613 Amati selling at auction for half a million pounds.
With reverence he replaced the instrument in its case. ‘That was an experience I wouldn’t have missed.’
Olga’s eyes shone with amusement. ‘Twenty minutes ago you were ready to walk out of here.’
‘I had no idea what was coming. Any musician worthy of the name would kill to play a fiddle of that quality.’
‘I hope not. We don’t want bloodshed.’
‘Mr. Hamada must be a very rich man as well as a connoisseur.’
‘He’s both.’
‘May I ask what his business is?’
‘Shipping, mainly, but he has other companies as well. Your glass is empty.’
‘My head is spinning and it isn’t the champagne.’
Hamada took this as the cue to refill Mel’s glass. He started speaking to Olga and it lasted some time.