Amy sat on an old stone throne outside the basilica, sighed, and said, “No way am I climbing up that thing. You guys go ahead. I’ll wait here.”
And so they did, climbing the winding interior of the tower together, each with a flashlight. From the campanile they surveyed the small, enclosed world of the lagoon like gods, feeling as if they could reach out and touch any point: the near island of Burano, the lights on Murano and San Michele in the mid distance. And, beyond, the church towers of the city itself.
Daniel had drunk too much wine to be worried. He smiled at Massiter and thanked him. The older man leaned out of the open arch and stared at the black waters. Then he spoke, with a new seriousness in his voice.
“You’re Scacchi’s tool,” he said. “You know that, Daniel. Surely.”
Sobriety fell down from the sky in an instant, and with it the certain knowledge that he would not be able to leave this high tower without telling Massiter at least some of the truth.
“I don’t understand….”
Massiter clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “The music, lad. It’s not yours. It can’t be. The old man’s fishing. Does he know what it’s worth?”
Daniel said nothing.
“Look,” Massiter continued. “It’s clear you didn’t write it. It’s clear, too, from what I have heard, that it may be outstanding. Now, tell me what Scacchi wants and we’ll talk.”
“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “Beyond money.”
“He must want plenty of that to play these games. Why doesn’t he just pick up the phone and call me?”
“He’s ill. I can offer no better explanation.”
Massiter scowled. “So I’d heard. Poor chap. Well. What is it, then?”
Daniel took a deep breath. “It’s the composer’s original score for an entire violin concerto. Like Vivaldi, but not like him too.”
“Who did write it?”
“I have no idea. It’s described simply as ‘Concerto Anonimo’ and dated 1733, which puts it contemporary with the close of Vivaldi’s career. But it can’t be him. Why would he write anonymously?”
Massiter gazed at the stars and the blackness. “Is it all that good?” he asked eventually.
“I believe so.”
“And it’s yours? Not stolen? I know Scacchi’s games.”
“The work was found in Scacchi’s own house. It’s his. I think, too, that it is truly wonderful. I hadn’t realised quite how good until Amy played it. But then you felt that, too, didn’t you, Hugo?”
Massiter laughed. “Oh, yes. What a tale! This city never stops surprising me.”
“You’ll buy it?” Daniel asked hopefully. “I think Scacchi will be amenable to a quick arrangement.”
Massiter shook his head. “It’s a jolly story, but what, in all honesty, is the thing worth? We could pay some tame scholar to say it’s Vivaldi’s, I imagine, but you seem to think that ruse won’t last. Scacchi could get some small sum from a university, I expect. The musicologists will adore it. But it’s well below my horizon as it stands, I’m afraid.”
Daniel could hardly believe what he was hearing. “But it’s marvellous music, Hugo. You said so yourself.”
“Absolutely! Scacchi could come to some arrangement with a publisher to have first pick for its transcription and earn a few royalties down the line. But you see the problem? The composer, whoever he was, is long dead. There’s no real copyright. Once it’s in some college, anyone can pick it up and turn out editions by the score, not paying a penny to a soul. They will, believe me. There’s no such thing as an honest academic. No. There is perhaps ten thousand dollars for it on the nail as it stands, and the selfsame over the next five years in residuals. Nothing more.”
The logic of Massiter’s argument seemed unshakable. “There’s no other possibility?” Daniel asked.
Massiter held up the torch and shone it in his face. “Of course there is. Look, this is not the toy I had in mind to buy this summer, as you and Scacchi well know. I’d a fancy to own one of those big fat Guarneris again. But I’m as open to a little game as the next man. What we do, Daniel, is dissemble. How do you think the world goes round?”
The night was growing chilly. Part of Daniel wished to be on the ground, yet another side of his character needed to hear what Massiter had to say. Scacchi was desperate for money. Here, too, was life, full of experience and excitement. There was a selfish reason to play this game, not just the practical needs of the old man. “I don’t follow,” he declared.
Massiter sighed, as if dealing with a child. “Think of the problem. No one knows who wrote this. No one, in truth, owns the thing. If it’s made public as it stands, the worth of it lies merely in the intrinsic value of some old paper. Agreed?”
Daniel nodded uncertainly.
“So what we need,” Massiter continued, “is to make it something a man might possess. Might own, and sell if he cares to. You provided the answer yourself. Ask Amy. She knows who wrote this concerto. You.”
An owl screeched in the black air beyond the tower. Massiter took him by the arm. “Listen. It’s simplicity itself. Tomorrow, I have a word with Fabozzi and tell him we have a change of plan. I’ll ask him to abandon the current programme and focus on a single work. A new one. Written by a brilliant prodigy who has emerged out of nowhere. One Daniel Forster. Each day you copy something from your original and bring it to him. The school rehearses your masterpiece. At the final concert we debut the work for the world. Think of the publicity! Think of the acclaim! You start the summer a penniless student and end it a celebrity. Not rich, true, but who gets rich out of music?”
“I am not that person, Hugo.”
“What are you worried about? That the real one will come back and haunt you? Besides, even if you don’t write another note, it’s a pretty thing to put on your CV. Have a little fun for once, Daniel. Don’t be so stiff.”
“It’s illegal, surely?”
“Oh, come. Who’s been robbed? Not the author. Nor those who pay for the work afterwards. They still get the same music, Daniel. Or will it sound different because your name is on the cover?”
“No. It’s just…”
“Wrong?” Massiter dared him to repeat the word.
“Yes.” Daniel felt ashamed. His naivety was embarrassing sometimes.
“Perhaps. That’s for you and Scacchi to judge. To me it seems there are simply two possibilities. This work comes into the world and earns you a little money. Or you give the thing away. Let me make a proposition. This is small beer for me, but I find the possibilities of the game amusing. Let us say you claim authorship, as I suggest. I, privately, come to an arrangement to collect what royalties may come to be associated with the title over the years. In return, Scacchi gets, let’s say, fifty thousand dollars now and a further fifty at the end of the summer, when everyone’s feeling very pleased with themselves. You can treat with him for your cut. After that, it’s all mine — whatever small residuals ensue, and the original manuscript too. Could be very embarrassing if that got out. Wonderful offer. The risk is mine entirely, and frankly the upside is marginal even if it does take off. We’re talking about music, Daniel, and no one ever makes any real money out of that. This isn’t for selfish reasons, you understand? I am, in all honesty, the philanthropist with deep pockets. But then, what’s new?”
The small square space at the summit of the campanile was, for a moment, silent.
“Think of it,” Massiter said, his grey eyes shining in the dark. “All my money in Scacchi’s sweaty fist by tomorrow if we’re agreed. You must admit. You’re tempted.”
Daniel tried to weigh the possibilities. The night swam in front of him. “A hundred now, fifty after,” he said.