The conductor beamed.
“So run along, dear chap,” Massiter urged. “The meter’s running and I’m picking up the bill. You’ve plenty to work on, and I’d like that final concert to be a sellout.”
“Sì,” Fabozzi replied. It was not much to go on, but more than he seemed to expect. He rose from the table, edged his way through the tourists in the café, and was gone, out into the piazza, heading back to the waterfront for the short walk to La Pietà.
Massiter beamed at Daniel. “I say. You’re rather good at this. Remember all that stuff when the press start to turn up. I’m pulling a few strings already. Good story for a slow news season. I rather thought we might label you the new Vivaldi. The New York Times will want a word before long. And The Times of London, and Corriere della Sera too. But not until next week. No point in jumping the gun before anyone can buy tickets now, is there?”
Daniel felt queasy at the prospect. “Surely they wouldn’t be interested?”
“If we wind them up enough, they will,” Massiter replied. “A touch of hype, a little exaggeration. Some free flights and a night or two in the right hotel. They thrive on it. Just say what you just said, but at greater length and rather less directly, if you please. Plain speaking will get you nowhere with the arts press. They’ll think you’re a philistine.”
“I agree. You do this well,” Scacchi added. “You sounded so plausible.”
Daniel gave the old man a sharp look. “I was plausible.” The work had grown inside him as he transferred it from the ancient pages to the screen of the computer, note by note. Parts of it refused to leave his mind. “What I just said is what I believe to be true. I think that’s where it came from. It must be. Yet… there’s something else there too. Some foreignness, perhaps. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“You will!” Massiter insisted. “You will!”
“And I don’t recall offering to make a public spectacle of myself by talking to the press, either. I want a quiet life when this is over.”
Massiter’s face became suddenly stern. “It was implicit in our arrangement, Daniel. I made it quite clear that for all our sakes, we must try to milk this thing for all we can. I’ll be out of pocket for years in any case, probably forever.”
Daniel was abruptly full of distaste for Hugo Massiter, with his odd clothes and his presumptuous attitude. “This ‘thing,’ as you describe it, is a work of art,” he said. “Not some commodity to be bought and sold like a trinket on the Rialto.”
Massiter stared at him in silence for the best part of a minute with an expression which was, Daniel believed, designed to inspire some terror. Then he turned to the old man. “You’re enjoying your money, I imagine, Scacchi?”
“One always enjoys money, Massiter,” the old man said carefully.
“Then have words with your boy.” Massiter’s grey eyes swept over them both. “There’s a balance still outstanding. I’ll have what I pay for. I always do.”
24
Rousseau’s amour
Manzini no longer replies to my letters. I think, dear sister, we must expect the worst. Either the rascal has departed with whatever money there was in our parents’ estate or — and I suspect this is more likely — he has discovered there was none there to begin with and saves himself the time of writing to those who will never pay his bills. I hope this news does not come as such a great shock. I expected it for some time and have tried to prepare you for it. We must make our own way in this world. Our parents’ only bequest is their character and their learning, both better than any amount of gold that might be squeezed out of the codicil of a will. I hope, too, that you find more suitable food than the rich Spanish stuff you write about. We were raised on plain Veneto fare — polenta and meat — not rich spices and strange vegetables that belong in a Moroccan market. It scarcely surprises me you find yourself queasy from time to time if you insist on eating nothing but that muck.
Now, a tale to lift your spirits! Gobbo has wreaked his vengeance upon Rousseau, and I am ashamed to confess I may give you an eyewitness account. First, however, a warning. There be country matters in this story, the sort we used to hear from that wicked old swineherd Pietro when he thought Pa wasn’t listening. If you wish to keep your heart and mind unsullied by some mild filth, I advise you to read no further.
Ah! I do sense, little pen, that our reader has not deserted us! Jolly good…
After our journey to Torcello, Delapole’s party acquired a taste for music — largely, of course, because Delapole himself announced that it was this particular muse which would henceforth claim his attentions. Leo, to my surprise, was not much put out by this. The House of Scacchi is as capable of printing a bawdy ballad or an entire opera as it may turn out copies of Shakespeare or dissertations on the origins of the rhinoceros. Having detected that Delapole would probably never get down to penning his masterpiece — the rich have much time on their hands but little inclination to intrude upon it with work — Leo now supposes, I imagine, that he can be talked into paying for the publication of some unknown opus in order to bask in the glory when its greatness is realised.
To this end I have played a small game. Last night I pretended that I found Rebecca’s score wrapped in paper, like an abandoned baby, on the doorstep of Ca’ Scacchi. Accompanying it was an anonymous note claiming to be from a budding composer, currently trapped in another profession, who wondered whether the House of Scacchi might deem his work worthy of a wider audience. If Leo felt this way, the note adds, he should organise the copying of the parts at his own expense (a come-on, of course, to get him to approach Delapole for funds) and organise a public performance. Should the citizens of Venice agree that the work has some merit when they hear it, the composer promises to reveal himself and appeal to their generosity for the future of his career, reimbursing his sponsor twice over for his support and placing with him the rights for all future publication of the piece.
Leo read the note, issued a rude curse about scroungers, and threw the entire package into a dark corner. I shall, of course, retrieve it and meekly play a few notes to see if it whets his appetite. I have heard a little from the strings of its creator; it is wonderful, of course.
Gobbo returned from Cremona with an instrument under his arm. It’s an ugly thing, to be sure. Big and muscular, the kind of instrument you expect to see beneath the chin of a farmhand, not the loveliest lady in all Venice. On both sides of the belly it has a sap mark which runs as a singular stain parallel to the fingerboard. This is, Gobbo assures us, a “feature” much sought after in Guarneri’s instruments.
Its initiation was at an early-evening concert at La Pietà. Rebecca is sufficiently confident now to attend these events in daylight on her own. On this occasion she managed to make her way into and out of the church without any of us seeing her. Her presence was unmistakable, however. In Vivaldi’s mundane programme — I do wish he’d stick to the old stuff instead of forcing these new mediocrities down our throats — the tone of her new instrument rang out like a shining clarion. Whether Delapole noticed or not, I have no idea. Gobbo had informed us all of his plans; the Englishman’s mind was no doubt on other things.
Gobbo knew I had been up to something with Rebecca and La Pietà. He’s a sly one, though he could not have suspected the scale of our tricks. In any case, he pumped me mercilessly for details about the church, its layout, and what happens before, during, and after concerts. When I had carefully told him what I could, he went into action.