“Friends,” he repeated, and heard his voice echo off the walls. They were seated again, waiting. He looked at Massiter and then Giulia Morelli. They wore the same expression of intense interest.
“What can I say to you?” he asked. “How do I explain myself?”
“Bravo, Maestro,” Massiter shouted from the audience, and began to clap, starting a ripple of applause which Daniel swiftly waved down.
“No,” he insisted. “Your kindness is overwhelming. I’m not a speaker. When I listen to Amy here and these players of Fabozzi, I wonder whether I’m a musician at all.”
“Such modesty!” someone shouted, and he was unsure whether it was a compliment or a taunt.
“No,” he answered. “I’m not being modest. I gave these musicians paint and pigment in the hope they might create with them. What you heard came as much from them as from the composer. I owe them my congratulations. I owe you my thanks. But now you must give me some rest. Please. Ciao!”
With that, he turned and walked to the back of the church, wandering the narrow corridors until he found a small, empty dressing-room where the clamour outside was reduced to a distant drone. There he sat on a low bench and placed his head in his hands, wishing he had the courage to weep. He felt as if there were poison in his veins.
There were steps outside in the corridor, then a knock on the door. Amy came in. She looked exhausted.
“Dan?” she said. “They want you to go back out there. I don’t think they’ll go till you do.”
He shook his head to clear it and managed to force a smile. “Tell them I’m overwhelmed by their response, Amy. Tell them I’m unwell. Make some excuse for me. Please.”
“OK,” she said softly, but waited at the door. “Did you mean what you said? That I have to go?”
“Of course,” he replied. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
She came over to him. “I wanted you, Dan. All along that’s what I wanted.” She hesitated. “Even if you’re a fake, I want you. I don’t care.”
He looked up at her. “Of course you care, Amy. You must.”
“Let me help you,” she offered.
“You already have. You’ll understand that soon.”
She was close to tears again. “Don’t talk like that. You scare me.”
He stood up, took her face in his hands, kissed her once more, then said, “Go to the reception, Amy. I’ll meet you there. Then tomorrow, first thing, catch that plane.”
She stared at him, mistrust in her eyes. “You’ll come to the party? Just be with me there, Dan. After that I’ll go. I promise.”
“As you see fit,” he said. “Now, be off with you, and talk to those people. This is your night, Amy. Venice belongs to you.”
“I know,” she replied. “And I wish I felt more grateful.”
Then she was gone, and Daniel waited, knowing he would come. After fifteen minutes the noise beyond the door had diminished. He heard the orchestra troop back to their dressing rooms, listened to their low chatter of voices and occasional laughter, feeling painfully distant from their deserved acclaim. A little later Massiter walked in, pulled up the one spare chair, and sat beside him.
“You disturbed me there, Daniel,” he declared. “Please don’t play tricks. I hate that kind of thing.”
“I’m sorry, Hugo. That wasn’t my intention.”
“Of course not,” Massiter observed dryly. “Well. I imagine there’s no time like the present. You don’t really want to go and sip warm champagne with boring people, do you? Everyone’s expecting the pair of us. I think we’ve both sung sufficiently for our supper recently, to be honest.”
Daniel wondered what he was thinking. Massiter seemed resigned to his demands. He had expected more resistance. He wondered, too, about breaking this last promise to Amy. She could never forgive him. Perhaps that was for the best.
Massiter eyed him. He seemed, for the first time in Daniel’s experience, almost worried. “You’re very privileged. Not many men have seen what I’m about to show you.”
“I’m flattered by your offer, Hugo.”
“As if I had a choice.”
“Of course you had a choice. Several, I believe. You’re doing this because you want to, surely?”
Massiter nodded. “True. You’re an amusing soul, Daniel. Scacchi coached you well. As, unwittingly, have I, it seems.”
Daniel rose to leave.
“But nothing comes for free,” Massiter added. “You appreciate that, I hope.”
They left by the side door. It was a warm night with the merest sliver of a moon. The lagoon shimmered, its surface reflecting the stars. In the rear of the water taxi, Daniel closed his eyes, fought to stem his thoughts. The music ran around his head still, refusing to leave, circling constantly, a puzzle without an answer.
59
Dissonant notes
Delapole was right in one respect. The Venetians can be an ugly lot when they are crossed. The scribbled messages I had dropped in those lions’ jaws had done their trick. I had not sought to accuse Delapole of Leo’s murder. Such a ruse would be hard to sustain without evidence; the anonymous writer would be deemed a mischief-maker or worse. Instead, I chose a subject which I knew no self-respecting clerk of the Republic could fail to extend to a wider audience: the authorship of that mysterious concerto.
With a little variation in each, my messages foretold that Delapole would claim the prize and, in so doing, seek to deceive the city. He was, I hinted, a thief, and perhaps worse. This crime was to be perpetrated on an unsuspecting Venice in order that he might fleece the citizens of their money, then disappear into the night. To establish my case, I suggested the readers spread the word and ask those who heard it to demand some proof from the Englishman when he appeared on the podium with Vivaldi’s players. If he could lead the players through the opening of the piece — or anything else, for that matter — then let him be acclaimed. If not, then the city should draw its own conclusions and act accordingly.
When I penned those messages, I firmly believed Marchese would be in the city at any moment, walking to arrest the Englishman at the head of a troop of city guards. So much for my prescience. But this was a game of chess, with human players. A precautionary move might turn the balance of a match several steps on from the point at which it is played. The mob was angry. Marchese’s murder had spurred their already foul mood. The word was spreading through the crowd that the beloved concerto would not, after all, be played. From his place on the platform, where he paced up and down, looking increasingly nervous, Delapole could see the moment of his triumph turning to catastrophe.
“Music, Maestro!” one wag yelled. “Or has the cat got your English tongue?”
Delapole bowed to his tormentor and walked to the other side of the stage. There was no more sympathy for him there. The rabble was restless. Vivaldi stood immobile, offering not a whit of assistance. The musicians shuffled sheets awkwardly in front of them. Then a drunk came out of the crowd, clambered onto the platform, and snatched the first page of a cellist’s part.
“This ain’t the concerto,” the fellow yelled. “I can read a title page. We’ve been robbed. They’re going to play some of the Red Priest’s old stuff, and I’ve heard that till it’s coming out of me ears.”
Vivaldi stared at Delapole. The Englishman listened to the baying of the hoi polloi, then walked, with a fixed smile upon his face, to the front of the stage and waved for them to be silent.
“Ladies,” he implored. “Gentlemen.”
A gang of armourers from the Arsenale, well in their cups, had gathered at the front to taunt him. “Get on with it, you pomaded bastard!” the largest one shouted. “We came here to listen to them, not watch you parade around like some peacock looking for a mate.”