Ben glanced back at the stern face on the portrait. ‘He doesn’t strike me as the comic type.’
‘Oh, don’t let that austere front fool you,’ Nick said with a wave. ‘Bach loved nothing more than to have a good time, in all kinds of ways. He was the father of twenty-two children and he was extremely fond of his grub, not to mention wine and beer. He was sixty-three when he sat for that portrait, but he could still enjoy himself. I’m trying to remember how the “Coffee Cantata” goes. Oh, yes—’
Nick recited:
‘Sounds like he had it bad,’ Ben said. ‘Even I’m not that addicted to it, yet.’
Nick smiled and pointed at the cups on the table. ‘I’m willing to bet you soon will be, once you try this. Come and drink it while it’s hot.’
The coffee tasted as good as it smelled. Ben took it black, no sugar, the way coffee ought to be. He nodded his appreciation. ‘Now I am an expert in this department,’ he said. ‘And that’s no fake. It’s the real McCoy. Colombian?’
‘Brazilian Sierra Negra,’ Nick said, looking happy. ‘Something special, isn’t it? Better than the bilge water they serve in Hall, at any rate.’
Ben drank some more, then shook his head, thinking back to the manuscript. ‘It’s a strange world where someone would go to the trouble of counterfeiting something like that.’
‘Welcome to the music world. You’d be amazed at the fakery that’s out there. Do you seriously imagine, for instance, that I could afford a real lock of Chopin’s hair? There’s only one validated example in existence, and that’s in a museum in Warsaw.’ Nick motioned towards the cabinet. ‘That one there was most likely put together from the sweepings off the floor of a pet-grooming parlour.’
‘That’s one way to make use of dog hair,’ Ben said, thinking of the state of the floor of the Le Val office after four German shepherds had been lying around in there. ‘I was thinking of stuffing pillows with it.’
Nick smiled. ‘I should point out, however, that not everything I possess is phony. That harpsichord there, for example. Made by Jacob and Abraham Kirckman, London’s finest craftsmen of their day, circa 1775. Double manual, six hand stops, cabinet of oak, mahogany and tulipwood, all hand-inlaid. I had it professionally rebuilt six or seven years ago. Cost me an absolute bomb.’
‘You can see where the money went,’ Ben said.
‘And hear it. Listen.’ Nick jumped to his feet, went over to the harpsichord and dashed off a few fast, tinkling bars. ‘Scarlatti. Hear the quality of the sound?’
‘I have to say the piano appeals to me more. That’s an impressive Bosendörfer you have.’
‘And we had some fun dragging it up the stairs, I can tell you,’ Nick said. ‘You want to hear something?’
‘You don’t have to play for me.’
‘My pleasure.’
Nick switched seats to the piano stool. With his back to the window, framed in the sunlight, he laid his hands on the keyboard and the room filled with the rich resonance of the grand piano. He played for a minute or so, while Ben watched and listened. The piece was slow and melancholic, yet majestic and powerful. The deep tones of the Bosendörfer projected a weight of emotion that throbbed through the soundspace around them and transported Nick off to another world as he sat there, swaying and rocking soulfully to the music he was playing.
Ben said nothing until Nick stopped and sat back, smiling at him. ‘What was that?’ Ben asked.
‘“Ich ruf’ zu dir, Herr Jesus Christ”,’ Nick said in faultless German. ‘“I call to you, Lord Jesus Christ”. It’s a chorale prelude. Originally an organ piece, of course. They didn’t have pianos like this back when it was composed.’
‘Didn’t sound that old to me.’
‘Amazingly timeless, isn’t it? That’s what you get from the grand master. He was way ahead of his time.’ Nick nodded up at the portrait Ben had been looking at before.
‘Bach?’ Ben was surprised.
‘Johann Sebastian himself. Some of the real purists would say it was heresy even to play Bach on a modern-day piano, let alone commit sacrileges like use the sustain pedal with these old pieces.’ Nick shrugged. ‘I say, if it sounds good, why not?’
‘It did,’ Ben said. ‘Thank you for letting me hear it.’
Nick came away from the piano and returned to his armchair to pour them some more coffee. It was only now that Ben noticed that he was wearing copper bracelets on both wrists. Nick sipped his coffee and then leaned back in the armchair, rubbing his hands as if they were hurting him. He caught Ben looking. ‘Spot of the old arthritis,’ Nick admitted. ‘Sign of the years creeping up on me, I suppose. Last thing a keyboard player needs is the curse of stiff fingers. Not so bad, now that spring is here.’
‘Does the copper help?’
‘A bit. But not as much as the special medication I use. The best in the world.’ Nick winked. Ben didn’t press him for details.
They chatted for a while longer, mostly about classical music and current affairs, of both of which Ben had little more than a passing knowledge. As midday approached, Nick frowned at his watch and said he ought to start getting things ready for the lunchtime buffet. Ben was ready to help out. A deal was a deal.
While Nick busied himself gathering up the coffee dishes, he motioned in the vague direction of the kitchen and asked if Ben could start getting the food out of the fridge and laying it out on the side. Ben obligingly headed up the passage to find himself faced with four identical white doors, any of which could have been the kitchen. He tried one, but it was locked.
‘That’s the spare bedroom,’ Nick said, coming up behind him with the coffee tray. ‘Kitchen’s at the end.’
‘You keep your spare bedroom locked?’ Ben mused.
‘That’s where I keep my terrorist cache of explosives and weaponry,’ Nick said casually. ‘You’d never guess I was plotting the overthrow of western civilisation, would you?’
‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ Ben replied with a smile.
The kitchen was spacious, airy and well organised, with faux-marble worktops, a solid oak dining table and matching bespoke wall units. The two friends worked quietly and efficiently, to the strains of soft choral music playing from Nick’s hi-fi system. Male bonding had never been so gently domesticated as this. For Ben, it beat erecting an improvised jungle camp or circling the wagons in readiness for an enemy assault any day.
As Nick washed up the coffee cups, Ben took the platters of food from the tall American-style fridge and set it on the side to peel off the cling film wrap. The sandwiches were exactingly cut into little triangles, crusts trimmed away, colour-segregated into white bread and wholemeal; one third tuna and mayonnaise, one third ham and pickle, and one third some sort of anaemic-looking paste. For the vegetarians, Nick explained. Ben pulled a face.
Next they had to transfer tubs of stuffed olives, hummus and other dainty finger food from the delicatessen into bowls, which Ben found neatly stacked in a cupboard. Then came the drinks: wine glasses and a selection of reds and whites, some nice barrel tumblers and carafes of pressed fruit juice and lemoned mineral water for the non-drinkers. Ben didn’t think Nick had got in enough bottles of wine, but he made no comment. The whole thing was a little too precious for his tastes: he said nothing about that either.