Paganini's Ghost (6 page)

“Oh, no,” I said. “We are not good enough for you.”

“What does that matter? We do not perform.”

I looked at Guastafeste.

“I'm not on duty tomorrow,” he said.

“It will be a shock for you,” I said to Yevgeny. “We really aren't very good.”

“I would like it.”

“Then I'll phone our viola player and see if he's free. Shall we say—”

I broke off as a figure loomed up beside me, almost barging me out of the way to get to Yevgeny.

“Signor Ivanov, a truly memorable performance. Superlative playing. Allow me to congratulate you. Vittorio Castellani, professor of music at the University of Milan.”

Castellani reached out, grasped Yevgeny's hand, and pumped it up and down. Yevgeny stared at him with the terrified look of a man accosted in the street who fears he's about to be mugged.

“I'm something of an authority on Paganini, you know,” Castellani went on. “I'm doing a piece for the
Corriere della Sera. Il Cannone
coming back to Cremona, that kind of thing. So what did you think to the violin?”

Castellani pushed me sideways with his arm, treading on my toes in the process.

“Excuse me, would you mind?”

I stepped back. Not that I had much choice. Castellani wasn't the type of man to let anyone stand in his way. He swung round, giving me a close-up view of his leather jacket and thick swept-back hair. The pungent scent of his aftershave filled my nostrils.

“I particularly liked your interpretation of ‘Nel cor più non mi sento,' ” Castellani said to Yevgeny. “Of course, Paisiello has fallen out of fashion these days, even in Italy. I saw a production of
La Bella Molinara
at Spoleto a few years ago and, frankly, I can see why. ‘Nel cor' is just about the only half-decent thing in the whole opera. . . .”

I looked across at Margherita and she rolled her eyes at me. “An arrogant loudmouth” was what she'd called Castellani earlier, and though she wasn't far off the mark, there was more to him than just his mouth. He'd been a hardworking academic once, a respected musicologist who had written several well-received books on music, including a biography of Paganini, which I had on my shelves at home. But somewhere in his late thirties, he'd branched out and started a parallel career in journalism, writing initially only about classical music but soon becoming a self-proclaimed authority on rock and pop, too. Endowed with the glossy good looks and superficial charm that the broadcasting industry requires in its presenters, it wasn't long before he was making guest appearances as a pundit on television, giving his opinions on a wide variety of subjects, from archaeology to Zen Buddhism. It was true—as Margherita had said—that he knew very little about most of these topics, but that was immaterial, for his audiences
knew even less. What counted was his viewer-friendly demeanour, trendy clothes, and ability to talk in sound bites of no more than the twenty seconds deemed by television producers to be the maximum attention span of the average Italian couch potato.

Castellani had become the acceptable face of the intellectual classes, an academic who could hide his learning beneath a veneer of populism but still maintain some credibility. Producers liked him because he added a touch of gravitas to their lazy, shallow programmes, and Castellani liked them because of the fame and adulation that came with a broadcasting career. Once you have answered the call of the television siren, there is no escaping her pernicious embrace. He was no longer a musicologist and university teacher; he was a “personality,” and in becoming one, he had lost his identity.

“I must say, I've rarely heard ‘I Palpiti' played better,” he was saying to Yevgeny. “You know the story behind it, of course, that Rossini wrote the original aria in the time it took him to boil a plate of rice for his supper. Utter rubbish. I don't believe a word of it. Rossini enjoyed that kind of dissimulation—portraying himself as an indolent
bon viveur
who knocked off his operas in a couple of weeks. . . .”

Castellani paused and turned to the hangers-on who had accompanied him across the room. As celebrity entourages go, it was fairly modest, consisting of just two people—a dark, saturnine young man and a slim, attractive girl who looked like a student.

“Marco,” he said to the young man. “Bring me another glass of wine, and something to eat. I'm starving. And some wine for Signor Ivanov, too.”

“No, no, I can get it myself,” Yevgeny protested, trying to edge away along the wall.

“Nonsense. Marco will bring it. That's what he's for. Chop, chop, Marco, I'm dying of thirst here.”

Marco turned and I saw a cloud of resentment pass across his face as he walked away. Castellani reached out to the pretty young woman.

“Mirella, dear, come over here. I'm sure you'd like to meet Signor Ivanov.”

Castellani grasped the girl by the hand and pulled her to him, slipping his arm round her shoulders in a manner that was more proprietorial than affectionate. I took advantage of the moment to squeeze myself between Yevgeny and Castellani.

“My apologies,” I murmured, “but Signor Ivanov is wanted elsewhere.”

“What? What do you mean . . .” Castellani began, but by then I had taken Yevgeny by the arm and was leading him firmly away.

I didn't stop until we were across the room, at least fifty other people between us and Castellani. Guastafeste and Margherita had followed, Margherita unable to contain her glee at my audacious manoeuvre.

“You should have seen Castellani's face,” she said. “Bravo, Gianni. I wish more people had the nerve to do that to him.”

“Thank you,” Yevgeny said. “Who was that awful man?”

“Nobody,” I said. “We have to go now, I'm afraid. But I will expect you tomorrow, one o'clock.”

“I will have to check with my mother first,” Yevgeny said.

“Please do. But come alone, if you have to.”

It was a relief to step out of the reception chamber, to get away from all the people, the heat, and the noise. The landing at the top of the stairs was cool and quiet. It seemed deserted until I heard voices coming from somewhere over to my right. I turned and saw two people standing in a shadowy corner, conversing in low but intense tones. I was surprised to see that one of them was Ludmilla Ivanova. The other was a thickset man with a fleshy face and shiny bald pate that caught the light as he moved his head. They were speaking in Russian, but I could tell from their voices, and from their gestures, that they were arguing about something. Neither of them noticed us watching; they were too preoccupied with their dispute, which was becoming increasingly heated. Ludmilla raised her voice, angry now. The bald man shrugged and tried to walk away. This seemed to incense Ludmilla further, for she grabbed hold of the man's shoulder and pulled him back, leaning close and snarling furiously into his face.

The scene made me uncomfortable. It felt as if we were spying on them, eavesdropping on a private, and very personal, conversation. I looked at Margherita and Guastafeste, sensing they felt the same. We crept softly across the landing and down the stairs. Above us, Ludmilla Ivanova was still shouting, her incomprehensible Russian words reverberating menacingly round the stone walls of the town hall.

I
half-expected Yevgeny to phone me the next morning to cancel our lunch appointment. He was so much in thrall to his mother that I feared she would refuse to let him come, particularly as she had not been a party to the arrangement. But in the event, they both turned up on the dot of one o'clock.

I went out to greet them on the forecourt. Ludmilla was paying the taxi driver who had brought them from Cremona, Yevgeny standing beside her with his violin case. I smiled at him warmly and shook his hand.

“Yevgeny, how nice to see you again. How are you? You have recovered from last night's reception?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Did you stay long?”

“Awhile. Mama enjoys these things.”

“One can't leave too soon; it would be rude,” Ludmilla said, turning away from the taxi. “These civic receptions are an honour, Yevgeny.
You have a duty to attend them.” She held out her hand. “Dottor Castiglione, it is kind of you to invite us.”

“Please call me Gianni.”

“Then you must call me Ludmilla,” she said graciously.

If she harboured any resentment towards me for insisting that she leave my workshop the previous afternoon, it certainly wasn't obvious. She seemed in a good humour, her face relaxed and benign. She was wearing another low-cut dress—a tight royal blue one that clung to her full figure—and matching shoes. Her long black hair hung loose over her shoulders, and round her neck was a silver chain from which a sapphire cluster dangled.

“We are playing quartets?” Yevgeny asked.

“If you still wish to,” I replied.

“Of course. That is why I bring my violin. Are the others here?”

“Antonio is. Our viola player, Father Arrighi, will be here shortly.”

“Father? He is a priest?”

“When you play quartets the way we do,” I said, “it helps to have God on your side.”

We went into the house. I settled Yevgeny and Ludmilla in the sitting room, then walked through into the kitchen, where Margherita was preparing a tray of antipasti, Guastafeste loitering awkwardly in the vicinity, trying to appear willing but not actually doing anything useful. I asked him to make some aperitifs for everyone and he accepted with alacrity, rummaging in my cupboards and bringing forth all manner of spirit bottles, some of which I'd forgotten I had. Antonio's drink-mixing skills are legendary. His aperitifs, a potent concoction of gin and vodka and anything else he can lay hands on, are guaranteed to whet your appetite—if they don't knock you out first.

He was arranging the drinks on a tray when—with the impeccable timing for which he was renowned—Father Ignazio Arrighi arrived.

“He knows,” Guastafeste whispered to me as the priest came into the kitchen. “Somehow he always knows. He must be able to smell booze on the wind or something.”

“Ah, just what I need,” Father Arrighi said, helping himself to one of the glasses.

He was wearing his dark suit and dog collar, his soft pink face glowing with good health. I knew he'd had a busy morning—Mass at seven-thirty for the early risers, then another at ten for the laggards—but he was free now until the evening. The Catholic Church is a civilised institution. It realised long ago that the well-being of a congregation, and its priests, is dependent on a long lunch and a nap on a Sunday afternoon.

I took him through into the sitting room and introduced him to the Ivanovs. Guastafeste followed with the aperitifs. I helped distribute the drinks, then excused myself and returned to the kitchen. Margherita was at the sink, busying herself with some washing up.

“Leave that,” I said.

“I'm just clearing a few things out of the way,” she replied.

“Go and sit down with a drink.”

“I will. But I'll just—”

“Now,” I said firmly. “I didn't invite you here to do the washing up.”

“You can't do it all yourself, Gianni.”

“No arguments,” I said. “Out.”

“What about the pasta sauce?”

“
Out!
”

I shooed her out of the kitchen. She went, but only reluctantly. We are both of a generation that grew up with entrenched views about the respective roles of men and women. My wife, when she was alive, did all the cooking and virtually all the other household chores. It was how things were. The world has changed since then, though perhaps not as much as we would like to think. Margherita is an independent, liberated woman who, by her own admission, loathes the drudgery of domesticity, but the traces of convention are hard to throw off. There was something in her that would not allow her to put her feet up and do nothing when there was work to be done in the kitchen.

I checked the tomato sauce that was simmering on the hob, then
the pork escalopes in the oven. I am a latecomer to the art of cooking and my repertoire is relatively limited. I have learnt a few new dishes in the seven years that I've been a widower, but my staple diet is still essentially the same food that Caterina cooked for us during the thirty-five years we were married—pasta, chicken and pork, plenty of fresh vegetables. It is a simple, unfussy regimen, but then, I am a simple, unfussy person. The food suits me well enough, and I am not embarrassed to serve it to my guests. I am a sixty-four-year-old man who lives alone. People do not expect me to provide cordon bleu meals. They are generally amazed that I can even boil an egg.

We ate in my small, rather cramped dining room. In summer, I like to eat al fresco on the terrace, but it was now October and too chilly to sit outside. It was a pleasant, sociable meal. Guastafeste, Father Arrighi, and I have known one another for many years. Margherita has been a feature of my life for only twelve months, but already she is comfortable with my friends, and they with her. The Ivanovs were easy guests. Yevgeny said very little, but Ludmilla more than made up for his reticence.

“Tell me,” I said to her at the end of the meal. “How did you learn to speak such excellent Italian?”

We had finished the cake that Margherita had brought with her from Milan and I was passing round some torrone, the honey and almond nougat that is a Cremonese speciality. Guastafeste was topping up our glasses from a fresh bottle of wine and carefully leaving the half-full bottle next to Father Arrighi.

“I studied here,” Ludmilla said. “When I was younger. I was a student at the conservatoire in Moscow, but I came to Milan for a year, to the conservatorio.”

“You play an instrument?” Guastafeste asked.

“I was a singer.”

So I had guessed correctly the day before.

“You sang professionally?” I said.