Playing With Fire (4 page)

“Mrs. Ansdell, is something wrong?”

“Two weeks ago—the day Lily killed our cat—I was playing that same piece of music.”

“What music is this?”

“It’s a waltz I brought home from Italy. A handwritten composition I found in an antiques store. What if that’s not a coincidence?”

“I doubt we can blame her behavior on a piece of music.”

I’m agitated now, obsessed by this new train of thought. “I’ve practiced other violin pieces that were just as demanding, and Lily never misbehaved, never complained when I practiced. But there’s something different about this waltz. I’ve played it only twice, and both times, she did something awful.”

For a moment he doesn’t speak, doesn’t write on his clipboard. He just looks at me, but I can almost see the gears furiously spinning in his head. “Describe this music. You said it’s a waltz?”

“It’s quite haunting, in the key of E minor. Do you know anything about music?”

“I play the piano. Go on.”

“The tune begins very quietly and simply. I almost wonder if it was originally written as music to be danced to. But then it grows more and more complex. There are strange accidentals and a series of devil’s chords.”

“What does that mean,
devil’s chords
?”

“They’re also called tritones or augmented fourths. In medieval times, these chords were considered evil and banned from church music because they’re so dissonant and disturbing.”

“This waltz doesn’t sound all that pleasant to listen to.”

“And it’s challenging to play, especially when it climbs into the stratosphere.”

“So the notes are high-pitched?”

“In a range that’s higher than second violinists usually play.”

Again he pauses. Something I’ve said has clearly intrigued him, and a moment goes by before he says: “When you were playing this piece, at what point did Lily attack you? Was it during those high notes?”

“I think it was. I know I had already turned to the second page.”

I watch him tap his pen on the clipboard, a nervous metronomic beat. “Who is Lily’s pediatrician?” he suddenly asks.

“Dr. Cherry. We saw him just a week ago for her checkup, and he said she’s perfectly healthy.”

“Nevertheless, I think I’ll give him a call. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to suggest a neurology consultant.”

“For Lily? Why?”

“It’s just a hunch, Mrs. Ansdell. But you may have come up with a very important clue. That piece of music could be the key to everything that’s happened.”

That night Rob is sound asleep when I climb out of bed and make my way downstairs to the living room. He has cleaned up the bloodstains and the only evidence of what happened to me earlier that day is a damp spot on the carpet. The music stand is right where I left it, with its copy of
Incendio.

In the soft lamplight, the notes are difficult to see, so I carry the page to the kitchen table and sit down to examine it more closely. I don’t know what it is I should be looking for. It is just an ordinary piece of manuscript paper covered on both sides with musical notes, written in pencil. On every page I spot clues to the haste with which this piece was composed: slurs represented by mere slashes, notes that are little more than pencil pricks on a stave. I see no black magic here, no hidden runes or watermarks. But something about this music has infected our lives and changed our daughter into someone who attacks me. Someone who’s frightened me.

Suddenly I want to destroy this page. I want to burn it, reduce it to ashes so it cannot hurt us.

I carry it to the stove, turn the knob, and watch the burner’s blue flames whoosh to life. But I cannot bring myself to do it. I cannot destroy what might be the only copy in the world of a waltz that enchanted me from the first time I saw it.

I turn off the stove.

Standing alone in my kitchen, I stare at the music and I feel its power radiating from the page like heat from a flame.

And I wonder:
Where did you come from?

Venice, Before the War

On the day that Professor Alberto Mazza discovered a tiny crack in the face of his beloved violin, a family heirloom made in Cremona two centuries earlier, he knew that only the best luthier in Venice should repair it, and so he headed at once to Bruno Todesco’s shop on Calle della Chiesa. With sculpture knife and woodworker’s plane, Bruno was known to transform spruce and maple into instruments that came alive with the stroke of a bow across strings. From dead wood he conjured voices, and not just ordinary voices; his instruments sang with such beauty that they were played in orchestras from London to Vienna.

When Alberto stepped into the shop, the violinmaker was so engrossed at his worktable that he did not notice that a new customer had entered. Alberto watched Bruno sand the carved surface of spruce, massaging it as if it were a lover, and noted the fierce focus with which the luthier worked, his whole body craned forward, as if trying to breathe his own soul into the wood so it would come alive and sing for him. An idea suddenly bloomed in Alberto’s head, something that had not even occurred to him until this very moment. Here, he thought, was a true artist, devoted to his craft. By reputation, Bruno was a man of temperate habits, industrious, and never known to be in debt. His attendance at synagogue was irregular, true, but he did make the occasional appearance and he never failed to nod deferentially to his elders.

As Bruno labored over the delicate shell of spruce, still unaware of his customer, Alberto slowly perused the shop. A row of gleaming violins hung suspended by their scrolls, all of them fitted with bridges and strings and ready to be played. Beneath the spotless glass countertop were neat rows of rosin boxes and spare bridges and string packets. Against the back wall of the workroom were boards of seasoned spruce and maple, waiting to be carved and shaped into instruments. Everywhere he looked, Alberto saw order and discipline. It was the shop of a man who was not prone to sloppiness, who valued his tools, and who could be relied upon to care about the important details in life. Although Bruno was not yet forty, his hair was already thinning at the crown, his height was merely average, and he would never be considered handsome. But he did have one indispensable qualification.

He was not married.

Here was where their interests aligned. Alberto’s thirty-five-year-old daughter, Eloisa, was unmarried as well. Neither beautiful nor homely, she had no suitors in sight, and unless something was done about it, she would die a spinster. Industrious Bruno, laboring at his workbench, was oblivious to the marital net about to be tossed over his head. Alberto wanted grandchildren, and for that he needed a son-in-law.

Bruno would do nicely.

At the wedding eight months later, Alberto brought out the venerable Cremona violin that Bruno had repaired for him. He played the joyous tunes of celebration that his own grandfather had taught him decades before, the same tunes that he later played for the three children born to Eloisa and Bruno. First born was Marco, who came into the world squalling and kicking and punching, already angry at life. Three years later there was Lorenzo, who almost never cried because he was too busy listening, his head turning to the sound of every voice, every birdcall, every note that Alberto played. Ten years later, when Eloisa was forty-nine and certain there would be no more babies for her, little Pia the miracle daughter slid into their world. Here were the precious grandchildren that Alberto had longed for, two boys and a girl, all of them far more handsome than he’d expected, considering their utterly average-looking parents.

But of those three children, only Lorenzo showed signs of musical talent.

At two years old, after hearing a melody only twice, the boy could sing it, so deeply etched was it into his memory, like the grooves on a phonograph record. At five, he could play the same tune on his little quarter-size violin, which was crafted specially for him by his father in the shop on Calle della Chiesa. At eight, whenever Lorenzo practiced in his room, passersby on Calle del Forno would stop to listen to the music drifting out the window. Few could have guessed that such perfect notes were produced by a child’s hands, on a child’s violin. Lorenzo and his grandfather Alberto often played duets, and the melodies pouring from that window drew listeners from as far away as the Ghetto Vecchio. Some people were so moved by those pure, sweet notes that they wept in the street.

When Lorenzo turned sixteen, he could play Paganini’s Capriccio #24, and Alberto knew the time had come. Such demanding music deserved to be played on a fitting instrument, and Alberto placed his cherished Cremona violin in the boy’s hands.

“But it’s your violin, Grandpapa,” said Lorenzo.

“Now it belongs to you. Your brother Marco cares nothing about music, only about his politics. Pia would rather dream her life away, hoping for a fairy-tale prince. But you have the gift. You will know how to make her sing.” He nodded. “Go on, boy. Let’s hear you play it.”

Lorenzo lifted the violin to his shoulder. For a moment he simply held it there, as if waiting for the wood to meld itself to his flesh. The instrument had been passed down through six generations, and the same ebony chin rest had once pressed against the jaw of his grandfather’s grandfather. Stored in the memory of this wood were all the melodies that had ever been played on it, and now it was time for Lorenzo to add his own.

The boy stroked the bow across the strings and the notes that sprang from that varnished box of spruce and maple sent a thrill through Alberto. The first piece Lorenzo played was an old Gypsy tune that he’d learned when he was only four, and now he played it slowly, to hear how every note made the wood ring. Next he played a sprightly Mozart sonata, then a Beethoven rondo, and finally he ended with Paganini. Through the window, Alberto saw people gathering below, their heads lifted to the glorious sounds.

When Lorenzo finally lowered his bow, the impromptu audience burst into applause.

“Yes,” Alberto murmured, stunned by his grandson’s performance. “Oh yes, she was meant to be yours.”

“She?”

“She has a name, you know: La Dianora, the Sorceress. It’s the name my grandfather gave her when he was struggling to master her. He claimed she fought him at every measure, every note. He never did learn to play well, and he blamed it all on her. He said she obeys only those who are destined to own her. When he gave her to me, and heard the notes I could coax from her, he said: ‘She was always meant to be yours.’ Just as I say to you now.” Alberto placed his hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder. “She’s yours until you pass her on to your son or grandson. Or perhaps a daughter.” Alberto smiled. “Keep her safe, Lorenzo. She’s meant to last many lifetimes, not just your own.”

June 1938

“My daughter has a fine ear and excellent technique on the cello, but I’m afraid she lacks focus and perseverance,” said Professor Augosto Balboni. “There is nothing like the prospect of public performance to bring out the best in a musician, and perhaps this will be the motivation she needs.” He looked at Lorenzo. “This is why I thought of you.”

“What do you think, boy?” Alberto asked his grandson. “Would you do my old friend here a small favor, and play a duet with his daughter?”

Lorenzo looked back and forth at Alberto and the professor, desperately trying to come up with an excuse to bow out. When they’d called him down to the parlor, he’d had no idea this was the reason he’d been asked to join them for coffee. Mama had laid out cake and fruit and sugar-dusted biscuits, evidence of her high regard for Professor Balboni, who was Alberto’s colleague in the music department at Ca’ Foscari. With his finely tailored suits and his lion’s mane of blond hair, Balboni was both impressive and more than a little intimidating. While Alberto seemed to shrink with age every year, Balboni was still in his masculine prime, a man with big gestures and big appetites, who laughed loudly and often. During his frequent visits with Alberto, Balboni’s booming voice could be heard all the way up to Lorenzo’s bedroom on the third floor.

“Your grandfather tells me you might enter the music competition at Ca’ Foscari this year,” said Balboni.

“Yes, sir.” Lorenzo glanced at Alberto, who offered only an indulgent smile. “Last year, I couldn’t compete because I hurt my wrist.”

“But it’s quite healed now?”

“He sounds even better than before,” said Alberto. “And he’s learned not to run down those blasted stairs.”

“What do you think are your chances of winning the prize?”

Lorenzo shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. There are some fine musicians competing.”

“Your grandfather says no one is better than you.”

“He says that because he is my grandfather.”

At this Professor Balboni laughed. “Yes, everyone sees genius under his own roof! But I’ve known Alberto for more than twenty years, and he’s never been one to exaggerate.” Balboni took a noisy slurp of coffee and set the cup down on the saucer. “You are, what? Eighteen years old?”

“I turn nineteen in October.”

“Perfect. My Laura is seventeen.”

Lorenzo had never met the man’s daughter and he imagined she looked much like her father, big-boned and loud, with fleshy hands and thick fingers that would slam down hard as hammers against the cello fingerboard. He watched Professor Balboni pluck a sweet biscuit from the tray and bite into it, leaving his mustache coated with sugar. Balboni’s hands were large enough to reach an octave-plus-three on the piano, which was no doubt why it was his chosen instrument. On the violin, fingers as thick as his would simply collide with one another.

“Here’s my proposal for you, Lorenzo,” said Balboni, wiping sugar from his mustache. “You would be doing a great favor to me, and I don’t think it would be such a terrible burden for you. The competition is still months away, so there’s plenty of time to prepare a duet.”

“With your daughter.”

“You were already planning to compete at Ca’ Foscari, so why not join Laura and enter the violin and cello duet category? For the performance piece, I was thinking perhaps Carlos Maria von Weber, Opus 65, or an arrangement of Beethoven’s Rondeau No. 2, Opus 51. Or you might prefer one of the sonatas by Campagnoli. At your advanced level, all of these would be possibilities. Of course it means Laura will have to apply herself, but this is precisely the motivation she needs.”

“But I’ve never even heard her play,” said Lorenzo. “I don’t know how we’ll sound together.”

“You have months to rehearse. I’m sure you’ll both be ready.”

Lorenzo imagined hour after excruciating hour trapped in a stifling room with a clumsy cow of a girl. The agony of listening to her fumble through the notes. The indignity of sharing the stage with her as she mangled Beethoven or von Weber. Oh, he understood what this was all about. Professor Balboni wanted his daughter to be seen at the best possible advantage, and for that she needed a partner skillful enough to disguise her flaws. Surely his grandfather understood what was happening here, and would spare him this ordeal.

But Alberto returned Lorenzo’s look with a maddeningly placid smile, as if this arrangement had already been discussed and agreed upon. Professor Balboni was Alberto’s best friend; of course Lorenzo must say yes.

“Come to my house on Wednesday, around four o’clock,” said Balboni. “Laura will be expecting you.”

“But I don’t have any of the sheet music you suggested. I’ll need time to find copies.”

“I have them in my personal library. I’ll give them to your grandfather tomorrow, at the college, so you can practice before you come. I have other music at my house, if these pieces don’t appeal to you. I’m sure you and Laura can agree on something you both like.”

“And if we can’t? If we find we’re not well matched as musical partners?”

His grandfather gave him a smile of reassurance. “This isn’t set in stone. Why don’t you meet the girl first?” he suggested. “Then you can decide if you want to go ahead with this.”

Shortly before four o’clock on the following Wednesday, Lorenzo carried his violin across the bridge into Dorsoduro. It was a neighborhood favored by professors and academics, and the buildings here were far grander than his own modest home in Cannaregio. He came to the Balbonis’ address on Fondamenta Bragadin and halted, intimidated by the massive door with the brass lion’s head knocker. Behind him, water slapped in the canal and boats growled past. On the San Vio footbridge, two men stood arguing about which one of them should pay for a damaged wall. Through their agitated voices, he heard a cello playing. The notes seemed to echo from everywhere at once, bounced from brick and stone and water. Did the music come from within the amber-hued walls of Professor Balboni’s residence?

He swung the brass knocker and heard the impact reverberate like thunder throughout the house. The door swung open and a woman wearing a scowl and a housekeeper’s uniform looked him up and down.

“Excuse me, but I was told to come at four o’clock.”

“You’re Alberto’s grandson?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m here to rehearse with Miss Balboni.”

The woman eyed his violin case and gave a curt nod. “Come with me.”

He followed her down a dim hallway, past portraits of men and women whose fleshy features told him they must be Balbonis. In this grand home he felt like an intruder, his leather shoes squeaking across the polished marble.

Timidly he asked the housekeeper: “Is the professor at home?”

“He should be here shortly.” The cello music grew louder and the air itself seemed to hum with sonorous notes. “He asked that you two begin the rehearsal without him.”

“Miss Balboni and I haven’t been introduced yet.”

“She’s expecting you. There’s no need for introductions.” The housekeeper swung open double doors and cello music poured out like sweet honey.

Laura Balboni sat near a window, her back turned to him. Against the glare of sunlight all he could see was her silhouette, head bent, shoulders folded forward to embrace her instrument. She played unaware that he stood listening, critically assessing every note that she coaxed from her cello. Her technique was not perfect. Here and there he heard an off-pitch note, and her run of sixteenths was uneven. But her attack was fierce, her bow digging into the strings with such confidence that even her mistakes sounded intentional, every note played without apology. At that moment he did not care what she looked like. She could have the face of a donkey or the hips of a cow. All that mattered was the music that flew from her strings, conjured forth with such passion that the cello seemed at risk of bursting into flame.

“Miss Balboni? The young man is here,” announced the housekeeper.

The bow suddenly fell silent. For a moment the girl remained bowed over her instrument, as if reluctant to end the embrace. Then she straightened in her chair and turned to look at him.

“Well,” she said after a pause. “You’re not the ogre I expected.”

“Is that how your father described me?”

“Papa didn’t describe you at all. Which is why I expected the worst.” She nodded to the housekeeper. “Thank you, Alda. You can shut the door, so we won’t disturb you.”

The housekeeper withdrew, and Lorenzo was left alone with this strange creature. He had expected a female version of red-faced, bull-necked Professor Balboni, but what he saw was a girl of extraordinary beauty. Her long hair, bright as gold, glittered in the afternoon sunlight. She looked straight at him, but he could not decide if her eyes were blue or green, and he was so distracted by her gaze, he did not immediately notice her arms, where old scars boiled up in ropy masses. Then he saw the marred flesh and although he quickly lifted his gaze back to her face, he couldn’t disguise his shock. Any other girl with skin so disfigured would have blushed or looked away or crossed her arms to hide the scars. But Laura Balboni did none of these things. She kept them in full view, as if she were proud of them.

“You play very well,” he said.

“You sound surprised.”

“To be honest, I didn’t know what to expect.”

“What did my father tell you about me?”

“Not very much. I must admit, it made me suspicious.”

“You were expecting an ogre, too?”

He laughed. “Yes. To be honest.”

“And what do you think now?”

What
did
he think? Certainly she was beautiful and talented, but she was also a bit frightening. He’d never met a girl who was so blunt, and her direct gaze left him at a loss for words.

“Never mind. You don’t have to answer that.” She nodded at his violin case. “Well, aren’t you going to take out your instrument?”

“Then you really want to go ahead with this? Prepare a duet?”

“Unless there’s something else you’d rather be doing with me.”

Flushing, he quickly turned his attention to unpacking the violin. He could feel her studying him and he imagined how unimpressive he must appear, tall and gangly, his shoes scuffed, his collar frayed. He had not dressed with particular care for this visit because he had no interest in impressing Laura-the-ogre. But now that he’d met her, he bitterly regretted not wearing his good shirt, not polishing his shoes. One’s first impression is what lasts, and he could never go back and change this day. With a sense of resignation, he tuned his violin and quickly played a few arpeggios to warm up his fingers.

“Why did you agree to this?” she asked.

He focused on rubbing rosin on his bow. “Because your father thought we would make an excellent duo.”

“And you said yes, just because he asked you?”

“He’s my grandfather’s friend and colleague.”

“So it was impossible for you to say no.” She sighed. “You must be honest with me, Lorenzo. If you truly don’t want to do this, just tell me now. I’ll tell Papa that I was the one who made the decision. Not you.”

He turned to face her, and this time he could not look away. Nor did he want to. “I came here to play music with you,” he said. “That’s what I think we should do.”

She gave a crisp nod. “Then shall we start with von Weber? Just to hear how well our instruments blend together?”

She placed the von Weber score on her music stand. He had neglected to bring his own stand, so he stood behind her and read the page over her shoulder. They were so close, he could smell her scent, sweet as rose petals. Her blouse had puff sleeves edged in lace, and around her neck was a delicate chain from which a tiny cross dangled, just above the top button of her blouse. He knew the Balbonis were Catholic, but the sight of that gold cross gleaming at her breastbone gave him pause.

Before he could slip his violin under his chin, she started in on the first four measures. The tempo was moderato, and her introductory notes sang out, mellow and contemplative. Her arms might be encased in ugly scars, but they could coax magic from the cello. He wondered how she had been burned. A childhood fall into the fireplace? A boiling pot tumbling from the stove? While other girls would wear long sleeves, Laura boldly displayed her disfigurement.

At measure five, his violin came in with the melody. Joined in perfect harmony, they blended into a voice far grander than the mere sum of their instruments.
This
was the way von Weber was meant to sound! But it was a short piece, and too quickly they came to the final measure. Even after they both lifted their bows, their last notes seemed to linger in the air like a plaintive sigh.

Laura looked up at him, her lips parted in astonishment. “I never knew this piece was so beautiful.”

He stared at the music on her stand. “I didn’t, either.”

“Please, let’s play it again!”

Behind him came the sound of a throat being cleared. Lorenzo turned to see the housekeeper, Alda, standing with a tray of teacups and biscuits. She did not even glance at him, but looked only at Laura.

“You requested tea, Miss Balboni.”

“Thank you, Alda,” said Laura.

“Professor Balboni should have arrived home by now.”

“You know how he is. Papa’s no slave to any schedule. Oh, Alda? I expect there’ll be three of us dining tonight.”

“Three?” Only then did the housekeeper deign to glance at Lorenzo. “The young man is staying?”

“I’m sorry, Lorenzo. I should have asked you first,” Laura said. “Or did you have other plans for dinner tonight?”

He looked back and forth at the girl and her housekeeper, and felt the tension in the room congeal into something thick and ugly. He thought of his mother, who would now be preparing the evening meal. And he thought of the gold cross that dangled from Laura’s neck.

“My family is expecting me for dinner. I am afraid I must decline,” he said.

Alda’s lip curled into a satisfied smile. “So there will be only two tonight, as usual,” she said and withdrew from the room.

“Do you have to hurry home so soon? Do you have time to play a few more pieces with me?” Laura said. “My father suggested Campagnoli or the Beethoven rondeau for the competition. Although I confess, I’m not particularly fond of either one.”