Playing With Fire (6 page)

And there would be young men, always circling nearby, hoping to catch her eye. They had only to glimpse her smile, hear the music of her laughter, and they’d be enchanted. She would marry one of those young men, and they’d have children, and she’d forget about the Wednesday afternoons years before, when his violin and her cello had sung together so sweetly.

“This will come to no good. Surely you know that.”

Startled by the voice, he spun around so sharply that his violin case scraped the wall. Alda lurked in the shadow of the alley beside the Balbonis’ residence, her face barely visible in the glow from a streetlamp.

“End it now,” said Alda. “Tell her you can’t take part in the competition.”

“You want me to quit? What possible reason would I give her?”

“Anything. Use your head.”

“We’ve rehearsed for months. We’re ready to perform. Why should I withdraw now?”

Her answer, spoken so softly, held the quiet note of menace. “There’ll be consequences if you don’t.”

Suddenly he laughed. He’d had enough of this gargoyle of a woman, always scowling in the background, always casting her shadow over every happy evening he’d spent with Laura. “That’s supposed to frighten me?”

“If you have any sense—if you care about her—it should.”

“Why do you think I’m doing this? It’s for
her.
”

“Then walk away now, before you pull her into dangerous waters. She’s an innocent. She has no idea what’s about to happen.”

“And you do?”

“I know people. They tell me things.”

He stared at her with sudden comprehension. “You’re one of those Blackshirts, aren’t you? Did they tell you to scare the Jew away? Make me scurry off and hide in the gutter like a rat?”

“You don’t understand a thing, young man.”

“Oh, I do. I understand all too well. But it won’t stop me.”

As he walked away, he could feel her gaze burning into his back, hot as a poker. Rage propelled him at a furious pace out of Dorsoduro. Alda’s warning to stay away from Laura had precisely the opposite effect: He would never withdraw from the competition. No, he was committed to it, and to Laura. This was what Marco had raged on about all these months, that Jews should not yield an inch, that they should demand, even seize, their rights as loyal Italians. Why had he not been paying attention?

Lying in bed, too agitated to sleep, he thought only of winning. What better way to fight back than to triumph at the competition? To demonstrate that by denying him enrollment at Ca’ Foscari, the college was depriving itself of the best that Italy had to offer? Yes, that was how to fight, not with impotent letters to the newspapers as Alberto had suggested, not with the marches and protests that Marco threatened. No, the best way was to work harder and soar higher than anyone else. Prove your worth, and respect will follow.

He and Laura would have to shine so brightly onstage that no one would question they deserved the prize.
That’s how we fight. That’s how we win.

Laura’s satin gown was so black that at first, all he could make out in the shadowy street was a faint shimmering. Then she emerged from the night and suddenly there she stood, lustrous in the glow of the streetlamp. Her blond hair was swept to one side in a waterfall of gold and a short velvet cape draped her shoulders. Her father, who carried her cello case, looked equally elegant in a black suit and bow tie, but Lorenzo could only stare at Laura, resplendent in satin.

“Have you been waiting out here for us?” she asked.

“There’s a huge crowd in the auditorium and almost every chair’s taken. My grandfather wanted you to know that he’s saving a seat for you, Professor. In the fourth row, on the left.”

“Thank you, Lorenzo.” Professor Balboni looked him up and down and gave a nod of approval. “You’ll make a handsome pair onstage, you two. Now hurry inside. This cold air isn’t good for your instruments.” He handed his daughter the cello. “Remember, don’t rush the first measures. Don’t let your nerves set the rhythm.”

“Yes, Papa, we’ll remember,” said Laura. “Now you’d better go find your seat.”

Balboni gave his daughter a kiss. “Good luck, both of you!” he said and headed into the auditorium.

For a moment, Laura and Lorenzo stood in silence under the streetlamp, staring at each other. “You’re beautiful tonight,” he said.

“Only tonight?”

“I meant—”

Laughing, she touched two fingers to his lips. “Hush, I know what you meant. You’re beautiful tonight, too.”

“Laura, even if we don’t win, even if everything goes wrong onstage, it doesn’t matter. These weeks we’ve had together—the music we’ve played—
that’s
what I’ll always remember.”

“Why do you talk as if tonight is the end of something? It’s just the beginning. And we start by winning.”

Just the beginning.
As they entered the stage door, he allowed himself to imagine a future with Laura. Other evenings when they’d walk into concert halls with their instruments in hand. Laura and Lorenzo performing in Rome! Paris! London! He pictured her in the years to come, her hair fading to silver, her face ripening with age, but always, always beautiful. What more perfect future could there be than to live this moment again and again, walking to stage doors with Laura?

The whine of instruments being tuned led them to the greenroom, where the other contestants had assembled. Suddenly the tuning stopped and there was silence as everyone turned to look at them.

Laura removed her velvet cape and opened her cello case. Ignoring the stares, the ominous silence, she gave her bow a few brisk scrapes of rosin and settled into a chair to tune. She didn’t even glance up when a formally dressed man quickly crossed the room toward her.

“Miss Balboni, may I have a word with you?” the man murmured.

“Perhaps later, Mr. Alfieri,” she said. “Right now, my violinist and I need to warm up.”

“I’m afraid there is a…complication.”

“Is there?”

The man pointedly avoided looking at Lorenzo. “Perhaps, if we could speak in private?”

“You may speak to me right here.”

“I have no wish to turn this into an unpleasant scene. Surely you’re aware of the recent change in policy. This competition is open only to musicians of the Italian race.” He shot a furtive glance at Lorenzo. “Your entry has been disqualified.”

“But we’re on the printed program.” She pulled the sheet of paper from her cello case. “This was announced a month ago. Our names are right here. We’re scheduled to perform second.”

“The schedule has changed. That is the end of the matter.” He turned and walked away.

“No it isn’t,” she called out, loudly enough so that everyone in the room could hear her. They were all watching as she set down her cello and followed the man across the room. “You haven’t given me one good reason why we can’t compete.”

“I gave you the reason.”

“A ridiculous one.”

“It was the decision of the committee.”

“What, your committee of
sheep
?” Laura gave a brassy laugh. “We are scheduled to perform a duet, Mr. Alfieri. We have every right to perform. Now, if you’ll excuse us, my violinist and I need to warm up.” She spun away and crossed back to Lorenzo. It was not a walk but a march, her gaze straight ahead, shoulders squared. Her eyes were bright as diamonds, her cheeks flushed as though with fever. The other musicians quickly stepped out of her way to avoid colliding with such a powerful force.

“Let’s tune,” she commanded.

“Laura, there could be trouble for you,” said Lorenzo.

“Do you want to play or not?” she snapped, a challenge flung at him by a girl who did not understand what fear was. Had she thought about the consequences, or was she so bent on winning that the risks didn’t matter to her? Dangerous or not, he would stand beside her. They must be fearless together.

He unlatched his case and took out La Dianora. As he raised the violin to his jaw and felt its wood against his skin, his nerves steadied. La Dianora had never failed him; play her well, and she would sing. In the echoing greenroom, her voice soared so warm and rich that the other musicians turned to watch.

Mr. Alfieri called out: “Pirelli and Gayda! You’re first. Up to the stage now.”

Everyone fell silent as the first pair of contestants picked up their instruments and headed up the stairs.

Cradling La Dianora in his arms, Lorenzo felt the warmth of her wood, as alive as human flesh. He looked at Laura, but she was completely focused on the sound of welcoming applause overhead. Then came the faint strains of the cello, its voice resonating through the wooden stage. She listened intently to the music, her gaze tilted upward, her lip twitching into a smile at the sound of a distinctly sour note. She was as hungry to win as he was. Judging by the shaky performance of this first duo, how could he and Laura
not
win? He tapped the fingerboard, impatient to be onstage.

They heard applause again, as the first pair ended their performance.

“We’re next. Let’s go,” said Laura.

“Stop!” called Mr. Alfieri as they headed up the stairs. “You can’t go up there! You’re not on the program!”

“Ignore him,” said Laura.

“Miss Balboni, I insist you halt at once!”

The first duo had just walked into the wings. Laura and Lorenzo swept right past them and emerged into the glare of stage lights. Lorenzo was so blinded, he could not see the audience. He could only hear their scattered applause, which rapidly died away, leaving him and Laura standing beneath the spotlights in silence. No official came out to introduce them. No one announced their names.

Laura crossed to the cellist’s chair, her high heels clacking smartly across the wooden stage. The chair legs gave a noisy scrape as she sat down. Briskly she arranged the hem of her gown and sank the cello end pin into the anchor. Bow poised, she turned to Lorenzo and smiled.

He forgot that hundreds of people were watching them. At that moment, he saw only Laura, and she saw only him.

Their gazes stayed fixed on each other as he raised his bow. So attuned were they to each other, they didn’t need to say a word, didn’t need to nod an introductory count. They knew, with a musician’s instinct, the precise instant when their bows would simultaneously attack the strings. This was their world and theirs alone, the stage lights their sun, their language spoken in the key of G, their notes so perfectly aligned that it seemed their hearts must be beating in unison. When their bows landed on the final note, they were still looking at each other, even as that note faded into silence.

Somewhere, a single pair of hands was clapping. Then another pair and another, followed by the unmistakable voice of Professor Balboni shouting: “Bravo! Bravo!”

Under the stage lights they embraced, laughing and giddy about their flawless performance. They were still laughing as they carried their instruments down the stairs, so caught up in their triumph that they did not notice how quiet it was in the greenroom, where the other contestants waited.

“Miss Balboni.” Mr. Alfieri appeared before them, his face an icy mask of rage. “You and your companion will leave the building at once.”

“Why?” said Laura.

“It’s the express orders of the committee.”

“But the prize hasn’t been announced yet.”

“You were not official contestants. You cannot win.”

Lorenzo said, “You just heard us.
Everyone
heard our performance. You can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Officially, it did not.” Alfieri thrust a sheet of paper in Lorenzo’s face. “Here are the new rules, issued yesterday by the committee. Since the September decree, your people may not attend this or any college. Since the competition is sponsored by Ca’ Foscari, you were not allowed to compete.”

“
I’m
not of the Jewish race,” said Laura.

“You too are disqualified, Miss Balboni.”

“Simply because my partner is a Jew?”

“That is correct.”

“There’s not a violinist in this competition who can match him.”

“I’m merely following the rules.”

“Which you never question.”

“They
are
the rules. You violated them and forced your way onstage. This behavior is abominable. You will both leave the building.”

“We will not,” said Laura.

Alfieri turned to two men who were standing behind him and ordered: “Remove them.”

Laura turned to the other contestants, who’d been watching in silence. “We’re musicians just like you are! How can this be fair? You know it’s wrong!”

One of Alfieri’s men grabbed her arm and began dragging her toward the exit.

Enraged by the sight of that rough hand on Laura’s flesh, Lorenzo wrenched the man away and shoved him against the wall. “Don’t you touch her!”

“Animal!” shouted Mr. Alfieri. “You see, they’re all filthy animals!”

An arm came around Lorenzo’s throat and as he was hauled backward, a fist slammed into his belly. Laura shrieked for the two men to stop, but they kept pummeling his ribs and he heard the sickening crack of bone. Music stands toppled as they dragged him across the room to the exit.

Heaved out the door, he landed facedown on cold pavement. Felt blood seep from his lip and heard the wheeze of his own lungs as he fought to breathe.

“Oh God. Oh God!” Laura dropped to her knees beside him and he felt her hair, silky and fragrant, fall across his face as she rolled him onto his back. “This is
my
fault. I should never have argued with them! I’m sorry, Lorenzo, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t, Laura.” Coughing, he sat up and felt the street spin around him. Saw his own blood drip, black as ink, onto his white shirt. “Never apologize for doing what’s right.”

“I stood up to them, but
you’re
the one they punished. I’m so stupid. It’s easy for
me
to take a stand, but I’m not a Jew.”

The truth of what she said hit him like a fresh blow, this one straight to his heart. She was not a Jew, and that chasm between them had never seemed wider. He sat with blood dripping down his chin, as warm as tears, and wished Laura would go away. Just go away.

The stage door squealed open and he heard the hesitant approach of footsteps. It was one of the musicians.

“I brought out your instruments,” the young man said, gently setting down the cello and violin cases. “I wanted to be sure they were returned to you.”

“Thank you,” said Laura.

The young man started toward the stage door, then looked back at them. “It’s wrong, what they’re doing. It’s completely unfair. But what can I do? What can
any
of us do?” With a sigh, he walked away.

“Coward,” said Laura.

“But he’s right.” Lorenzo struggled to his feet and for a moment he stood swaying, fighting the dizziness. His head cleared and he saw everything in heartbreaking focus. This was now the way of the world. Laura refused to acknowledge it, but he saw the painful truth.

He picked up his violin. “I’m going home.”

“You’re hurt.” She reached for his arm. “Let me walk with you.”

“Don’t, Laura.” He pushed her hand away.
“Don’t.”

“I only want to help!”

“You can’t fight my battles. You’ll only get hurt.” He gave a bitter laugh. “And you’ll probably get
me
killed.”

“I didn’t know this would happen,” she said, her voice breaking. “I really thought we would win tonight.”

“We
should
have won. No one can match us on that stage, no one. But I took away any chance you had of winning. I stole that from you, Laura. I won’t let that happen again.”

“Lorenzo,” she said as he walked away, but he did not stop. He kept walking, gripping the violin case so tightly that his fingers went numb. He turned the corner and he could still hear her voice echoing off the buildings, the sound of his name fragmented into desolate shards.

No one was at home when he arrived; they were still at the competition. He peeled off his soiled shirt and washed his face. As bloodied water swirled down the sink drain, he stared in the mirror at a face that had swollen into a purple balloon.
This is what happens when you fight back,
he thought, and Laura had witnessed the whole humiliating spectacle. She’d seen his defeat, his impotence. He bowed his head, hands balled into fists, and spat blood-tinged saliva into the sink.

“So now you understand how the world has changed,” said Marco.

Lorenzo looked up at the reflection of his older brother, who stood behind him. “Leave me alone.”

“I’ve been saying it for months, but you didn’t listen. Papa, Grandpapa, no one listened. No one believed me.”

“Even if we did believe you, what were we supposed to do about it?”

“Fight back.”

Lorenzo turned to face Marco. “You think I didn’t try?”

Marco snorted. “Hardly. You’ve been living in a fantasy, Brother. All these months I’ve pointed out the clues, yet you refused to see any of it. Instead you were wrapped up in your little romantic daydreams. You and Laura Balboni? Do you really think that could ever amount to anything?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, she’s pretty, all right. I can see the attraction. Maybe she has a thing for you, too. Maybe you hoped our families would approve and you’d get married.”