Paganini's Ghost (15 page)

“Take off your coat. Put it on the radiator.”

“But I'm disturbing you.”

“You're rescuing me, Gianni. You haven't come a moment too soon. I've had just about enough of this rubbish.”

She pushed the pile of papers to one side and sighed with relief.

“Final-year students' assignments,” she said. “If this is the future of Italian economics, then God help us all.”

I shook the water off my coat and hung it over the radiator.

“Bad?” I said.

“
Bad
is an understatement. These are supposed to be the cream of our young people, yet half of them can't even spell properly. One or two don't seem able to use a calculator, either. I don't dare to think about it, but in ten years' time, they'll be running the country.”

“They can hardly be worse than the bunch we've got in at the moment. Or the ones before that.”

“Yes, that's reassuring, I suppose. But the worrying thing is, I taught some of
them
economics, too. Is it all
my
fault?”

I smiled.

“I expect so. After all, politicians never take responsibility for anything, do they?
They
can't possibly be to blame, so it must be you.”

Margherita pushed back her chair and looked round the floor underneath her desk.

“Can you see my shoes anywhere?”

“They're over here.”

“How did they get there? I'm sure they move round the room of their own accord.”

I picked up the shoes and passed them over the desk. Margherita put them on and started to pack away her student assignments in a briefcase.

“You're taking those home?” I said.

“I know, it's masochistic, but someone has to mark them.”

“I thought we were going for dinner.”

“We are.”

“And you're going to work afterwards?”

She paused.

“Yes, it's a bit silly, isn't it? Am I realistically going to start marking at eleven o'clock?”

“Leave them here. They'll wait another day.”

Margherita nodded. She pulled the papers from the briefcase and dumped them on a corner of her desk.

“You're so good for me, Gianni,” she said.

She was good for me, too, I reflected as we left her office and walked through the drizzle to a nearby trattoria. We have not known each other long. We met just over a year ago in traumatic circumstances—when her uncle, an eccentric collector of violins, was murdered in Venice. The death, and its aftermath, brought us together, and we have continued seeing each other since. It was strange, at first, to have her in my life. When my wife died, seven years ago now, I did not think I would ever form another close bond with a woman. I had seen other men recover quickly from bereavement, even marry again within a short space of time, but I couldn't understand them. I couldn't understand how they could shake off their grief so easily, how their first wives could so swiftly be supplanted.

There is a pattern to our sexual lives that is almost universal. We all have those intense adolescent infatuations that end in tears; then most of us fall prey to that temporary chemical imbalance in the brain that we call “falling in love”—nature's way of pairing us off. We marry, we have children—an exhaustingly absorbing outlet for our love—and we find an equilibrium, a harmony that, if we are lucky, will last until the pair bond is severed by death. That, at any rate, has been my experience. Caterina and I were together for thirty-five years. I married her when I was twenty-two and I was fifty-seven when she was taken from me. I did not expect to lose her so soon. She was truly the light of my life, and when she died, the whole world went dark. For a long time it remained in blackness; then gradually the night began to pass and a new light crept over the horizon. At first it was just a flicker, like a candle in the wilderness, but slowly it became brighter, until there was enough for me to see my way, to light the path through my remaining years. It will never be a dazzling summer day again, but I have found much to comfort me in the glow of an autumn afternoon, to keep me warm until my own inevitable darkness comes to claim me.

I have my work. I have my friends. I have my children and grandchildren. And now I have Margherita. I didn't think anything like this would happen. I didn't go looking for it. It just came about. I felt guilty in the early months, wondering whether I was betraying my dead wife.
Then I realised that in questioning this new relationship I was inadvertently insulting Caterina, ascribing to her a jealousy, an ill nature that was not part of her makeup. She was a generous, good-hearted woman. She loved me as I loved her. She is gone, but she would not begrudge me a little happiness in the years I have left.

Margherita has not taken her place—no one could do that. I have not fallen in love with her. I am too old and experienced for infatuation. This is not a hormonal relationship; it is a meeting of minds, an attachment that is still young, still relatively unformed, but which may, in time, become something deeper.

“Would you like a drink?” I said after we were settled at our table.

“Please. Just a glass of wine will do me fine.”

I ordered a bottle of red and glanced round the restaurant. It was still early in the evening. People were drifting in—couples, a few business executives in suits—but several tables were unoccupied.

“How was your meeting with the professor?” Margherita said, the last word subtly emphasised.

I'd told her earlier on the phone that I was going to see Castellani, told her also about the gold box and the letter inside it.

“He was very civil to me,” I said.

“Really?”

“Which is more than he is to his staff. He has this assistant—Marco something—whom he treats like a servant.”

“An associate lecturer?”

“How did you know?”

“It's very common. The university is full of them. Able young postgraduates doing the most menial tasks for people like Castellani in the hope of preferment.”

“That's what Marco said. He needs Castellani's support if he's to get a tenured post.”

“That's how the system works. In theory, all lectureships are decided by competitive examination, open to anyone from anywhere in the country. In practice, the jobs are all stitched up beforehand by the departmental power brokers—people like Castellani. If this young
man crosses Castellani, his academic career will be over before it's started.”

“Nasty.”

“Oh yes, very. Universities are like the Papal court—cabals of ruthless schemers plotting against one another. If you want a job, you play the game. Spend a few years on the periphery, kissing the backsides of your superiors, swallowing your pride. It's unavoidable.”

“Did you have to do it?”

Margherita smiled dryly.

“I'm a woman in a man's world. I used my feminine wiles, of course, and slept my way to the middle. Isn't that what we all do? No, I'm joking. But I did my share of dogsbody work before I got a secure post. Fortunately, the head of department at the time was a decent, enlightened man. He loathed the system of patronage and had the revolutionary idea that posts should be allocated according to ability. He was clearly insane. He wouldn't last two minutes in today's world.”

We paused while the waiter brought the wine and filled our glasses. Then we looked at the menu and ordered our food. Margherita drank some of her wine.

“So, was Castellani helpful?” she asked.

“Not very,” I replied.

I gave her a brief summary of my conversation with the professor.

“He was pretty patronising, really. Talked down at me most of the time.”

“That's his style,” Margherita said. “Have you ever seen him on the
Culture Show
, that trashy piece of froth RAI puts out on a Friday night? The way he talks to some of the guests. If I were on it, I'd give him a good slap.”

“That would help the ratings,” I said.

“The whole programme infuriates me.”

“Why do you watch it, then?”

“It's good for my blood pressure. Every time I see Castellani's blow-dried hair and those skintight jeans, I want to hurl something at the television. I'm all in favour of popular culture, but why on earth does it
have to be so vulgar, so crass? And don't even get me started on those stupid blondes who escort the guests into the studio. Can people really take culture only if it's served up by a reptilian narcissist like Castellani, with a few scantily clad bimbettes to keep him company?”

“Steady on,” I said. “This is supposed to be a relaxing evening out.”

“Am I moaning? Sorry. My daughter says that's all I do. Is it an age thing, or is there really a lot to be disgruntled about?”

“It's not an age thing,” I said.

“I interrupted you. Go on. What did he say?”

“Not much more than is in his biography of Paganini. He didn't know anything about any gifts Elisa Baciocchi might have given Paganini, and he'd never heard of the Serenata
Appassionata
. I can find no mention of it in any of the other books, either.”

“But you think it exists?”

“Elisa mentions it by name in her letter. It definitely exists—or it did then. Whether it's still round now, that's a different question.”

“So what might have become of it?”

“That's what I need to find out.” I looked at her. “I have a confession to make. I've done something rather disgraceful, particularly for a respectable man of my mature years.”

“My God, now you've got me interested,” Margherita said. “Come on, don't keep me in suspense.”

I reached across to my raincoat, which was draped over the back of a spare chair, and pulled the book from the pocket.

“I took this from Castellani's office.”

“You
stole
it?” Margherita said.

“Borrowed it. I have every intention of returning it.”

“What is it?”

I showed her the title.

“
Napoléon's Sisters: Caroline, Pauline, and Elisa
. There may be something useful in it,” I said.

“Won't Castellani miss it?”

“It was gathering dust in a cardboard box on the floor. I couldn't believe it when I looked down and saw it. He obviously doesn't need it
for anything. I'll keep it for a few days, then hand it back to Marco. He won't give me away.”

I leafed quickly through the book. I saw passages underlined, notes scrawled in the margins, but I didn't look closer. Now wasn't the time.

“And what about the violin you think may once have been in the gold box?” Margherita said.

“I've got no further with that.”

“You think François Villeneuve opened the box and removed it?”

“That's one possibility.”

“If he did, what happened to it?”

“It wasn't in his hotel room. Either he disposed of it before he was murdered or his killer took it.”

Margherita shuddered.

“Someone would kill for a violin?” She paused. “Stupid of me. Of course they would,” she said, and I knew she was remembering her uncle. “Didn't you say it must be a very small violin?”

“The smallest I can imagine, yes. But if it were a Stradivari, it could be worth a lot of money.”

“And the other possibilities?”

“Villeneuve opened the box and found it empty. Or he never opened it at all.”

“Empty? You mean the violin had already been taken from it? When? By whom?”

“I couldn't say. There are an awful lot of unanswered questions.”

I put the book back in my coat pocket and topped up our wineglasses as the waiter brought us our first course—wild mushroom risotto for Margherita, spinach and ricotta cannelloni for me. For the rest of the meal, we kept away from Paganini and Elisa and François Villeneuve and talked of other things—about Margherita's work, about my work, about our families. We had so much in common, so many shared interests, that conversation was never difficult.

Afterwards, I walked Margherita back to her apartment. She invited me in for coffee, but I declined. It was getting late and I had my train
to Cremona to catch. Margherita kissed me lightly on the lips and stepped back.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening, Gianni.”

“It was my pleasure. I'll call you soon.”

“I'd like that. Good night.”

I watched her go in through the door of the apartment block, then found a taxi to take me to the station. I never drive my car into Milan if I can help it, especially at night. The traffic is insufferable and the parking even worse.

An hour and a half later, I was home. The red light on my answering machine was flashing. I had two messages. The first was from Vincenzo Serafin, though he didn't bother to identify himself, just left a peremptory command on the tape.

“That violin I mentioned on Saturday. I need you to look at it. I'll expect you in my office tomorrow morning, eleven o'clock. Okay?”

I was used to Serafin's lordly arrogance, but even so, the message annoyed me. How dare he address me in such a discourteous fashion. I wasn't one of his employees, a minion at his beck and call. I was an independent artisan with an international reputation in my field. I was damned if I was going to let him push me about. I'd ring his office in the morning and say I couldn't come.

The second message was from Guastafeste, simply asking me to give him a call. It was half-past eleven. I wouldn't normally phone anyone at such a late hour, but I knew that Guastafeste would still be up. He rarely goes to bed before midnight, and often much later, particularly when he's working on a major investigation.

“Thanks for calling, Gianni,” he said when he heard my voice on the line.

“Sorry, I was out,” I said. “I've been in Milan, asking Vittorio Castellani about Paganini and Elisa Baciocchi.”