Playing With Fire (5 page)

“Then we should choose something else.”

“But I haven’t practiced any other music.”

“Would you like to try a duet that you haven’t practiced?”

“Which duet would that be?”

Lorenzo reached into the side pocket of his instrument case and took out two pages of sheet music, which he set on Laura’s stand. “Try this. I think you can sight-read it.”

“La Dianora,” she said, frowning at the title. “An interesting name for a tune.” She picked up her bow and launched into the first measure with gusto.

“No, no! You’re playing it much too fast. The tempo is supposed to be adagio. If you start off too quickly, there’ll be no surprise when it later changes to presto.”

“How would I know that?” she snapped. “It doesn’t say adagio anywhere on this page. And I’ve never seen this music before!”

“Of course you haven’t. I’ve just finished writing it.”

She blinked at him in surprise. “This is
your
composition?”

“Yes.”

“And why is it called ‘La Dianora’? The Sorceress?”

“It’s the name of my violin, La Dianora. I’m still revising the second half, because it doesn’t sound quite right, but I believe the overall motif is compelling. Also, this arrangement allows both our instruments to shine, and that will be to our advantage in a duet competition.”

“Oh, that awful competition!” Laura sighed. “Why must everything be about who’s the best, who’s number one? I wish we could play music just for the joy of it.”

“Aren’t you enjoying this now?”

She was silent for a moment as she regarded the music. “Yes,” she said, sounding surprised. “Yes, I am enjoying this. But having that competition hanging over our heads—it changes everything.”

“Why?”

“Because now it’s not about fun. It’s about pride. There’s something you should know about me, Lorenzo. I don’t like to lose, ever.” She looked at him. “If we’re going to compete for this prize, I have every intention of winning.”

Every Wednesday for the next two months, Lorenzo walked across the bridge to Dorsoduro. At four o’clock, he’d knock at the door on Fondamenta Bragadin and would be ushered in by the eternally sour-faced housekeeper. He and Laura would rehearse “La Dianora,” then break for tea and cakes, at which time Professor Balboni sometimes joined them. Afterward they would play whatever music amused them, but at the end of the session, they always returned to “La Dianora,” which they had settled upon as their competition piece.

The cello part frustrated Laura. He could see it in her face: her deeply etched frown, her squared jaw. “Again!” she’d demand after she’d stumbled through a difficult passage. And after the next flawed run-through: “Again!” And: “Again!” This girl was so fierce that she sometimes scared him. Then she’d burst out in delighted laughter when, after an hour of struggling over that cursed passage, she’d suddenly get it right. In the span of a single afternoon, she could surprise and frustrate and enchant him.

No longer was Wednesday a day like any other. Now he thought of them as
Laura
days, when he’d step into her house, her world, and forget about his own. When he could sit knee to knee with her, close enough to see the glow of perspiration on her face and hear her soft intake of breath as she attacked the strings with her bow. A duet was far more than two instruments playing notes together. It was also about joining in perfect harmony, about linking minds and hearts so completely that you know the precise instant when your partner will lift her bow and let the final note die.

As the competition drew near, they were close to achieving that perfection. Lorenzo pictured the two of them onstage at Ca’ Foscari, their instruments gleaming under the lights, Laura’s gown pooling on the floor around her chair. He imagined their flawless performance and the triumphant smile on her face. He and Laura would join hands onstage and take bow after bow as the audience applauded.

Then they’d pack up their instruments, say goodbye to each other, and that would be the end of it. No more rehearsals, no more afternoons with Laura.
I must remember this moment. After we go our separate ways, these memories are all I’ll have left of her.

“Oh for heaven’s sakes, Lorenzo!” she snapped. “Where is your head today?”

“Sorry. I lost track of which measure we’re on.”

“Measure twenty-six. You did something odd there, and now we’re not together.” She frowned at him. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” He rotated his shoulder, massaged his neck. “It’s just that we’ve been at this for hours now.”

“Shall we stop for tea again?”

“No, let’s just push on.”

“Are you in a hurry to leave?”

Leaving her was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was nearly eight o’clock and the scent of dinner had begun wafting in from the kitchen. “It’s late. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“I understand.” She sighed. “Oh well. I know you find it hard to be trapped here with me.”

“Excuse me?”

“We don’t
have
to like each other. We just have to play well together, right?”

“What makes you think I don’t like being with you?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Three times I’ve invited you to stay for dinner. Every time, you’ve declined.”

“Laura, you don’t understand—”

“What should I understand?”

“I assumed you were just trying to be polite when you invited me.”

“Polite would be
one
invitation.
Three
invitations surely goes beyond mere politeness.”

“I’m sorry. I know that Alda isn’t comfortable having me here, and I didn’t want to make things difficult.”

“Did Alda actually
say
this to you?”

“No. But I can see it in her face. The way she looks at me.”

“Ah, so now you’re a mind reader. You take one look at Alda and you know
exactly
what she’s thinking. And oh dear, she
disapproves
of you, so of course you don’t dare accept my invitations. Are you so easily discouraged by everything in life, Lorenzo?”

He stared back at her, stung by the truth of what she’d said. Laura would never be so easily intimidated. She was braver than he could ever be, brave enough to wave her ugly scars like scarlet flags. Now she was challenging him to be as bold as she was, and to say exactly what he thought, whatever the consequences.

Grimly she set down her cello. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s getting late. I’ll see you next week.”

“I
do
like being with you, Laura. In fact, there’s no place I’d rather be than right here.”

“Is this the real Lorenzo talking? Or is this the diplomat Lorenzo, trying to say the polite thing and not offend me?”

“This is the truth,” he said quietly. “All week, I look forward to Wednesday and being here with you. But I’m not good at speaking my mind the way you are. You’re the bravest girl I’ve ever met.” He looked down at his feet. “I know I’m too cautious, and I always have been. Afraid to do or say the wrong thing. The only time I feel brave, truly brave, is when I’m playing music.”

“All right then. We should play.” She picked up her cello and bow. “And maybe tonight you’ll feel brave enough to stay for dinner.”

“More wine, let’s have more wine!” said Professor Balboni, and he refilled their goblets. Was it their fourth glass or their fifth? Lorenzo had lost count, but what did it matter? The evening was one long, happy blur. The music of Duke Ellington played on the phonograph as they dined on Alda’s delicate broth with minced vegetables, followed by
fegato
and potatoes, and finally cake and fruits and nuts. Never had Lorenzo enjoyed a meal so much, made all the more delightful because of the people he shared it with. Laura sat across from him, her bare arms in full view, and the sight of her scars no longer startled him. No, those scars were yet another reason he admired her. They were a testament to her courage, to her willingness to reveal exactly who she was, without apology.

Her father was just as forthright with his brash statements and boisterous laughter. Professor Balboni wanted to know their guest’s opinions about everything. What did he think of jazz? Did he prefer Louis Armstrong or Duke Ellington? Did he think there was any role for the violin in this modern music?

And then: “What are your plans for the future?”

The future? Lorenzo could scarcely think beyond the competition in three weeks. “I plan to attend Ca’ Foscari, like my brother Marco,” he said.

“Which subject will you study at the college?”

“Marco advised me to study government. He said I’ll be able to find a job.”

Professor Balboni snorted. “You would feel buried alive, studying something as dull as government. Music is your field. Aren’t you already teaching the violin?”

“Yes, sir, I have seven students, all of them eight or nine years old. My father thinks we should combine our businesses. I teach the violin, and he provides my students with their instruments. He wants me to take over his shop someday, but I don’t think I would make a good luthier.”

“That’s because you’re not a woodworker, you’re a musician. Something your grandfather recognized since you were just a child. Surely you could find a position in some orchestra? Or you should consider going abroad, to America perhaps.”

“America?” Lorenzo laughed. “What a fantasy!”

“Why not dream big? It’s not impossible.”

“It means leaving my family.” He looked across the table at Laura.
It means leaving her.

“I really think you should consider emigrating, Lorenzo. This country is changing, and all too quickly.” Professor Balboni’s voice was suddenly quiet. “These are not good times. I have spoken to Alberto about other possibilities, places where your family could settle.”

“My grandfather will never leave Italy, and my father can’t leave his business. He’s built a reputation here and he has loyal clients.”

“Yes, for now, his business is probably safe. Skilled luthiers don’t just sprout up overnight, so he can’t be easily replaced. But who knows what the regime will do next? What new decrees the Interior Ministry might issue?”

Lorenzo nodded. “That’s what Marco keeps saying. Every day, he finds something in the news to be outraged about.”

“Then your brother is paying attention.”

“My father says we shouldn’t worry. He says these decrees are political games, just for show, and the regime will never turn against us. We have to trust Mussolini.”

“Why?”

“Because he knows we’re loyal citizens. He’s said it again and again: there is no Jewish question here.” Lorenzo took a confident sip of wine. “Italy is not Germany.”

“This is what your father says?”

“Yes, and my grandfather as well. They believe Mussolini will always support us.”

“Well then, perhaps they are right. I hope they are right.” Professor Balboni sank back in his chair, as if the effort to keep up a lively conversation had drained him. “You are an optimist, Lorenzo, like your grandfather. It’s why Alberto and I are such excellent friends. No doom and gloom from him, only good cheer, even when the times are not good.”

But this evening is surely one of the good times, thought Lorenzo. How could it not be, with Laura smiling at him, the wine flowing, and excellent jazz playing on the phonograph? Even the sight of Alda’s chilly expression could not dampen the pleasure of sitting at the Balbonis’ table.

It was well past one in the morning when he stepped out their door. Walking the empty streets back to his own neighborhood of Cannaregio, he did not worry about the dangers he might encounter on the way, or whether some roving band of thugs might attack him. No, tonight he was immune to misfortune, walking in a protective cloud of happiness. He had been welcomed into the Balboni family, accepted as their friend, praised as an artist. Laura herself had walked him to the door, and he could still picture her framed in that rectangle of light, waving goodbye. He could still hear her call out: “Until Wednesday, Lorenzo!”

He was humming the melody of “La Dianora” as he walked into his house and hung up his coat and hat.

“What makes
you
so damn happy tonight?” said Marco.

Lorenzo turned and saw his brother standing in the kitchen doorway. He wasn’t surprised that Marco was still awake; only after dark did he seem to come fully alive, and he’d stay up half the night arguing politics with his friends, or poring over the latest newspapers and pamphlets. Marco’s hair stood up in stiff tufts, as if he’d been plowing his fingers through it. He looked thuggish tonight, his face unshaven, his undershirt untucked and stained.

“Mama and Pia were worried about you,” Marco said.

“After rehearsal, they invited me to stay for dinner.”

“Did they, now?”

“I had a wonderful time. It was the best evening ever!”

“Is that all it takes to make you happy? Being allowed to stay at their house for dinner?”

“Not allowed.
Invited.
There’s a difference, you know.” As Lorenzo started toward the stairs, Marco grasped his arm. “Take care, little brother. You may think they’re on your side, but how do you really know?”

Lorenzo shook him off. “Not everyone’s against us, Marco. Some people
are
on our side.”

He carried his violin up the stairs to his attic bedroom and opened the window to let in fresh air. Even Marco couldn’t ruin this night for him. He wanted to sing, to shout out to the world what an evening he had had with Laura and her father. Everything seemed so much happier and brighter in the Balboni household, where wine flowed and jazz played and all seemed possible.
Why not dream big?
Professor Balboni had challenged him.

That night, lying in bed, Lorenzo did just that. He dared to dream about America, about Laura, about a future together. Yes, it all seemed possible.

Until the next day, when Professor Balboni knocked on their door with news that changed their lives.

September 1938

“How can Ca’ Foscari do this to me?” said Alberto. “For thirty-five years, I’ve taught there! Now they dismiss me without any reason, without any warning?”

“There were plenty of warnings, Grandpapa,” said Marco. “All these months, I’ve pointed them out to you. You saw the editorials in
Il Tevere.
In
Quadrivio
.”

“Those newspapers spew nothing but racist nonsense. No one believed it would lead to any real changes.”

“You read the ‘Manifesto of the Scientists.’ That was certainly a warning of things to come. Now it’s all coming to pass.”

“But for the college to dismiss me, without cause?”

“They
have
their cause. You’re a Jew and that’s reason enough for them.”

Alberto turned to his colleague Balboni, who sat shaking his head. The whole family had gathered around the dining table, but there was no food, no refreshment in sight; Lorenzo’s mother was so distressed by the news, she’d neglected her duties as a proper hostess and had sunk into a chair, shocked into silence.

Lorenzo’s father said: “Surely this is just a temporary measure. An empty gesture to curry favor with Berlin.” Bruno, ever the Mussolini fan, refused to believe Il Duce would ever turn against them. “And what about Professor Leone? His wife isn’t a Jew, and this will punish her as well. Mark my words, in a few weeks, it will be reversed. The college can’t function without its Jewish faculty.”

Marco flung up his hands in frustration. “Papa, did you not read the memorandum? This order applies to
students
as well. We’re now expelled from every school in Italy!”

“They did allow one small mercy,” said Professor Balboni. “They made an exception for students in their final year, so you will be allowed to finish your studies, Marco. But Lorenzo?” He shook his head. “He can’t enroll at Ca’ Foscari, or any other college in Italy.”

“Even if I am allowed to finish,” said Marco, “what good is my degree? No one will hire me now.” His eyes suddenly glimmered with tears and he turned away. How diligently he’d studied, always so certain of his path in life. He would serve Italy like his heroes Volpi and Luzzatti. He’d dreamed of working as a diplomat, and he’d debated which languages he should study, wondered in which countries he’d someday work. At eight years old, he’d tacked a map of the world on his wall, a map that he’d traced so often with his fingers that parts of the paper had been rubbed away. Now those hopes were dead because Italy had betrayed him; Italy had betrayed them all.

Marco gave his eyes an angry swipe. “And look what they’ve done to poor Grandpapa! Half his life, he taught at Ca’ Foscari. Now he is nothing.”

“He is still a teacher, Marco,” said Balboni.

“A teacher with no income. Oh, but Jews don’t need to eat. We can live on air, can’t we?”

“Marco,” warned his mother. “Be respectful. Professor Balboni isn’t responsible for this.”

“What are he and his colleagues going to do about it?”

“We are appalled, of course,” said Balboni. “We’ve written a petition of protest. I’ve signed it, and so have dozens of others on the faculty.”

“Dozens? Not everyone?”

Balboni lowered his head. “No,” he admitted. “Some are afraid of repercussions if they sign. And others…” He shrugged. “Well, they were never your friends, anyway. And now there are rumors that more bad news is coming. New laws being proposed, affecting Jews in other professions. I tell you, it all springs from that damned ‘Manifesto of the Scientists.’ It unleashed this madness. It gave everyone permission to blame you for all the ills in the country.”

Published a month earlier in
Il Giornale d’Italia,
the manifesto had sent Marco into a rage. He’d stormed into the house waving the newspaper, shouting: “Now they say we’re not true Italians! They say we’re a foreign race!” Since then he had talked of little else. He had brought home pamphlets and newspapers to pore over at night, feeding his anger. Every family meal turned into a battleground because his father and grandfather remained loyal fascists, unwilling to believe that Mussolini would turn against them. The arguments at dinner grew so heated that once, to everyone’s shock, Mama had slapped a knife down on the table and declared: “Enough! If you’re going to kill each other, why not use that knife! At least it will finally be quieter around here!”

Now another argument was about to explode and Lorenzo saw angry veins bulge on his brother’s neck, saw Mama’s hands tense into claws on the table.

“There must be a way to appeal this memorandum,” said Alberto. “I will write a letter to the newspaper.”

“Oh yes,” Marco snorted. “A letter will change everything!”

Bruno gave his son a slap on the head. “And what would
you
do? You’re so brilliant, Marco, I’m sure
you
have all the answers!”

“At least I’m not blind and deaf, like everyone else in this family!” Marco stood, shoving his chair back so hard it toppled over backward. He left it lying on the floor and stormed out of the room.

His sister, Pia, jumped up to follow him. “Marco!” she called. “Please don’t leave. I hate it when you all fight like this!” They heard her run out the door, heard her calling out as she pursued her brother. Of them all, nine-year-old Pia was the true diplomat in the family, always distressed when they argued, always anxious to negotiate peace. Even as her voice faded down the street, she was still beseeching her brother to return.

Inside the house, a long and heavy silence passed.

“So what are we to do now?” Eloisa asked softly.

Professor Balboni shook his head. “There is nothing you can do. My colleagues and I will present our petition to the college. Some of us are composing letters to the newspaper as well, but we have little hope they’ll be published. Everyone’s nervous, everyone fears a backlash. There could be reprisals against those who disagree with the regime.”

“We have to loudly and publicly declare our loyalty,” said Alberto. “Remind them of everything we’ve done for the country. All the wars we’ve served in, defending Italy.”

“It makes no difference, my friend. Your Jewish Union has issued press release after press release, declaring its loyalty. What good has it done?”

“Then what else can we say? What can we do?”

Professor Balboni considered his next words, and his whole body seemed to sag with the weight of his answer. “You should consider leaving the country.”

“Leave Italy?” Alberto stiffened in his chair, outraged. “My family has lived here for four hundred years. I’m as Italian as you are!”

“I’m not arguing with you, Alberto. I’m only giving you advice.”

“What sort of advice is that? To abandon our country? Do you think so little of our friendship that you’d shove us onto the next boat?”

“Please, you don’t understand—”

“Understand
what
?”

Professor Balboni’s voice dropped to a murmur. “There are rumors,” he said. “Things I’ve heard from my colleagues abroad.”

“Yes, we’ve all heard the rumors. That’s all they are, spread by those crazy Zionists to make us turn against the regime.”

“But I’m hearing the stories from people I know to be levelheaded,” said Professor Balboni. “They say there are things going on now, in Poland. Reports of mass deportations.”

“To where?” asked Eloisa.

“Labor camps.” Balboni looked at her. “Women and children, too. All ages, healthy or not, are being arrested and transported. Their homes and possessions have been seized. Some of what I’ve heard is too horrible to believe, and I won’t repeat it. But if it’s happening in Poland—”

“It won’t happen here,” said Alberto.

“You have too much faith in the regime.”

“Do you really expect us to leave? Where would we all go?”

“Portugal or Spain. Perhaps Switzerland.”

“And how will we feed ourselves in Switzerland?” Alberto pointed to his son-in-law, who was clearly struggling to process this new upheaval in their lives. “Bruno has loyal clients. He spent his whole life building a reputation.”

“We won’t leave,” Bruno abruptly declared. He sat up straight and looked at his wife. “Your father is right. Why should we leave? We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“But these rumors,” said Eloisa. “Think of Pia in a labor camp….”

“Would it be better for her to starve in Switzerland?”

“Oh my God. I don’t know what we should do.”

But Bruno did. This was his household, and although he seldom asserted himself, now he made it clear that he was in charge. “I won’t leave everything I’ve worked for. My shop is here, my clients are here. And Lorenzo has his violin students. Together, we can make do.”

Alberto placed a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. “Good, we’re in agreement, then. We stay.”

Balboni sighed. “I know it was a drastic suggestion that you leave the country, but I had to speak my mind. If events should accelerate, if conditions suddenly grow worse, there may not be another chance to leave. This could be the best opportunity you’ll have.” He rose from the table. “I’m sorry to have brought you this news, my friend. But I wanted to prepare you, before you hear it from anyone else.” He looked at Lorenzo. “Come, young man, take a walk with me. Let’s discuss how your rehearsals with Laura are going.”

Lorenzo followed him outside, but the professor didn’t say a word as they walked together toward the canal. He seemed deep in thought, his hands clasped behind him, his brow furrowed.

“I don’t want to leave Italy, either,” said Lorenzo.

Balboni shot him a distracted look, as if surprised he was still there beside him. “No, of course you don’t. No one wants to be uprooted. I wouldn’t expect you to say otherwise.”

“Yet you advise us to leave.”

Professor Balboni halted in the narrow street and faced him. “You are a levelheaded boy, Lorenzo. Unlike your brother Marco, who I fear will do something rash and bring disaster down on all your heads. Your grandfather has always spoken highly of you. I’ve seen for myself that you have great promise as a musician, and as a man. Which is why I urge you to pay attention to what’s happening all around us. Whatever your brother’s faults, at least he sees the pattern that’s developing. So should you.”

“The pattern?”

“Have you not noticed how all the newspapers now speak with one voice, and that voice is raised against Jews? The movement has been building steadily for years. A newspaper editorial here, an official memorandum there. As if this is all a carefully planned campaign.”

“Grandfather says it’s just ignorant people making noise.”

“Beware the ignorant, Lorenzo. They’re the most dangerous enemy of all, because they are everywhere.”

They did not speak of the matter when Lorenzo came to rehearse the following Wednesday, nor on the Wednesday after that. He dined with the Balbonis both times, but their conversations over dinner were strictly about music: the latest records they had listened to. What did Lorenzo think about Shostakovich? Did everyone plan to see the new musical comedy with Vittorio De Sica? And how sad to hear that the distinguished luthier Oreste Candi had passed away in Genoa. It was as if they were trying their best to avoid talking about the storm clouds gathering over their heads, so instead they chattered about the pleasant and the trivial.

Yet the subject still lurked in the room, as ominous as the grim face of Alda, who silently slipped in and out, clearing the table between courses. Lorenzo wondered why the Balbonis chose to keep such an unfriendly woman in their employ. He’d gathered that Alda had been with the family since before Laura was born, and had been the personal maid to Laura’s mother, who had died of blood cancer ten years ago. Perhaps after all those years, the Balbonis had simply grown accustomed to that stone face, the way you learn to live with a clubfoot or a bad knee.

Three days before the competition, Lorenzo dined with the Balbonis one last time.

Their final run-through had gone exceedingly well, so well that the professor shot to his feet and applauded. “No other duo comes close!” he declared. “Your instruments are like two souls joined together, singing as one. Tonight, why don’t we celebrate your victory? I’ll open a special bottle of wine.”

“We haven’t won the prize yet, Papa,” Laura said.

“Merely a formality. They should already be writing your names on the certificate.” He poured the wine and handed goblets to his daughter and Lorenzo. “If you both play as well as you did tonight, you cannot lose.” He winked. “I know that, because I’ve heard the other contestants.”

“How, Papa? When?” asked Laura.

“Today, at the college. Professor Vettori has been coaching some of the other duos. While they played, I just
happened
to be standing outside the rehearsal room.”

“Naughty Papa!”

“What, was I supposed to cover my ears and block them out? They were playing so loudly I could hear every sour note.” He held up his goblet. “Come, let’s have a toast.”

“To the prize,” said Laura.

“To competent judges!” said her father.

Laura beamed at Lorenzo. Never had he seen her so beautiful, her face flushed from the wine, her hair like liquid gold in the lamplight. “And what do
you
toast to?” she asked.

To you, Laura,
he thought.
To every sacred moment we’ve shared.

He raised his glass. “To what brought us together. To music.”

Lorenzo paused outside the Balbonis’ front door and breathed in the damp night air. Lingering in the cold, he listened to the slap of water in the canal and tried to commit to memory this night, this moment. It was his last visit to their house, and he was not yet ready for it to end. What else did he have to look forward to? Now that he could not enroll at Ca’ Foscari, all he saw was an eternity in his father’s workshop, sanding and carving wood, building instruments for other musicians. He would grow old in that dim and dusty space, would shrink into a bitter version of his father, Bruno, but Laura’s life would go on. For her there would be college and all the pleasures of being a student. There would be parties and concerts and films.