The Rainaldi Quartet (7 page)

‘Tomaso must have thought he had a chance. He went to England, after all, spent money on an air ticket, hotels. He wouldn't do that without a good reason.'

‘Do you know where in England he went?'

‘We're trying to find out. I spoke to Clara again yesterday. She didn't know where exactly he went. Just that he flew to London, was away for three days.'

‘How was she?'

‘Depressed, tearful, but better than the day before. She's eating a little, getting some sleep.'

‘Did he have any papers?' I said. ‘You know, booking slips, hotel confirmation letters, receipts.'

‘We're checking. We've got his diary. That might help us. In fact, that's why I wanted to talk to you. There was an entry in the diary, an appointment for last Monday. In Venice.'

‘Venice?'

‘With a man named Enrico Forlani.'

I reached out for the bottle of mineral water at the foot of the rug and refilled my cup. My mouth seemed suddenly very dry.

‘I understand he's a violin collector,' Guastafeste said. ‘You ever heard of him?'

I took a sip of water before I replied. ‘Yes, I know his name.'

‘His phone number was in the diary. I called it. He wasn't very cooperative, refused to talk to me on the phone. Said he'd only speak face to face. Do you know him?'

‘Only by reputation. We've never met, but I've done some work on his violins, though only through Serafin, never directly.'

‘Is he a big collector?'

‘So they say. He's very secretive, keeps his collection out of the public eye. But it's reputed to be big, one of the biggest in the world. He has plenty of money to spend.'

Guastafeste turned his head to look at me. ‘I'm out of my depth here, Gianni. So are my colleagues. We know nothing about violins. I'm worried we might miss things, might overlook something, not realise its significance. If I clear it with my superiors, would you be willing to come on board as a sort of expert adviser?'

‘Tomaso was my friend,' I said. ‘I'll do anything I can to help.'

‘Thank you.' Guastafeste looked back at the river, the water still and limpid, dappled with sunbeams and shadows. ‘It's tempting, isn't it?' he said. ‘I'd just love to strip off and jump in, the way I did when I was a kid.'

‘Why don't you?'

‘I'm grown up now. I'm not supposed to have fun.'

He stood up and touched me lightly on the shoulder.

‘Say bye to the kids for me.'

*   *   *

For dinner, the children helped me prepare kebabs to cook over an open wood fire at the bottom of the garden, something they can never do at home. They live in a town, in a second-floor apartment where the only flowers they see are in a window box. I used to be an urban dweller too. For years my workshop was in the centre of Cremona, tucked away in one of the side-streets with the bustle and noise of the city all around. But seven years ago I grew tired of the cars and pollution and lack of space and moved out into the country. I am only a few kilometres from Cremona you can see its hazy silhouette on the skyline – but we are surrounded by fields, by swathes of swaying corn, the tranquillity broken only by the distant rattle of a tractor and the intermittent barking of farm dogs.

When we'd finished skewering the kebabs, Paolo and Carla went out into the garden to collect logs from my woodpile, but Pietro lingered behind in the kitchen. He'd been very quiet while we were making the kebabs and I could see that something was troubling him.

‘What is it, little chap?' I said.

‘Grandpa,' Pietro said in his small, high-pitched voice. ‘Why have Mama and Papa gone away?'

‘It's only for one night. They'll be back tomorrow.'

‘But why couldn't we go with them?'

‘They're doing things you wouldn't be interested in, boring grown-up things.'

‘Didn't they want us with them?'

‘It's not that. Sometimes grown-ups need a bit of time to themselves. They left you with me for a night last year and you didn't seem to mind.'

But he was a year older now, more aware of what was happening, more conscious of rejection yet unable to rationalise it like his brother and sister.

‘Are they going to come back?'

He looked up at me and I saw that he was crying.

‘Oh, Pietro.'

I put down the knife I was using to chop vegetables and sat him on my lap. With my finger I wiped away the tears on his cheeks.

‘Of course they're going to come back,' I said.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes, I'm sure. Shall I tell you something, something your old grandpa has learned over the years? There are very few simple truths in life, but there is one that's universal, that's true for everyone. And that is that your mother and father love you more than anything in the world. You and Carla and Paolo. And they will continue to love you. Even when you're grown up and you've left home and are making your own way in the world they will still love you. Believe me, I know.'

Pietro sniffed and looked up at me. ‘So they've not left us?'

‘No, you silly old thing. Tomorrow afternoon they will be back for you. You can wait until then, can't you?'

‘I'll try.'

‘Good boy. Now why don't you come and help me light the fire?'

We made a big blaze at the far end of my vegetable patch and waited until the flames had died down and the logs were glowing red before we put the kebabs on to roast. There were thick chunks of lamb and red peppers and onions on the skewers. We ate them with bread and potatoes and crisp green beans followed by ripe peaches. Then we sat around the embers as night fell and I told them creepy ghost stories, Pietro pressing up close to me, shivering and asking for more.

I regretted it later, though, for when I finally put them to bed they were too terrified to sleep. I sat beside Pietro, stroking his head and murmuring soothingly until at last he dropped off. I stayed there for a while afterwards, remembering when Francesca and her two brothers had been little and I would sit watching over them sometimes while they slept. It seemed such a very short time ago.

*   *   *

I was dozing in my chair under the shade of my cherry tree when Francesca and her husband returned.

‘Papa,' Francesca said, shaking me gently.

‘Ah, you're back,' I said sleepily, rubbing my eyes and stretching.

Francesca was looking around the garden. ‘Where are the children? Are they inside?'

‘They're somewhere,' I said vaguely.

‘You mean you don't know?'

‘They're off exploring in the fields.'

Francesca stared at me. ‘You let them go off on their own?'

‘I told them not to go far.'

‘Papa, how could you be so irresponsible? They could have been abducted.'

‘No one would abduct those three, they wouldn't dare.'

‘It's not funny. There are all sorts of perverts and weird people out there. Anything could have happened.'

She marched off down the garden, her husband in tow, and disappeared into the fields at the bottom. Twenty minutes later they reappeared herding three sheepish children. The kids were dishevelled, dirt smeared all over their clothes and faces. All three of them were carrying sticks. Even I had to admit they looked pretty scruffy.

‘Go inside and clean yourselves up,' Francesca ordered as they drew level with me.

‘Aw, do we have to?' Paolo said.

‘Now.'

‘We saw a rabbit,' Carla said to me proudly. ‘Eating grass. It was this big.' She held out her hands to demonstrate.

‘Can we go swimming again, Grandpa, before we go home?' Pietro asked.

I looked away, sensing Francesca's steely gaze coming to bear on me. She waited until the children were inside the house before she opened fire.

‘Swimming? How did you take them swimming? I didn't leave their costumes.'

‘They went skinny dipping,' I said.

‘Skinny dipping! Papa, you didn't take them to the river? That filthy, germ-ridden pool?'

‘It's not filthy,' I protested. ‘It's perfectly all right. I used to take you there when you were little and it never did you any harm.'

‘Things are different now. Pollution is worse. That pool's full of bacteria.'

‘What's wrong with that? Kids of today don't get enough bacteria. It does them good, builds up their resistance.'

Francesca's mouth tightened, but she didn't pursue the argument. I knew that the moment they got home she'd be scrubbing the children with disinfectant and taking their temperatures.

It was strange when they'd gone. My initial response was one of relief – that the noise, the relentless exhausting activity of young children had ceased. But after I'd caught my breath, I began to miss having them around. My sense of isolation and loneliness seemed more acute than ever, so I did what I always do when melancholy threatens to overwhelm me. I went into my workshop, put one of my old Heifetz LPs on the record player and immersed myself in my work, in the soothing therapy of carving wood.

It was almost dark outside when the telephone rang. I picked up the extension near my workbench and heard Guastafeste's voice.

‘It's all fixed,' he said. ‘What are you doing for the next couple of days?'

‘Just working, as usual.'

‘Anything urgent?'

‘Not particularly. Why?'

‘Pack an overnight bag,' Guastafeste said. ‘We're going to Venice in the morning.'

4

We arrived in Venice in the late afternoon. It was several years since I'd last been there, but Venice changes very little and when it does the difference is barely perceptible. When you walk out of the station and see the Grand Canal in front of you the impact is still exhilarating, still sublime, no matter how many times you have been there. And the smell is still the same – a tang of the sea mixed with undertones of fetid water, rank sewage and diesel fumes from the motor boats.

The walk to our hotel – a small
pensione
near the
Teatro La Fenice
which Guastafeste had booked in advance – was the usual Venetian obstacle course of tourists and dog dirt. We left our bags in our rooms, then walked back to the Grand Canal and stood for a moment on the Accademia Bridge. Venice has always been a chiaroscuro city, a place where the light and shadow change suddenly and unexpectedly. One moment it seems dilapidated and tawdry, the next the sunlight alters and you catch a glimpse of a beauty that makes your heart miss a beat. From our vantage point on the bridge, the surface of the Grand Canal, which had looked brown and oily when we arrived, now had the sheen of shot silk. The exposed banks of mud along the edges had the appearance of the expensive youth-giving unguent women apply to their wrinkles rather than the poisonous slime it really was.

Enrico Forlani's home was a
palazzo
on the western side of the Grand Canal. It took us a while to find it in the labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys, and when we finally stopped outside its door it didn't look much like a palace. The stucco had broken away from the walls in large chunks, revealing the brickwork underneath. The paint on the door and windows was chipped, the shutters faded and rotting in the damp air. Guastafeste rang the bell on the entryphone a few times, holding it in for several seconds each time. Eventually a man's head appeared at the window above us.

‘What do you want?' he snapped.

‘Dottor Forlani?'

‘Yes. Who are you?'

‘Antonio Guastafeste, Cremona police. We have an appointment, if you remember.'

The head pulled back and a moment later we heard locks and bolts being undone. The front door clicked open on a chain. A dark, suspicious eye looked out through the crack.

‘Show me some identification.'

Guastafeste held out his police identity card and a hand like a wizened claw snatched it away for a few seconds, then gave it back. The door snapped shut and we heard the chain being detached on the inside. When Forlani reopened the door it was only a little wider than before. He beckoned us in and we squeezed awkwardly through the gap, Forlani pushing us to one side so he could lock and bolt the door behind us.

The stench was the first thing I noticed. There was the damp odour you get all over Venice, but it was particularly noticeable here and exacerbated by a pungent reek of decaying vegetable matter and a fruitier, more human smell which I realised was emanating from Forlani himself. To my right, a short flight of stone steps led down into the open basement of the building which, like most of the others on the canal, had been constructed as a water entrance and boathouse for the
palazzo.
I could see the Grand Canal through the wrought-iron gates, see and hear the water lapping against the walls of the basement. Even in the gloomy light it was possible to make out the scum on the surface of the water; a thick layer of kitchen scraps and other rubbish which had been dumped there over the years and never been flushed away by the action of the tides. I heard a patter of feet which I knew was rats.

We followed Forlani up the stairs to the first floor. Through an elaborately panelled set of double doors was a large room overlooking the Grand Canal – at least it would have overlooked the canal if the shutters on the windows hadn't been tightly shut. Strips of sunlight percolated in through the slats in the shutters, dimly illuminating the bare floor and walls of the room. The plaster was peeling off like diseased skin, the long curtains next to the windows hung in soiled, shredded tatters. There was no furniture except for a long wooden table and a couple of cheap wooden chairs. The top of the table was cluttered with piles of china plates on which congealed sauce and rancid old meat and rubbery pasta lay decomposing.

I could scarcely believe that this was the Enrico Forlani we were seeking. Guastafeste must have had his doubts too for the first thing he said was, ‘You are Enrico Forlani, collector of violins, aren't you?'