Capriccio Read online

  The article described Victor's violin. It wasn't just any old Guarneri, but a Giuseppe del Gesù. Giuseppe was the greatest of all the Guarneris. One of them worked with Stradivari. In fact, a del Gesù was second only to a Stradivarius. “Like Paganini, I prefer the more robust tone of a Guarneri to the sweetness of an Amati or Stradivarius,” Victor often said to the press. I suspect his taste would change if he could ever get his hands on a Stradivarius.

  There was also a tantalizing hint of the “surprise” Victor had been using as a gimmick for this show. I had an unconfirmed idea what that surprise might be but hadn't mentioned it to anyone, not even Victor. When the cake and the article were finished, I set the table. We'd have to eat early to allow my uncle to get to the hall on time. He wouldn't eat much tonight, but he'd make up for it later at Eleanor's party. Shrimp and lobster, champagne, caviar—Eleanor threw the greatest gourmet bashes in town.

  At six-fifteen, Victor still hadn't arrived. I became a little worried and called the ball, but he wasn't there, On his way home then. He'd grab a wing of cold chicken when he got here and call that dinner. I wished I had his will power, but rationalized that a woman who'd been on her feet all day required more nourishment. I took a peek in his room and saw his tux was gone. It had been there in its plastic bag from the cleaner's yesterday. Actually my uncle hadn't sounded very sure about eating at home. Maybe he'd gone on to the hall already, stopping on the way for a snack. He wasn't a creature of habit. Lord, I hoped it wasn't a glass of wine he'd stopped for, which had a way of multiplying to three or four glasses if the company was convivial. But really he had been very good lately. When he still hadn't got home by six-thirty, I went ahead with my own dinner.

  The only worry in my mind as I showered and dressed was whether I'd been wise to give that ticket to Sean Bradley. But a fellow American with those liquid eyes and overlapped teeth couldn't be dangerous. He wasn't really a cowboy, I thought. What was he, and where was he from? The accent wasn't heavy enough for Texas, and the clothes weren't good enough for him to be an oil baron. A school teacher, an engineer? He didn't look like a magnificently successful professional; he'd be a toiler in one of the lesser but still worthy professions. Not one of the world's great men, but he was all right for a casual date.

  I brushed my tawny hair out loose and caught one side back with a white nacre barrette. For this grand occasion I had bought a wisp of white raw silk that made my Visa card tremble in shock. It looked like a fancy dust rag on the hanger, but much better on the body. A piece of the material was cut on the bias and draped over one shoulder, giving the effect of a toga, it fit fairly close around the waist, and draped again over the hips. It looked best on a long, lean body, which mine was in the process of becoming on those days when Rhoda didn't bake a cake. It was lean enough that Victor included me in his condemnation of modern womankind, determined to destroy God's greatest creation, the female body. He preferred full-figured Balzacian women.

  I went back to my room to do my face. I have a bold, mannish face, with a square jaw and a long straight nose that is redeemed from masculinity by full lips. “The lips of a harlot,” Victor once said. He tries to be shocking but only sounds quaint. I colored my harlot's lips, put some gel on my cheeks and a brush of frosted burgundy shadow over my dark eyes and was ready.

  I picked a mauve mohair shawl and went down to the lobby. The doorman hailed a cab, and I drove off to Roy Thomson Hall with a tingling air of excitement hovering around me. I wondered if Sean would wear a jacket. In the heat of summer, some of the audience would be in shirt sleeves, but there would be no shirt sleeves at Eleanor's party. If he came too casual, I just couldn't invite him, that's all.

  Sean hadn't arrived yet when I was ushered to my seat. Inside, the hall is shaped like a horseshoe. The mezzanine and balcony seats curve around the stage and are angled to give a good view. The ceiling is a dazzling collection of acoustical banners, acrylic discs, and stalactites with two big circles of lights in the middle. I passed the time by looking around at the hall and the audience while waiting for Sean. Victor says the acoustics could be plusher, especially for strings. He mentioned a lean, transparent sound, but added that it was “very intimate” for a hall of nearly three thousand seats. I didn't think Sean would be enough of a connoisseur to worry about the acoustics, and I knew I wasn't.

  I got there at ten to eight. At two minutes to, Sean still hadn't come. I was disappointed at first, then angry at the waste. The house was sold out, and any of my friends would have loved to get the ticket—or could have been coerced into using it anyway. He'd probably picked up some woman at a bar. Damn! My watch showed one minute to eight. An expectant hush permeated the hall as the audience waited for the lights to dim and the curtain to rise. I waited with the others, feeling an urge to tell my neighbor I was Victor's niece. But first I'd make sure he turned up, and turned up sober. It was eight o'clock now, and the hush was deafening.

  CHAPTER 2

  The hush was broken by a muted pounding of feet on the carpeted aisle. One did not run in Roy Thomson Hall. Roy Thomson Hall is the kind of place where you find yourself calling a person “one.” My head slued around, like everyone else's, to see what ill-bred specimen had escaped the ushers, and quickly turned to face the stage again, pretending I didn't know him when I saw it was Sean. Yet I was glad he'd come. His running slowed to a trot as he drew nearer, his eyes scanning the rows for me. He lifted a finger, gave a kind of salute and a broad smile, and began wriggling his way in past the seated patrons.

  He was wearing a jacket and tie, but the jacket wouldn't feel at home at Eleanor's party, and that tie! It looked as if it had been designed by Picasso in one of his more vibrant moments. “Sorry I'm late,” he boomed lowering himself into the seat. “Couldn't find the darned place. I was sure I knew exactly where it was, but it moved on me."

  “These new buildings are all alike—undependable. One of those big acoustic tiles fell right off the ceiling the week the place opened."

  “Is that so?” he asked, glancing ceilingward with a doubtful face. “The show should be starting any minute now."

  We both looked expectantly to the closed curtains. The silence could reasonably have been filled by a compliment on my outfit. Sean said, “Was Victor nervous, or have you seen him since this afternoon?"

  “I haven't seen him. He was supposed to be home for dinner, but he didn't show."

  “You live with him, do you? That must make for a lively time."

  “Oh, it does."

  “I was reading something in the paper about a surprise he has for us tonight. Care to let me in on it?"

  “I would if I could, but I can't. He didn't tell me."

  “Maybe he's got a new violin,” Sean suggested.

  I smiled at his naiveté in musical matters. “He never uses anything but his del Gesù. It's a famous old instrument. Kind of like the Duesenberg of violins. I have a hunch about the surprise, but I won't even let myself think it,” I added mysteriously.

  “Could you let yourself say it without thinking?"

  “I think just maybe—but I'm probably wrong. It's really conceited of me to even suggest it. Anyway, Victor's written a little piece of music—he does that once in a while. He slaves over it for weeks, then suddenly plays it as a surprise at one of his big concerts to astonish the world, and lets on he wrote it in a day or something. He's such a ham,” I added fondly.

  Sean turned a puzzled face to me. “How does that contaminate you with conceit?"

  “Didn't I tell you? I think maybe he's dedicating it to me. He's mentioned half a dozen times that I've put him in touch with youth again. I make him listen to modern popular music and take him to the movies he wouldn't go to alone. I've heard little snatches of something I don't recognize floating through the door of his studio. He says it's a capriccio, a free-form piece of music, kind of light and lively. He has a certain mischievous sparkle in his eyes when I ask him what he's calling it. But I'm probably wrong,” I added. Yet I wa
s sure enough to have bought the expensive wisp I wore, in preparation to take a bow here at the concert hall.

  Sean's brows lifted uncertainly. “I guess that'd be quite an honor."

  “It'd be fabulous—like having a poem written in your honor, or a perfume named after you, but I'm

  “Probably wrong,” he said, nodding his head, while a crooked little quirk of a smile moved his moustache. “We'll soon know. It's five after eight. It should be starting soon.” We both checked our watches.

  At ten after, it was my turn to say the same thing. The audience was becoming restive. The orchestra began playing soft background music to soothe the savage breasts. By eight-fifteen I had spotted Eleanor, waved to her, and pointed her out to Sean as Victor's friend. When Sean lifted his Timex under my nose to show me it was eight-twenty and the curtains remained adamantly closed, I felt guilty and asked him to Eleanor's party.

  “I thought we might go out somewhere for dinner,” he parried. “You've already supplied the tickets. The least I can do is feed you."

  I was already feeling guilty about the concert, or lack thereof, so I shook my head derisively at his unliberated ideas. “You're living in the dark ages. Women are no longer wined and dined as of yore. This time, the treat's on me."

  He was uncomfortable at receiving anything from a woman. “Tomorrow it's my treat,” he bargained. “You notice how cagily I weaseled my way into another date? Here you thought I was a rube, just because I hail from Nebraska."

  “I didn't know you came from Nebraska. I really don't know a thing about you. What you do for a living...

  “I sell hardware."

  I looked at his face, which minored the unspoilt plains of Nebraska. Yes, I could picture that moustache and crooked smile behind a hardware counter in some small midwestern town, those strong hands hefting a wrench or hammer. He would be knowledgeable about “two-by-fours” and “ratchets” and such things. A vision sprang into my head of him putting up shelves in a white bungalow and turning hamburger patties on an outdoor barbeque. All in a flash it came to me, as things do sometimes. I'm not psychic—more of a dreamer really, but snatches of things that never were just pop into my head.

  I became aware of a hand waving three inches in front of my eyes. Hardware—Nebraska,” he repeated, frowning at my faraway look. “Threw you for a loop, did it? You mistook me for a brain surgeon? Maybe you were wondering what a hardware type was doing touring a medieval castle. I like old things,” he said simply.

  The white bungalow transformed itself to a Victorian house with gingerbread trim, in a state of being restored by those same brown hands. “I heard you. I like old things, too.” Old masters, old money. “I wonder what's keeping Victor. I hope nothing's happened to him."

  “What do you mean—an accident?” he asked sharply.

  It was more an excess of wine I actually had in mind, but I said, “He's never been so late before. They'd announce it if he weren't here."

  “Do you want to go around to his dressing room and ask?” Sean said. I just knew he'd be one of those men who always wanted to be handling situations. I like the French wait and see philosophy myself.

  “Let's wait a minute longer."

  In exactly sixty seconds, the large, cheap, ugly Timex was hoisted under my nose again. I was just gathering up my things to leave when the curtain opened and a man came out and bowed. A buzz of excitement ran through the hail. Was it a preamble to the “surprise” we had been reading about? When the noise subsided, the man announced that Mr. Mazzini had been unavoidably detained, and the concert was being postponed. He went on to explain that ticket holders could receive a refund at the box office or wait to hear the new date announced, apologized for the inconvenience, and extended his heartiest apologies on behalf of the Directors of Roy Thomson Hall and Mr. Mazzini.

  Victor couldn't be drunk. He hadn't been overindulging at all, and this concert had meant so much to him. His heart was the next thing I thought of. “A stroke!” I gasped, and clutched at my own heart, which was performing aerobics in my chest. “He's had a stroke! He has high blood pressure, you know. The doctor put him on medication just two weeks ago. Oh my God, Sean, I'd better get to the hospital."

  Sean flew into a towering calm. “Steady now, steady,” he said, holding my hand in a firm grip. “Nobody said anything about a stroke or hospital. High blood pressure's as common as headache these days. Let's go around and find out what's going on.”

  “Yes, you're right, of course,” I said, trying to be reasonable, but my hands, my whole insides were shaking.

  It took us a few minutes to work our way out of the hall and into the lobby. Sean formed a driving wedge through the mass of irate humanity, dragging me behind him. The departing crowd grumbled in well-bred voices and gathered in groups to discuss alternative entertainment, since they were dressed up and ready for a night out.

  The most accessible route to the dressing rooms was by leaving the front door and walking around to the rear entrance. At least it was the easiest for me, as it was the only way I'd ever gone. I went up to the first workman I saw and asked if he knew anything about Mr. Mazzini's failure to perform.

  The man wiped his brow with his hand and gave us a disgusted look. “He never showed up. Never called the hall— nothing. Are you from the press? I'll tell you what I think. I think the guy did it on purpose, planned it for publicity. He'd do anything to get his picture in the papers. Performers— they're all alike."

  I weighed his opinion and found it not entirely incredible. It was a fact that the tickets for the fourth and last performance weren't moving as well as Victor had hoped. The first night was sold out, the second and third nights selling well enough, but sales for the last performance were flagging. There were plenty of other things to do on a Saturday night. And Victor disliked playing to anything but a packed hall. Not appearing for the first concert would stir up a lot of publicity and put a rush on tickets for the other nights. He was probably sitting at home smiling to himself at the furor he was causing.

  We asked around till we found the manager, and I introduced myself but learned nothing more. Mr. Mazzini had not appeared. He had not been to the hall before the concert, though he'd told me he'd be there at five o'clock. The manager was more angry than worried. He didn't say it, but you didn't have to be a mind reader to see he shared the stagehand's opinion.

  Sean assumed a strong, take-control manner and asked, “Did you phone his home?"

  “Of course we did. We sent a man over at five to eight, and he wasn't there. The doorman hadn't seen him for hours."

  “Did you phone the hospitals?” Sean asked.

  “Certainly. Every effort was made to find him. Have you any idea how much money is involved in this performance? The tickets sold, a massive advertising campaign

  “A man's life is also involved,” Sean reminded him, with a haughty stare that surprised me. He took my hand. “Come on. We'll find him,” he said confidently, and we left.

  “I guess the first move is to go home,” I said doubtfully.

  “That's as good a place to start as any. I've hired a car. You'll have to give me directions.

  It seemed an eternity passed as we waited in line to get out of the parking lot. We didn't talk at all on the way home, except for my giving Sean directions. I was wrapped up in my own worries, and finding his way through the traffic seemed to occupy Sean's mind. When we drove into the underground parking garage at the apartment, I spotted my uncle's car in his personal parking spot.

  “He's here! He's back!” I shouted.

  “Wasn't his car here when you left?” Sean asked.

  “I don't know. I don't come this way. I use the front door, but he had his car at Casa Loma this afternoon."

  Sean parked in a visitors’ space and we went into the building and up the elevator to the apartment. The door was locked, but I let us in with my key, calling Victor's name as we entered.

  I hurried in, pushing light switches as I went, but I alread
y knew he wasn't sleeping, or sitting in the dark. I knew he wasn't there, and felt sick with apprehension. Everything looked exactly as I had left it. The indentations of the pillows on the ornate Italian provincial sofa were mine. There were no fresh cigar ashes or butts in the crystal ashtrays, no wineglass, no Victor.

  “He must have been here. Where can he be?” I asked.

  “How about that doorman downstairs in the comic opera uniform?” Sean said. “He'd have seen him if he came in.

  “The man at the concert hall said the doorman hadn't seen him. When you park your car, you take the service elevator. Anyway, I know he hasn't been here.” I explained about the lack of cigar ashes or butts.

  I went into Victor's bedroom, Sean following at my heels, and the room was exactly as I had last seen it. “Maybe he was in his studio!” I exclaimed, hope soaring again.

  We went down the hall to the area where the wall between two bedrooms had been knocked out to form a large studio. It was tiled and insulated for soundproofing. The room was austerely simple. The white walls held no adornment except a few posters from his own and other concerts, and an embarrassing collection of Playboy centerfolds. Their airbrushed innocence appeared to interest Sean quite as much as it interested my uncle.

  There was a wall of sound equipment on one side: tape recorder, amplifying equipment, speakers, a stereo radio and record player. In the middle of the room was a high stool and a music stand in front of it with a sheet of music spread out. The floor around this area was littered with discarded sheets of music. Rhoda wasn't allowed in here. There was also a desk in a corner where Victor composed his occasional pieces and did his personal correspondence.

  While I looked around the room, Sean tore himself away from the centerfolds and strolled to the desk. He hastily rifled the papers on its surface. My uncle didn't smoke in this room. There wasn't even an ashtray.