-- 1 --
December, 1907.
Darkness had already fallen in Paris
Wrapped in a frayed black coat and worn-out cap, a man hurriedly crossed the Pont des Arts bridge towards the right bank of the Seine . The entire city suffered under the punishing winter storm, and for the few passersby braving the streets the cold was intense. Little by little, Paris
The only sounds heard were the disquieting lash of the freezing wind against the river and the grind of carriage wheels on the white paving stones. However, the man did not seem to care about the cruel conditions. He went on determinedly, clutching a strangely shaped bag. He would have to reach the Rue Bonaparte before it was completely dark, or else he would have to wait until the next day, when the antiques dealer Corenthin et fils opened its doors again. There was no time to lose – he needed the money.
Distracted by his thoughts, he did not see the black berlin headed toward him at full speed. The horses whinnied in pain as the coachman jerked the reins back sharply, trying to halt their headlong rush. They stopped scant metres before the startled man, who fell abruptly to the snow-covered stone pavement.
The coachman rebuked him harshly and, taking off his top hat, passed a shaky hand across his forehead in relief and fear of what could have been a serious accident. A nearby couple quickly approached the fallen man. The woman, attired in a coarse, dark grey coat and a beautiful hat adorned with little flowers, asked if he had been hurt. Instead, the subject of her inquiry seemed more worried about the contents of the bag he’d been carrying. Ignoring the question, he anxiously thrust a hand inside it and found everything in good condition.
Thank God, it seems it has not been harmed at all, he thought with relief.
The couple seemed astonished that a person would be more concerned with an old bag than his own safety, and moved on.
The man took up his path again.
He reached the antiques shop, and hesitated, pensive, at the door.
Stealing to eat.
Although it was not the first time he had done it, he couldn’t avoid feeling ashamed of himself. Then the faces of his wife and children appeared in his mind, and a knot took hold of his throat. With a deep sigh that sent his breath frosting about him, he wiped his face with his palms, pushed open the door, and entered the premises.
Once inside, he paused to take in his surroundings. Strange portraits stared at him from everywhere. Chandeliers belonging to a previous century blocked his path, along with picturesque religious figures, Napoleonic-era clocks, books whose titles had been erased by time…
The dealer Corenthin observed him cautiously from the other side of the counter. He was an ancient, white-haired man whose grayish eyes were always scrutinizing customers from behind small bronze spectacles.
When he asked the newcomer in a deep voice what he wanted, the man rapidly took off his cap and, swallowing hard, approached the counter to gently deposit the contents of the bag he had so carefully transported.
Corenthin looked at the man curiously as he extracted the object from its case. What he saw fascinated him even more than it pleased him. Turning up the gas lamp, he examined it meticulously with bony fingers.
After several silent moments broken only by the rhythmic pendulum of an Elizabethan clock, his expression turned shrewd, and he raised his head.
“I can only offer you four hundred francs for it.”
“What? Only four hundred? But it is worth at least a thousand!”
“I’m sorry…Perhaps you would prefer to try the other antiques shops in the area, but no one is going to offer you more than this price.” Looking directly into the man’s eyes, Corenthin continued smoothly. “Or maybe you want to take the risk of having them inquire about how you obtained this. That would certainly be a problem, no? I think the police would be very interested.”
The man went silent, livid. He had not counted on blackmail.
“All right,” he whispered, nodding. “Four hundred francs will do.”
The dealer shrugged as he took out the agreed-upon sum from a little drawer. He offered it, almost indifferently, to the man, who shoved it into a pocket and rushed out of the shop.
Corenthin, now alone, looked at the object lying on the table. He smiled contentedly.
-- 2 --
Present day.
Christelle said goodbye to her classmates as she left the Salle Pleyel. Generally, the auditorium was intended to present symphony concerts and other great works to the Parisian public, but on this occasion, the Cité de la Musique had obtained special permission for its students to rehearse and take their exams there.
Without a doubt master musician Boldizsár Király, one of the best professors of the Conservatory and a famous orchestra conductor, had been behind the arrangement. His extraordinary reputation in the classical music world had opened all doors to him. Király’s vast cultural expertise, not only in music but also in philosophy and history, cemented his status as professor emeritus at the Conservatory. He also frequently gave concerts around the world. Having descended from a long line of musicians, Király’s favorite childhood toy was the piano, and later, the violin.
It had been an exhausting day. After hours of practice, Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 3 seemed to loop endlessly in Christelle’s mind as she and her best friend Cloe walked arm-in-arm out of the great concert hall.
“Don’t you think they went too far today? I’m going to end up detesting Mozart!” Cloe said.
Christelle laughed.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m exhausted too. And if this is just from rehearsals for the Christmas concert…imagine how preparing for exams will be. It’s already October, and they’re just around the corner!”
Christelle entered the Academy of Music in Paris
Despite the painful memory of her parents’ death in a tragic accident, Christelle was happy in the knowledge that they would have been very proud of her, as proud as her uncle, with whom she had lived since the accident. She honored her parents’ memory every day when she played, dedicating each note, each chord, each melody to them like a promise, or a prayer.
She had begun her music studies at a small academy not very far from her house, but the speed of her progress was such that after some years her professors encouraged her to enter the conservatory at the Cité de Musique, located in the La Villette quarter of Paris
For Christelle, the violin was a wonderful instrument that enabled her to express everything in her heart, a catalyst that conveyed emotions far better than mere words. It had the power to inspire listeners to achieve their highest dreams or discover hidden passions, the power to unlock the magic contained in a simple music score.
Downstairs, Christelle turned around, hearing someone call her name. It was Professor Király. Cloe made a discrete exit, motioning that she’d wait for Christelle up ahead.
“Miss Christelle, you have been approaching perfection today – in your hands, the violin seems to come alive,” the professor said. “Now, you know you are one of my favorite students and don’t let what I’m about to say make you doubt that, but I still want to hear you put more passion into the andantes.”
Christelle nodded, her eyes drawn to Király’s expressive blue ones. He was a man of tall stature, which only enhanced the strange magnetism of his speech and eyes, and his face and body gave no hint of his almost sixty years. Due to his knowledge and energy, Király’s approach to lessons was admired by everyone. It was no wonder then that he was Christelle’s favorite teacher, even though he had exacting standards.
“You’re right,” she replied. “I’ll keep it in mind for the next rehearsal and try to perfect those passages.”
Király gave a slight smile of approval.
“I’m sure of it. Anyway, practice that part at home and I am sure that the next day even Mozart would approve of your execution…although, regrettably, considering where he is, I do not believe could listen to him.”
Christelle smiled at Király’s little joke, appreciating the confidence he showed in her.
With a gesture of gratitude, she said good-bye to him and came downstairs to join Cloe. The two friends continued their conversation on the way out of La Cité and made plans to meet the following week. They had a hard weekend ahead, preparing for the first exams of the term.
Before going her way, Christelle turned around to contemplate the extraordinary building behind her. Few of her acquaintances liked the place. It was modern and surrealist, with large, glass-like spaces and minimalist but striking décor. She did, though. Perhaps it was because the atmosphere there seemed suffused with her beloved music, filling her with a sense of satisfaction and completion.
A glance at her watch sent her anxiously on her way. It was past three in the afternoon and her uncle would be waiting for her. She had responsibilities at the antique shop, but today she was very tired and wanted only to take a step back and relax.
The afternoon sun shone on her long, chestnut hair, bringing out brilliant red undertones as she walked rapidly to the Porte Pantin subway stop. The train arrived, letting out a couple of people, and she quickly sat down in one of the many open seats. Christelle always chose the same place to get comfortable during her commute home; it seemed to be already expecting her. She lifted the violin case onto her lap and caressed it softly as the familiar alarm warned of the closing train doors.
It was a long ride to the Bastille station, but Christelle was lost in her own thoughts and paid no mind to the time. Her distant eyes reflected the fleeting orange lights of the tunnels, and once in awhile they rested briefly on the walls of the different stops, where large ads proclaimed upcoming films or events in the hectic city that was Paris La Cité de la Musique. To him, his niece was a prodigy, and he did not want to see that amazing ability to understand and interpret music go to waste. When Christelle lost her parents, if the violin was the lifeline she clung to, Bernard was its anchor. They were both essential to her life.
She smiled as she remembered her first day at La Cité. The misgivings, nerves, and apprehension at entering the entirely new universe before her….and her uncle’s words, ones that fed her dreams: “You have a gift, Christelle. A wonderful gift. Make good use of it.” She had so much to thank him for.
Bernard owned a little antique shop not too far from the Place de la Bastille. They lived in the apartment above the shop, which he also owned. Christelle adored that establishment, full of what she called “her treasures,” and was saddened every time an antique left with a buyer. She had always helped at the store: cleaning and organizing, arranging various objects where the light would best bring out their beauty, and waiting on clients when her uncle could not. She had grown up among genealogies, statues of Greek goddesses, Louis XIV desks, oil lamps, paintings of long-ago eras, dolls from the previous century, jewel boxes belonging to any number of ancient aristocratic ladies….Immersed in these images, Christelle was pulled back to the present when a metallic feminine voice announced her stop.
The Bastille plaza shone splendidly under the autumn sun, and the bright figure of “The Spirit of Freedom” atop the July Column seemed happy and pleased, surveying the city at its feet. Christelle always stopped for a moment to look at the column and that slender golden sculpture. She had a passion for that era of Parisian history, and it gave her a thrill to know that under that column rested the remains of over 500 people. These were victims of the liberal revolutions of 1830 and 1848, the same ones that Victor Hugo described in his great work Les Misérables.
With a happy sigh, Christelle hoisted up her violin case and headed toward the Rue des Tournelles, where her uncle’s establishment Athena was. He had christened it thus many years ago in honor of the Greek goddess of knowledge. The premises were small, flanked on the outside by two carved Salomonic columns, which gave the place an archaic and solemn air. Against the reddish brick of the façade, a raised white plate announced in large, gothic letters:
ATHENA
Antiques, Books and Art
Christelle arrived at the shop, waving a greeting to her uncle through the window as she entered. Despite having lived there for so long, she was always struck by the sights: the two sculpted angels that adorned the main door, torches raised in their arms; enormous crystal chandeliers hanging everywhere; aging wall clocks in the corners; books of great value arranged thematically on the oaken shelves. And the smell: a heady mix of history and culture that permeated everything in sight, intoxicating the senses.
Her uncle waited for her behind the wood-and-crystal counter lining the right side of the store.
“There you are!” he exclaimed. “Delaying over the usual things, eh? Come and give me a hand with all this.”
She looked around. The entire place had been completely invaded by a multitude of boxes of varying sizes. It happened often: a new shipment from a store, or possibly some other antique shop, would arrive and swamp them. It was going to be an inventory day, then. She looked at her uncle and made a face, half amused, half fatigued.
Bernard took off his tortoiseshell spectacles and smiled.
“Don’t worry, I’ll let you rest. I know exam time is exhausting, but just a few hours, ok? I need all the help I can get to unpack everything I bought…it’s from Corenthin, did you know that?” His large, blue eyes were enthusiastic as he continued, “The antique dealer’s heirs decided to clear out their grandfather’s business and sell the whole lot to me, and for such a price! I couldn’t waste an opportunity like this!”
At sixty-five, Bernard was an energetic and enterprising man. Age had already begun to slow his formerly thin and athletic frame, but his eyes had not lost their intense brilliance and his hands were as agile as they were in his youth. Years ago, he had been a master builder. Thanks to his skills, he was hired as assistant to an architect whose company had begun to gain prominence. Together, they reconstructed and restored various buildings and cathedrals like those of Coutances, Nantes
However, after a time, things began to change. The architect declared his company bankrupt and admitted he did not have enough money to pay sufficient compensation to such a valued assistant. Thus, by way of payment, he decided to give Bernard some family antiques that could then be sold. Instead, these objects opened up a completely unexpected path for Bernard.
At the suggestion of his brother, Christelle’s father, Bernard rented a little space in Paris
“All right,” said Christelle as she climbed the stairs slowly and pulled off her jean jacket, “I’ll help you when I’ve changed and rested a little. I’m so tired!”
Bernard smiled as he watched his niece head to her room. He could always count on her.
Once alone, he breathed deeply and continued his work, using a crowbar to open one of the nearest boxes. With utmost care, he took out several objects, each one well wrapped in bubble packaging. The first one was a Napoleon III clock, Baullé style with stand, gold to mercury. A very good acquisition, Bernard thought, delicately caressing the little statue of Cupid ornamenting it. He placed it carefully on the counter, mentally calculating its price.
The next object was a slender bronze and ivory chryselephantine statuette depicting Louis-Philippe d’Orléans on horseback. Bernard frowned; he had never much liked historic characters. He continued taking out objects from the enormous box, coming across a golden cornucopia on which was painted a portrait of the Virgin and Child. An attached note read, “Anonymous, 17th century.” A fine decorative piece, indeed, thought the antique dealer as he unconsciously plucked at his gray hair.
Coming to another of the boxes, Bernard opened it with the same efficiency as the other, but something made him stop. Behind it, he saw a curious large wooden chest ornamented in bronze. Setting the opened box aside, he approached the chest and ran deft fingers over its lid, noticing a metal key inserted in the lock. He opened it gently, the hinges creaking.
His eyes grew wide on seeing what lay inside.
This was going to be more than interesting.
With care, Bernard extracted an old violin case, looking it over briefly before opening it. The interior lining was of blood-red velvet, greatly enhancing the object that lay upon it: a beautiful violin that drew the eyes and hypnotically induced both desire and fear –desire to touch it, and fear of marring such a masterpiece.
Bernard lost all sense of time, unable to tear his eyes away. His spine tingled. He felt paralyzed.
After countless minutes, he inhaled and shifted his gaze. Shaking his head, he was denoting that had come to his memory written words in some old letters...
It is…it is the same…!
-- 3 --
December, 1907.
All of the workmen were speechless at what they saw that December morning.
The instructions had been very specific: hollow out a space large enough for a strongbox in the supposedly solid wall of the Opéra Garnier’s shadowy cellars. Few of them actually knew what the space was intended for, but up to that moment they had worked unquestioningly.
Several months before, the director of the Paris and London
Pedro Gailhard, then director of the National Academy of Music, agreed to Monsieur Clark’s proposal and discretely hired a group of masons to build a strongbox into one of the subterranean walls of the building. But none of them expected that wall to suddenly open onto a hidden world when they struck it with their picks and hammers. Not even the foreman could muster enough words to shake the men out of their amazed stupor.
Everything had happened very quickly, giving no one time to react. Wading through the stone debris that had tumbled about their feet, the workmen made their way cautiously into the dark opening.
A completely furnished room lay before them, covered in a dense fog of dust that lent it an even more phantasmagoric aspect. Bearing witness to the excessive fury of the inhabitant, everything was in a state of chaos and destruction: torn curtains, chandelier pieces scattered on the shredded carpet, partially burned sheets of music covering a great deal of the floor, and overturned furniture.
However, that was not what aroused the workers’ fear and bewilderment.
In the next room, separated from the first by a curved stone arch, was a deathbed.
The black walls were trimmed with a huge stave where they could discern the notes of the Dies Irae. Occupying a good part of the front wall was a small dark-colored organ whose ivory keys still shone, despite the passage of years. Against the black floor could be glimpsed strange, darker stains like indelible traces. Some of the men thought they might be blood.
In the center of the room, on a raised platform covered with thick Oriental carpets, rested a grotesque coffin of lacquered oak. It lay under a great crimson canopy between the statues of two tall, cadaveric figures bearing six-armed candelabras on their shoulders.
The room had an aura of terrifying mystery that permeated the very air they breathed.
Jules, one of the masons, crossed himself and managed to burst out, “Mon Dieu, c’est le Fantôme…! ”
With the exclamation, panic spread through the workmen and edged them back toward the first room.
“None of that nonsense! Do you understand me?” roared the foreman, seeing their reaction. Clapping his meaty palms together loudly and hoping his underlings would perceive no trace of doubt or fear in his voice, he continued, “This is probably just where the workers took breaks during the construction of the Opéra. An Italian architect told me once that they had something similar in Florence
None of the men moved.
“What are you waiting for?” the foreman barked angrily.
To set an example, he stayed in the strange, small room, casting a dim light with his dark lantern. The workers whispered amongst themselves; the room clearly was not suited to providing rest to fatigued workers. No one believed it was anything other than a funeral chamber. It did not seem to matter to the foreman. Like an explorer in uncertain territory, he walked slowly toward the gloomy coffin. The confident words he had uttered moments before seemed to grow cold and empty, and in their place fear grew alarmingly. But he could not stop now; ten curious pairs of eyes followed him from few meters, and he was not going to be taken as a coward.
The foreman’s steps were halting and uncertain as he arrived at the coffin, and he was unable to hear his agitated breathing due to the pounding blood in his ears. Although he drew back the red canopy as gently as he could, a cloud of dust exploded before his eyes. Waving a hand in the air to clear it, he bent forward to look inside the coffin – What he saw left him breathless, and it seemed his heart had stopped. Jumping back with a start and wiping a suddenly sweaty forehead, he whispered hoarsely, “Merde, c’est un squelette!”
The workmen were seized with alarm. They had all heard rumors about a spirit haunting the building and this discovery was more than enough confirmation. Nobody wanted to see for themselves; they had already had enough. All the workers wanted now was to inform the director as soon as possible and get away from that ill-fated place. They left.
No one noticed that one of them had not followed.
Jules stood still, staring at the scene. His eyes brightened suddenly with purpose. He caught up one of the lanterns left in the workers’ abrupt escape, and wetting his dry lips, he hesitated briefly while deciding what to do.
He illuminated the small room containing the coffin from the steps under the curved arch. Everything seemed more sinister without the light of his companions’ lanterns, and the fantastic shadows his own lamp threw made him tremble. He took a step backward, tempted to dismiss his plans and run out.
But something urged him forward. The place had to contain something valuable; he knew it instinctively. Concentrating on that thought, Jules entered the larger room, taking a deep breath to steady himself. The air was stale and heavy with the smell of damp, rotting wood. Turning slowly, he shone his faint light round the walls, one of which was hung with torn, wine-colored curtains.
The lantern light revealed the two deathly statues guarding the coffin again, casting long, ghostly shadows. He imagined them watching his every step. Jules’ sweaty hands trembled. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a good idea to stay here after all.
He glimpsed what was once an opulent Persian carpet, wrinkled and deformed, its arabesques faded by time and dust. Several black chandeliers were tilted over it, the withered wax of their candles encrusted in the cloth like old wounds. Next, his lantern illuminated a shattered bust of Mozart, whose fragments were scattered on hundreds of music scores. The workman felt a chill creep up his spine on seeing the composer’s pale face, which had remained whole. The lifeless marble eyes looked at him fixedly as if they knew what he had in mind. He swung the light away and went on. Only his breathing and the rustle of music sheets underfoot feet broke the silence.
His courage nearly failed him as he approached the coffin. Making the sign of the cross again, Jules looked inside. The foreman had spoken the truth: there, with arms crossed like a mummy, he found a skeleton. Its empty eye sockets gazed back at him from eternity, and the shredded clothing clung to the shrunken form. It was a macabre sight.
Repelled, Jules coughed and held his breath while retreating rapidly to light another part of the room. He blinked several times before making out the form of the organ, covered with cobwebs and a dense layer of dust. Looking more closely, he could distinguish a different shape propped up against one of its sides. He approached rapidly and bent down, laying the lantern aside. He picked up the object. It was a violin case.
Jules took a deep breath. It would probably be worth the trouble.
He opened the case with care and tried to discern its contents in the dim light. He smiled with pleasure. Yes, definitely worth the trouble.
Closing the case and gripping it tightly, he picked up the lantern and ran toward the exit, tripping several times. He could feel his blood pulsing with painful insistence in his temples as he fled from the funereal place.
Jules never imagined that in his hands he held a mystery that would last for years…
-- 4 --
May, 1930.
It had been a frenzied morning at the Opera’s storehouses and Jacques was exhausted. There had been instructions to inventory and meticulously reorder the props while more were being brought in from the Palais Garnier and the Odéon.
For three years, Jacques had worked at what was nicknamed the Ateliers du Theatre where in his view he was always given the most arduous and tedious tasks. It was hard work, but he never got a promotion, no matter how much he thought he deserved it.
At times he would think, with a bitter smile, how opportune it would be to have a fire like the one that destroyed the ancient storehouses on the Rue Richer in 1894. It had happened over 30 years ago. After the fire, Charles Garnier, the architect of the Opera, was hired again to construct other storehouses near the outskirts of Paris
The project lasted three long years, in which the famous Gustave Eiffel played a key role. Eiffel designed the internal structures of the roofs, with iron being the principal material. Garnier had innovated the use of iron in his own masterpiece, the Opéra, which was built around a massive iron skeleton. The storehouses were the fruit of a perfect collaboration between Eiffel and Garnier, who had worked together previously.
The new site also functioned as a workshop, and it was not uncommon to find several carpenters or craftsmen there constructing new sets or repairing worn-out props. Jacques knew the place like the back of his hand, although it had taken time for him to fully learn the function and location of the numerous small rooms. He knew where to find costumes from the latest opera presented at the Palais Garnier, the wigs used in the comedies of the Opéra Comique, the backdrops for concerts in the Odéon, even the special tack and costumes for the horses who appeared in operas like La Juive.
That morning, though, the hustle-and-bustle was particularly frantic. The Opéra Garnier and the Odéon had begun a new musical season, which bore in its turn changes in costumes, props, and different sets. These were transported with great care in trucks, and the workers at the storehouses had to be ready to receive and organize them, before packing and delivering those required for new productions.
Throughout that hectic day, Jacques did the inventory with little enthusiasm.
He had lists of a multitude of objects he needed to check and catalogue, and although there were urgent orders to finish the task quickly, he decided to proceed calmly. The ostentatious clothes from Rigoletto, Aida’s Egyptian décor, various swords and sabers, trunks replete with ballet costumes and tutus, lots of old toe-shoes, the actual crowns used in the opera Hamlet, a scepter from Boris Godunov, shields and their matching lances from The Ring of Nibelung, an unfinished scagliola bust of Charles Garnier…
Everything seemed to be in order. He glanced at the next item on the list.
“An organ?” he wondered aloud, surprised that the storerooms would contain such an instrument. He read on. Chamber organ found in the cellars of the Opéra Garnier, 1907; Good condition.
Jacques rubbed his prominent chin pensively. The instrument had lain untouched in storage for many years. He was sure that no one would have remembered its existence were it not for the inventory lists. An organ found in the Opera cellars. How interesting. He wanted to see it with his own eyes.
He headed towards the instruments section. It was a mausoleum for a neglected orchestra in which no one took interest, a cemetery of stilled notes whose former owners had left to the ravages of time. As Jacques made his way through a narrow, poorly lit corridor, he came across abandoned timpani, old spinets, a harp lacking some strings and much of its former beauty, grand pianos sheathed in dust-choked covers…
At last, he thought he saw it in a corner, half-hidden behind a harpsichord. A coarse, dark blue sheet covered a shape that corresponded exactly to that of a chamber organ. Jacques squinted, grumbling softly under his breath about the bad lighting. A couple of light bulbs were not enough to completely illuminate the room.
He deposited the inventory sheets on the old harpsichord and glanced around to verify that no one could see him. In a single motion, he grasped the cloth over the organ and raised it with care, to uncover part of the instrument. Another tug removed it completely, enabling him to examine the organ in greater detail.
It had 21 pipes in its façade divided into three sets, Jacques noted, and constructed of a dark, reddish wood – perhaps cedar. Exquisite rococo-like floral patterns were beautifully etched around the central pipes, and the pyramidal shape of the outer case conferred a sober as well as elegant aspect on the organ.
Jacques took it in for several minutes, hands on hips.
This would be perfect.
He immediately recalled a conversation that had taken place some days before at Ste. Rosalie. It was a little chapel owned by the Order of Saint Lazarus, near the Place d’Italie. Jacques was not only a good parishioner, he also maintained a friendship with the ancient priest who presided at the masses and took care of reduced installations.
“You noticed that we were missing the wonderful sounds of our organ today at mass, didn’t you, my good friend?” the priest had asked him this past Sunday. “It is very old – I believe it was installed when they built Ste. Rosalie back in 1867. Amazing that it’s lasted this long! When Dennis, our organist, went to rehearse yesterday, the instrument didn’t seem up to par anymore…he told me the part that needed replacing was only manufactured in England and Germany
Cleaning his large spectacles, the priest continued, “We can’t go for months, or even years, without an organ to brighten up the masses for our parishioners. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with this problem. Our church certainly can’t afford getting a new one!”
I have the perfect organ right here in front of me, thought Jacques with a smile, and he began planning ways to transfer it to Ste. Rosalie without anyone noticing.
-- 5 --
December, 1907.
“It’s a genuine wonder, isn’t it?” Corenthin asked unctuously. “I told you, maestro, that it was a true jewel. It is worth the trouble of coming, you cannot deny it.”
The customer meticulously examined the violin, caressing its surface, gently tapping the wood, examining the strings by touch. The old dealer had called him urgently to inform him that he had acquired a very interesting instrument, one that was doubtless predestined for so illustrious a buyer. That man was an excellent musician who had been engaged as a conductor as well as violinist for multiple concerts all over Europe . He was not excessively famous, but always talked with great pride and delight about his achievements in the music world. Having originated from Eastern Europe, he had known the antiques dealer since settling down in Paris
His eyes shown with pleasure as he contemplated the singular and beautiful instrument.
He took some time examining the upper bally running his fingers softly over it several times.
“Have you noticed this little etching on the lower bout, near the tailpiece?” he asked in a deep voice. “What does it mean?”
Corenthin blinked nervously, and shrugged.
“Yes, I’d noticed that odd symbol…Possibly it’s the mark of the previous owner, a signature, you understand. I do not think it has too much importance.”
The musician nodded.
A small carving in the violin won’t constitute a problem if the sound is good, he thought to himself, and decided to check it.
He cleverly tightened the strings and plucked a few pizzicato chords to test the tension. Watching, Corenthin wrung his hands, anxious to know whether his customer would be pleased with the violin’s tone. The master slowly tucked it under his chin and, closing his eyes, prepared to play the fifth of Paganini’s 24 Caprices, in A minor.
Neither the musician nor the dealer were ready for what came next. Corenthin clapped his hands to his ears and clenched his teeth. The violinist stopped in amazement and gaped at the violin in his hands. They both looked at each other speechlessly. What they had heard left them awestruck.
The instrument had produced the most horrid and cacophonous sound they had ever heard in their lives.
It was impossible. A violin could not make such a noise, one that couldn’t even be musically notated.
The man tried to play again, knowing his skilled fingers could not have generated such monstrous chords, but the result was the same. Corenthin didn’t know what to say. He looked dumbly from musician to instrument, struggling to decide what to do.
The musician held out a hand and shouted furiously, “Get me some different strings!”
“But these seem to be in excellent condition!” protested the dealer.
The man looked daggers at him. Livid, Corenthin went to the back of the shop and rifled through the drawers there without finding what he was looking for. He returned rapidly.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t any other strings,” he said resignedly.
Taking a deep breath and trying to clear his confusion, the violinist placed the instrument under his chin and resolved to try again. After a few uncertain moments where the only sound was the rain against the display windows, he decided to play.
A dreadful sound like the first emerged again, provoking the man’s anger. He seized the instrument by the neck and started to throw it down, hurling insults at it. The dealer stopped him, holding fast to the irate customer’s arm.
“For God’s sake, don’t do that!” he cried.
The man shoved the violin at him violently.
“This is an insult for a musician like me! A sin against music! It is unforgivable, and what is worse, you have made me lose valuable time coming this far to look at a monstrosity. You should throw it in the fire and let it burn to ashes!”
Snatching his top hat and gripping the walking-stick that relieved his limp, the musician left the shop and slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.
“Damn it!” Corenthin growled. “I wasted 400 francs on this possessed, useless thing! What can I do with it? I can’t sell an instrument that sounds like this! That miserable petty thief deceived me!”
Catching up the violin in a rage, he thrust it into its case and cursed thunderously as he took it to the darkest corner of the shop, where he deposited it in an enormous old chest made of wood and bronze. Once the lid was closed, Corenthin gestured scornfully and turned away, still ranting.
Little did he know that the large chest would not reopen for many years…
-- 6 --
Bernard remembered exactly where the letters were.
Over the years he had guarded them zealously like valuable treasures, and had read them so often he could have recited them from memory without effort.
His incredulous eyes went back to focus on the violin. It couldn’t be true. He snapped the lid shut over the instrument and went to put it back into the large chest, turning the key in the lock.
Breathing hard, Bernard wiped his sweaty forehead and made his way quickly to his private office, located behind the counter. It was a little room where he meticulously kept records of the business’ economic movements. The desk, illuminated by a small Art Nouveau figurine lamp, was littered with papers, calendars and color-coded notes. Shelves covered the walls, full of books and decorative objects from a variety of cultures.
He entered whey-faced and sat at the desk, turning on the lamp as he did so. Opening one of the desk drawers slowly and trying to calm his rapid breathing, Bernard removed a few booklets and some loose papers to reveal what he was looking for: a crystal box ornamented with black coral arabesques, a genuine wonder. He had acquired it at an extravagant price many years ago at an art auction.
He lifted it with cold, shaky hands and looked over his shoulder to make sure his niece hadn’t come down from her room. Usually she never entered the office, but Bernard’s fear of discovery increased his caution. He locked the door carefully and looked at the box for a long moment.
No one knew the secret it contained. Except Bernard. He marveled at how such a small box could hold the answer to an enigma so many people had struggled to discover.
He held his breath, and lifted the lid with utmost care. Inside lay a bundle of precisely folded letters, yellow with age and tied with a fine black ribbon. Bernard deposited the box on the desk and gently loosed the knots.
Time stopped as he began to unfold the letters. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d read them. There were eight small sheets, each with a cluster of scarlet flowers decorating the upper right corner. The writing, in black ink, was fine and rounded like a child’s, and was occasionally marked by splotches.
Bernard knew exactly what words he was looking for, but he needed to see them once more to be absolutely, completely sure of what he already believed. Choosing a letter, he ran his fingertips delicately across its surface, put on his thick spectacles, and began to read silently.
I dream of him almost every night. It is strange, because in those dreams I always feel an ineffable peace flooding me, a sweet melancholy that fills my entire being. Perhaps it is an undeniable sign that in my heart I miss him deeply…his voice, his music…
In those dreams, those fragments of memory, I watch from behind a wall as he plays his priceless violin with a sensitivity and skill that comes from heaven itself. There I stay with eyes half-closed, engrossed by his sad melody. My chest tightens with emotion on seeing and hearing him again, though I know it is but a dream. A dense mist begins to fill the room, but I can still see his dark silhouette moving in time to the music. Music that only a genius like him can ever compose, music that delicately captures all of my senses.
I try to advance. To take the first, decisive step towards his love, excessive and intoxicating. But I find myself immobile, unable to even utter his name, wrapped in the bewitching sound of his violin.
I remember the day when he first spoke of it to me, how he had made it with his own hands, years ago. He would play it when I asked, or when he was deeply afflicted with some emotion. One might say the instrument contained his soul.
In my mind, I can see that violin clearly. Its varnished ebon wood was as unique as its owner, and beautifully carved near the tailpiece was a symbol I will never forget as long as I live: Apollo’s lyre, its arms crowned with two snakes. He always refused to explain its meaning to me. Perhaps I did not deserve to know that secret…nor to have his love.
In my dream the violin dances before me. I cannot tear my eyes away, as if like poison its enchantment has entered my blood. Then, slowly, he turns to me, and in his eyes a sudden, ardent brilliance flares. Just before I wake up, I seem to see a strange smile of triumph on his mask…
Bernard finished reading, tears tracing two lines down his cheeks. Folding the letter with shaky hands, he put it back with the others in the crystal box. He collapsed in his armchair with a deep sigh, and attempted to dry his reddened eyes with a handkerchief. The ancient missive had brought to the surface thoughts and emotions he hadn’t felt in years.
I cannot believe it, he thought as he remembered the instrument. It really is the same!
Jumping suddenly from his seat, Bernard returned hastily to the large chest where he had shut the violin. He turned the key rapidly and snatched up the case, closing his eyes before rediscovering its contents.
He opened them slowly.
There it was. An utterly black violin, its belly adorned with a strange etching: a lyre, arms crowned with two snakes’ heads.
“Apollo’s lyre,” he whispered, absorbed in his thoughts. “That’s easy to recognize. Those three strings represent the three guardian muses at his sanctuary in Delphi .”
Bernard brought the violin up to his eyes, scrutinizing every detail.
What does this symbol mean? Does it have something to do with his life? With his music, perhaps?
He put on a pair of glasses with powerful magnifying lenses, used to inspect the smallest details of his antiques, and brought them precisely to focus on the tiny image in front of him. He blinked several times before ascertaining that on the lower part of the lyre was carved an initial: E.
Bernard put the violin down on the counter, and rubbed his hands anxiously.
There was no doubt. That was his violin.
At that moment, he heard Christelle’s light footsteps descending the stairs.
