Eighty Days Red (15 page)

8
Parisian Melodies

The phone rang. It was Summer.

Dominik had been waiting for days now, since they’d shared a coffee in Brighton. Arguing with himself whether he should phone her or not. Yearning to hear the sound of her voice, to feel her close again.

But every time it just didn’t feel like the right moment. Coming across her in Brighton had been a genuine coincidence but phoning her first now would feel stalkerish, he feared.
Time and time again, he’d dialled her number but not called, riven by doubts and hesitation. He’d since contacted LaValle and had told him about the theft of the Bailly. He had wanted to gather information on the likely market for stolen musical instruments. LaValle had given him the name of a go-between who happened to live in the Paris suburbs and sometimes facilitated matters when it came to the less legal sides of the business. The dealer had sounded amused to hear that the notorious Bailly was still creating waves, as if its theft lent further credence to the Angelique legend.
Dominik wanted to discuss the development with Summer. Twice today already he’d tentatively reached for the phone on the desk as if it were a lump of hot coal. He’d gone for a walk on the Heath to clear his mind, only to find a message from Summer on his return. After all this, he had missed her! How quickly should he now return the call?
The vibration of the phone as it stuttered across his desk snapped him out of his reverie.
‘Dominik?’ It sounded as though she was right there next to him.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s me, Summer.’
‘I was hoping you’d call.’
‘Were you?’ She couldn’t hide her pleasure on hearing his words.
‘Of course. Still no news of the Bailly?’
‘No.’ The disappointment in that one word was heartbreaking.
‘I’ve been given the name of someone who might be able to help. It would mean having to go to Paris, though …’
‘Paris?’ Summer exclaimed. ‘We’re going there next week. Performing. Opening our tour at La Cigale.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Dominik said.
‘If you arranged to go at the same time, you could come to the concert, it would be great. I’d have you put on the guest list, of course. Would you? Please?’
‘I’d love to,’ Dominik said.
‘After the gig, maybe we could meet up for a coffee. Have a longer chat. I’d really like that, Dominik …’
‘I always wanted to take you to Paris.’
‘I know, but we never got round to it, did we?’
‘Isn’t it a bit late now?’ said Dominik, brushing away an emerging wave of depression. ‘Will Viggo Franck be there also?’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But we have a … loose arrangement, you know.’
‘Loose?’
‘Anyway, just a chat for old times’ sake. I’m sure Lauralynn won’t mind, will she? You can bring her along if you feel you need a chaperone,’ she joked.
‘Lauralynn’s in the States right now. Family stuff.’
‘Oh.’
There was a heavy silence, as both considered the situation.
He thought he heard Summer take a deep breath on the other end of the line, as if she was summoning her determination.
‘Come to Paris,’ she said calmly.
Dominik smiled. ‘Now who’s giving orders,’ he said with an amused tone in his voice.
He heard her gently giggling.
‘Maybe I should take the initiative again,’ Dominik suggested.
‘The initiative?’
‘Giving you orders …’
For a brief moment, he felt he had gone too far, become overfamiliar. Time had passed, things had changed. That particular game was over.
‘Maybe you should?’ Summer’s voice was curiously muted. Her bedroom voice. Her intimate voice, the one that went with the darker lipstick she would wear at night.
‘Hmm …’ Dominik considered. ‘I don’t quite think asking you to appear naked on a Paris stage is advisable at this stage,’ he pointed out. ‘Too many Frenchmen in the audience to begin with.’
Summer laughed.
‘Maybe I’ve reached the stage where I don’t have to take orders or suggestions any more,’ she said.
‘Meaning?’
‘Come to Paris, Dominik. I’ll have your name put on the list. The gig is at La Cigale, on Boulevard Rochechouart. On the nineteenth. The promoters tell us it’s a good venue to play, has a great vibe.’
‘I will,’ he said.
‘I’ll think of something,’ she added.
‘I’m sure you will,’ Dominik said, relief flooding through his veins.

The Eurostar train arrived late at the Gare du Nord, following unexplained technical delays on the line. The colours of sunset were spreading across the Paris sky as Dominik disembarked and made his way to the cab rank.

He dropped his overnight bag at his usual hotel on the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, close to the Odéon, and went in search of a meal. The whole area had been colonised over the past years by new-style Japanese restaurants so he didn’t have to step more than a few minutes away from the hotel doorstep.

He knew Summer and Groucho Nights had been put up by the gig’s promoters on the other side of the Seine, but old habits died hard and he felt more comfortable staying in the Latin Quarter, an area where he had spent much of his youth. His room was small and sparse, but all he required was a bed and a roof above his head; anything else would have proved a distraction.

Dominik planned to contact the go-between, the man LaValle had put him on to, early the following morning.

At first the man, who called himself Cavalier, sounded suspicious. But when Dominik explained that the questions were all tied in to the research for a new novel and provided details of his identity, his interlocutor suddenly seemed to warm to him.

‘Ah, a writer. I like writers!’

He hadn’t read Dominik’s novel but had actually heard about it. Ironically, France was one of the countries where, in translation, his Paris novel had not sold particularly well, as if local readers were offended by the presumption of a foreigner writing about their own country.

Cavalier had an appointment in town that same afternoon, and agreed to meet to avoid Dominik having to take a train all the way to his
pavillon
in Nogent-sur-Marne. He suggested a cafe off the Boulevard Saint Germain, Les Editeurs, a literary sort of place, he indicated, ‘where they even have shelves full of books all around the walls of the cafe. Amusing, no? Maybe they have yours?’ This was just a few minutes’ walk from Dominik’s hotel so pretty convenient.

It was an odd feeling, knowing he was right now in the same city as Summer. That she was on the other side of the river going about her life. The fact that she had, unknown to him, only been a stone’s throw away in Camden Town in London for several weeks already somehow didn’t have the same emotional immediacy. Paris made it feel both real and unreal, a bittersweet pull on his heartstrings.

‘Collectors they come in all colours, you know,’ Cavalier said. He was younger than Dominik had expected. A slight, pencil-thin man, with his jet-black hair brushed back and culminating in a ponytail that peered out from the back of a rakish fedora. He wore a checked jacket and dark, perfectly ironed trousers with a razor-sharp front crease.

‘I’ve come to that conclusion too,’ Dominik said, bluffing his way into the conversation. ‘It’s not the money, you see, that’s not the reason they get involved in theft and all sorts of illegal activities. Once they own something, they have no mind to sell it again, let alone for a profit.’

‘I know.’

‘They do it for beauty. Pure and simple. I even know certain book collectors who hoard rare editions for the sake of it. They never even read actual books, let alone those they own.’
‘I was more interested in the underground market for musical instruments.’
‘Instruments, books, artwork, jewellery, carpets, it’s all the same to them,’ Cavalier continued. ‘Greed, pure greed, if you ask me. The wealthier collectors even arrange to have items stolen to order …’
‘Is that where you come in?’ Dominik asked him.
‘I couldn’t say,’ Cavalier answered with a broad smile colouring his lips. ‘I’m merely in the information business. Assisting all parties to the best of my ability.’
He took a sip of his pastis. It smelled revolting to Dominik who was adding water and sugar to his
citron pressé
.
‘So is there anyone notorious for seeking out rare violins?’
‘Ah, you come to the point! Let me guess, is this about Monsieur LaValle’s famous Bailly, the Angelique?’
‘It is.’
‘How interesting. An instrument with a most fascinating history. Isn’t it strange how sometimes stories have a way of becoming self-fulfilling?’
‘Yes. It’s the material of novels. Or life …’
‘Exactly.’
‘From your own experience, might there have been anyone actively seeking the instrument out? Mr LaValle did give me that impression.’
‘Well, there are always collectors out there seduced by an intriguing story,’ he mused. ‘But you know I can’t give you any specific names. I am bound by confidentiality, you understand.’
‘Of course, I realise that, but—’
‘I can say one thing, though …’
‘Yes?’
‘There is a particular gentleman, a noted collector, not just of instruments but who also dabbles in artworks, who recently had the item you are investigating taken off his list. Maybe he happened to come across it, and felt it best to eliminate any evidence of his past interest.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, it would be unwise to retain a specific item on a want list once it has finally come, by hook or by crook, into one’s hands. Wouldn’t want some enterprising freelancer to come and steal it from you and confuse matters, would you?’
‘I suppose not,’ Dominik agreed. He knew Cavalier would not release any names; he hadn’t expected him to. But there was a streak of vanity in the man, a pride in the treasure chest of knowledge he stored which made his ego vulnerable, if stroked smoothly enough, he reckoned.
‘Would Viggo Franck, the musician, mean anything to you?’
There was a glint of recognition in Cavalier’s eyes. Though he quickly reined himself in and continued, ‘I certainly have read about him in the newspapers. Something of a ladies’ man, no?’
‘And an eminent collector?’
‘So I understand.’
‘A man of means?’
‘Undeniably.’
Dominik stirred the sugar that had settled at the bottom of his tall glass of lemon juice and watched it dissolve.
The two men looked silently at each other, both lost in thoughts.
‘If I didn’t know you wrote books,’ the Frenchman said, ‘I would have said you had the potential to make a good private investigator, Mr Dominik.’
‘You compliment me.’
Dominik was aware he would get no more pointers from Cavalier, but his gut feeling told him he was on the right trail.
Even though Summer had suggested he pursue that line of enquiry, he also knew she would not be pleased when he reported back to her that her intuition was being confirmed by other parties and that she was possibly sleeping with a man who had been directly involved in the theft of her precious violin.
‘Their’ violin, Dominik felt.

The auditorium lights at La Cigale dimmed and you could make out the dark shapes of mountainous towers of amplifiers on the instrument-laden stage and musicians shuffling to their places. Small red lights flickered from various control panels as the audience held its collective breath in anticipation.

A couple of spotlights picked out the tall, thin silhouettes of Chris and his cousin as they positioned themselves behind the two main microphones at the front of the stage.
‘A one, a two, a three, a four …’ Ella’s voice, counting down.
The opening song of the Groucho Nights set was an acappella ballad sung by the two front men. It was a loose adaptation of an old English folk melody given a more rhythmic twist, and it always caught the audience’s immediate attention with its stark melody and simplicity. The essential quietness of this initial part of the concert, combined with the bare nature of the lighting picking the two men out like an island in the midst of darkness, made this a striking introduction to the group’s music, setting the mood for the rest of the evening.
As the voices began to fade and with no pause for the audience to applaud, the bass guitar began plucking the rhythm of their second song. The whole stage lit up, the drums joined in and Groucho Nights went electric. Chris’s guitar spelled out a sinuous melody while his cousin’s bass underpinned it, and the music took full flight, as the front rows of the audience, no doubt already familiar with some of the band’s songs, began to clap along.
Seated on the balcony, Dominik watched as heads nodded and bodies began to sway to the rhythm of the music. The club was full to the rafters with people even standing in the aisles on the ground floor. All ages and classes were represented: the democracy of rock ’n’ roll. He wondered which were here for Groucho Nights and which had been attracted by Summer’s appearance, out of curiosity for the uncommon blend of rock and classical that was about to unfold. Following the initial four opening songs, Chris stepped towards the mike, milking the cheers from the crowd as he unplugged his Gibson and picked up a different guitar, a sleeker silver Gretsch that drew further applause from some of the connoisseurs in the audience.
‘And now for our first special guests …’
The crowd roared.
But, to Dominik’s surprise, it wasn’t Summer’s turn to make an appearance.
Trooping out from the wing were three brass players, holding their instruments aloft. Two men and a woman. They installed themselves at the back of the stage, to the right of Ella’s drums. On her signal on the hi-hat, they brought their shiny instruments to their mouths and in unison with the rest of the group launched into a funky blues riff. With the addition of the newly arrived brass section, the group sounded ten times as powerful, loud, swinging infectiously, the music wrapping itself like a cloud around the high-ceilinged auditorium of the Paris club, notching up a measured sense of frenzy with every note. The effect of the transformation was mesmerising, Dominik had to admit. How would Summer cope with such a barrage of noise and emotion with just a fragile violin? By now Chris was literally screaming into his mike to make his voice heard above the roaring sound of the augmented band, his lyrics stretched to abstraction.
Back on her drum stand, Ella was sweating madly, her backing vocals almost inaudible, arms beating a wild, frantic tattoo, while Ted stood motionless to the right, a fixed point of steadfast calm, anchoring the din, his thumb attacking the strings of his bass with metronomic repetition.
The whole hall shook.
As the song climaxed with a final flourish, the brass players sustaining their ultimate notes until they almost ran out of breath, Dominik noticed a large smile of satisfaction spread across Chris’s face as he realised he had the audience eating out of his hand.
From his vantage point up on the balcony and his sideways view of the stage, Dominik could see a gathering of onlookers standing in the wings, clapping along and watching the group; road crew, friends, guests. There was no sign of Summer, but he thought he caught a glimpse of Viggo Franck in his customary tight trousers and studied bohemian state of vestimentary disarray.
There was a brief lull between songs as both the crowd and the musicians onstage caught their breath, Chris and Ella taking a sip of water and towelling themselves while Ted remained his steadfast immobile self.
Chris then switched back to his original Gibson and launched into a delicate riff as the lights dimmed.
Then Summer walked on to the stage from the opposite wing.
She was all in white, picked out by a single spotlight, a flowing dress that reached to her ankles, her violin a delicate shade of reddish orange that almost rhymed with the thousand curls in her hair. She wore shiny, heavy black boots, a deliberately coarse contrast with the frailty of her dress.
There was a hush in the audience as she plugged her lead into one of the massive Marshall amplifiers dotted around the stage. Her bow rose in her hand and slowly alighted on the violin and the first, heartbreakingly pure note rose, echoing the sound of Chris’s guitar.
It was a while until the rest of the band joined in, the mellifluous melody unfolding on just violin and guitar, although Chris was still hidden in the penumbra as the sole spotlight remained on Summer, her small figure dominating the immensity of the dark stage.
Dominik felt his heart jump. It was as if, once again, she was playing just for him.
Beneath the white dress he could guess the unforgettable shape of her body. An image long carved into the deepest level of his brain.
His eyes fixed on Summer, he abandoned himself to her music and the spectacle of her movements on stage as she played, caressed and tamed the new electric violin, her sound soaring above the rest of the band then blending in with uncanny precision before taking off again as she dived into one of her fiery solos. All too soon the song came to an end in a flurry of feedback and the stage was bathed in lights of all colours.
Chris nodded at her and they began a new song, echoes of which Dominik now recalled having heard filter its way towards him from the bowels of the Brighton Centre when they had rehearsed. As the tune grew faster and faster, Summer was sketching little dance steps while she played. Her white dress floated around her with every successive movement. Dominik remembered her dancing on that New Orleans stage after the New Year, back when they were together. It now felt like a century ago. He closed his eyes, forcibly dragging images from that time to the surface of his mind.
There was a tap on his shoulder.
‘Hello.’ A strong foreign accent. A woman.
Dominik turned round to see who was sitting in the row behind him and attempting to catch his attention.
He identified her the moment he looked back.
The dancer from New Orleans.
Serendipity or what?
‘I know who you are,’ she said over the increasing sound of ‘Roadhouse Blues’, the new song Groucho Nights were now attacking with much gusto down on stage.
He smiled back at the enigmatic beauty.
‘And I know you.’
The volume became deafening, and she made a sign that she could no longer hear him, shrugged her shoulders and began watching the stage again.
Intrigued by the brief encounter, Dominik also turned his attention back to the music.
Ella was now dictating the beat with frenzied authority, her arms flailing away in wild abandon, her drums carrying the band onwards and upwards to new heights as Chris sang, Ted harmonised in counterpoint and Summer undulated on the spot to the fearsome beat generated by her Groucho Nights bandmates. The brass trio was swinging from side to side, punctuating the rhythm like a Soul Revue section in overdrive.
The sound rose to a roaring crescendo as the number reached its climax, the final note sustained by Chris’s guitar and Summer’s plugged-in violin, then it suddenly fell, and the applause burst out. Triumphant, Baldo, Marija and Alex all raised their instruments to the sky while the core members of the band took a bow.
Dominik had to admit to himself that the way they had integrated Summer’s violin and the newly acquired brass section propelled the music into another, altogether more exhilarating, dimension.
Basking in the crowd’s adoration, the musicians set their instruments down and, with Ted and Ella waving their hands at the crowd in acknowledgment, began to walk in single file back to the wings. The steady applause continued even after they disappeared. Dominik, like most of the spectators, was standing and still clapping. He glanced across his shoulders but Luba was gone.
The whole club vibrated with the sustained waves of continuous cheering. The roar rose in volume when Ella made her way back onto the stage. She had swapped her previously sweatdrenched top for a torn Holy Criminals-logoed shirt. The others followed with Summer coming last.
Dominik’s heart tightened.
She was still wearing the flowing white dress she had performed in earlier, but had now put on a corset over it. The combination was remarkably effective. The tightness of the new garment as it imprisoned her slim waist and emphasised her shape, and the deep contrast between light and dark, was like a shot across his bow, dredging back so many memories that only belonged to the two of them. He immediately recognised the corset he had once bought her and which she had modelled for him in the most private of circumstances.
Dominik now knew what she had meant on the phone. It was like a signal. Just for him. So much more than a wink.
The musicians all plugged in again and the crowd’s applause subsided now that it had been granted its obligatory encore.
Ella gave the signal and the sound of Summer’s violin pierced the buzzing silence with a distinctive melody soon punctuated by the rhythm of the bass.
Vivaldi.
The lead melody from one of the movements of
The Four Seasons
.
It was as if she was talking directly to him.
The rest of the band quickly joined in and the collective improvisation soon drowned Summer’s pure line of sound, the piece fracturing into a mass of showcasing solos before Summer, with a sharp movement of her wrist, re-established the main melody and her authority and, stamping her booted left foot in the most unclassical manner, brought the first encore to an end. Chris segued immediately into ‘Sugarcane’, but Dominik’s mind was already drifting.