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She paused a few seconds, then began the second movement. Carlos turned and looked up the hillside. The villa was bathed in the orange light of sunset. María the housekeeper was outside on the terrace, sweeping. Carlos removed his hat and held it aloft, waiting for María to see him-shouting or noise of any kind was forbidden while Our Lady was practicing. After a moment María lifted her head, and her broom paused in midstroke. Carlos held out his hands. What do you think, María? Will it be all right this time? The housekeeper pressed her palms together and gazed up toward the heavens. Thank you, God.
Indeed, thought Carlos as he watched the smoke of his fire dancing on the evening wind. Thank you, God. Tonight, things are good. The weather is fine, the vineyards are ready for winter, and Our Lady of the Hillside is playing her sonata again.
FOUR hours later, A
Suddenly she required activity. She sat upright, pulled off her damp T-shirt, and slipped into a cotton sweater. For several minutes she wandered aimlessly through the rooms of her villa, here switching on a lamp, here closing a shutter. The smooth terra-cotta floors were cold against her bare feet. How she loved this place, with its whitewashed walls and comfortable sailcloth-covered furniture. It was so unlike the house on the Zürichberg where she was raised. The rooms were big and open instead of small and dark, the furnishings unpretentious and simple. This was an honest house, a house with no secrets. It was her house.
In the kitchen she poured herself a large glass of red wine. It was from a local vintner; indeed, some of her own grapes had been used in the blend. After a moment, the wine took the edge off her mood. It was a dirty little secret of the classical music world: the drinking. She had worked with orchestras that had come back from lunch breaks so medicated with alcohol it was a wonder anyone could play at all. She peered into the refrigerator. She had hardly eaten in Zurich and was famished. She sautéed mushrooms and tomatoes in olive oil and fresh local herbs, then stirred in three beaten eggs and added some grated cheese. After the nightmare of Zurich, this simple domestic task gave her an inordinate amount of pleasure. When the omelet was finished, she sat on a tall stool at the kitchen counter and ate it with the last of her wine.
It was then she noticed the light winking on her answering machine. There were four messages. Long ago she had switched off all the ringers on the telephones to avoid being disturbed while she was practicing. She forked a bite of the omelet into her mouth and pressed the PLAY button on the machine.
The first message was from her father’s lawyer in Zurich. It seemed he had some more papers for her to sign. “Would it be convenient to send them by overnight parcel to the villa?”
Yes, it would be, she thought. She’d telephone him in the morning.
The second call was Marco. A long time ago they had been engaged to be married. Like A
“I read about your father in the papers, A
No, you won’t, she thought. She’d call Marco in the morning, after she finished with the lawyer. With a bit of luck, she’d get his machine and be spared the indignity of having to hear his voice in real time.
The third message was from Fiona Richardson. Fiona was the only person in the world A
She would not be postponing her recital in Venice. She was surprised Fiona would even suggest it. She had canceled two coming-out appearances already. There had been rumblings in the press and among orchestra masters and concert promoters. If she canceled a third, the damage could be irreparable. She’d call Fiona in the morning and tell her she was going to Venice in two weeks.
The final message: Fiona again.
“One more thing, A
Fiona recited the number.
CARLOS had laid a bed of olive wood in the fireplace. A
She had always assumed the death of her father would bring some sort of i
She closed her eyes and saw his funeral. It had been held in the ancient Fraumünster church on the banks of the Limmat. The mourners looked like spectators at a shareholders’ conference. It seemed that all of the Zurich financial world was there: the young stars and financial sharps from the big banks and trading houses, along with the last of her father’s contemporaries-the old guard of the Zurich financial oligarchy. Some of them had been there twenty-five years earlier for her mother’s funeral.
As she had listened to the eulogies, A
A