The kind of help that they cant otherwise get?
That kind of thing, Ben said.
Nick was a shrewd guy, and he was looking at him with thoughtful eyes. Ben decided to say no more about himself. So whos coming to lunch? he asked.
Just a few pals. Music people, mostly. Theyre an all right bunch. Youll like them. One of them is my old professor, Adrian Graves, whom I havent seen for crumbs, must be a couple of years. Where does the time go?
Ben was wondering the same thing, as well as when hed last heard anyone say crumbs.
Nick went on, Hes an interesting character. Probably the most knowledgeable authority on baroque and classical that I know.
Im looking forward to meeting everyone, Ben said. It wasnt strictly true. He would have preferred to spend the time alone with Nick, the two of them catching up in private as reunited friends should. But you couldnt have everything.
They got off the bus on Banbury Road and walked the rest of the way. Nick lived in a quiet leafy street where imposing old three- and four-storey Victorian townhouses stood behind fancy black and gilt wrought-iron terrace railings. The Aston Martin, covered in pigeon droppings, was parked on the street outside a house with a black door with a lions head brass knocker. The buzzer panel discreetly mounted to the side with three name labels on it aside from Nicks. Im on the top floor, he explained to Ben as he opened the door and led the way inside the hall.
In fact, as Ben soon understood as they reached the top of the house, Nicks apartment comprised the entire upper floor. From the tall window outside his door there was a view of the University Parks woodland, cricket pavilion and the River Cherwell beyond.
I bid you welcome to my humble abode, Nick said, showing Ben into the apartment. The inside was modern compared to the exterior, airy and surprisingly large. The walls of the main living space were adorned with expensive-looking artwork and even more expensive-looking oriental rugs covered sections of the gleaming hardwood floors. But what instantly drew the eye more than anything else was the sunlit bay near the window, dominated by a shining ebony-black grand piano and a contrastingly ancient-looking, highly decorated keyboard instrument that Ben guessed was either a harpsichord or a clavichord. He was a little hazy on the difference. Whatever it was, it and the grand piano nestled together facing in opposite directions, the new and the old like two halves of a yin-yang symbol. They were the focal point of the room.
You have a very nice place, Ben said.
Nick grinned. How about a coffee for the hero of the buses?
Please, dont start that again.
Okay. Im sorry. Then how about a coffee for a very old friend that Im extremely happy to have met up with again?
Sounds better, Ben said. Me too.
A deals a deal, Nick said. And I dont think my coffee will disappoint.
Nick disappeared down a hallway that led to the kitchen, whistling some bright little tune as he got busy. Ben heard cupboard doors banging, cups and saucers clinking. In his hosts absence, Ben walked over to admire the piano. The gothic-script lettering above the keyboard and on its side said BOSENDÖRFER. It was quite a beast.
Ben liked music a lot, some kinds more than others, and often wished hed taken up an instrument in his life. If he had, it would most likely have been the tenor sax, inspired by his favourite jazz players. Like Bird, of course, and Coltrane, and Sonny Rollins and Dexter Gordon and a host of others. He enjoyed listening to a good pianist, too, even though he wasnt as much of a fan.
Nicks piano was a beautiful object, no doubt about it. Neither it nor its antique counterpart showed a speck of dust and they both screamed loving maintenance in sharp contrast to the neglected state of the car in the street outside. It was pretty clear where Nicks priorities lay.
Moving away from the instruments, Ben gazed at a couple of the portraits on the walls, both very obviously dating back to bygone centuries. One was of a man with a lean, gently thoughtful face, silky frills at his neck and cuff, a powdered wig like a judges on his head. The name plaque on the gilt frame said JOSEPH HAYDN. The other picture showed a heavier, more austere-looking jowly fellow with thick lips, a wedge of double chin, a frock coat and a slightly different kind of white wig, proffering in his one visible hand a small sheet of musical notation as if to say, Heres a little ditty I just wrote, especially for you. And youd better like it.
Ben peered closer and saw that this was the famous Johann Sebastian Bach, whose organ music he would be hearing Nick play that evening.
He found a different likeness of J.S. Bach elsewhere in the room, in the shape of a small alabaster bust resting on the glass shelf of a corner display cabinet. This Bach didnt look very pleased at all, wearing an intense, challenging scowl that followed you wherever you went. He was just one of a number of collectables on display in the cabinet, mostly music related: other composer busts of all the usual suspects, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, and some that Ben knew less well such as Berlioz and Messiaen; then there was a metronome inlaid with mother of pearl, a violin bow, an ivory piano key, a framed lock of hair purporting to have belonged to Frederick Chopin.
On the middle shelf, propped up on a little stand, was an old handwritten music manuscript that resembled the one in the Bach wall portrait, though it was proportionally a shade larger and consisted of several sheets bound together with wax, instead of just one.
Ben moved close to the cabinet to peer at the manuscript. The paper was splotched, faded and yellowed with age but the handwritten musical notation was almost entirely legible, apart from a curiously shaped, russety-coloured stain that covered part of the right bottom corner and obscured some of the last stave and a few notes. Written music notation was double-Dutch to Ben at the best of times, and this looked like a scrawl. The only part of it he could make out was the composers signature at the top of the front page, which made his eyebrows rise.
J.S. Bach
Like a moth to the flame, Nicks voice said behind him. Ben turned. Nick was returning with the coffee. The rich scent of some serious dark roast was already filling the room.
Everyone goes straight to that manuscript, Nick said, carrying the tray to a coffee table. And they all ask me the same thing. What must it be worth, and arent I taking a massive risk not keeping such an obviously priceless relic locked up in a vault?
So whats it worth? Ben asked.
Nick chuckled. After a dramatic pause he replied, Its worth precisely zero. Zilch. Dont be taken in. Its a fake.
Chapter 7
You could have fooled me, Ben said. It looks real enough. But then, Im hardly an expert.
Nick laughed as he set the things down on the coffee table and took a seat in a nearby armchair. Join the club. Im just a humble instrumentalist, not exactly one of your hardcore scholars or collectors who scour the earth ready to part with eye-wateringly vast sums for original manuscripts. I picked that up as a novelty for a few pennies in a crumbly old backstreet music shop in Prague when I was there for a concert last October. Believe me, if it was the genuine item, itd probably be worth as much as this apartment and everything in it, plus that daft car outside. But it looks the part and is a great conversation piece among my musician pals. Were a dull lot, Im afraid.
Ben peered back through the glass at the manuscript. I suppose that stain on it would lower its value, though. If it was the real thing, I mean.
I amuse myself by telling gullible souls that Bach spilled coffee on the paper while he was composing. You should see their faces at the idea that the great man would actually do such a thing as sit at the keyboard with a steaming mug next to him, like any other human being.
Is that what the stain is, coffee? Ben asked, peering at it. Through the glass, it was hard to tell.
Thats what it looks like to me, Nick said. One thing I do know, old Johann Sebastian was nutty about the stuff. Of course, coffee was very much the craze across Europe at that time. He loved it so much that he even wrote a piece of music as a homage to it, a mini comic opera called the Coffee Cantata.
Ben glanced back at the stern face on the portrait. He doesnt strike me as the comic type.
Oh, dont let that austere front fool you, Nick said with a wave. Bach loved nothing more than to have a good time, in all kinds of ways. He was the father of twenty-two children and he was extremely fond of his grub, not to mention wine and beer. He was sixty-three when he sat for that portrait, but he could still enjoy himself. Im trying to remember how the Coffee Cantata goes. Oh, yes
Nick recited:
Oh, how sweet coffee tastes,
More delicious than a thousand kisses,
Milder than muscatel wine.
Coffee, I have to have coffee,
And, if someone wants to pamper me,
Ah, then bring me coffee as a gift!
Sounds like he had it bad, Ben said. Even Im not that addicted to it, yet.
Nick smiled and pointed at the cups on the table. Im willing to bet you soon will be, once you try this. Come and drink it while its hot.
The coffee tasted as good as it smelled. Ben took it black, no sugar, the way coffee ought to be. He nodded his appreciation. Now I am an expert in this department, he said. And thats no fake. Its the real McCoy. Colombian?
Brazilian Sierra Negra, Nick said, looking happy. Something special, isnt it? Better than the bilge water they serve in Hall, at any rate.
Ben drank some more, then shook his head, thinking back to the manuscript. Its a strange world where someone would go to the trouble of counterfeiting something like that.
Welcome to the music world. Youd be amazed at the fakery thats out there. Do you seriously imagine, for instance, that I could afford a real lock of Chopins hair? Theres only one validated example in existence, and thats in a museum in Warsaw. Nick motioned towards the cabinet. That one there was most likely put together from the sweepings off the floor of a pet-grooming parlour.
Thats one way to make use of dog hair, Ben said, thinking of the state of the floor of the Le Val office after four German shepherds had been lying around in there. I was thinking of stuffing pillows with it.
Nick smiled. I should point out, however, that not everything I possess is phony. That harpsichord there, for example. Made by Jacob and Abraham Kirckman, Londons finest craftsmen of their day, circa 1775. Double manual, six hand stops, cabinet of oak, mahogany and tulipwood, all hand-inlaid. I had it professionally rebuilt six or seven years ago. Cost me an absolute bomb.
You can see where the money went, Ben said.
And hear it. Listen. Nick jumped to his feet, went over to the harpsichord and dashed off a few fast, tinkling bars. Scarlatti. Hear the quality of the sound?
I have to say the piano appeals to me more. Thats an impressive Bosendörfer you have.
And we had some fun dragging it up the stairs, I can tell you, Nick said. You want to hear something?
You dont have to play for me.
My pleasure.
Nick switched seats to the piano stool. With his back to the window, framed in the sunlight, he laid his hands on the keyboard and the room filled with the rich resonance of the grand piano. He played for a minute or so, while Ben watched and listened. The piece was slow and melancholic, yet majestic and powerful. The deep tones of the Bosendörfer projected a weight of emotion that throbbed through the soundspace around them and transported Nick off to another world as he sat there, swaying and rocking soulfully to the music he was playing.
Ben said nothing until Nick stopped and sat back, smiling at him. What was that? Ben asked.
Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesus Christ, Nick said in faultless German. I call to you, Lord Jesus Christ. Its a chorale prelude. Originally an organ piece, of course. They didnt have pianos like this back when it was composed.
Didnt sound that old to me.
Amazingly timeless, isnt it? Thats what you get from the grand master. He was way ahead of his time. Nick nodded up at the portrait Ben had been looking at before.
Bach? Ben was surprised.
Johann Sebastian himself. Some of the real purists would say it was heresy even to play Bach on a modern-day piano, let alone commit sacrileges like use the sustain pedal with these old pieces. Nick shrugged. I say, if it sounds good, why not?
It did, Ben said. Thank you for letting me hear it.
Nick came away from the piano and returned to his armchair to pour them some more coffee. It was only now that Ben noticed that he was wearing copper bracelets on both wrists. Nick sipped his coffee and then leaned back in the armchair, rubbing his hands as if they were hurting him. He caught Ben looking. Spot of the old arthritis, Nick admitted. Sign of the years creeping up on me, I suppose. Last thing a keyboard player needs is the curse of stiff fingers. Not so bad, now that spring is here.
Does the copper help?
A bit. But not as much as the special medication I use. The best in the world. Nick winked. Ben didnt press him for details.
They chatted for a while longer, mostly about classical music and current affairs, of both of which Ben had little more than a passing knowledge. As midday approached, Nick frowned at his watch and said he ought to start getting things ready for the lunchtime buffet. Ben was ready to help out. A deal was a deal.
While Nick busied himself gathering up the coffee dishes, he motioned in the vague direction of the kitchen and asked if Ben could start getting the food out of the fridge and laying it out on the side. Ben obligingly headed up the passage to find himself faced with four identical white doors, any of which could have been the kitchen. He tried one, but it was locked.
Thats the spare bedroom, Nick said, coming up behind him with the coffee tray. Kitchens at the end.
You keep your spare bedroom locked? Ben mused.
Thats where I keep my terrorist cache of explosives and weaponry, Nick said casually. Youd never guess I was plotting the overthrow of western civilisation, would you?
Your secrets safe with me, Ben replied with a smile.
The kitchen was spacious, airy and well organised, with faux-marble worktops, a solid oak dining table and matching bespoke wall units. The two friends worked quietly and efficiently, to the strains of soft choral music playing from Nicks hi-fi system. Male bonding had never been so gently domesticated as this. For Ben, it beat erecting an improvised jungle camp or circling the wagons in readiness for an enemy assault any day.