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“Do you enjoy restoring paintings?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“What’s an additive inverse?” Raphael looked up from the paving stones of the Calle del Campanile and smiled. The boy had been cursed with Gabriel’s face and his jade-colored eyes. “Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Because I want to make certain you’re happy. And I was wondering whether you might be interested in studying something other than math.”
“Like painting?” The child shook his head.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll never be able to paint like you.”
“I felt the same way when I was your age. I was certain that I would never be as good as my mother and grandfather.”
“Were you?”
“I never had a chance to find out.”
“Why don’t you try again?”
“I’m too old, Raffi. My time has come and gone. I’m just a restorer now.”
“One of the best in the world,” said the boy, and chased his sister across the Campo San Tomà.
If need be, Gabriel was one of the fastest art restorers in the world as well. He completed the retouching of the Pordenone in five marathon sessions, then covered it in a fresh coat of varnish. Chiara came to the church two days later to supervise the return of the enormous canvas to its marble frame above the high altar. Gabriel, however, was not in attendance; he was on a train headed north through the Italian Alps. He waited until he had crossed the Austrian border before phoning the world’s most famous violinist.
“Have you finally come to your senses?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. “Quite the opposite.”
15
Philharmonie am Gasteig
The Philharmonie am Gasteig, Munich’s modern concert hall and cultural center, stood on Rosenheimer Strasse near the banks of the river Isar. Gabriel, in a dark suit and tie, the shoulders of his cashmere overcoat dusted with snow, presented himself at the will-call window and in perfect Berlin-accented German requested his ticket for that evening’s sold-out performance of Mendelssohn’s E-minor violin concerto and Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony.
“Name?” asked the woman behind the glass.
“Klemp,” he replied. “Johannes Klemp.”
The woman drew a small envelope from the box before her, then, after reviewing the attached sticky note, reached for her phone.
“Is there a problem?” asked Gabriel.
“Not at all, Herr Klemp.”
She spoke a few words into the phone, her hand shielding the mouthpiece, and rang off. Then she handed Gabriel the envelope and pointed toward the doorway at the far end of the foyer.
“The backstage entrance,” she explained. “Frau Rolfe is expecting you.”
The door had opened by the time Gabriel arrived, and a smiling young woman with a clipboard was standing in the breach. “Right this way, Herr Klemp,” she said, and they set off along a gently curving corridor. Beyond the next door was the backstage area. The Philharmonie am Gasteig was the home of the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, widely regarded as one of the world’s finest. Tonight it would be under the baton of Sir Simon Rattle, who at that moment was chatting with the orchestra’s first concertmaster.
Gabriel’s young escort paused before the closed door of a dressing room. The placard indicating the name of the occupant was unnecessary. She was readily identifiable by the matchless liquid tone she was drawing from her Guarneri violin.
