The lost symphony, p.4
The Lost Symphony, page 4
Igor Borodin was a cunning, drunken rogue who had spent time in jail for fraud, rape and seducing a minor. Tall, with a grey beard, penetrating eyes that seemed to look straight through you and a deep voice commanding authority, he was an imposing figure. After his release from jail, he reinvented himself and became a popular preacher who claimed to be able to summon the spirits of the dead and communicate with them. He called himself the ‘Prophet of Salvation’, and soon he had a dedicated circle of followers, many of them impressionable young society women who fell under his spell and were prepared to do almost anything for him. Rumours of unspeakable debauchery and drunken orgies held during his séances soon circulated throughout St Petersburg, yet despite all this, or perhaps because of it, many flocked to his sermons that promised salvation.
Borodin was a gifted, almost zealot-like speaker with a magnetic personality, who was able to whip up passion and excitement wherever he went. In Olga Gutnik, a stunning, ruthless Polish woman without morals, he had found a kindred spirit, and soon a successful partnership was forged to trick the gullible and exploit the desperate, looking for a spiritual experience. Olga, a former actress who had also spent time in jail for soliciting and fraud, became the medium, and Borodin was the preacher-prophet interpreting her ‘messages’. The Borodin séances became fashionable and famous, and people were prepared to pay a small fortune for an invitation to participate.
The setting for these séances was a large, vaulted underground cellar in an old, dilapidated house on the outskirts of St Petersburg. The house provided an almost stage-like, theatrical backdrop to the spectacular séances, full of ingenious props and cleverly concealed special effects that were accepted without question as real by those who wanted to believe, and did.
Borodin preyed on the vulnerabilities, weaknesses and hopes of his subjects and tailored the séances accordingly. He interviewed potential subjects and their friends before each séance. This was done for the sole purpose of obtaining information to be used later during the séance in the medium’s answers, as proof of her ability to access the spirit world, and summon spirits at will to answer questions, and provide guidance and advice.
So successful and sought-after were these séances that one had to book them several weeks, often months in advance. Many came to ask questions and seek comfort from their dear departed; others came out of curiosity or for entertainment and debauchery, for which the séances were well known. Borodin and Olga had something for everyone.
When a subject wanted to make contact with a spirit, Borodin preferred small groups of three or four participants. When the subjects came for entertainment, the groups were larger and the participants chosen accordingly.
Two days before the séance, Borodin had interviewed first Davydov then his friend, to find out why Davydov wanted to summon the spirit of Tchaikovsky and ask questions. Desperate and eager to believe this was truly possible, Davydov shared his innermost fears and hopes with Borodin. Borodin was an excellent listener and an expert in extracting information. He appeared genuinely interested, compassionate and prepared to help.
The séance was arranged for ten pm on a Saturday. Due to the sensitive nature of the questions to be asked, the only participants would be Davydov and his friend. To fortify himself and be able to cope, Davydov had injected himself with a large dose of morphine before attending. Borodin and Olga were consummate performers who knew how to put on a show to dazzle even the most hardened sceptics.
Davydov and his friend arrived half an hour before the séance was due to start and were shown to an eerie waiting room in the cellar that looked like an ossuary. One wall was entirely covered with rows of grinning skulls on rusty spikes, many of them with candles burning inside, sending crazy shadows floating across the stone floor like a dance macabre. A library of mortality reminding the visitor of the fragility of life and the certainty of death.
A young woman, her firm breasts exposed and wearing theatrical makeup that made her eyes appear feline and huge, showed them to a red velvet lounge facing the wall of skulls, and served vodka and champagne.
‘What did I tell you?’ whispered Davydov’s friend and took a sip of champagne. ‘Spectacular, isn’t it?’
Davydov nodded, obviously impressed, the excitement and anticipation welling up from somewhere deep inside him, making him feel dizzy. Then the heavy, iron-studded wooden door at the far end of the large chamber creaked open and Borodin appeared. Looking like a wizard in a long black caftan embroidered with gold thread that shimmered in the candlelight, Borodin took a bow and pointed into the other room. ‘This way please, gentlemen. Everything is ready.’
4
Madame Petrova’s music box. Kuragin chateau, La Saint-Sylvestre: 2016
After scattering Madame Petrova’s ashes around her snow-covered memory trees, Countess Kuragin and Jack returned to the chateau to celebrate New Year’s Eve. The countess had instructed the cook to prepare a special dinner, as tradition demanded.
‘So, what have you got planned for New Year’s Eve?’ asked Jack as he helped the countess take off her heavy fur coat.
‘A traditional meal, of course, but with a few surprises.’
‘Can’t wait. I’m starving.’
‘You are always starving, Jack. Your eating habits are like your wardrobe: chaotic!’
‘Not today, please,’ pleaded Jack, rolling his eyes. ‘Any guests?’
‘No, I thought we’d keep tonight strictly a family affair, bearing in mind where we’ve just been and what we’ve done.’
‘Good idea. I was hoping that was the case. I don’t have to dress up, then,’ added Jack, grinning mischeviously.
The countess shook her head, exasperated. ‘No. Pre-dinner drinks in the music room at seven-thirty, dinner at eight.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘I hope so. What are you going to do now?’
‘Reflect a little on what we did today, watch the Sydney fireworks and call Alexandra to wish her a Happy New Year.’
The countess put her hand on Jack’s arm and looked at him. ‘A day like this takes a lot out of you, doesn’t it?’
‘It sure does. Emotions can be draining. And thank you for arranging everything so ... well, you know, with love and care.’
‘I did it for both of us.’
‘Just the same. Facing the finality of death is never easy.’
‘No, neither is the relentless march of time.’
‘Quite so. Only the three of us, then, now that Tristan has decided to desert us and spend time in Venice instead. You and me, and Anna?’
Very much in love, Tristan had moved to Venice to spend time with Lorenza, the celebrated Top Chef Europe winner. He was staying at the Palazzo da Baggio, helping to set up her restaurant and reopen the boutique hotel after an ordeal that had almost cost her life.
‘Who can blame him? Young love. Tristan and Lorenza have been through a lot together,’ said the countess, remembering Lorenza’s abduction and Tristan’s heroic efforts to save her just a few months before.
‘They make a great couple,’ conceded Jack. ‘I hope it works out.’
‘Don’t be such a cynic.’
‘I miss him ...’
‘I know you do.’
‘François and cook will join us as well, of course,’ said the countess. ‘They are family.’
‘Excellent! May I make a suggestion?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘If it’s only the five of us, why don’t we have our New Year’s Eve dinner in the kitchen? That wonderful old table, full of memories. What did you call it? A table rubbed smooth by countless elbows propping up tired chins of generations past, looking forward to a meal? Far less formal ...’
The countess looked at Jack, surprised. ‘I can’t see why not. It’s a great idea. In fact, it would make things a lot easier, especially for François and cook. And you certainly don’t have to dress up,’ she added, smiling. ‘And as you know, Anna loves that kitchen and feels very comfortable there.’
‘It’s all settled then. Seven-thirty in the kitchen. I’ll take care of the drinks.’
‘You’re on. I’ll let cook know.’
The informal New Year’s Eve dinner in the Kuragin kitchen, smelling of roast goose and spices, was a great success and the perfect conclusion to a solemn day, celebrating an extraordinary life. Jack the storyteller was in his element. He asked everyone at the table to tell a story about the most memorable New Year’s Eve they could remember.
When his turn came, Jack reminisced about an outback New Year’s Eve at the remote family homestead in Queensland. He described sitting under the stars as a young boy, at the end of a searing-hot day, with Aboriginal drovers drinking beer on the veranda, telling yarns of rainbow serpents living in the sky and Dinkarra, the mysterious Dreamtime hero, and Djumbud, the spirit country of revered ancestors long gone.
After a splendid meal of foie gras, oysters and roast goose, expertly prepared by cook for the occasion and washed down with vintage champagne from the Kuragin cellar, and a spectacular Bombe Alaska, specially prepared for Jack as a surprise, everyone retired just after midnight.
‘Night cap?’ said the countess, linking arms with Jack.
‘Sure.’
‘I have a surprise for you.’
‘Oh? I like surprises.’
‘Let’s go to the music room, a most appropriate setting for the surprise as you will see.’
‘I can’t wait.’
‘Warm up the brandy snifters. I won’t be long.’
Fifteen minutes later, the countess joined Jack in the music room. François had built a cosy fire in the huge fireplace during the afternoon, giving the intimate room an inviting, festive glow. The first thing Jack noticed as the countess came walking slowly towards him was the familiar Fabergé gold cross she wore around her neck. The last time Jack had seen that cross was in Madame Petrova’s retirement apartment four years earlier, when he had discovered that she was his great aunt. It had been that very cross that had been instrumental in exposing the remarkable connection between them.
Instinctively, Jack reached for his own identical cross he wore around his neck and held it tight. The countess placed a large parcel wrapped in gold paper she was carrying onto the coffee table in front of the fireplace, and turned to face Jack.
‘In case you are wondering,’ she said, following Jack’s gaze and placing the tips of her fingers on the little jewel-encrusted cross around her neck, ‘Madame Petrova left it to me. As you know, her father gave it to her as an Easter present when she was a teenager. He gave the other to her sister, your grandmother. You are wearing a replica of it around your neck.’
‘Amazing,’ said Jack, his eyes misting over as he remembered that tragic incident in Central Park four years earlier, when he had saved Soul’s life. Once again, the little cross had played a significant part in that. He looked at the cross as a link of fate, opening doors to a past that would have otherwise remained hidden, preventing the discovery of precious family secrets and connections.
‘How very appropriate,’ said Jack. ‘Another bond between us.’
‘You know you are family, Jack, even without this.’
Jack nodded. ‘Still ...’
‘And she left you something, too.’
‘Oh?’
The countess pointed to the parcel on the table. ‘Open it.’
Jack put down his glass and began to peel away the gold paper. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, opening the plain carton and peering inside.
‘What does it look like?’
‘Some kind of music box?’ ventured Jack, lifting the curious item out of the carton. ‘How beautiful,’ he said, and placed the intricate little music box on the table.
‘It is,’ said the countess. ‘But not just any music box. This is a rare antique. Apparently, it used to belong to Madame Petrova’s mother, Countess Marya Bezukhova.’
‘You don’t say,’ said Jack. ‘Another unexpected link to the past.’
‘She also left you all the photographs on her piano, which you so admired during your last meeting. She called them her little “memory windows” into her long life and wanted you to have them.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jack, and gave the countess a peck on the cheek. ‘Do you think it works?’
‘Why don’t we try it and see?’
‘Do you know what to do to make it go?’
‘She did show me. Here, let me ...’
Slowly, the countess activated the mechanism, careful not to break anything as the box had not been in use for a long time. When she finally turned the lever at the back, the disc began to turn and a strange, muffled, mournful sound drifted out of the box.
‘Ouch!’ said Jack, covering his ears. ‘Not what was once intended, surely.’
‘I think not,’ agreed the countess, laughing. ‘The passage of time must have stolen a few notes, I’d say.’
‘Sounds like it. Must be damaged inside.’
‘Most probably. Hardly surprising when you consider its age. I know a wonderful clockmaker and restorer of musical instruments in Paris. He looks after all our clocks here. I’m sure he could investigate the problem, see what’s wrong and hopefully repair it.’
‘Excellent. Let’s do that.’
Jack reached for the two brandy balloons on the mantelpiece and handed one to the countess.
‘The day is full of surprises. To our inheritance,’ he said. ‘I wonder what tales this little music box could tell if only it could speak.’
‘Who knows? Perhaps one day, it will,’ said the countess and touched glasses with Jack. ‘Happy New Year!’
5
The Séance, St Petersburg: December 1894
As Davydov followed Borodin into the séance chamber, he could hear the strange, mournful sound of a flute-like instrument in the background. A feeling of dread came over him and he began to tremble. If there was truth in what he had been told, he was about to come face to face with his uncle’s spirit, the realisation filling his morphine-muddled brain with terror.
‘In case you are wondering, what you can hear is a Turkish Mey, a double-reed aerophone,’ said Borodin. ‘It is an ancient musical instrument reaching all the way back to Hellenistic Egypt. It helps in making contact with the spirit world and relaxes our medium.’
The séance chamber had been carefully set up by Borodin and Olga for maximum effect. Exposed bricks, a vaulted, cobweb-covered ceiling and the stone floor gave the chamber a chapel-like feel, like a hidden place of worship in the catacombs of ancient Rome. The chamber smelled of sandalwood and was lit entirely by candles inserted into a rusty iron chandelier dangling from the centre of the ceiling. It appeared much larger than it was, with flickering shadows creeping along the walls like fingers pointing into the afterlife. Positioned directly under the chandelier was a round black marble table with a small silver bell on top, and four chairs, one of them with a back much higher than the others.
‘Please take a seat,’ said Borodin and pointed to the table, ‘but leave this chair empty.’ Borodin pulled the chair with the high back away from the table, sat down next to it and closed his eyes to let the tension grow. ‘As I told you before, I will be your guide. If you carefully follow my instructions, no harm will come to you.’
Davydov and his friend sat down as instructed, and listened to the seductive melodies drifting through the chamber. Then the music stopped abruptly, plunging the chamber into silence. After a while, Borodin opened his eyes again and reached for the ornate little bell in the middle of the table.
‘This is an antique Buddhist singing bell from Tibet,’ he said. ‘It is used for sound healing and meditation in the Himalayas. Its chime will summon the medium; listen.’
Borodin rang the bell by gently tapping it with a small bamboo stick, the clear, almost ethereal sound banishing the silence.
‘Now close your eyes and listen,’ continued Borodin and rang the bell again.
‘Now open your eyes.’
Davydov did as he was told and gasped. Sitting in the high-backed chair opposite was a striking woman in a green silk dress, her face covered by a translucent veil, making her large, hooded eyes glow in the semi-darkness as she stared at Davydov. For a while, Davydov’s heavy breathing was the only sound in the chamber.
‘Spirit world, open your gates,’ began Borodin, his deep voice echoing through the chamber. ‘We beseech you, allow the sprits within to reach out to the living, seeking comfort and advice.’
Olga closed her eyes and began to take deep breaths.
‘Who is seeking comfort and advice?’ asked Olga, her voice sounding strange, as if it didn’t belong to her body but was emanating from somewhere else.
‘Vladimir Davydov, beloved nephew of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky,’ replied Borodin, ‘who is in great need of comfort that only the spirit of his uncle can provide.’
Olga nodded, opened her eyes and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Oh, spirit of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, we summon you,’ she whispered, her voice again sounding distant and strange. Suddenly, a cold puff of wind blew through the chamber, making the chandelier candles flicker and extinguishing several of them, almost plunging the chamber into darkness. ‘Are you there?’ asked Olga, opening her mouth.
Mesmerised, Davydov saw something that looked like green fog drift out of her mouth and then spiral upwards towards the ceiling like smoke. Moments later, Olga’s body began to shake uncontrollably as more green fog came out of her nostrils, like steam from the flared nostrils of a brewery horse pulling a heavy cart on a cold winter’s morning.
‘I am,’ said Olga, her voice now sounding deep like a man’s. ‘Oh, my beloved Bob, I have yearned for you so.’
Borodin looked at Davydov and nodded. This was the prearranged signal, telling Davydov that he could now speak and ask questions.
