The lost symphony, p.45
The Lost Symphony, page 45
And then, of course, there was Jack’s phone call from Rome after his meeting with the pope. Once Jack had briefly explained why he wanted to urgently meet with his friend he hadn’t seen for quite some time, Krakowski was unable to resist the invitation once Jack had given him a few cryptic clues. Enough to tantalise, but without giving too much away.
The other guest Jack had invited to dinner was Celia Crawford, a leading journalist working for the New York Times, whom he knew well and had also formed a close friendship with. She and Krakowski knew each other through a sensational case involving a forgotten Monet, and a forgery that had almost ended in disaster for Isis, who had purchased the painting for 35 million pounds in 2014.
Celia had been working on a story in Chicago when Jack had called her from Rome and she had flown back to New York specially to attend the dinner. Once again, a cryptic phone call from Jack had made all the difference. Jack’s stories and escapades were legendary, and Celia knew they had to be taken seriously as some of her best leads, sensational articles and breaking news had originated from them.
Celia was the first to arrive. Looking a little flustered, but still gorgeous, she followed the waiter to Jack’s table.
‘Straight from the airport?’ asked Jack and kissed Celia on the cheek.
‘What do you think? I just made it. This better be worth it, Jack, is all I can say. I abandoned a senator and his girlfriend, who were involved in a scandal and had finally agreed to an interview. I left them standing in a hotel lobby without an explanation, hopped into a taxi to the airport, and answered your siren call. My editor will kill me. I need a drink!’
‘Have I ever disappointed you?’ said Jack with a cheeky grin, as the waiter served Celia a vodka martini Jack had ordered for his guest.
‘No. That’s why I’m here. Cheers!’
It was the applause rippling through the crowded restaurant that told Jack that Krakowski must have arrived. As a high-profile celebrity, Krakowski was well known in New York and attracted attention wherever he went. It was by no means unusual for people to break into spontaneous applause and cheer when he made an entrance, and come over to his table to ask for an autograph. Always gracious and polite, Krakowski usually obliged with a smile. Like most people in the spotlight, he enjoyed his fame and didn’t mind being the centre of attention.
‘Just like good old times,’ said Krakowski and embraced Celia. ‘Lovely to see you both.’ Krakowski looked at Jack. ‘No more forgeries and eccentric art collectors, I hope,’ he said and sat down. ‘I disappointed an ambassador and broke an actress’s heart by cancelling our post-concert arrangements just to be with you guys,’ said Krakowski.
‘It’s tough being famous,’ said Jack, rolling his eyes.
‘To tell you the truth, I was delighted to be able to get away. The ambassador is a pompous bore with a nagging dragon of a wife, and the actress is well past her prime ...’
‘I’ve done you a favour, then?’ said Jack.
‘Let’s not be too hasty. First, show me what you’ve got and we’ll see.’
‘You’re on. Shall we order dinner?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Celia. ‘I haven’t eaten all day.’
‘May I suggest Patsy’s Delicious Fried Shrimps as a starter?’ said Jack, unfolding his serviette. ‘Never disappoints.’
Celia turned to Krakowski. ‘When it comes to food, we can always rely on Jack, don’t you think?’
‘Agreed. It’s all the other stuff he promised us that worries me.’
‘Me too, but let’s eat first, shall we?’
‘How would you like to make history?’ said Jack and pushed his empty plate aside.
‘Here we go,’ said Krakowski and smiled good-naturedly at Jack.
‘I’m serious,’ said Jack and wiped his mouth with the serviette after he finished his bowl of Linguini San Giovanni, a house speciality pasta consisting of capers, onions, dried plum tomatoes and grilled portobello mushrooms. ‘This was bloody good.’
‘History? In what way?’ said Celia and reached for her notebook.
‘You can put that away,’ said Jack. ‘There’s no need to write things down.’
‘Oh? How come?’
‘Because I’ve written it all down for you. On the way over in the plane. I’ll email it to you later. So, all you have to do now is listen, because what I’m about to tell you will sound stranger than fiction.’
Jack reached for his glass and took a sip of wine.
‘This story has it all. A murdered tsarina, a mad monk, a world-famous composer, a secretive brotherhood and a pope. And most important of all, a sacred thirteenth-century icon that holds all the secrets here, and all the answers. Interested?’
‘Are you sure you’re not talking about your next book here, full of fantasy and fiction?’ said Celia, shaking her head.
‘Shame on you, doubter!’ Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out a copy of the music box letter, and put it in the middle of the table.
‘What’s that?’ asked Krakowski.
‘The beginning,’ said Jack, reaching into his pocket again like a magician and holding up the photograph of the painted miniature icon from inside the Rasputin egg.
‘And that?’ said Celia.
‘That’s the key that finally opened the door.’
‘What kind of door?’ asked Krakowski.
‘The door to this,’ replied Jack. He put the photograph next to the letter, reached into his briefcase under the table and pulled out a bundle of papers, which he carefully placed in front of his friend.
‘And what’s that?’ asked Krakowski.
Jack pushed the bundle towards Krakowski. ‘Have a look and tell me what you think it is.’
Krakowski put on his reading glasses and picked up the bundle. Jack reached for his goblet, took a sip of wine and kept watching Krakowski. The expression on Krakowski’s face changed from slight bemusement to surprise, then astonishment, and finally wonder, until his hands began to shake and he had to put the papers down because he had tears in his eyes and couldn’t read any more. ‘Where did you get this?’ he whispered, his voice barely audible.
‘What is it, Benjamin?’ said Celia, surprised by Krakowski’s emotional reaction.
‘Tell her, Benjamin.’
‘Where did you get this?’ Krakowski asked again.
Jack pulled another photograph out of his pocket and handed it to Krakowski. It was a photo of Kazanskaya Bogomater lying face down on the pope’s desk. The back of the icon was open, with a bundle of papers lying next to it.
‘What am I looking at?’ said Krakowski.
‘The back of a precious Russian icon that used to belong to Empress Alexandra. It was given to her by Rasputin to protect her son, the tsarevich.’
‘What?’ said Celia. ‘Let me have a look!’
‘For almost a hundred years, these papers were hidden inside a secret compartment at the back of the icon. It was only discovered a couple of days ago when I visited the pope in Rome. The icon was in his study.’
‘This is unbelievable!’ said Krakowski, recovering his composure.
‘What are these papers?’ asked Celia again.
‘A handwritten musical score; a symphony,’ said Jack.
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do we know who wrote it?’
‘Yes. There’s a dedication here at the beginning, and a signature.’
‘A dedication?’
‘Yes, to Tsar Alexander III, and it is signed Pyotr … Ilych … Tchaikovsky,’ Jack said slowly.
‘Let me have a look!’
Krakowski handed the bundle of papers to Celia.
‘What are we talking about here? Is this authentic?’ she said, sounding sceptical.
‘These are copies, of course,’ said Jack. ‘The originals are with the pope in Rome. But it certainly looks authentic. A symphony by Tchaikovsky never seen before called Mat’ Rossiya – Mother Russia. A name given to the work by Tchaikovsky himself right here at the front, see? What do you think, Benjamin?’
‘Certainly looks like it. I’m familiar with all of Tchaikovsky’s published works, and have seen many of his handwritten scores, but I’ve never seen this—’
‘Come on, guys. Can this be for real?’ asked Celia, becoming excited.
‘More work would have to be done, of course, by experts, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to get authentication,’ said Krakowski.
‘And that, Benjamin, is what I would like you to do. I’m entrusting Tchaikovsky’s lost symphony into your care. Here, right now.’
‘How did all this come about, Jack?’ said Celia, shaking her head.
‘It’s a long story, but as I told you before, I’ve written it all down.’
‘And you asked us to come here just to tell us all this? Extraordinary as it may be. Is that it? Where do Benjamin and I fit into all this?’
‘There’s more to all this, of course,’ said Jack, enjoying himself. ‘A lot more.’
‘With you, there always is. What do you have in mind?’
‘Making history. Once you’ve read the full story, all will become clear, Celia. But what I would like you to do right now, is to break the story and tell the world that a masterpiece by one of the greatest composers who’s ever lived has just been discovered in circumstances that can only be described as epic.’
‘Is that all? Do you realise what you are asking here? A story like this only comes along once in a lifetime. It could be the coup of the decade, if not the century! Are you sure you want me to do this?’
‘Aha. Worth abandoning the senator and his girlfriend for this, you think?’
‘You can be so infuriating!’ said Celia, clenching her fists.
‘And where do I fit into all this?’ asked Krakowski quietly. ‘Have you something in mind for me, as well?’
‘Yes. A spectacular world premiere, with you as the conductor. Once the authenticity of the score has been established.’
‘You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?’
‘I have. And I can think of no-one better qualified to perform the lost symphony than you, Benjamin, most likely in Russia, when the work is officially presented to the Russian people for whom it was originally intended. This will go down in history. Interested?’
82
Afternoon tea at the Kuragin chateau: 5 April 2017
Countess Kuragin and Darrieux were enjoying a glass of champagne in the music room, when Dupree walked in. ‘You did say three o’clock?’ he said and gave Darrieux a hug.
‘That’s right. Jack wanted us here at three,’ said the countess and pointed to a delicious-looking orange teacake cook had prepared earlier that day. ‘Have a slice of this.’
‘I don’t mind if I do. Where is he?’
‘He’s been skulking around all morning, waiting for something,’ said the countess, lowering her voice.
‘A changed man since our trip to Fatima,’ said Darrieux.
Dupree put a slice of cake on his plate. ‘An epiphany, perhaps?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t go quite that far,’ replied Darrieux.
‘But he’s almost back to his old self since his return from New York,’ the countess cut in. ‘With a spring in his step. He has spent hours on the phone every day. Another glass?’
Darrieux nodded and held up her empty glass. ‘Getting over things, I suppose.’
‘Takes time. He had a rough ride,’ said Dupree, filling her glass and pouring one for himself. ‘But outstanding results. That meeting with the pope in Rome ...’ Dupree shook his head. ‘Not many could have pulled that off, I tell you.’
Darrieux pointed to the music box on the mantelpiece. ‘And to think that it all began with that.’
‘One of Jack’s breadcrumbs of destiny,’ said the countess, smiling.
‘Absolutely!’ said Jack, who had overheard the remark as he walked into the room. ‘But by no means the last one. Sorry to keep you waiting, guys, but this just came in.’
Jack put a bundle of papers on the coffee table. ‘I need a drink.’
‘What’s that?’ said the countess.
Jack walked over to the ice bucket and poured himself a glass of champagne. ‘History.’
‘Care to elaborate?’ asked Darrieux.
‘I can do better than that. I can show you.’ Jack pointed to the coffee table. ‘Take one. There’s a copy for each of you. This is the article that will appear in the New York Times tomorrow, and set the music world on fire. It will tell the world about an extraordinary discovery in which all of you played a major part.’
The countess picked up a copy and read the headline: ‘Fact stranger than fiction? Mat’ Rossiya, Tchaikovsky’s lost musical gift to his beloved Russia.’ The countess looked at Jack, then continued, ‘The recent chance discovery of a letter written by Empress Alexandra the day before she and her family were murdered in Yekaterinburg ...’
‘Wow!’ said Darrieux after she had read the article. ‘Explosive stuff. The world media will go nuts as soon as this is published, and they’ll come looking for you, my friend.’
‘This is incredible, Jack,’ said the countess and held up her copy. ‘And you are comfortable with everything in here?’
‘I am. All vetted and approved, even by the Vatican. Celia Crawford and her editors worked around the clock for almost a week to make this possible. Benjamin had the score examined by some of the most respected experts in the business. There’s unanimous agreement and, as you can imagine, huge excitement in musical circles about this. The score is authentic. Can you imagine, a lost symphony by Tchaikovsky, never seen or heard before? This is the musical discovery of the century.’
‘Unbelievable,’ said Dupree. ‘Congratulations, Jack!’
‘You are all part of it,’ said Jack and held up his glass. ‘It wouldn’t have happened without you!’
‘What about the icon?’ asked the countess, looking intently at Jack.
‘Ah. That’s another story altogether,’ said Jack, enjoying himself. ‘The Vatican has already been in contact with Patriarch Nicodemus of Moscow.’
‘What about?’ asked Darrieux.
‘The return of Kazanskaya Bogomater to where it belongs: the Novo-Tikhvinsky Convent. An official handover is planned and, please keep this to yourselves for the moment, will most likely be attended by the pope himself, in Yekaterinburg. A historic visit.’
‘When?’ asked Darrieux.
‘Soon, I believe. A visit to Russia by the pope would be really something, don’t you think? Especially now, when Russia is on the nose because of those recent assassination attempts. He’s the “peace pope”, after all, and wants to be known as the great conciliator,’ said Jack. ‘That will be his legacy. I already spoke to Abbot Serapion and the Seeker about all this and gave them the good news. You can imagine the excitement—’
‘They shouldn’t be all that surprised,’ interjected Darrieux, a sparkle in her eyes. ‘After all, it was foretold; isn’t that right, Jack? And aren’t you the chosen one?’
Jack shrugged. ‘Who knows? But I can tell you, this will be huge, that’s for sure. The whole world will be watching.’
‘What about the symphony?’ asked Dupree.
‘I discussed this with Cardinal Borromeo. Obviously, the work belongs to Russia, just like the icon, and should therefore be presented to the Russian people as it was originally intended by the composer.’
‘How?’ asked the countess.
‘It has been suggested I should hand it over in St Petersburg where Tchaikovsky died and is buried—’
‘You? That’s fantastic, Jack!’ said the countess.
‘It is. And wait, it gets better. I already raised this with Benjamin. As you can imagine, he personally knows everyone who matters in the musical world today. Not only is he a celebrated composer and violinist, but a conductor as well. The present thinking is to arrange a premiere of the symphony in St Petersburg, to be performed by the Saint Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra – the oldest symphony orchestra in Russia – with Benjamin as the conductor. He’s been a guest conductor there before and would be an excellent choice. He has all the necessary contacts and is putting out feelers right now. After all, he’s already seen the score, is familiar with it, and is working on it to get it ready.’
‘And I suppose the original score could be formally presented at the beginning of the performance, is that it?’ asked the countess. ‘And handed over to the Russian people, as intended by Tchaikovsky?’
‘Something like that. And do you know where?’
‘Tell us,’ said Darrieux.
‘The Bolshoi Zal—’
‘In the famous Great Hall of the St Petersburg Philharmonia,’ the countess interrupted. ‘An excellent choice!’
‘It is. Tchaikovsky performed some of his best-known works there, and would most likely have presented Mat’ Rossiya to the Tsar in that very venue had he lived long enough. Sadly, that wasn’t to be.’
‘No doubt about you, Jack ... You, and the pope, joining forces over—’
‘Kazanskaya Bogomater, and Mat’ Rossiya,’ interjected Darrieux. ‘A holy icon to be triumphantly returned to Russia by the pope, and a lost symphony by Tchaikovsky to be presented to the Russian people by you, Jack, the person who made it all possible. Not bad—’
‘Publicity for my next book, you mean?’ said Jack, grinning.
‘Just as I thought,’ said the countess and raised an eyebrow.
‘To be expected from an incorrigible rascal, you mean?’ teased Jack.
‘You said it, not me. And what about the Fabergé egg?’
‘That’s evidence for the time being,’ said Dupree, stepping in. ‘Then it’s up to the lawyers.’
‘Does that worry you, Jack?’ asked Darrieux.
Jack shrugged. ‘Not really. What will be, will be,’ he said. ‘There are more important things at stake here at the moment.’
