Chapter 4

~Charles~

"Can you hear me, Charles?" His voice drifted through the fog. I blinked, trying to refocus my eyes. Walter Damrosch stood behind his office desk at Carnegie Hall. He leaned closer and squinted. "Are you sure you are alright?"

It took me forever to process his words. Longer to find a reply. "Yes." I rubbed my forehead. "No. God, I really don't know. I just feel so … so … "

"Numb?" he offered.

I nodded.

"I know." He slid his fingers under the cover of the leather bound score and flipped it closed. His hands folded on top.

I followed his mournful gaze to the lettering. My father's looping script. His setting of the requiem mass. My throat snapped shut.

"This … " he began and shook his head. "Charles, there are no words for this. None. It seems like ages ago Erik left this work in my hands here at the hall. Somehow I never imagined we'd have to play it."

"There is … there is something else he wants to leave to the Hall."

Damrosh held up a hand. "The man built this place and left a legacy of music. He need leave nothing … "

His voice faded as I lifted the worn leather case into my lap. My chest felt like someone filled it with water to bursting.

When he spoke, his voice was no more than a stunned whisper. "My God … Erik's Stradivarius!"

I jerked more than nodded. "It's in his will. I know it is, I was there when he wrote it."

"Charles, no. I can't take it. This belonged to him."

I lifted the case and laid it on his desk. My vision blurred with unshed tears. "You have to, Walter. Someone has to. He would want her played. He lived through her. She needs to sing … she must be … must be played to send him … oh God."

His arms encircled me, catching me as I fell forward. "Of course. Of course. This explains why you came to see me before the funeral. I promise I will select one of our finest to play."

I rolled my head against his shoulder. "You." I choked out. "It should be you, Walter. He would want it to be you."

He stiffened, but continued to hold me until I could breathe without gasping. I wiped the tears from my face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to … "

His hand rested on my shoulder. "Don't apologize. Losing one's father is a difficult process. I understand, even though those memories are distant for me." His eyes drifted to the case. Carefully he opened the latches and lifted the lid. Inside, the violin's oiled wood gleamed. His hand caressed the neck. "I … I would be honored to play her in tribute to him. Though she will not sound the same without her maestro, even in St. Patrick's Old Cathedral. I confess that I was quite shocked to hear that is where the funeral will be taking place. I didn't know your father was a practicing Catholic."

"He wasn't past his childhood, so he told me."

"Then how?"

I had to smile. "You should have seen Mother confront the bishop yesterday. I've never witnessed a man of the cloth rendered into complete silence by biblical quotes. He even briefly retired to the sacristy to confirm the scripture, only to come out paler than his robes. There was no way she was leaving without securing Father a full Mass."

Reverently, he closed the violin's case. Taking a seat on the edge of his desk, he let a small grin show. "If any could have, it would have been Christine. I witnessed a number of times where she put Erik in his place like no one else would dare to. I don't envy the bishop for having to face her. Speaking of which, you should go back to the manor and be with her now. Leave the musicians to me. We will honor your father's passing." He paused, looking me in the eyes. "Are you certain you do not wish to play?"

The lump rammed into my throat. My face fell into my hands.

He rubbed my shoulder. "I wanted you to know it is your choice."

"I … I can't."

"He will understand, Charles. Besides, your mother needs you with her. Go, I will see you at the church tomorrow."

~Charles~

Somehow, Mother's eyes were dry. In unrelieved black, she leaned over the edge of his coffin and adjusted his cravat.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and dared to look once more. He could have been resting. Dressed in his finely tailored tail coat with a deep blue brocade vest that hid the evidence of his tragic end. Through the eye holes of his white satin mask, he looked at peace.

Peace. How could a murdered man rest? Someone had shot him in the back. He would not be here now save for that. The fabric of my gloves pulled tight over my knuckles as I gripped the coffin's edge. My mother's hand rested over mine. Rigid, stiff. Like her stance. I reached over and embraced her shoulder. She leaned into me, I the only thing holding her from falling to the ground.

The tap of Nadir's cane echoed in the private visitation hall. He lingered beside us, his face locked in a stoic numbness. His lips moved, but the words that came out in a stuttering murmur were unknown to me. Something small, a tarnished piece of metal remained clutched in his hand.

Simonetta came to Mother's right side. Wordlessly she offered her hand, which mother clasped. It was nearly time. My chest tightened. Outside this chamber set aside for us, the cathedral was packed. So many who had known my father. So many who respected him.

So many who mourned his loss.

A hand pressed on my shoulder. I turned to find Damrosch. "Everything is ready. Are you? Or do you need more time?" He glanced at my mother.

She caressed my father's folded hands one final time. With great care, she removed his signet ring from his right ring finger. I watched as she lifted my left hand and slid the silver ring on my little finger, the only one thin enough. Then she took a step back and nodded.

Two men lowered the lid. Nadir's eyes clamped shut at the sound. Too loud in the silence.

My heart lurched. I wanted to cry out that I wasn't ready. I tried to reach for the handle to stop the coffin from moving. But nothing obeyed. I stood there, clinging to my mother as the pallbearers began their slow procession into the main church.

I don't remember walking to the pew. The words droned on around us. I heard them, went through the motions. But it felt like the world around me was water instead of air, every action conducted with a mind-numbing slowness that remained unbroken … until the music pierced the veil.

His music. Undeniably my father's work. The requiem Mass drew me from the stupor. I staggered along the currents of his music, clinging to the familiar, selfishly unwilling to let it go. Damrosch's musicians faded into the background as her voice cut through the air. She sang for him. The Stradivarius. His Stradivarius. More perfectly than any human heart, she mourned the loss of her companion.

Her forlorn cries lingered in my mind, blinding me so that I had not even realized we had processed from the Cathedral the few blocks to the New York Marble Cemetery. In the sea of black I stood beside my mother and Simonetta, staring at the walled grass field. There were no standing stones in this cemetery. Stone plaques lined the walls, recording those who had been laid to rest here. There were vaults beneath. Vaults accessed through tunnels. One cold stone slab below us waited to receive him.

My chest tightened as they carried the coffin inside the little stone shack in the corner. The Dead House.

The sound of a chisel cutting into stone rang in my memory. The horizon swayed, I had to shut my eyes. Father. Father breaking through that door. The bitter cold. He'd never explained why the men had taken Mother and I. Never explained where they had gone. Only, that they could never harm us again.

I shivered.

The first notes drifted into the air. I opened my eyes. It was his violin. She sang his music, sang for him. She rose her voice and trembled on the chords of Libera Me. Delicate and gentle, the current echoed off the walls. I closed my eyes. Father's voice hung in the air. True and clear as always. Just a whisper of that flawless tenor. Mother shivered and stepped closer to me. Had she heard it too?

Libera me, Domine, de morte æterna, in die illa tremenda,

Quando cœli movendi sunt et terra,

Dum veneris iudicare sæculum per ignem.

Tremens factus sum ego, et timeo, dum discussio venerit, atque ventura ira,

Quando cœli movendi sunt et terra.

Dies illa, dies iræ, calamitatis et miseriæ, dies magna et amara valde,

Dum veneris iudicare sæculum per ignem.

Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine: et lux perpetua luceat eis.

In the silence that followed, I opened my eyes. Nadir knelt in the grass, weeping into his hands. Mother's dry eyes remained locked on the door of the shack, her hand grasping mine. Simonetta gazed up on the wall of the cemetery. I followed her. There stood Damrosch, with Father's Stradivarius held to his heart. Silent tears rolled down his face.