The Last Stradivari

The Last Stradivari

  A Musical Seduction

  By

  Kurt F. Kammeyer

  Copyright 2015 Kurt F. Kammeyer

  License Notes

  Niccolò Paganini (1782—1840)

  Suggested listening, while you are reading this book:

  Paganini, 24 Caprices Part 1:

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WrchjeGmMH4&feature=related

  Paganini, 24 Caprices Part 2:

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=67y1bkjpkqA&feature=watch_response_rev

  My thanks to Ammon Stotts, who helped me correct Paganini’s Italian accent.

  This book is dedicated to my brother, Karl Kammeyer, who was a fine violin-maker in his own right.

  The Last Stradivari

  Manisha set down her flute and sighed. “This music is so difficult… and so cold and uninteresting,” she said as she studied her score to the Raga on the Fifth Tone. It was one of her teachers’ most famous compositions, and she was determined to master it. The complex rhythms and racing pentatonic scales constantly tripped up her fingers as she struggled with her five-hole flute.

  “There are only five little notes in the scale—how hard can it be?” she muttered to herself. “Five sacred tones, five vowels in the alphabet, five gods in the heavens… a lot of help they all are…”

  As a student, Manisha had just two passions in life: music, and archaeology. That left very little time for relationships with men. Still, she practically worshipped her mentor, Master Devak, the chief archaeologist on the massive Aksaphortha dig.

  Manisha was a generation younger than Devak and had nearly completed her apprenticeship to him. She was slender, dark-haired and considered herself quite attractive, as if that really mattered to a confirmed bachelor like Devak—but she knew that it didn’t, and that was perfectly fine with her.

  She glanced out the window of her loft and estimated that it was almost noon. She put her flute away and headed out the door.

  Time to change hats, she thought. In the morning, music—in the afternoon, archaeology.

  As Manisha reached the outskirts of Aksaphortha, she gazed at the vast archaeological dig. Recently she and Devak had begun working on their most important dig yet—the ruins of a museum situated near the center of the ancient town. Like most of the ancient public buildings, the walls of the museum had collapsed in on themselves, as if an immense giant’s foot had suddenly crushed them. Devak often told Manisha that he was at a loss as to what could have caused so much destruction so quickly, so long ago. However, he was hopeful that within the rubble, treasures still awaited them.

  Devak noticed her approaching. “Ah, Manisha, come! We have made great progress,” he said, as he led her down a dirt ramp to the basement level of the museum. “I am hopeful that at this level, the walls and floors will not have collapsed entirely and destroyed whatever artifacts may still be entombed here. So far, the evidence is in our favor.”

  A large section of the foundation wall of the museum was now uncovered, and near one end of the trench a small doorway was now exposed. The door consisted of a solid iron frame crisscrossed with heavy bars.

  Devak looked at the solid door and remarked, “It would appear that the Ancients did not want thieves coming through here and stealing their treasures… What would you suggest, my apprentice?”

  Manisha smiled. She always liked it when Devak deferred to her. She replied, “Unlike thieves, we have the advantage of time. If we chisel those rusty hinges loose, I think we can lift the whole door out of the frame.”

  “Good! I thought the same thing. This should only take a few minutes.”

  Manisha turned and climbed back up the ramp, while Devak directed two workmen to attack the door with sledges and chisels.

  When Manisha reached the street level, she made a slow tour of the dig. For the thousandth time, the same questions came into her mind. Who were these Britisa? Where did they go, and why and how were they destroyed? The evidence does not suggest an earthquake—the walls and foundations are not cracked, but simply smashed flat and burned.

  She picked up a large shard of obsidian-like black glass, examined it and idly threw it away again. The glass was everywhere underfoot, and crunched when she stepped on it.

  What sort of infernal power could melt the very ground into glass? The thought disturbed her.

  Just as she completed her circuit of the museum, she heard Devak call up to her from the trench. “Manisha, come! The hinges are loose!”

  Manisha quickly descended the ramp again, and found the workmen struggling to pry the heavy door out of its frame with crowbars.

  “Stand aside!” Devak cried as the old door creaked, groaned, and finally fell back into the trench with a mighty thud.

  Manisha looked at Devak as he hesitated. “After you, Master,” she said while motioning to the door. Manisha always relished this moment. Rubbing her hands, she thought, What will we find inside? Amazing treasures, no doubt…

  Devak picked up an oil lantern, lit it and took a deep breath. Then he crossed the threshold and held his lantern up. Devak’s lantern revealed a chamber about twenty paces square, with numerous waist-high pedestals and tables scattered about. The air was stale, and the chamber was, of course, silent as a tomb.

  Manisha entered with her own lantern and quickly looked about. Along the walls she could dimly see an array of paintings. Along two of the walls she saw wooden cabinets topped with the smashed remnants of glass display cases. She paused and softly whispered, “Oh… surely, wonders await us here, Devak.”

  Devak walked to the far end of the room and continued on into the adjoining chamber. Manisha heard glass crunching under Devak’s feet as he disappeared from view.

  Manisha moved over to one of the pedestals and looked at it. She was surprised to see a lantern which was not all that different from the one she was holding in her hand. It was cylindrical and made of sheet tin, with an opening in the side to admit a candle.

  She picked up a small slip of paper next to the lantern and squinted at it. The inscription was in the ancient Britisa language, with which Manisha was slightly conversant. It read,

  Lantern carried by Guy Fawkes

  during the Gunpowder Plot of 1605

  Gunpowder Plot? Is it possible this Guy Fawkes had a hand in the destruction of this civilization?

  She heard Devak’s voice from the other room. “Manisha, come quickly!”

  She dropped the slip of paper and made her way to the other room, stepping carefully over the debris. Devak was standing next to a pedestal in the center of the room. The top of the pedestal had a metal framework that extended upwards from the four corners, as high as a man’s head—apparently the remnants of a glass enclosure. Small shards of glass were still attached to the edges of the enclosure.

  In the center of the pedestal there was a metal fixture which held the strangest object that Manisha had ever seen. The body of the object was a hollow box about a foot tall, and somewhat hourglass-shaped. The top and bottom halves were rounded, with C-shaped cutouts at the mid-point. The box was about two inches thick, and arched on the front and back. A six-inch long black handle extended from the top of the box, with a smaller box at the end that held four ivory-colored pegs. The smaller box terminated in a graceful seashell-like scroll. Four strings extended from the pegs to the lower end of the object. They were supported in the middle by a small slip of wood.

  Manisha looked at Devak. “What is it?” she breathed. “It’s beautiful…”

  “I do not know,” he replied as he set down his lantern and reached for the object.

  “Careful of the glass,” she whispered.

  Devak carefully lifted the object out of its ruined glass case and turned it over
in his hands. The lamplight glistened off of the beautiful golden back of the object. He carefully tapped on it with his knuckles.

  “It’s a wooden box of some sort,” he said. “It really is quite lovely, but I have no idea what its purpose might be.”

  “Here, maybe this will explain,” she said. She picked up a small card from the case. Devak took the card and squinted again. He struggled to translate.

  “It says, ‘Le Messie—Stradivari 1716’.”

  “At least we know what they called it now,” she said confidently. “It’s a stra-DIV-ery, whatever that is. This is obviously serial number one thousand seven hundred and sixteen, and it must have belonged to this Lemessy fellow.”

  Manisha peered across the room and spotted several small pieces of luggage in a cabinet. They were similar in shape to the stradivery. On a hunch, she walked over and brought one back. She fumbled with the clasp for a moment and opened the case. “Here, try it,” she said.

  Devak reverently laid the stradivery in the case. It fit perfectly. “Whatever it is, they must have valued it very highly to carry it around like this,” he said as he closed the case.

  They looked around the room, but saw only a few blackened shards of other, similar stradiveries.

  Manisha was excited. “Come, let us take it back to the workshop, where we can better examine it!”

  Devak nodded his agreement, and they left the museum, carrying the stradivery in its case. As they emerged into the sunlight, Devak hesitated, squinted and held the stradivery case out to her.

  “Here, my apprentice—would you take it back to the workshop, please? I must continue to explore.”

  Manisha eagerly took the stradivery in its case and made her way back to the workshop on the edge of the dig. This was housed in a large tent, nearly filled with long tables, upon which artifacts could be laid out, examined, and sorted.

  When she reached the tent she paused for a moment; then on an impulse she set off for her own loft at the College of Arts, still carrying the stradivery.

  When she arrived home, she laid the case on a table and opened it; then she held the stradivery up to the window. Now that it was exposed to the full sunlight for the first time in centuries, she was stunned by its beauty. As she rotated the object in her hands, the reddish-yellow varnish glistened and shimmered as if it were still wet. The arched back had a magnificent flame pattern in the wood that constantly shifted as she moved it.

  She studied the grain of the wood carefully. The top appears to be spruce… the back, maple.

  Two graceful S-shaped holes embellished the top plate. She peered inside the box and noticed a yellowed slip of paper pasted to the inside of the back.

  Baffled by the unusual Britisa dialect, she thought, There is that word again… stradivery. Perhaps Devak can decipher the rest of the inscription, later.

  The fan-shaped piece of wood that held the lower end of the strings was embellished with a lovely miniature carving. Peering at the carving, Manisha realized that it featured several tiny winged angels hovering over a young woman. She was kneeling in adoration before a crib, which held a tiny baby.

  Manisha sat down on a stool and laid the object on her lap, and stared at it for a long time. She thought, Speak to me… what are you?

  On a hunch, she tried turning the four pegs to tighten the strings a bit. She heard a faint “gung” sound as each string tensioned. She plucked at one of the strings and heard a low “thunk”. Suddenly it dawned on her. Could this be some sort of musical instrument? Why are there only four strings? There are five notes in the scale…

  Baffled and exasperated, she set the stradivery back in its case and cried, “I would give my soul to know what this thing is!”

  A moment later she heard a faint rustling behind her, like bat’s wings. Then she heard a man’s voice. “You called-a me here, Signora, what-a do you want?”

  Startled, she turned around and saw the strangest man she had ever laid eyes on. He was very tall and gangly, with a thin face and a beaked nose, and large, dark, piercing eyes that shifted constantly. His hands were very large, with the most amazingly long fingers she had ever seen. His dress was very strange as well—knee britches tied up with ribbons, white knee-stockings, and low shoes with buckles. He wore a long black waistcoat with tails. His black hair hung in ringlets down to his shoulders. The man smelled faintly of something—sulfur, perhaps.

  Manisha gathered her wits and said nervously, “Sir, who are you? How did you get in here?”

  The man’s nostrils flared in anger. “What, you haf-a not heard of me, ze greatest musician of all-a time? My name, Signora, it ees Niccolò Paganini. And-a you?”

  He made a graceful, sweeping bow. Flustered, she replied, “I am, ah, Manisha…”

  “Ah, Manisha! Che bel nome!”

  Paganini’s eyes roamed up and down her figure, studying her minutely. She had never felt undressed in the presence of a man until this moment. She felt her face turning red.

  “Molto affascinante…” he leered.

  Desperate to change the subject, she glanced sideways at the stradivery in its case. His eyes followed hers, and widened as he saw the object. “Ah, una Stradivari! Che bello!” he breathed. Manisha noticed that he accented the first and third syllables of the name, and said it with a curious rolling of his r’s.

  “What does it do?” she said plaintively.

  Astonished, he raised his forearms in front of him with the palms up and cried, “Che ignoranza! Why, it makes-a ze most-a beautiful music ever written, by-a me, naturalmente!”

  Excited, she said, “Sir, would you show me how this instrument is played? I would give anything to know.”

  He smiled slyly and replied, “Anyzing? But of course-a! But ze Stradivari, it ees a strumento for a leetle girl, it ees weak. Il Maestro, he only performez on ze Guarneri.”

  He reached in the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out another instrument. This one was slightly larger than hers, with a deep, brownish-red varnish. “I call eet Il Cannone,” he said.

  From somewhere he produced a curved bow with a ribbon of hair attached. He tightened the hair; then he raised the Guarneri to his shoulder, laid the bow on the strings and paused for a moment in thought. Then he dipped slightly and began caressing the strings with the bow. His spidery left hand raced up and down the strings, producing the most otherworldly sounds that Manisha had ever heard.

  Entranced, Manisha listened as Paganini’s Guarneri imitated the sounds of birds and trumpets. Alternately plucking and stopping the strings with his left hand, he performed a massive glissando from the highest range down to the lowest open string. Manisha’s heart leapt as she listened to Paganini’s double and triple-stopped embellishments. He finished up with a great flourish and then bowed to her.

  She applauded. “How marvelous, Sir! I have never heard anything so glorious! Would you teach me to play like this?”

  He winked at her slyly. “You said-a you would-a geeve anyzing for zis, Signora?”

  “Yes, yes! Anything in the world!”

  He chuckled. “Good… zen hold-a your strumento like-a me, and-a follow me.”

  Manisha took her Stradivari out of the case and tightened the four pegs until the strings’ pitch matched Paganini’s Guarneri. Then he showed her how to tighten the bow. She raised the instrument and hesitantly laid it on her shoulder.

  “No, Signora, cosi,” he said, demonstrating how to hold the instrument between his cheek and collarbone. As she pressed her cheek against the Stradivari, she felt it caressing her breast. She felt sensual, and slightly erotic for the first time in her life. She laid the bow on the strings and glanced at Paganini.

  “Sei pronto? Are-a you ready?” he said.

  “Yes…” she replied, while thinking, What am I supposed to do, really?

  “Then we shall-a begin with il mio venti-quarto Capriccio,” he replied. He leaned back and closed his eyes. His nostrils flared, and he began the theme from his Twenty-fourth Capric
e. Manisha felt herself instantly drawn into the music as her fingers and bow somehow perfectly matched Paganini’s movements. After eight beats, the simple theme repeated; then a sixteen-beat recapitulation followed. Paganini immediately launched into the second variation, then the third.

  Manisha was powerless to resist the music’s spell; nor did she desire to. Enraptured by the dark, brooding power of the melody, she gave herself over completely to its grasp.

  The slow, languorous third variation was double-stopped in octaves. As her fingers slid up and down the finger-board, Manisha thought, I have never made love before… until this moment.

  By the frantic ninth variation with its descending left-hand pizzicato ornamentation, Manisha knew she had fully lost her virginity—and she did not care. Then came the slow, ethereal tenth variation, and Il Maestro completely owned her. At last came the Finale, with its rapid ascending and descending sixteenth-note runs and a mighty, A-major quadruple stop to end the orgy.

  Panting for breath, she lowered her instrument and cried, “Don’t stop! I want more! Give me more of this music!”

  He smiled wickedly. “All in good-a time, Cara Mia.” He approached her. “But… Il Maestro has many charms-a be-sides-a ze musica…”

  He laid his ghostly Guarneri down. Then he ran his long fingers through her hair, and traced the outline of her collarbone. It was a strange, disconcerting feeling for Manisha, because there was no feeling—he appeared solid enough, but there was absolutely no physical touch that she could sense.

  “Please, stop…” she pleaded.

  That only increased his desire for her. He kissed the nape of her neck—she still felt nothing—and worked his way around to her breastbone, and then down. She recoiled from him, but still he followed her.

  “Stop!” she said, more insistently.

  “An’ eef I do not?” he whispered to her.

  She stamped her foot. “Then I shall—I shall… order you to leave!” she said, thinking, How lame is that?

  Lame or not, the threat had an immediate and surprising effect. In a flash, Paganini instantly reappeared two paces in front of Manisha.

  “Zen, I shall take-a my leave of you. Arrivederci onteel tomorrow, Signora.” He slipped the Guarneri and his bow into his waistcoat.

  “Wait!” she cried. “What is this thing called?”

  He paused. “Why—ees call-ed a violino, Mia Bella.”

  “Vee-oh-leen-oh,” she breathed. “Such a lovely name for a beautiful instrument…”

  Paganini made a grand, sweeping bow and disappeared in a small puff of smoke.

  Manisha sat down on the edge of her bed and laid the violin down beside her. Every nerve in her body was on fire, and she had never felt so completely, utterly spent in her life—but she felt wonderful. Catching her breath, she said to herself, “So… there are not merely five notes in the musical scale, as I have always been taught, but twelve.”

  She felt immensely empowered and liberated by this new knowledge. She suddenly felt an urge to share it with Mohana, her music teacher, but then something whispered to her, Not just yet… there is much you can yet learn from Il Maestro.

  A moment later there was a knock on her door. She stood up and opened the door. Devak stood in the hallway, tapping his foot impatiently. Still gathering her wits about her, Manisha stammered, “W-what are you doing here, Master?”

  One look at his face told her that he was not pleased with her.

  “I thought I instructed you to take the stradivery to the workshop, Manisha? When I arrived there, I found both you and the artifact gone.” He looked over her shoulder, and noticed the instrument sitting on her bed. “May I come in?”

  “Why—yes…” she stammered, motioning for him to enter. I’m in trouble now, she thought.

  Devak entered the loft and glanced at the instrument again. “I see you have been examining it in my absence. What have you learned, apprentice?”

  Her mind raced. She thought, What do I dare tell him? I certainly cannot mention Il Maestro’s visit. “It is some kind of, ah, musical instrument,” she replied cautiously. “By running this stick across these strings, you can produce a series of musical notes.”

  He nodded. “But I only see four strings. How do you produce the fifth note?”

  Manisha suddenly felt impatient with Devak’s ignorance. She picked up the instrument and the bow and said, “Like this, Master.”

  She began on the lowest string and played a long, ascending twelve-tone scale across all four strings; then her left hand worked its way up the highest string until her little finger stopped just an inch from the bridge. She dropped the instrument to her side and said, “Like that.”

  Devak’s jaw was hanging open. “How did you—I mean, what kind of scale—that is…” Words failed him. Finally, he looked at her and said, “I must have the stradivery back. It is not yours to keep. I am sorry.”

  She took a step backwards and snarled at him. “Va’ via! È mio! And for your information, it is called a Strah-di-VAH-rey, Maestro!” She rolled her r’s extravagantly.

  He stared at her as if she were mad, astonished by her outburst. Cautiously, he said, “Very well… since that is your wish. I hope that you will take good care of it, Apprentice.” He turned and headed for the door; then he looked back. “By the way, I did a bit of research. ‘Le Messie’ was not the owner of this, ah, instrument. The name refers to the Messiah, the ancient God of the Britisa. It must be the name given to the instrument. And Strah-di-VAH-rey, as you so eloquently pronounced it, was the man who built it. It was his masterpiece, apparently.”

  “Thank you,” she said coldly.

  He continued. “I expect you back at your archaeology studies at our usual time tomorrow, Manisha. As my apprentice, you are still legally bound to me. Remember that.” Devak turned again and quickly left the room.

  Manisha shut and locked the door behind him; then she retreated to her bed again and picked up the instrument. Clutching it to her breast, she kissed it and whispered, “He shan’t have you, Bello Mio…”