52
That evening, there wasn’t a single empty seat left at the Ljubljana Opera House. According to the press, tickets were sold out for the entire run of performances, not only due, in part, to the unique talent of the artist but also because of the media hype around the sudden appearance of a violin almost three hundred years old. Music lovers from all over the world were eager to see the valuable antique with their own eyes.
Already, one could breathe in the characteristic smell of the theater, a mixture of waxed wood and the fragrance of luxurious perfumes that extended from the stalls to the upper circles high in the golden dome, which transported me back to the lavish splendor of the House of Habsburgs.
I advanced to the front row, which had been reserved for us, and took a seat next to Alenka Rossi, who that evening had pulled her blonde hair into a perfect French bun. Her husband, Vincenzo, arrived pushing his father”s wheelchair. The old man, looking dapper in his pinstripe suit, greeted me warmly, addressing me by my grandmother”s name. His son settled him in the aisle next to me, and I lovingly straightened the carnation in his lapel.
Since my move to Slovenia, shortly before the summer, I had visited the Rossi”s every weekend. Thanks to their affable and hospitable welcome, they had become my new family—the one I never had. Max, for his part, had abandoned the Kuku group, as well as his ambitions to join an orchestra, but the discovery of the Tartini Violin had granted him the opportunity to begin his stellar solo musical career once again.
The lights went out, and silence fell over the stalls. A ten-year-old girl skipped down the aisle, followed by an elderly lady who scolded her in Austrian German. Little Lana and her grandmother were late, as usual, for the show.
As a voiceover asked the attendees to turn off their cell phones, I opened the day”s newspaper to the page Max had marked for me. I crinkled my eyes, straining to read the article in the half-darkness.
‘Maximilian Finkenstein, former first violin of the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, will open the first of his St. Nicholas concert series by performing The Devil”s Trill, a piece by Giuseppe Tartini. This is the first public performance playing the composer”s original violin, ca. 1725, valued at three million euros and loaned to the artist by Mr. Enzo Rossi of Nova Gorica...’
I turned to see a woman in an old-fashioned shirt dress and moccasins approach cautiously. She squatted in the aisle next to Enzo Rossi”s wheelchair but was soon intercepted by the flashlight of an usher, who appeared there in less than five seconds.
“Excuse me, ma”am, you can”t sit there,” he said. “You’re obstructing the passage, and besides, this area is reserved for the artist”s family.”
The woman smiled, pushing aside her thick mane of soft waves.
“I’m here with Mr. Rossi,” she replied, taking the old man”s hand, and he smiled at her with a twinkle in his eye.
When I recognized the face of the newcomer, I gasped.
“Yes,” I said to the usher. “She is. She”s family.”
The employee pursed his lips doubtfully but accepted my explanation and returned to his post without a word.
The curtain lifted, and Max stepped out onto the stage. His performance was as moving as usual, and the audience was transported to the pomp of the Baroque. The bow danced between his hands as he made one of the oldest violins in the world sing.
When he finished, he was given a standing ovation and had to bow three times. As he did so, Max pointed to Mr. Rossi, and the audience gave his benefactor a thunderous round of applause. Max blew me a kiss from the stage, and he mouthed the words I love you.
I waved at him with a hand on my heart.
Grandma Carmen stayed by Enzo”s side until the end of the concert without letting go of his hand. During the whole performance, she kept whispering in his ear and making him smile. Spellbound, Enzo hardly took his eyes off her, not at all surprised by her presence.
Just before the lights came on, the twenty-something version of Carmen Asensi stood up, smiled at us one more time, and slipped out of the room with a finger to her lips, asking me to keep her secret.
“Who was she?” Alenka asked me. “Do you know her?”
“Yes, I do... but I hadn’t seen her for a long time,” I answered vaguely. Dodging her questions, I changed the subject. “Where would you like to go for dinner tonight?”
“To the usual place, if that”s okay with you and Max,” Alenka said.
“Of course. The usual place.”
I savored the sound of that sentence as I helped my grandfather up. The usual place. I heard Stephanie, Max”s mother, scolding her granddaughter again: the girl was unable to keep still and quiet. Lana, in response, wrinkled her nose and made an irreverent grimace at her. I stifled a laugh, and Lana gave me a mischievous look that reminded me all too much of her father.
I breathed in deeply, grateful to be there that night, sharing this moment with my newfound family. Perhaps Tartini”s violin would never be mine, but I had, indeed, found my inheritance.