Eighty Days Yellow Page 9

  She noticed a handful of bystanders at the outer edge of the clearing, no doubt attracted to the sounds of the music she was playing. Anonymous spectators.

  Summer took a deep breath, both gratified and disappointed that this was no longer a concert for one only. She completed the third concerto and finally ceased playing. The spell had broken.

  A couple of women in jogging gear in the distance applauded.

  A man got back on his bicycle and continued his journey across the heath.

  Dominik coughed gently.

  ‘The fourth concerto is technically a bit more awkward,’ Summer said. ‘I’m not sure I could get it all right without having to consult the partition,’ she excused herself.

  ‘No problem,’ Dominik said.

  Summer waited for his judgement. He kept on staring at her.

  A heavy silence began to weigh down on her. Once again, she could feel the coolness of the morning lap against her bare shoulders. She shivered. He failed to react.

  Dominik watched as Summer grew visibly more nervous. The music and her playing had been sublime, everything he could have hoped for. Getting her to play for him here had been a brilliant idea, and the solo performance had elicited so many strong sensations inside him, a sense of terribly intimate connection. Now he wanted to know what the feel of her skin would be like, the smooth curve of her undressed shoulder against his fingers, his tongue, the million secrets beneath her dress. He could already conjure up the shape of her body. He had always regretted not having learned to read or play music on any instrument when he had been younger, and knew it was now too late in life to begin, but Dominik sensed that Summer was an instrument, one he could play for hours on end. And he would.

  ‘That was quite beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir.’ She couldn’t help herself teasing him. Maybe it was because right now she felt supremely happy.

  Dominik frowned.

  He noticed the relief spread across her face as he delivered his verdict, but she was still tense – he could see from the straight line of her shoulders and the hard set of her jaw. Perhaps she knew that this was only just the beginning. There would be more.

  ‘You will have your violin,’ he indicated.

  ‘And you’re certain I can’t have this one?’ she protested, stroking its long, smooth neck with a possessive hand. ‘It’s a wonderful instrument.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, but, like I said, I will find you a better one. You deserve it.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dominik’s tone was firm; he would brook no further argument.

  He walked over to Summer, picked up her coat from the ground and helped her into it. They walked back to the car, where she returned the violin to him.

  Summer was full of questions, but didn’t know where to begin.

  He pointed to the passenger seat.

  ‘Sit with me,’ he ordered.

  Summer obeyed.

  She had been fearful that the inside of the car might reek of tobacco – somehow Dominik looked like a smoker – but it didn’t. It was slightly musky, but not in a disagreeable way.

  Dominik felt her closeness as he sat behind the wheel. She had lost her smell of cinnamon and all he could intuit was the scent of the soap she had used when washing this morning. Somewhat sweet, hygienic, reassuring. He could feel the warmth of her body inside the coat radiate outwards towards him.

  ‘Next time you play for me, it will be with your very own violin, the one I am now going to find, one that will fit you like a glove, Summer. Price will be no object,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ she opined.

  ‘Now, tell me about your first time with a man, sex.’

  For a brief moment she seemed taken aback by the abruptness of his demand, and Dominik thought, for a second, that he had guessed incorrectly; perhaps she wouldn’t go through with it.

  Summer paused, gathering her thoughts and memories. In a novel way, she had already been intimate with this man and there was no point holding back now.

  The car’s front window was misting up a little and Dominik switched on the air-conditioning.

  She told him how it had happened.

  The instrument had been built by someone called Pierre Bailly in Paris in 1900 and cost Dominik in the low five figures. It had initially caught his eye in a specialist dealer’s catalogue. The wood veered towards yellow more than orange or brown, a peaceful shade that evoked serenity and patience, but the patina in his mind held over a century of melodies and experience. The salesman in the small Burlington Arcade boutique was surprised he did not wish to play it before purchasing it, and didn’t appear to initially believe him when he declared he was buying it for an acquaintance. He knew he had long fingers, a musician’s fingers – many friends and women he had known had mentioned the fact to him – but did he look like one, let alone a violin player?

  With the expensive antique violin came a certificate of provenance, listing all its owners over the past 112 years. There had been only five, most of their foreign names betraying past winds of war and continental drifts along the tides of history. The last owner had been called Edwina Christiansen. After her death, he was told, her heirs had sold the instrument at auction, where it had been acquired by the dealer, alongside other items of lesser note. No, he replied when asked by Dominik, he wasn’t in a position to supply further information about the late Miss Christiansen.

  The Bailly violin came without a case and he purchased one online, a brand-new one, as he felt it would be best for Summer not to advertise the vintage status of her new instrument in a similarly visibly aged case. Dominik had always been eminently practically minded as well as cautious.

  Once the case was delivered, he transferred the rusty-yellow violin into its new habitat and carefully wrapped it before handing it over to a courier service who would arrange for the package to reach Summer Zahova at the apartment she shared with others in East London. The instructions were clear: she had to sign for it personally. He warned of its impending arrival and requested an acknowledgement.

  When her text came, it consisted of a single word: ‘Beautiful.’

  In the letter he had written to her accompanying the expensive package, he had insisted she spend as much time as possible playing, rehearsing on it until the moment he would advise her of the new challenge, and he had given a precise instruction not to take it out in public yet, let alone busk in the Underground.

  Now arrangements had to be made and enquiries conducted.

  His advertisement on the freelance jobs display board at the music college sought three musicians, under thirty by preference, used to playing in a string quartet, willing to undertake a one-off performance with a minimum of rehearsal time and in unusual circumstances. And whose discretion would be adequately recompensed. A photograph was required with the application.

  One answer he received filled all the boxes: a group of second-year students who had performed throughout their first year as a quartet but were now short of a member, the second violinist having returned a few weeks before to her native Lithuania. The two young men, who respectively played violin and viola, looked presentable, while the cello player, a young woman with a mass of curling blonde hair, was actually rather pretty.

  All the other applications that landed in his letterbox as a result of the call-out were from solo musicians with minimal experience of playing with others, so it proved an easy decision.

  Before organising a formal interview, Dominik sent them the questionnaire he had assembled for the occasion. Once the responses came back all positive, as he expected them to be considering the substantial fee he was in a position to offer, he arranged to speak to the trio on Skype and answered their remaining questions, assessing their reactions to some of his more unusual demands and requirements.

  They would have to dress all in black, they would be able to rehearse with the fourth musician for a short period of time, but then they would be blindfolded for the main performance.
They would sign a document with penalty clauses if news of the private concert they would be playing leaked out. They would not seek to contact him or the anonymous violin player again after the performance was completed.

  All three of them appeared puzzled by the offer, but the monetary rewards visibly overcame their doubts.

  The cello player, the blonde, even suggested a rehearsal place he could hire for the occasion, a crypt in a deconsecrated church where the sound resonated just that side of perfect for strings, and which ‘offers total privacy for whatever you have in mind’, she said. As if she had known all along that Dominik’s house was unsuitable for the occasion.

  How could she even guess what I have in mind? he wondered, noticing an amused twinkle in her eye.

  The music was agreed on and he took their particulars before ending the call. Now all the elements were in place and a date could be set. He picked up his phone.

  ‘Summer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Dominik. You will play for me again next week,’ he informed her, advising her of the location and the time. He also mentioned the music she would be performing for him and the fact she would be one of four musicians, the final element in a quartet, and would have the opportunity of two hours’ rehearsal with her fellow musicians before the actual private concert.

  ‘Two hours is not a long time,’ she pointed out.

  ‘I know, but it’s a piece the other three already know well, so that will make it a little easier.’

  ‘OK,’ Summer accepted. Then added, ‘The Bailly will sound divine in a crypt.’

  ‘I have no doubt it will,’ Dominik said. ‘And . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You will perform nude.’

  5

  A Girl and Her Memories

  Dominik had asked me about my first time.

  It was odd, I thought later, that I agreed to tell him the story, but playing The Four Seasons had put me into a dream, as it always did.

  That’s what I blamed it on.

  And this is what I told him.

  ‘I spent my first sexual experiences alone. Masturbating. I began when I was young. Younger than my friends, I think, though I didn’t ever talk about it with anyone. Always felt a little ashamed. I didn’t know what I was doing, really. I didn’t ever come – at least not for a few years.

  ‘Maybe you noticed when I was playing back there, I reach a certain point in the music where I’m in a sort of trance – I’m off in a world of my own – but as soon as I stop, everything comes flooding back. Playing the violin, you see, has always had a physical effect on me. A release of sorts, but it also seems to heighten sensation.’

  I glanced over at Dominik to check his reaction.

  He had lowered the driver’s seat down and lain back, relaxed. I did the same, inhaling the scent of his car, a clean, fresh smell, typical in my opinion of BMW drivers. The interior was spotless, personality-free, no hint of a recently consumed snack, gun holster or suspicious package in sight, just a book he had been reading earlier resting on the dashboard. An author I had never heard of.

  Dominik didn’t look at me, just stared straight ahead through the windscreen. His expression was that of a man completely comfortable, as if he were on the verge of meditation. Despite the irregularity of the situation, his response, or lack of one, relaxed me. I was sharing secrets that I hadn’t shared with anyone, but the way that he blended into the car like that, it was almost as if I was talking to myself.

  I carried on. ‘I played nude sometimes, with the window open, enjoying the cold air on my body. I left the lights on and the curtains open, imagined that the neighbours could see me playing my violin naked. If they could, they never mentioned it.

  ‘This carried on for a while, and I ended up spending so much time alone that when I was in high school, my mother became concerned that I was getting unbalanced, obsessive, and she tried to get me to join a school sports or a drama team. She wanted me to do something “normal”. We fought over it and eventually she won, though she let me choose the sport.

  ‘I chose swimming, mainly to irk my mother, as I knew that she really wanted me to do something more sociable, like hockey or netball, but I won that round by arguing that my violin-playing would benefit from stronger arms.’

  A small smile crossed Dominik’s face as I shared this detail, but he remained silent, patiently waiting for me to carry on.

  ‘Swimming, as it turned out, had virtually the same effect on me as violin-playing. I liked the feeling of the water, and the way that time disappeared as I swam one lap after another. I was never very quick, but I could go on for ever. I swam for so long, so easily, that my swimming coach would have to tap me on the shoulder to tell me that the training session was over and I could go home.

  ‘He was a good-looking guy and had been a professional athlete for our region when he was at school. Gave it up when he stopped winning. Started teaching instead, but still had the body for it. Wore the whole lifeguard-look ensemble – short shorts and T-shirt and a whistle to show it off. I ignored him most of the time. Thought he rated himself a bit much, and it didn’t suit him somehow. As if he was putting the authority on for show. All the other girls fancied him. I don’t know how old he was. Older than me.

  ‘It was him, in the end. My swimming coach. The first time.’

  I looked over at Dominik again. His expression remained impassive, bemused.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘One afternoon, he didn’t stop me. Just let me swim and swim. I broke out of it, after I don’t know how many lengths, because I suddenly noticed it was getting dark and I was the only one in the pool. Everyone else had left already. He said, when I finally got out of the pool, that he wanted to see if I’d carry on swimming until he told me to stop.

  ‘I picked up my towel and went to the changing rooms, and when I started to dry myself, I found that I was . . . well, I was horny. I’m not sure why, really, what it was, but the feeling was so strong I couldn’t wait until I arrived home. I was touching myself when I saw him looking at me through the changing-room door. Maybe I had forgotten to close it. I hadn’t noticed him push it open.

  ‘I didn’t stop. I should have, I suppose, but the way he looked at me . . . I carried on. And that was the first time I ever had an orgasm. With him watching.

  ‘He walked in then, after he saw me come. And when he then got his cock out, I couldn’t stop staring at it.

  ‘“You haven’t ever seen one of these before, have you?” he said.

  ‘I replied that I hadn’t.

  ‘Then he asked if I’d like to feel it inside me, and I said yes.’

  I turned to Dominik, checking to see if he wanted me to continue, to tell him more. He snapped out of his reverie almost immediately.

  ‘Good,’ he said, bringing his seat up to a driving position. ‘That’s all I wanted to know. Perhaps you could tell me more another time.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and pulled the lever to bring my own seat back up again. Perhaps the experience of retelling my story to this man ought to have made me uncomfortable, but it hadn’t. If anything, I felt a little lighter, the weight of past secrets transferred from my mind to Dominik’s.

  ‘Can I drop you anywhere?’

  ‘Just the station, please.’

  ‘No problem.’

  He might have the details of my sexual history, but I wasn’t quite ready to show Dominik my front door, and I still wasn’t sure whether he wanted me to do so anyway.

  I needn’t have bothered with the attempt to retain any privacy from him. Within a week Dominik had requested my home address, and provided a date and time for me to stay in and sign for a package. I hesitated before I gave him the address. Besides the pizza-delivery guy up the road, he’d be the only man in London with my personal details, and I liked it that way. He had something to post me, though, and I’d only sound churlish, or paranoid, if I refused to tell him where I lived.

  The package, as I’d h
alf expected, was the violin Dominik had promised. Based on the quality of the violin that he had provided for the Vivaldi performance, I had guessed he would choose something nice, but I had never imagined that he would offer me an instrument so beautiful. It was a vintage Bailly, the wood a soft yellow, almost caramel, the colour of a jar of manuka honey held to the light. It reminded me of home, of the soft golden tones of the Waihou river when the sun catches the water.

  According to the certificates enclosed, the last owner was a Miss Edwina Christiansen. Ever curious about the stories held within my violins, I tried Googling her, but found no clues to her history. Oh well. My imagination would have to do.

  The case was brand new, black with a deep-red velvet lining. A little morbid for my tastes, and it didn’t suit the warmth of the Bailly, but Dominik seemed a smart guy and not romantic in the foolish sense of the word, so I supposed that the new case was just a way to disguise the value of the contents.

  He had enclosed instructions: that I must acknowledge the arrival of the package, and then spend as much time as possible rehearsing with it, though not in public. And that I was to await his next instruction. Rehearse and wait.

  Rehearsing with the Bailly was a joy. She fitted me perfectly, as though my own body had evolved to hold her. I had asked for a leave of absence from the busking gig, and under the circumstances, after the tube brawl, the organisers were very understanding. I played the Bailly every moment of every day, better than I had ever played before, the music pouring from my fingers as though the melodies had been trapped inside me and Dominik’s violin was the key that released them.

  Waiting was another matter. I’m patient by nature, and have always preferred endurance sports. However, I wanted to know exactly what I was signing myself up for. Firmly of the belief that life gives no free lunches, I presumed that Dominik would be wanting a return on his investment, and until I understood what the payment terms would be, I decided to think of the violin as a loan rather than a gift. He had suggested an agreement, a contract of mutual satisfaction, not offered to be my sugar daddy. I would have turned him down flat if he had. But still, until I knew what he wanted, I wouldn’t be able to decide whether I wanted to give it to him.