Virtuoso

A hush of anticipation fell over the audience as the stage lights dimmed. A single spot illuminated the curtain at stage left and all eyes turned, awaiting the appearance of Vian Nyugen.

As soon as the violinist took to the stage, applause swept across the stalls, rising like a wave upon which she strode, seemingly keeping rhythm with her long legs flashing in the high split of an otherwise demure black dress. At centre stage, she turned and bowed once to her audience, slender arms outstretched behind her with the violin in one hand and the bow in the other, a resplendent swan fanning wings before flight. She held the pose, bathing in the adulation and glanced up furtively to survey the crowd.

Tuxedoes and cocktail dresses filled the seats. Row upon row of blurred hands, awestruck smiles and greying hair. No different to Prague, Tokyo, Munich or the hundred other concert halls she had played over the years.

When Vian snapped up straight, the applause quickly faded. A blanket of silence, broken only by the echo of a restrained cough or someone settling into their seat, as she tucked the violin beneath her chin and raised the bow like a magician’s wand.

Gracefully, gently, she drew is across the strings. Stopped to tweak a peg, then drew again. A long sonorous note hung in the air. G minor.

Vian closed her eyes as the opening bridge of Sibelius’s Violin Concerto flowed out of her, allegro moderato in sheer perfection.

She had not been the child prodigy as people assumed for such a young virtuoso. In fact, she had never touched a violin until she was seventeen. Nor any other musical instrument. But while wandering the famous flea market of Les Puces de Saint-Ouen, nestled on the Northern side of the imposing fortification wall that encircled Paris, she stumbled upon a stall of antique instruments. Her grandmother had stopped at another stall to inspect an array of vintage clocks in various states of disrepair, as Vian gently traced her fingers along the keys of a dilapidated piano. A hollow plink caused the vendor to look up from his book and clear his throat to get the young girl’s attention.

“Ne pas toucher,” he wheezed when she looked at him, then gave an ersatz smile.

She stared back it him until he returned to his Baudelaire or Bovary or whatever it was cradled in his withered hands. He was old, possibly sixty by Vian’s estimation, and she found it curious he could read at all.

Satisfied she was no longer under his watchful glare, Vian continued browsing. A trumpet, apparently from le Révolution Française according to the little tag, an accordion with torn bellows, a military drum with a worn skin, and then she saw it. The violin was tucked behind stacks of sheet music, almost hidden if not for its delicate wooden scroll and finger box jutting out.

Vian quickly looked back to the vendor, still engrossed in his book, before reaching in to pull the violin from its nest into the light. As soon as her fingertips touched the instrument, she knew it was hers, as if it had always belonged to her. She blew a layer of dust from its surface, revealing a flawless body with delicate centre bouts and hand-cut f-holes.

Her fingers stroked the strings, and they whispered faintly.

It called to her, wanting to be played. Demanding.

Pushing the stack of music sheets aside, she pulled out its accompanying bow.

Somehow, she knew exactly how to hold the instrument, tucking the chin rest under her cheek, her middle two fingers resting on the fingerboard. Vian carefully dragged the bow across the strings and let the violin sing for the first time in decades.

“Ne pas toucher!”

The vendor stood at the end of the stall, hands on hips, with a baleful glare.

Unrattled, Vian stared back and let the bow play two sharp notes, almost inhuman sounds, then on into what she would later learn were the opening bars of Beethoven’s Kreutzer Violin Sonata.

When the incensed vendor took a step toward her, she lifted the bow from the strings and smiled at the sudden silence.

“Combien, monsieur?” she asked sweetly, stopping him in his tracks.

Now he looked the girl up and down – her clothes, shoes, hair – evaluating her potential financial position. He chewed his lips for a moment.

“Sept franc.”

She brought the bow back to the strings and continued where she left off, giving a quick bariolage. The man furrowed his brow and let out a flurry of coughs he seemed to have been suppressing.

Vian stopped playing while he caught his breath again, then held up her right hand holding the bow, the last three fingers extended. Trois.

With a snort of derision, he held up six.

She sighed and played again, this time the violin sang the dramatic rising swell of Lipiński’s Opus 14. At the sombre down-sweep, the antiques merchant began coughing again. Deeply with the wet gurgle of phlegm. He raised his cuff to his mouth as she offered, “Quatre.”

His incessant hacking fought with her impromptu recital until he doubled over and held up his free hand, fingers outstretched. Was he giving up the haggle, waving for her to stop, or was that his final offer of five francs, Vian wondered.

She raised the bow and asked, “Cinq?”

He nodded weakly, frustrated that a sudden ailment forced his hand with this petulant morveuse, but also relieved as the cough finally subsided. When he held out his hand for the money, Vian noticed the bloody spatters on his cuff.

Of course, she did not have the five francs required for the winning bid, but her grandmother did. Only just.

When they got home that afternoon, Vian painstakingly cleaned up the dusty instrument and noticed the small paper label inside the body, visible through an f-hole. It read: Jean Baptiste Vuillaume à Paris Rue Croix des Petits Champs. In the middle of the inside back, a number and signature had been inscribed by hand.

She knew the address as being not far from the Musée de Louvre. She would later learn Vuillaume was the greatest violin maker of nineteeth century France, awarded at the 1823 Paris Exposition. And later still, she would discover authenticated Vuillaumes sell for over one hundred thousand dollars at elite auction houses.

Now, as she performed for this audience in Hamburg’s famous Laeiszhalle, she knew it was worth much more than that.

Vian played the final twittering notes of Henri Marteau’s Violin Concerto in C Major, and let the very last fade into the distant corners of the concert hall before slowly lowering the instrument. As always, the ensuing silence was so thick it shrouded her, only briefly, before the avalanche of applause thundered from the stalls. She could feel the vibrations against her skin.

She bowed and let it wash over her, never tiring of the adoration.

During the traditional exit, return and bow again, the continuous rapture rose in fervour at her reappearance and the obligatory bouquet presented by a stage manager, then finally settled as she formally left the stage with a graceful smile.

From stage left, as the house lights slowly rose, Vian hid in the shadows of the curtain and watched the audience rise from their seats to begin their awkward shuffle along the narrow rows toward the bottlenecks that were every exit in every concert hall in which she had ever played. She scanned their faces, listened to their politely whispered chatter.

Someone coughed and she focused on the sound, recalling the antiques merchant from years before. But the source was lost in the crowd and she finally withdrew to her dressing room.

A bottle of champagne sat in a silver ice bucket beside a single fluted glass.

She lay the bouquet on the table then turned to the open violin case. She wiped down the violin, lovingly nestled it into the case along with the bow, and firmly locked the lid before turning to the mirror of the dressing table.

Leaning in, she peered closely at her eyes, a finger gently prodding the flesh below her right eye and stroking down her velvety cheek.

Most in the audience would have been focused on the music, of course. And while some of the men sneak glances at the exposed flesh of her legs, the curve of her hips, her bosom tucked into the stunning gown, and maybe her face, the women were more likely to admire the details of her flawless complexion and the plumpness of her natural lips.

She let out a satisfied sigh and allowed herself a faint smile, confident that no one in tonight’s audience had noticed what she now saw as plain as day.

Vian lifted the bottle of champagne, checked the label, and dropped the bottle back into the ice, unopened. She’d had better.

Her phone pinged, the screen flashing a message that her car was waiting out front. By now, the concert hall would have emptied and even the stragglers found a taxi home. Taking her coat from a hook, she wrapped it around her, picked up the violin case and headed for the exit.

She made her way up the carpeted stairs to the foyer where a young usher opened the middle door of three for her.

“Gute nacht, Fräulein Nyugen.”

“Thank you. Danke,” she smiled and stepped out in the crisp night air. Hamburg’s lights glowed in the clouds above, a multi-coloured pastiche of the city drifting across the heavens.

To the right of the octagonal plaza, two cars were parked at the kerb, a Mercedes-Benz and a Maybach, both black. Vian looked from one to the other, trying to guess which was for her.

As she approached, the rear window of the Maybach slid down. She couldn’t see anyone in the darkness within and remained cautious, reaching for her cell phone within the pocket of her coat.

The driver’s door of the Mercedes opened and the driver stepped out.

“Fräulein Nyugen,” he said, walking around the rear of the car, through the headlights of the Maybach behind it, to open the rear passenger door on the kerb side. He motioned for Vian to get in.

When she glanced back to the rear window of the Maybach, the door opened and a tall man in a finely tailored suit stepped out.

“Excuse me, Miss Nyugen,” he said, his hands open gracefully.

He spoke with a German accent, but his suit was most likely British. Savile Row, of course. His shoes appeared Italian, bespoke.

She hesitated, slightly confused by the two options before her. Clearly, the man with the Mercedes was a chauffeur. His neat but inexpensive black suit the hallmark of a professional driver. So, who was the other man, who had his own driver sitting behind the wheel of the luxurious Maybach?

“Yes?” she asked.

“If I may have a moment of your time?”

She stepped forward further, but retained a safe distance. Her chauffeur approached.

“Kann ich dir helfen?” he asked the stranger. Vian understood he was inquiring what the man wanted.

“No, no. It’s fine,” replied the man gently. “I’m a big fan of your work, Miss Nyugen. And I wondered if I may…”

Vian relaxed a little and gave a small wave to her driver, indicating that he need not worry. She had become accustomed to what passed for celebrity status in the world of classical music. Rather than the spotty teens or botoxed TikTokkers who stalked actors and rockstars hunting selfie opportunities for the ‘gram, her fandom mostly consisted of the social elite, diplomats, or canonical enthusiasts looking for her autograph on a playbill or program from her recital.

She neared him, holding out her hand.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she said warmly as the shook hands. “Did you enjoy the performance?”

“Oh, I was unable to make this one, unfortunately,” he blushed, raising her hand to his lips. “A business engagement stole the opportunity. But I did see you in Riga last month.”

“How wonderful. But I’m sorry about the lighting there,” she apologised. “They insisted on creating a candlelit atmosphere.”

He still held her hand.

“No, it was exquisite,” he crooned. “Dramatically superb, like your performance.”

“Fräulein?” prompted her driver.

Vian took her hand back and smiled. “It was nice to meet you, but I must be going.”

“Wait,” insisted the stranger. “I am such a huge fan. I wondered if you might indulge me in a private performance...”

“You’ll have to speak to my manager,” she suggested as she turned to leave.

“Tonight?” he finished.

Vian stopped and gave a surprised chuckle.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think so. But if you…”

“I must insist,” he interrupted, stepping to one side and indicating the open car door with a gentle flourish.

Panic started to rise in Vian. She looked quickly to her chauffeur, hoping he would see her unease, but the man was focused on the stranger instead. She took one step backward.

“I assure you,” he continued. “It is nothing untoward.”

Vian held the violin case in front of her body now, more as a comforting shield than an actual protective one.

“I, uh,” she stuttered, “don’t think that would be right.”

“I would like to ask you about Lu Diāo.”

The name was like a sledgehammer. She almost dropped the violin case, but suddenly gripped it tighter than ever.

“Excuse me?” she shot back, but the man only smiled innocently.

Vian had not heard that name for a very long time. How did he know it? More importantly, how did he associate it with her?

“I don’t mean to alarm you,” he calmed. “I can explain on the way. Your driver can follow to ensure your safety.”

He gestured to the open door again and Vian found herself unable to resist. She slowly climbed into the Maybach. It was only after the stranger had gently closed the door and walked around to get in the other side that she realised she hadn’t instructed her chauffeur to follow. Looking out the window at him now, she opened her mouth but no words came out. As the Maybach pulled out from the kerb, she watched the chauffeur watching her drive away.

They headed East long the esplanade for only a short distance then turned left before reaching the twin bridges of Kennedybrücke and Lombardsbrücke that crossed the Southern end of Außenalster, the artificial lake on this side of the city. Vian tried to discreetly take out her phone to message her chauffeur, but the screen lit up in the backseat of the car.

“You can message your driver the address if you wish,” offered the stranger. “It is forty-two Harvestehuder Weg, just on the North-western corner of the lake.”

“Thank you,” Vian whispered, unsure if she was, as she texted the details to her driver.

“Where are my manners,” blurted the stranger with enthusiasm. “I know who you are, but I have not introduced myself.”

He offered her his hand again and she absent-mindedly took it, her eyes locked onto her phone as it pinged. The driver’s message flashed on screen. Auf dem weg.

“My name is Otto Jaeger,” he announced formally before kissing her hand again. “And as I said, I am your biggest fan. I have quite a collection of memorabilia on you. It is all at the house. I will show it to you.”

His zeal did not calm her rising fear and Vian began to berate herself internally for getting in the man’s car. But he had said that name. She pressed send on the message to her driver and looked Otto squarely in the eyes.

“Why did you call me by another name?” she asked bluntly.

“Because I am hoping you can solve a little mystery for me.”

He was charming, and seemed harmless enough. But still, she felt a lurking sense of dread that all was not right. She took the moment to strike conversation that could elicit clues about the man, hopefully notes she could send to her driver in case he needed to find her quickly. Or call the police.

“What do you do for a living, Mr Jaeger?”

“Please, call me Otto,” he smiled. “I am a businessman. An antiques dealer, of sorts.”

The dread once more. Antiques dealer?

“I am mostly involved in securing purchases for museums and galleries these days.”

Art. Much better.

“How fascinating,” she lied. “That must take you all around the world.”

“Yes, but not as much as it used to.” His voice had a hint of sorrow, the first downbeat tone he’d shown so far. “I used to travel to every corner of the globe looking for relics and pieces, but now it is mostly conducted online. Sometimes a trip to auction houses and such.”

He perked up a little. “But I still travel to the museums and galleries for the openings and whatnot.”

“Have you always been interested in antiquities and art?” she continued, her right hand trying to surreptitiously type a disjointed message to the chauffeur: Otto Jaeger. Antiques. Dealer. Rich.

Before he could answer, the car pulled up to an impressive renaissance villa. The towering white building was four storeys with a picturesque sunroom on the front beside what appeared to be the round base of an incomplete turret, possibly a folly. The car turned into the short driveway that dipped beneath a square wall draped in ivy. A modern garage door opened and they continued underground.

“I have always been interested in history and classic arts,” Otto continued. “Including classical music, of course.”

“Of course.”

White. House. Underground.

But before Vian could press send, she lost cell reception in the concrete bunker of the private carpark.

The Maybach stopped and the driver got out to open Otto’s door first, then Vian’s. He stayed as Otto led Vian past a canary yellow Bugatti and a silvery-blue Aston Martin to an elevator.

“May I carry your violin?” Otto asked, but the violinist shook her head. “Of course not. My apologies,” he begged.

The elevator was so smooth and silent, Vian wondered if they had moved at all before the doors opened to reveal a palatial room. Artwork covered the walls and a dozen plinths showcased ancient sculptures. Glass-topped cabinetry displayed an assortment of relics, books, and artefacts. On one wall, an ornate fireplace flickered with flames, already lit in preparation for Otto’s return.

“My word,” she blurted before she had even realised.

“Welcome to my home,” Otto chimed as if this space were an ordinary suburban house and his mother might step out to offer a glass of milk.

Vian walked the perimeter of the room, surveying the antiques. She recognised a few pieces here and there but maintained a poker face.

Otto poured two drinks from a quaint bar trolley and placed them on a small table between two armchairs. He gestured for Vian to sit in one.

“Please, have a drink,” he offered. “It’s your favourite.”

Vian picked up the glass and sniffed.

“No,” she breathed. He smiled and nodded.

Croizet Cognac Cuvée Léonie 1858. Last sold for $150,000.

“I told you. I’m your biggest fan.”

She sipped and felt the familiar delicious burn on her tongue. Notes of dried roses and poppies. A touch of coconut and quince. Sandalwood and cedar. And a hint of the nutmeg that would remain in the glass when it was empty.

“You wanted me to play for you?” she asked, placing her violin case on the floor.

“Yes, but please, I am not in a hurry.” He turned, thought of something. “Unless you are?”

Vian shook her head and reached into her pocket to feel for her phone. While Otto made a sudden dart for a cabinet, she half pulled the phone out, clicked it to silent mode and pressed send. Three dots appeared, indicating the driver was responding immediately. Ich bin hier.

She looked up to see Otto was rifling through a cupboard, then typed back. Wait outside.

“Ah ha, here it is,” Otto exclaimed, bringing over a selection of papers.

He sat on the edge of his seat and spread the papers out on the small table, revealing a collection of memorabilia from Vian’s performances over the years. Among them were programs, playbills, newspaper clippings, photos, and a few ticket stubs for the recitals Otto had presumedly attended himself. Riga, of course. Vienna. Capetown.

“You saw me in South Africa?” she asked.

“Yes. Baxter Concert Hall,” he replied. “Your Tzigane was the best I’ve ever heard.”

Vian thumbed through the photos. They appeared to all be promotional shots thankfully, not his personal snaps. It seemed he was a genuine fan after all.

“Tell me Otto,” she brought him back to the subject. “The name?”

“Ah yes. The mystery you can help me solve.” His eagerness put him even closer to the edge of his seat. “You are the best violinist in the world.”

“Well, I don’t know–”

“No dispute. You are the best.” He leaned forward and gave a reassuring pat on her exposed knee. She pulled her coat to cover her legs.

“And not just because of how you play,” he continued. “But because of how you began to play. As you know, there is no mention anywhere of your classical training. No Juilliard. No Berklee. Not even the Conservatoire in your home city.”

Vian shifted uneasily in her seat.

“Which is truly remarkable. You yourself have said…” he trailed off as he shuffled through some papers. “Yes, here in your interview with the New York Times, you said ‘I never had any formal training and, as a precociously insistent child, I somehow taught myself.’”

“Inspired by my grandmother,” Vian added.

“Yes. It says that too,” he agreed, his finger tapping the quote in the article. “She raised you until you were seventeen. May she rest in peace.”

Vian nodded solemnly, then sipped her cognac.

“How did you teach yourself?” he asked, but not pausing for an answer. “Because your grandmother did not play, did she? At least not to the level at which you play. And you were still quite young when she passed away. But you were already playing concerts by then.”

“She encouraged me.”

Vian leaned down and unclipped the lid of the violin case.

“Indeed. And here you are, the self-taught violin virtuoso, just thirty-nine years old last August, playing tonight in the same hall that once hosted Strauss, Prokofiev, Stravinsky and Kraftwerk.”

“Kraftwerk?”

He nodded slightly embarrassed. “I mostly like classical.”

Vian opened the lid of the case.

“As I have followed your career these past twenty years, I wondered if there were other gifted youngsters like yourself.”

“Are you forming an orchestra?” she asked. “Because I only play solo.”

“No,” he chuckled. “I am no manager. Merely an enthusiast. A collector.”

When Vian lifted out the violin, Otto stopped rambling, awestruck by the instrument. He gingerly reached out a hand, only halfway, too scared to touch the instrument but also reverential. Vian placed it on her lap and spoke as she reached for the bow.

“It is a Vuillaume.”

“1823,” he whispered, a chill running down his spine. “I know.”

“I found it in a flea market.”

“Les Puces de Saint-Ouen,” he added, a true fan who’d read all he could about her.

“As soon as I touched it,” she said softly, “I knew I could play it. Like it was always within me to do so.”

“Remarkable.”

She tucked the chin rest under her cheek and flourished the bow.

“But here’s the mystery of my research,” Otto interjected, a raised finger.

“I thought you wanted me to play?”

“Yes. Of course. But indulge me one moment.” He stood to fetch a few more papers. When she plucked a string, he lost focus and snapped around to look at her, but returned to his search as she adjusted the pegs. After a moment, he sat back down with his hand clutching some photos and a newspaper clipping.

“As I said,” he continued. “I am a historian. A finder of ancient artefacts. And in my search for other child prodigies like yourself, I found something.”

With a flick of his hand, he held out the black and white photo.

“This is photo of Strauss. Richard the German. Not Johann the Austrian. Born in 1864, he began composing when he was just six years old and went on to become the successor to Wagner and Liszt. A prodigy like you perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Vian agreed, guardedly.

“Except, his father was the principal horn player at the Court Opera in Munich and a professor at the Königliche Musikschule. And Richard started music lessons when he was just four years old, so he had a bit more of a musical upbringing than you.”

“A remarkable child, nonetheless,” Vian insisted.

“In this photo, he’s conducting the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra on December 14, 1936. Not a good year for Germany. But look here.” Otto craned his head to look at the photo he held for Vian and pointed to a figure in the orchestra. “See this person here.”

Vian leaned forward to look. The figure was quite blurry and the photo very old.

“Does she look familiar to you?” Otto asked.

Vian shook her head. “Who is she?”

“Her name was Lu Diāo. Am I saying that right? I don’t speak Mandarin, I’m afraid.”

He turned the photo back around to inspect it himself, peering closely.

“A female violinist in 1936 was very rare indeed, but a Chinese violinist? Unheard of in Germany, let alone anywhere in Europe.” He smacked his lips as he thought for a moment and then turned the photo back to Vian. “Does she not look familiar to you?”

“It’s quite blurry and the photo very old,” she replied.

Otto turned it back to face him and held it up at arm’s length so that it sat side-by-side with Vian’s face.

“The two of you could be sisters.” He snorted and flicked the photo onto the table. “But perhaps I am just seeing my favourite violinist everywhere, no?”

Vian placed the bow against the strings and drew it across. Otto was mesmerised as she continued into the opening stanza of Paganini’s Caprice No. 24. Her eyes closed as the music swept across the room and filled the air with parallel octaves, rapidly shifting through its many intervals. When she finally finished, Otto looked worn out, as though he’d either just run a marathon or had the most vigorous sex of his life.

He gave a weak applause.

She smiled and took another sip of cognac.

“That was magnificent.” When he spoke, it was listless and took some time to regain some of the energy he had exhibited before. He shuffled forward in his seat again, slowly.

“Now back to my investigation. I looked for more on this Lu Diāo and found an article that describes a child who could also play the violin quite miraculously.”

He offered the newspaper to Vian with a tired hand.

“A twenty-year old Oriental girl in Paris. Now they spell her name as Lüdowe but I think you’ll agree the phonetics are rather identical.”

“I suppose,” said Vian.

“This newspaper is from 1895. So our mysterious twenty-year old Lu Diāo was born around 1875 and yet remained a young violinist for Strauss over sixty years later.”

“If you think it’s the same woman,” Vian pointed.

“I think it is the same woman,” Otto stated, somewhat drearily. “Because I found another photo.”

He offered it to her, but she began playing instead.

Otto sank back into the chair as Vian’s perfect rendition of Scheherazade by Rimsky-Korsakov filled the room. It seeped into his body and enveloped his soul. He could feel himself drifting, getting lighter and heavier and the same time. His limbs began to ache from the inside.

Vian watched as he appeared to deflate in the chair. And when she finished, his smiling face had become sallow, his hair limp, his eyes darkened.

He groaned as he squinted at the postcard in his hand. His vision, now blurred, found it difficult to find the figure in question, but he had scoured the image a hundred times before and knew what the picture was. What the words were.

“This postcard is labelled Notre Marché aux Puces,” he croaked. “But it is the Saint-Ouen flea market. The date on the back is 1871. Four years before the estimated birth of our ageless Lu Diāo. But look behind the gentleman with the flat-cap.”

He offered Vian a magnifying glass, but she declined.

“A pretty Oriental girl clutching a violin. The same Oriental girl, perhaps seventeen.”

“That’s a fascinating story, Herr Otto,” Vian sighed as she raised the violin to her chin once more.

This time, she played The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams, as Otto sunk further into his chair. The two-bar introduction is formally accompanied by woodwind, but Vian’s expertise at the muted strings in 6/8 time lead beautifully into the solo, cadenza pianissimo. Placing her bow over the finger board, known as sur la touche, Vian reduced the higher harmonics to give the piece its much-loved ethereal tone.

She kept her eyes open and locked on him, and would do so for the entire sixteen minutes of the piece, while she spoke.

“As you know, this violin is an 1823 Vuillaume. The number stamped inside by Vuillaume himself, right next to his own signature, is twenty-three. It is his twenty-third violin made in 1823. Coincidence, no?”

Otto barely shook his head.

“You see, to an occultist, the number represents the twenty-three enigma, the number of chromosomes babies get from each parent at the start of life, and the psalm of choice at the end of life. But to a demonologist, it represents the third demon in the second tier, Beleth, who used music to corrupt souls.”

She was well into the melody in 2/4 now, past the point at which the orchestra woild ordinarily re-enter, playing solo into the second unaccompanied cadenza. Shorter than the first, it leads to the contrasting episode, allegretto tranquillo quasi andante. Otto’s hair silvered and his face became criss-crossed with deep wrinkles.

“The Vuillaume paper label inside was printed by a man called Jacques Albin Simon Collin de Plancy when he worked as a printer next door to Vuillaume’s workshop. This was in de Plancy’s formative years, before he added the aristocratic de Plancy and became the renowned occultist and demonologist who wrote and published a book titled Dictionnaire Infernal in 1818.”

The solo violin trills marked the next section, allegro tranquillo, and Vian tapped her stiletto on the wooden floor to replace what would normally have been the puctuations of an off-beat triangle, the only percussion in the entire piece. She changed from the somewhat ambigious G major to the F major as the time switches back to 6/8.

In the dim light of the room, ghostly tendrils of mist began to rise out of Otto’s body, swirl in the air for a moment before being drawn into the violin. His breathing laboured and his clothing hung limp over his slowly desiccating body.

“He imbued this violin with a power. In the I-Ching, twenty-three means ‘breaking apart’, which is what my violin does. It tears out your soul, your very life force, and passes it into me.”

The frail body of Otto slumped in the chair, his eyes white and sightless, his rasped breathing as slow as his heartbeat.

“I was born in 1854 and was seventeen when I found this violin. My grandmother paid for it with what little money she had, but in return she asked that I play for her. And when I did, it stole her last four years and gave them to me.”

Vian entered the next section of the piece in which the solo violin plays the melody normally played by flutes earlier in the second cadenza. Otto’s soul sucked out with every note, every draw of the bow, down to his final minutes of life.

“Over time, I discovered that when played to a large audience, its power is spread across all the souls so that maybe a day or two is taken from each person, which all adds up to give me a few years – not enough of a difference for anyone to notice the change in themselves, or me. But when played for a single person, it can be quite draining.”

She finished the closing cadenza, up to D in altissimo, then dropping again a minor third on to B, closing out the piece so the final note hung in the air for a remarkably long time. Vian took Otto’s last breath then lowered the bow.

Vian returned the violin to its case and looked at the withered corpse in the chair before her as she snapped the locks of the case. The man was a mere husk, his skin pulled so tight that bones jutted and joints twisted like a gnarled vine.

She gathered up the pile of photos, newspaper clippings, and memorabilia, carrying them to the fireplace where she carefully ensured each one burned.

“And now I have to start all over again.”

She picked up her violin case, finished the glass of cognac and turned to leave. On second thoughts, she grabbed the bottle, then headed for the door.

Outside, her chauffeur stood by the Mercedes in the driveway. Unsure if it was the dim streetlighting, or he simply hadn't been paying attention when he first saw the virtuoso in front of the concert hall, the driver reflected for a moment on how much younger she looked. She could pass for twenty-something, he thought, but shrugged it off and opened the car door.

Before she climbed in, Vian looked at the man and said, “Did you know Gorillaz released their album Demon Days on the twenty-third of the fifth month. Twenty three. And two plus three equals five. That’s not a coincidence, is it?”