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The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 47 из 209She had worked with orchestras that had come back from lunch breaks so medicated with alcohol it was a wonder anyone could play at all. She peered into the refrigerator. She had hardly eaten in Zurich and was famished. She sautéed mushrooms and tomatoes in olive oil and fresh local herbs, then stirred in three beaten eggs and added some grated cheese. After the nightmare of Zurich, this simple domestic task gave her an inordinate amount of pleasure. When the omelet was finished, she sat on a tall stool at the kitchen counter and ate it with the last of her wine.
It was then she noticed the light winking on her answering machine. There were four messages. Long ago she had switched off all the ringers on the telephones to avoid being disturbed while she was practicing. She forked a bite of the omelet into her mouth and pressed the PLAY button on the machine.
The first message was from her father’s lawyer in Zurich. It seemed he had some more papers for her to sign. “Would it be convenient to send them by overnight parcel to the villa?”
Yes, it would be, she thought. She’d telephone him in the morning.
The second call was Marco. A long time ago they had been engaged to be married. Like Anna, Marco was a gifted soloist, but he was little known outside Italy. He could never get over the fact that Anna was a star and he was not, and he had punished her by sleeping with half the women in Rome. After Marco she had taken a vow to never again fall in love with a musician.
“I read about your father in the papers, Anna darling. I’m so sorry, my love. What can I do? Do you need anything from me? I’ll get on the next plane.”
No, you won’t, she thought. She’d call Marco in the morning, after she finished with the lawyer. With a bit of luck, she’d get his machine and be spared the indignity of having to hear his voice in real time.
The third message was from Fiona Richardson. Fiona was the only person in the world Anna trusted completely. Each time she had stumbled, Fiona had been there to pull her back onto her feet. “Are you home yet, Anna? How was the funeral? Perfectly awful, I’m sure. They always are. I’ve been thinking about Venice. Perhaps we should postpone it. Zaccaria will understand, and so will your fans. No one can be expected to perform so soon after something like this. You need time to grieve, Anna-even if you did despise the old bastard. Call me.”
She would not be postponing her recital in Venice. She was surprised Fiona would even suggest it. She had canceled two coming-out appearances already. There had been rumblings in the press and among orchestra masters and concert promoters.
It was then she noticed the light winking on her answering machine. There were four messages. Long ago she had switched off all the ringers on the telephones to avoid being disturbed while she was practicing. She forked a bite of the omelet into her mouth and pressed the PLAY button on the machine.
The first message was from her father’s lawyer in Zurich. It seemed he had some more papers for her to sign. “Would it be convenient to send them by overnight parcel to the villa?”
Yes, it would be, she thought. She’d telephone him in the morning.
The second call was Marco. A long time ago they had been engaged to be married. Like Anna, Marco was a gifted soloist, but he was little known outside Italy. He could never get over the fact that Anna was a star and he was not, and he had punished her by sleeping with half the women in Rome. After Marco she had taken a vow to never again fall in love with a musician.
“I read about your father in the papers, Anna darling. I’m so sorry, my love. What can I do? Do you need anything from me? I’ll get on the next plane.”
No, you won’t, she thought. She’d call Marco in the morning, after she finished with the lawyer. With a bit of luck, she’d get his machine and be spared the indignity of having to hear his voice in real time.
The third message was from Fiona Richardson. Fiona was the only person in the world Anna trusted completely. Each time she had stumbled, Fiona had been there to pull her back onto her feet. “Are you home yet, Anna? How was the funeral? Perfectly awful, I’m sure. They always are. I’ve been thinking about Venice. Perhaps we should postpone it. Zaccaria will understand, and so will your fans. No one can be expected to perform so soon after something like this. You need time to grieve, Anna-even if you did despise the old bastard. Call me.”
She would not be postponing her recital in Venice. She was surprised Fiona would even suggest it. She had canceled two coming-out appearances already. There had been rumblings in the press and among orchestra masters and concert promoters.