Claidia Incarnata…Part III

Day dispossesses day;
Moons hurry to be born
And race to their decay.

– Horace, Odes.



L’Accademia di Santa Cecilia di Agrigento… 11am.

“Ah yes, here it is.” Claudia smiled as she read the polished brass plaque to the right of the heavy iron door. The door was nestled in an old arched stone doorway in a quiet side street off Agrigento’s Via Atena. The sheer scale of the doorway suggested to her that it had been the entrance to a grand house, little of which was visible from the street. She found the bell but hesitated and recounted the events that had brought her here.

At four am on the morning of the previous day, she and Carlo had come home from their night of clubbing to find all the doors and windows to Eleanora’s house locked and intact; just as they had left them. The house was dark for it was a moonless night and as far as they could tell, nothing in it had been disturbed. But when Claudia had entered the conservatory and switched on the light, the first thing she had seen was her cell phone lying on the floor pointing at the ceiling. She had left it where it was and had proceeded to search the room. She found that nothing had been disturbed but noted that the phone had landed quite a way from the shelf of books where she had earlier hidden it. She reasoned that it might have slid or bounced since the floor was not carpeted but she remained unconvinced. Picking the phone up at last, she had found that it was undamaged and that it was still switched on and that its camera was still recording. She had switched it off and taken it into the kitchen where Carlo was busy brewing them both a cup of hot chocolate. She had insisted that he stay away from the conservatory and he had reluctantly agreed. She had then sat down and, not without trepidation; she played back what the phone had recorded. Upon the screen was total darkness; a blank, black rectangle that might have been the very spot on the ceiling under which the phone had lain. But the darkness had spoken volumes for as she had stared at the screen Claudia had heard, coming from the phone’s speakers, the pure icy sound of the harpsichord.

She now shut her eyes and took a deep breath. Composing herself as best she could, she then buzzed the intercom and announced herself. The iron door opened into a dim, cool reception room with ornate mosaic floors, indoor palms and dark antique furniture. At the far end she was greeted by a pleasantly smiling girl at the desk.

“Ah signiorina Incarnata, bongiorno.”

“Bongiorno.”

“We spoke on the telephone .The professor is expecting you. Follow me please.”

The girl led her through a dark corridor hung with old oil paintings of composers. Claudia recognized Beethoven, Verdi, Bach and Wagner despite the gloom. A moment later they stepped out into a cloistered court-yard that was a veritable blaze of colour. Neat rows of manicured hedges enclosed beautifully tended and well stocked flower beds. At the far end was a bronze and marble fountain depicting the three graces. Next to it, under the shade of a huge sprawling pepper tree, sat an old man. He looked about seventy with short white hair and a trimmed white goatee. He seemed to be totally absorbed in an old grey laptop which sat on the table in front of him. As Claudia approached she heard the gentle splashing of the fountain but aside from that, a tangible silence hung over the courtyard. She looked briefly at the rows of columns and arches; clearly relics of the city’s glorious past and no doubt lovingly restored. She found the whole scene tranquil and beautiful and imagined that she had wandered into the garden of some ancient philosopher.

The girl from the desk now cleared her throat quietly and the old man looked up. For a moment he seemed slightly annoyed but smiled immediately upon seeing Claudia. He stood up as the girl announced,

“Professore Virgilio Barricelli this is Signorina Claudia Incarnata.”

Claudia offered Barricelli her hand and he stood, bowed and kissed it.

“Signiorina Incatnata welcome to Agrigento and to our school. Please take a seat and please do me the honour of joining me for some coffee.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, and please call me Claudia.”

He had spoken with gravity, indicating that he was impressed by his visitor’s presence. Claudia sat down opposite the old academic who now turned to the young receptionist.

“Julia, espresso for two and see that we are not disturbed.”

“Si professore.”

Julia bowed and left rather reluctantly whereupon Barricelli said,

“She is my granddaughter, I am teaching her the violin,” He spoke with obvious affection but Claudia could not help but notice a strained note in his voice as though he was wrestling with some unresolved problem. She nodded politely but did not reply.

Barricelli then typed something into the laptop. Once he had finished he looked up, his face full of expectation. Suddenly the eerie sounds of the harpsichord began to issue from the laptop; breaking the near silence of the courtyard and echoing strangely about the colonnades. Claudia watched the old man’s face closely as they listened. For the most part he remained composed and dignified but from time to time she saw a hint almost of fear in his eyes, almost of trepidation, as though he had just been reminded of some dark and long forgotten secret.
After several minutes he closed his eyes and kept them shut for a further minute until he touched the keyboard and brought the music to a stop. Opening his eyes, he smiled but remained silent until Claudia said,

“Professor, I appreciate you seeing me at such short notice and for reasons that I can’t explain I need to know something, anything, about the music on this disc.”

Barricelli thought for a moment.

“Well, since you sent me this…er, recording just yesterday, I have only listened to it once but I have some information for you. I can tell you that most of the pieces are well known, in musicological circles at least. But there are some pieces here that I don’t recognize. I believe them to be improvisations or transcriptions of modern music; with which I am largely unfamiliar.”

“Transcriptions?”

“Yes, pieces that have been rewritten for the keyboard. Our player, whoever he or she is, is quite good at transcribing.”

Why do you assume that I don’t know who it is? The question hung in Claudia’s mind until Barricelli said,

“This is playing of the first order, that of a master, my dear, a virtuoso as we say.”

Now he looked away and settled into academic mode. The more he spoke the more Claudia found that she quite enjoyed listening to him lecture.

“He, or she begins with several short pieces that are unknown to me but they display great virtuosity none the less. They sound quite modern but are quite diverting. But then he plays Les Barricades Mysterieuses by the great 17th century French composer Francois Couperin. A master of the keyboard in his day and one of the principal musicians at the court of Versailles under Louis XIV.”

“The mysterious barriers?”

“Yes, exactly. This is followed by an excellent transcription of a very well known violin concerto; Vivaldi’s La Tempesta di Mare. In this there are passages of sublime beauty; quite unequalled in my experience and I know the concerto very well.”

Barricelli paused for effect but Claudia only responded with a look of growing concern.

At last she said, “Go on professore.”

“Finally there is another transcription of a French 17th century piece, this one originally written for viola da gamba. It is The Dreaming Girl by Marin Marais. Once again, beautifully played with uncommon sensitivity and tasteful ornamentation.”

Barricelli then checked his tone and his enthusiasm; his voice returning to its casual mode. Claudia looked at him with a mixture of perplexity and relief. Part of her still believed that the whole thing was some elaborate practical joke. But the proof was there on her phone and now on the disc in the professor’s pc. As these thoughts entered her mind, Barricelli asked,

“Do you happen to know the performer?” The transparency of this question suggested to Claudia that Barricelli possibly already knew the answer. A short but awkward silence followed as he cast his eye to the distant side of the courtyard.

“No, I don’t.” She wanted to add, but now I’m not sure that you don’t.

“It is a pity; he is a truly great performer.”

Barricelli said nothing further; instead he changed the subject.

I knew your grandmother; I met her once or twice. She loved our concerts and was a regular subscriber, but regrettably, I did not know her well.