The Lost Symphony, page 1
THE LOST SYMPHONY
Jack Rogan Mysteries Series Book 6
Gabriel Farago
This book is brought to you by Bear & King Publishing.
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Cover Design by Giovanni Banfi
First published 2020 © Gabriel Farago
The right of Gabriel Farago to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 (for example, fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review) no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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* I’m delighted to tell you that The Forgotten Painting has received two major literary awards in the US. It was awarded the Gold Medal by Readers’ Favorite in the Short Stories and Novellas category and was named ‘Outstanding Novella’ of 2018 by the IAN Book of the Year Awards.
Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue
Part I. Madame Petrova’s Music Box
Part II. Fabergé’s Secret Easter Egg
Part III. The Weeping Madonna of Kazan
Part IV. Mat’ Rossiya
A Parting Note From The Author: Fact Stranger Than Fiction?
More Books by the Author
About the Author
Author’s Note
Connect with the Author
Author’s Note
Very few cities in the world today have as tortured a soul as St Petersburg. The wheel of history has been particularly cruel to this remarkable place. Bloody revolutions, uprisings and assassinations resulting in untold misery, and devastating wars causing the deaths of millions have shaped this city, and the echoes of a painful past can still be felt today by visitors who are prepared to observe and listen.
Inspired by Venice and Amsterdam, this spectacular ‘Versailles on the Neva’ – Peter the Great’s ‘window into Europe’ – became the capital of Russia in 1712. I visited this fascinating city in September 2019 to prepare the way for the release of The Curious Case of the Missing Head, Book 5 in The Jack Rogan Mysteries Series, and to continue my research for a novella, The Lost Symphony, which I’d had in the back of my mind for some time.
But things don’t always turn out as planned.
Actually visiting this jewel on the Baltic and being surrounded by its extraordinary history had a profound effect on me. It is important to mention this at the very beginning, as it has a bearing on how the storylines unfolded, and how the many fascinating characters who shape this book came to life.
Initially, The Lost Symphony was planned as a short novella about a tormented genius and one of my favourite composers – Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky – who visited St Petersburg often, and died there in 1893. I referred to this in chapter 62 of The Curious Case of the Missing Head, part of which has been incorporated into the opening scene of the Prologue and explains how the storylines of this book fit into The Jack Rogan Mysteries Series, which doesn’t always follow Jack’s life chronologically.
At the time of my visit, I thought St Petersburg and its turbulent history would provide a most suitable backdrop and setting for the novella. Then, several things happened that changed all that:
The first was a wonderful concert. One of my readers, an eminent Russian musicologist I had corresponded with for years, knew I was planning to delve into Tchaikovsky’s life and times, and kindly arranged tickets to a concert showcasing Tchaikovsky’s sublime music.
During the stirring fourth movement of Symphony No.6, the Pathétique, with its sense of gloom and foreboding, my mind began to wander and the first shoots of a new, much wider storyline began to emerge. I have no doubt this was all due to the spell of this remarkable city, which was soon to captivate me and hold me in its grip. I also recalled the words of my friend at the beginning of the concert: ‘If you want to get to know the soul of Russia, listen to its music.’
The next event that had a bearing on all this was a visit to the Cathedral of St Peter and St Paul where the Romanovs are buried. In addition to the Tchaikovsky research, I also wanted to explore the tragic history of Tsar Nicholas II and Rasputin, that enigmatic, evil genius who contributed so much to the tsar’s downfall. The tsar and his entire family were brutally slaughtered by the Bolsheviks in Yekaterinburg in July 1918, two and a half years after Rasputin himself had been murdered in the Yusupov Palace in St Petersburg. I have been fascinated by these cataclysmic events and what followed for years, and had planned to make them the centrepiece of the next book in the series. But first, I was going to write the novella about Tchaikovsky.
However, all of these plans evaporated as I stood in front of the Chapel of St Catherine the Martyr, where Tsar Nicholas II and his family were finally laid to rest on 17 July 1998, eighty years to the day after their murder. It was a deeply moving moment. For some reason I still can’t explain, I kept hearing the sombre notes of Tchaikovsky’s sixth symphony, my eyes firmly fixed on the last tsar’s modest sarcophagus in front of me, and wondered ...
A flash of inspiration often lasts only a millisecond, but it can have a profound influence on the creative process that shapes an entire book and ignites the passion needed to write it. And that is exactly what happened during a moment of reflection in that solemn place that day. The idea was simple enough: why not combine the storylines of the novella with the next book, and create a Russian epic worthy not only of a great composer, but of a tragic chapter in Russian history that changed the modern world?
The next day, my Russian friend took me to the Peterhof Palace, and it was while strolling through the stunning palace gardens with their spectacular fountains, golden statues and waterfalls that the ideas and story-threads all came together, forming the inspiration for this book. It was like opening a window to let in the sunshine.
Once that window was opened, there was no turning back. I pulled the little notebook I always carry with me out of my pocket, sat down on a bench overlooking the fountains, and began to jot down an outline for this book.
That was how it all began. What is contained in the pages that follow is the product of an inspired idea that floated into my mind’s eye on that grey autumn afternoon as a whisper, and then turned into a literary symphony I hope you will enjoy.
Gabriel Farago
Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia
November 2020
Prologue
Kuragin chateau, just outside Paris: 26 July 2018
‘You’re up early,’ said Jack and walked over to Rahima, his mother, sitting in the conservatory overlooking the garden. With the morning sun streaming through the open windows and making the palm fronds glisten, the conservatory was an idyllic place where Jack had done a lot of writing during the summer.
‘Come, sit next to me,’ said Rahima. ‘I had the best night’s sleep in months. This is so beautiful here. So peaceful and serene. So safe.’
Rahima pointed to an exquisite mahogany music box on the mantelpiece. ‘I believe that’s yours,’ she said.
‘Katerina told you about it?’
‘She did. But she didn’t tell me the whole story. She said that would be a matter for you. Apparently, it used to belong to my aunt and she left it to you. A couple of years ago, I believe. Is that right?’
‘That’s correct. There’s an amazing story attached to this little gem. It’s all about a letter, a desperate tsarina and a long-lost masterpiece created by a musical genius just before he died.’
‘How intriguing. Katerina did say you are quite a storyteller,’ interrupted Rahima, a glint in her eyes. ‘As we are about to visit my aunt’s memory trees later today, would this be a good time for you to tell me the story?’
‘I suppose it would. But I have to warn you, this story isn’t altogether a happy one. There’s treachery, betrayal and murder, and a family tragedy so cruel it’s almost impossible to put it into words. History written in blood.’
‘My goodness!’
‘Do you still want to hear it?’
‘Absolutely!’
Jack settled back into his comfortable wicker chair and looked pensively at his mother. ‘I’ve just finished writing a book about this,’ he began. ‘The manuscript is with my editor in New York right now. In fact, I wrote most of it sitting over there next to the mantelpiece. The music box was my inspiration. It spoke to me ... It was like taking dictation from the past.’
‘I can’t wait.’
Jack stood up, walked over to the mantelpiece and pointed to the music box. ‘I had it restored by a horologist in Paris, specialising in antique mechanisms just like this one made by Symphonion Musikwerke in Leipzig, Germany in 1888. It works perfectly now; listen.’ Jack pulled out a small lever on the top of the box to activate the mechanism that turned the disc. Moments later, a delightful Russian folk melody drifted across from the mantelpiece, reminding Rahima of her childhood spent with her aunt, Madame Petrova, and her family a long time ago.
‘It all began when Madame Petrova died suddenly eighteen months ago. As you know, it turned out she was my great aunt, a connection I had only discovered by chance because of this,’ said Jack. He reached inside his shirt and pulled out the exquisite little Fabergé cross he wore around his neck. ‘How this eventuated is just as fascinating as the story of the music box I’m about to tell you.’
During the next hour, Jack told his mother how the chance discovery of a letter hidden a long time ago set a chain of events in motion, which brought to light a masterpiece created by a musical giant that would, but for that letter, have been lost forever. Rahima listened in silence as Jack – a natural storyteller – described not only the extraordinary events, but the incredible cast of characters as well. He did it in a way that transported mother and son into a past filled with drama and tragedy so real and moving, that Rahima had tears in her eyes by the time Jack finished.
‘These are some of my breadcrumbs of destiny, as I’m fond of calling them,’ said Jack, ‘which inspire my writing.’
‘This is without doubt one of the most remarkable stories I’ve ever heard,’ said Rahima quietly, and looked adoringly at her son. ‘And you almost died—’
‘Thankfully, that’s all in the past now,’ interrupted Jack, still reeling from the horrors he had experienced in Russia the year before. ‘Some things are best forgotten, don’t you think?’ Jack reached for his mother’s hand. ‘I can live with the scars, but not the memories,’ he added quietly, becoming emotional. ‘I still can’t believe I’ve found you after all these years, and that you are actually sitting here, right now, with me. And all thanks to Madame Petrova and—’
‘Destiny?’
‘Oh yes, let’s not forget destiny,’ said Jack, and gently kissed his mother’s hand.
Part I
Madame Petrova’s Music Box
Modest Tchaikovsky’s apartment, St Petersburg:
5 November 1893, 10:00 pm
The mood in the top floor apartment at 13 Malaya Morskaya belonging to Modest, Tchaikovsky’s brother, on that gloomy, freezing winter’s evening was sombre and subdued. The relentless, icy grip of approaching death could be felt everywhere. Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, arguably Russia’s greatest composer, was dying.
The doctors had left after diagnosing a classic case of cholera, as there was nothing further they could do to help their famous patient. Originating in Bombay, the deadly disease had entered Russia via Arabia, causing a pandemic that had been raging since 1881.
Propped up by pillows, covered in sweat and with his kidneys and eyesight failing, Tchaikovsky lay in his bed. Realising the end was near, he was working on a complex score like a man possessed. Fuelled by creativity set on fire by the raging disease consuming his frail body, his exceptional mind was bursting with inspiration and musical ideas that he desperately wanted to record before it was too late.
Tchaikovsky had been secretly working for years on a grand Russian symphony that was going to capture the soul of the country he loved with a passion. Due to his enormous workload, this had only been possible during furious bursts of creativity between concerts and other demanding commitments. As one of the most celebrated composers of his time, Tchaikovsky had wowed adoring audiences throughout Europe, lifted his baton in all the major concert halls, and had even travelled as far afield as America to showcase his work and present it to the world.
Sadly, all this fame and adulation could do little to calm the inner torment that was consuming his soul. Homosexuality in ultra-conservative and deeply religious Russia at the time was not only a serious crime, but carried with it a social stigma so heavy and destructive that it would not only have disgraced the celebrated composer, it would have destroyed him, his reputation and his family, and placed an ugly stain on his musical genius for generations to come. For these reasons, Tchaikovsky had gone to great lengths to keep his homosexuality a closely guarded secret. In his thirties he even got married, to keep up appearances. Unfortunately, the marriage only lasted a few days and his distraught, humiliated and disappointed wife left him after a hysterical scene that had ignited gossip and speculation and set society tongues wagging.
Then, quite unexpectedly, matters came to a head in 1893. The celebrated composer suddenly found himself standing at the edge of catastrophe. Tchaikovsky became infatuated with his young nephew Vladimir ‘Bob’ Davydov, also a homosexual. Unable to control his feelings, this almost desperate infatuation was noticed even outside his innermost circle of loyal friends protecting him, and sent ripples of curiosity across a social establishment that was always on the lookout for scandal.
Exhausted, Tchaikovsky put down his pen, satisfied that the melancholy chorus of bassoons towards the end of the work would do the symphony justice as a celebration of the Russian soul. Standing in the shadows, Modest was anxiously watching his failing brother. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ he asked, choking with emotion, his voice barely audible.
‘Yes. Please send Bob in. I want to talk to him. There isn’t much time.’
Looking tired and dishevelled, which wasn’t like him, and with deep rings under his teary eyes, Bob – a handsome young man in his early twenties with a striking face that had an uncanny resemblance to his famous uncle – quietly entered the room.
‘Come; sit,’ said Tchaikovsky, and pointed to the side of the bed.
‘You know I have loved you from the moment I saw you as a baby in my sister’s arms,’ began Tchaikovsky softly, his voice quivering with emotion. ‘I knew then, as I do now, that it was destiny.’
Shocked by his uncle’s appearance and aware of the gravity of that fateful moment, Bob sat in silence on the edge of his uncle’s bed. Tchaikovsky reached for his hand.
‘During the past two years, you have become my best friend, my soulmate and confidant and have shared my innermost thoughts, fears, dreams and desires,’ continued Tchaikovsky. ‘But all this is about to come to an abrupt end. Before that happens, there are some important matters you need to know about me and what is happening here tonight, and why ...’
‘Oh? What kind of matters?’ asked Bob.
‘Before I tell you, you must promise me on our love not to divulge a single word of what I’m about to tell you to anyone, and that includes Modest. Understood?’
Bob nodded, momentarily overcome by emotion welling up from somewhere deep within and making him feel dizzy. ‘I promise,’ he whispered.
‘A few days ago,’ continued Tchaikovsky, ‘I was summoned to attend what turned out to be some kind of “court of honour” convened by my former classmates at the College of Law right here in St Petersburg.’
‘How curious. What was that all about?’
‘A very delicate matter, but one with potentially devastating consequences. I was accused—’
‘Accused of what?’ interrupted Bob, frowning.
‘Of being a despicable deviate because of what I am. Because of what we are, you and I—’
‘You speak in riddles,’ interjected Bob again, becoming agitated.
‘I don’t think so. I’m sure you know exactly what I mean. There was a letter of accusation written by a duke close to the tsar about this, which if delivered and made public would cause a scandal so devastating it would destroy not only me and my work, but all those close to me, and that includes you.’
‘I ... I don’t understand,’ stammered Bob.
His vision blurred, Tchaikovsky let go of Bob’s hand and looked intently at his nephew. ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘You will in good time. What is important for now is that the court of honour gave me a way out. The letter of accusation would not be delivered to the tsar, my reputation would remain intact and most important of all, my work would pass into history untarnished in return for ...’ Tchaikovsky paused, and took a deep breath.
