Page 66 of The Cellist

“Bastard,” she whispered.

The Lute Player, oil on canvas, 152 by 134 centimeters, formerly assigned to the circle of Orazio Gentileschi, now firmly attributed to Orazio’s daughter Artemisia and restored to its original glory by Gabriel Allon, stood atop a pedestal in the center of the foyer, flanked by a pair of docile-looking museumguards. The invited dignitaries orbited the painting reverently, like pilgrims around the Kaaba at Mecca. The bare floors and walls echoed with the sound of their incantations.

Isabel, as yet unnoticed, reflected upon the set of circumstances, the chain of misadventure and providence, that had brought her to the gala. The story she told herself contained several glaring omissions but otherwise adhered to a few confirmable facts. A child prodigy, she had won an important prize at the age of seventeen but had decided to attend a proper university rather than conservatory. After completing her graduate degree at the prestigious London School of Economics, she had worked for RhineBank, first in London, then Zurich. Having left the firm under circumstances she was not at liberty to discuss—hardly uncommon where employees of RhineBank were concerned—she now worked for Martin Landesmann at Global Vision Investments of Geneva.

And why is that man looking at me like that?

The unsmiling gray-haired man with the raven-haired Slavic centerfold on his arm. Avoid at all costs, Isabel told herself.

She plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray. The effervescence carried the alcohol from her lips to her bloodstream with startling speed. She heard someone call her name and, turning, was confronted by a woman of late middle age whose most recent appointment with her plastic surgeon had left her with an expression of sheer terror.

“The piece you performed was by Tchaikovsky?” she asked.

“Rachmaninoff.”

“It’s quite beautiful.”

“I’ve always thought so.”

“Will Anna be joining us? I’m so looking forward to meeting her.”

Isabel explained that Anna had taken ill.

“It’s always something, isn’t it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She’s cursed, the poor thing. You know about her mother, of course. Awful.”

The woman was carried away, as if by a gust of wind, and another took her place. It was Ursula Müller, the emaciated wife of Gerhard Müller, a client of RhineBank.

“You play like an angel! You look like one, too.”

Herr Müller clearly agreed. So did the gray-haired man with the centerfold on his arm. They were advancing on Isabel through the crowd. She allowed herself to be pulled in the opposite direction and was passed like a serving dish from one shimmering, bejeweled couple to the next.

“Breathtaking!” exclaimed one.

“I’m so glad you liked it.”

“A triumph!” declared another.

“You’re too kind.”

“Tell us your name again.”

“Isabel.”

“Isabel what?”

“Brenner.”

“Where’s Anna?”

“Unwell, I’m afraid. You’ll have to make do with me.”

“When is your next performance?”

Soon, she thought.