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God, what a . . . brave call. Asking them at all, I mean. Where do you think they will put us?”
    “Don’t know, possibly between the New Israeli and Vienna. They’ll want the big three spread out. Any immediate thoughts?”
    “Well, one name springs to my mind straightaway, but it isn’t a composer.”
    “It’s going to take some careful juggling of singers, because some will be booked elsewhere already. Competition for top voices will be fierce, and they’ll want a wide range, not the same few voices—”
    “No, no, I was thinking of Sergei. You know, not so long ago he mentioned that he was looking for something new? A grand project, something to get him enthused again. He has a relatively short attention span. What if we offered a Russian opera? In his honor, of course; he so loves all that international recognition, and we could pull out a violin solo for the Guarneri.”
    Browne was suddenly animated. Rafael knew any mention of Sergei Valentino would have a positive effect on the conversation.
    “Russian! Of course! Eugene Onegin, Boris Godunov, Fedora —”
    “What about Pique Dame ? It’s dramatically different and Tchaikovsky, his darkness will appeal to the Egyptians. There’s been something of a revival in recent years, you know, with Domingo, some fascinating productions still around. Do you want me to talk to Sergei?”
    “No, I’ll make the first move. Dinner and a chat. When I know he’s keen, you can join the debate and help him to love our choice. You’re so good at that.”
    Rafael nodded slowly.
    “As you wish. Now, if there’s nothing else, I must get some sleep. Tomorrow is another day of discovering the next generation of virtuoso.” He smiled his innocent, beguiling smile at Browne, who clearly didn’t know whether to laugh at the joke or respectfully agree with him.
    H ow much do you practice?”
    Maria Wong sat on a high stool in the South Opera Lounge and faced the collection of young violinists sitting in a semicircle. She was Eurasian, dainty and fine boned, with lustrous black eyes and a genuine Strad in her hands. Daniel couldn’t take his eyes off the faded violin and her very, very long fingers.
    “Well, I think you could say I belong to the minimalist school of practice. I know some people insist on eight hours a day, but, you see, I regard practice as my best opportunity to identify problems in a piece and solve them. That can usually be done in two or three hours, and sometimes it’s best done at the piano, without even playing your violin. Of course you need to build stamina, especially at the stage you’re all at, so that’s very important too. But you should be aiming at quality time, not quantity time, when you plan your schedule. Next?”
    “Do you change style if it is new composer?” The accent was foreign, Russian. Daniel turned his head to look at the questioner. It was Tatiana. Maria smiled at her warmly.
    “Interesting question. Let me demonstrate.” She stood up.
    “When you want to play something like a Debussy sonata, you play like this.” She played a small piece of music.
    “You can hear that I have a light bow, with minimal pressure on the strings and a vibrato that makes a rather spontaneous sound, but when I play something like Brahms, I want more depth, more sonority. So I play with a lot more hair flatter on the string, giving me more volume of sound, like this.” She played another snatch of music.
    “So to answer your question, yes, very much. Part of learning a piece is deciding what style you’re going to use and also how you capture the sound the composer intended you to make.”
    Daniel kept sneaking glances at the battered violin case that sat at Tatiana’s feet. What did it look like close up? How did it feel? How hard was it to play? These questions had been reverberating through his mind since the concert and he was dying to ask them.
    Half an hour later he got his answers, or rather, didn’t get them. Maria Wong asked