The Last Concerto
The perfect summer read for fans of Santa Montefiore, Victoria Hislop and Dinah Jeffries Will Alba find the music of her heart? Sardinia, 1968. When eleven-year-old Alba Fresu witnesses her father and brother kidnapped by bandits, her previously happy and secure family life is shaken to the core. The pair are eventually released, but the experience leaves Alba deeply disturbed, unable to give voice to her inner turmoil. While accompanying her mother to cleaning jobs, Alba visits the villa of an eccentric Signora and touches the keys of a piano for the first time. She is transported to another world, one where she can finally express emotion too powerful for words alone. She takes secret piano lessons and, against her parents’ wishes, accepts a scholarship to the Rome conservatoire. There she immerses herself in the vibrant world of the city, full of heat and passion she’s never experienced before – and embarks on an affair that will change the course of her life forever. But Alba soon reaches a crossroads, and must decide how to reconcile her musical talent with her longing for love and family... Praise for Sara Alexander: ‘Will leave readers riveted until the explosive conclusion’Publishers Weekly ‘This enchanting novel is a delightful read, perfectly suited for a warm beach with a cold beverage. Readers who enjoy Adriana Trigiani’s historical Italian family sagas will adore Alexander’s debut. ’Booklist
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SARA ALEXANDER attended Hampstead School, went on to graduate from the University of Bristol, with a BA hons in Theatre, Film & TV. She followed on to complete her postgraduate diploma in acting from Drama Studio London. She has worked extensively in the theatre, film and television industries, including roles in much-loved productions such as Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Doctor Who, and Franco Zeffirelli’s Sparrow. She is based in London.
The Last Concerto
Sara Alexander
ONE PLACE MANY STORIES
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Sara Alexander 2019
Sara Alexander asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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E-book Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008273729
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008273712
For Mum & Dad, thank you for the piano
Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.
– MAYA ANGELOU
Contents
I MOVIMENTO
1975
II MOVIMENTO
1978
III MOVIMENTO
a piece of music that is an introduction to a longer piece
When her brother opened his eyes, Alba was convinced she was present at his wake. Her mother, Giovanna, knelt on one side of his bed, forehead resting on her thumbs whilst they crawled over the worn beads of her rosary. In the corner three wailers sobbed their own prayers in warbled unison, invoking Mary, Jesus and any saint who wished to assist. On the other side of the bed, their neighbour Grazietta held a bowl with oil and water. She told the women that the way in which the liquids mixed confirmed that Giovanna’s first-born, Marcellino, was, in fact, yet another victim of the evil eye. There could be no other explanation as to why he had been kidnapped alongside his father, Bruno, who was still held captive, whilst his son was released by the bandits the night before, after three days of white panic for all their family and friends. Grazietta grasped her wand of rosemary twigs and dipped it into the liquid, dousing the sheets like a demented priest. The wailers let out a further cry, which trebled across the sheets. A droplet fell on his forehead from another swing of the rosemary, this time a close miss of Alba’s eye. With his wince, everyone at last noticed that Marcellino was in fact conscious.
Giovanna jumped to her feet and held her child into her bosom. Alba could smell the reassuring scent of sofritto in the folds of her housedress, even from where she stood at the foot of the bed, those tiny cubes of carrots, onion, and celery fried in olive oil before making Sunday’s batch of pasta sauce for the week, cut through with the sweat of her panic beneath.
‘Biseddu meu,’ she murmured in Sardinian, rocking Marcellino with such passion that Alba knew it would induce a vague seasickness. This was a woman obsessed with omens. If the sauce boiled too fast, three starlings rather than two screeched their morning tweet, or a feather fell unexpectedly from nowhere, her particular strain of logic would portend horrific visions. She sang prayers to St Anthony at the crossroads in their Sardinian town when they needed something specific, accepting that it would lead, by necessity, to her forfeiting something in return. Alba had faded memories of her mother praying to miss her cycle one month because there was extra work to be done, only to be doubled up in excruciating pain the following month. Saints gave to those who prayed, but at a cost: the original protection racket. It sat at an uncomfortable angle in Alba’s mind, this idea of bargaining with a saint, the very thing she’d been taught was the devil’s speciality. Alba’s prodding at this point met only with the stone-setting stares of her aunts at best, physical harm at worst. She chose her battles with care, and made a silent pact with herself never to be indebted.
