The Stolen - Jason Pinter [43]
"I agreed to talk to you," she said, her hands still on the
wheel despite the engine being off. "But I don't want it in
my house or in any place of business or pleasure. That's
the agreement."
I nodded, reached into my bag for a tape recorder. She
eyed it, curled her lip.
"This is also part of the agreement," I said. "You have
to go on the record." She nodded. I turned the recorder on.
"You know I went through all this seven years ago," she
said. "The police questioned me many times. I know I got
scared that night, but all those police, I thought somebody
had been killed. For a moment I thought it might have been
Michelle. All I know is, one day I was Michelle Oliveira's
tutor, the next day she was gone from this world, and then
several years later she rose like the phoenix."
"Why did you think she might have been killed? That
seems like you were jumping to a pretty terrible conclusion."
"When you've lived in this city as long as I have, you've
seen young boys killed because they were targeted by
rival dealers. When you've seen young girls caught in the
cross fire, then you can say that I'm jumping to conclusions. I did think Michelle might have been another victim.
That she'd been taken away forever."
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"Well, now she's at Juilliard," I said. A slight smile
crossed Delilah Lancaster's lips.
"She's the most talented individual I've ever had the
pleasure of working with," Delilah said. "The moment I
walked into the Oliveira home for the first time and
listened to that girl play, the French bow moving in her
hand like the wind, I knew it. French bows are mainly used
by soloists, and most young students don't even know the
difference. But Michelle, she made her father buy a French
bow. Nothing else would suffice. Most young girls have
posters on their walls of their favorite bands, their favorite
athletes, boys they have crushes on. Do you know what
Michelle Oliveira had posted on her wall?"
I said I didn't.
"You're aware that most girls that age don't have
posters, or much of anything on their walls. They haven't
yet begun to have crushes, and wouldn't know who
Orlando Bloom was compared to Barack Obama. But
Michelle, she had a poster on her wall. I don't even know
where she got it, or how. But right on her wall, above her
bed, was a picture of Charles IX."
I waited for an explanation. "Is that a King of England
or something?"
Delilah shook her head. "Charles IX is the oldest violin
in existence. It was made in 1716 by Antonio Stradivari.
It is kept in pristine condition at the Ashmolean museum
in Oxford. You can imagine this is not exactly a common
item for a five-year-old to worship."
"Stradivari--is he related to the Stradivarius?"
"The same," she said.
"For a young child to hold such an instrument in this
regard, it simply made my heart float. When she disappeared--" Delilah lowered her head, clasped her hands
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together "--I felt like I'd lost a kindred spirit. Someone
who understood the beauty and passion of music like so
few do in their lives. And to lose her at such a young
age--I thought a great student had been taken. A shame
in so many ways. And when Michelle came back, I
thanked God for keeping one of his finest creatures on this
earth."
"You really cared for Michelle, didn't you?" I asked.
Delilah looked at me. "Still care. I do care for her the
way a teacher looks at a prized pupil, yes. But our bond
went deeper than that. I cared more for Michelle than I did
most of my friends and--" she sighed "--perhaps most of
my family."
I looked at Delilah's hand, barren of any rings. She
noticed this.
"My husband died three years ago. Pulmonary embolism. Life hits you when you never expect it. But I still
have my music. That, at least, is everlasting. And one day
Michelle will create a composition that will stand the test
of time. That students, like she once was, will study."
Delilah looked out over her town, the barren building
in front of her.
"This city has changed so much. So many people left
after