She had run out of places to hide. She surrendered her glass to a waitress—the champagne was doing her no good—andstarted toward the painting, but the gray-haired man and his child bride blocked her path. He wore on his broad Slavic face an approximation of a smile. He addressed Isabel in perfect German, with the accent of an Ostländer.
“With the possible exception of Rostropovich, I have never heard ‘Vocalise’ performed any better.”
“Come now,” replied Isabel.
“It’s the truth. But why Rachmaninoff?”
“WhynotRachmaninoff?”
“Is his cello sonata part of your repertoire?”
“God, yes.”
“Mine as well.”
“You’re a cellist?”
“A pianist.” He smiled. “You’re not Swiss.”
“German. But I live here in Switzerland.”
“In Zurich?” he probed.
“I used to. But I moved to Geneva not long ago.”
“My office is in the Place du Port.”
“Mine is across the bridge on the Quai de Mont-Blanc.”
He frowned, confused. “You’re not a professional musician?”
“I’m a project analyst for a Swiss private equity firm. A number cruncher.”
He was incredulous. “How can that be?”
“Number crunchers make much more money than musicians.”
“Which firm do you work for?”
She pointed toward Martin Landesmann. “The one owned by the man standing right over there.”
“Saint Martin?”
“He hates when people call him that.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation. For some reason, he seems to be ignoring me tonight. Which is odd, considering the fact I donated twenty million Swiss francs to his pro-democracy organization to attend tonight’s performance.”
Isabel made a show of thought. “Are you—”
“Arkady Akimov.” He glanced at the girl. “And this is my wife, Oksana.”
“I’m sure Martin would be honored to meet you.”
“Would you mind?”
