And After the Fire

by Lauren Belfer

  He forced his concentration back to the Beinecke. Even if this jaunt to New Haven wasn’t productive professionally, he would telephone Susanna Kessler afterward, relate what he’d found or hadn’t found, and ask her to dinner. Ever since the party given by the Barstows, he’d found his thoughts wandering to her.

  Distracted by aesthetic contemplation of his mental image of Susanna Kessler, Scott wasn’t paying full attention to his surroundings. If he had been, he would have promptly returned to the stacks or slipped into the restroom.

  Instead he faced an inescapable problem looming fifteen feet before him: Centennial Professor Frederic Augustus Fournier, Scott’s erstwhile mentor and present-day nemesis, galumphing down the stairs. Professor Fournier was the doyen and the scourge of Bach scholars around the world. He’d also been Scott’s and Dan’s thesis adviser for their PhDs. In scholarship, the relationship of adviser to advisee never completely went away, no matter how hard one tried. Scott had tried.

  Freddy (as Scott and Dan called him privately) was round of face, round of head, round of body—okay, Scott was prejudiced—and more energetic than seemed possible given both the roundness and the fluffy (possibly tufty was the better word) sprigs of white hair upon his head. Today a handful of earnest young men and women accompanied him. At the bottom of the stairs, they regrouped, following closely behind their leader. They stared at Freddy as if their professional futures depended on him. Who were they? Doctoral candidates applying to begin their studies next year? Visiting scholars hoping for grants or other professional advancements?

  As they came closer, Scott heard them speaking French. Freddy loved to show off his knowledge of languages. The young women did indeed look French, with their tight jackets, short skirts, and black tights.

  “Ah, voilà, what a surprise,” Freddy said, switching to English. “Here approaches one of my best students. Scott Schiffman, curator of music manuscripts at the MacLean Library. Travels the world to authenticate autographs. What brings you here today, young man?”

  “Research.” Scott kept his tone lighthearted.

  “Naturally. Scott, these are my fledgling associates from the Sorbonne,” Freddy said by way of introduction. “I’ll be commuting to Paris next semester to work with them.”

  Scott felt compelled to acknowledge this news, which was in fact impressive. “Excellent.”

  “Mes amis, let’s see if we can do a little sleuthing from the titles Mr. Schiffman has collected here.”

  Freddy was fast. That’s what forever astonished Scott. He could disarm in an instant. Memorize at a glance.

  “‘Susanna Kessler, Buffalo, New York,’” he read off the tab on the top file folder.

  Freddy didn’t ask who she was, doubtless figuring that he could discover her identity himself in no time. Mercifully, Scott had labeled the folder with her name rather than calling it Possible unknown cantata by Bach, found in Buffalo.

  “And all these books of old German poetry. And look here, uncataloged volumes, too. What could this project be, I wonder,” Freddy said affably, as if he really did want to encourage his former student. But Scott recognized the gleam that signaled more greedy desires. “Here’s a folder labeled ‘BWV 46, 42, 18, 126, librettos.’ That’s curious.”

  Freddy would know immediately that the element uniting these four cantatas was their religious polemic, their ranting against Catholicism, Islam, Judaism.

  “And this one says, ‘Digital photos.’ Digital photos of what, I wonder.” Freddy stared at but refrained from picking up the file.

  Possibly on account of his three days of frustration, Scott experienced an irresistible urge to tease Centennial Professor Frederic Augustus Fournier in front of his French graduate students.

  “It’s a secret, Professor,” Scott said. “One of those ‘Grandpa brought something home from the war’ stories—except this one might pan out.”

  The students were impressed. Eyes widening, they stared at Scott, no doubt thinking, Yes, this will happen to me, someday I will make the discovery of a lifetime.

  “Controversial subject matter, too.”

  “Is that so? Well, well.” Freddy seemed to lick his lips in expectation. “I look forward to reviewing the fruits of your labors.”

  Embarrassment washed over Scott. He felt himself blushing. He’d risen to the bait. Why, why couldn’t he remember that everything Freddy said was designed to entrap? Scott should have simply said hello and gone about his business. Instead he’d played directly into Freddy’s devious hand.

  “I see one of these folders is labeled ‘Dan,’” Freddy continued. “That would refer to Daniel Erhardt, another of my success stories.” How long would it be before these French students were calling him Freddy, or some French version thereof, behind his back? “Three books and more than a dozen journal articles to his credit, and he’s not even forty years old.”

  The French students nodded in appreciation. Scott heard a few French exclamations, almost ooh-la-la, although not quite. This was yet another dig at Scott, because he’d chosen a different path and had only eleven articles and no books to his credit. Scott well knew, however, that Freddy could readily denigrate Dan’s work if he saw the need. Freddy was an equal-opportunity denigrator.

  “Yes, Dan’s taking a look at some of the issues.” Scott tried to sound blasé. Dan’s involvement would signal to Freddy that the issue had a religious aspect, Dan’s specialty. Of course, Freddy would know that already from the file label with its list of polemical cantatas, but this would drive the point home. Scott girded himself for Freddy’s reply, but the centennial professor appeared to lose interest.

  “Alas, we must be on our way, Dr. Schiffman.” Freddy had the ability to make even the use of Scott’s title and family name sound like a put-down. “Much more to show these fine young people.”

  Chastising himself, Scott watched them continue down the corridor. After they disappeared through the door into the multilevel stacks, he pushed his cart of research materials to an empty table near the back of the reading room. With its low ceiling, the reading room created a feeling that the weight of recorded history, held on the stacks on the floors above, was about to pancake onto the heads of the scholars gathered here. He sat down wearily. Most people opted to sit near the windows, to take advantage of the small degree of natural light that reached the underground room from the moat, as Scott called it, outside the reading room’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Modernist sculpture, covered with snow, filled the moat. All right, the moat was beautiful in its way. Nonetheless, Scott preferred the privacy at the back of the reading room.

  He’d have to brief Dan on the disastrous conversation with Freddy. They’d need to increase their vigilance. Freddy had a way of inserting himself into projects and guiding their direction. German academic tradition called a senior professor who advised students on PhD research a Doktor-Vater. Freddy was about as unfatherly as it was possible to be, unless he was the evil father in a Freudian nightmare.

  Another afternoon to be spent searching for eighteenth-century poetic hate speech. Best get started. As he alternated between the cataloged and uncataloged materials, hoping the variety would keep his attention from flagging, family memories began to fill his thoughts. He had a lot to live up to. His mother’s family, murdered during the war. His father’s family: they’d gone from textile manufacturing to real estate development. His brother was the head of the company and happily married, with four children. His sisters had both become physicians, and they’d managed to marry, raise children, and work full-time.

  One could say they were a traditional, old-fashioned Jewish family that valued learning, achievement, and liberal causes. All they were missing was a wife and children for Scott. Increasingly, Scott was feeling that lack, too.

  In his office at Yale’s Stoeckel Hall, Frederic Fournier said farewell to Robertson Barstow and put down the phone. He’d taken the visiting French students to a luncheon hosted by the French department, where they could spend ti
me with their own kind. He was allowed to say this because he was part French. He’d begged off the invitation for himself, pleading work. Which was simply the truth.

  He was feeling smug, he couldn’t deny it. He’d always been lucky in his friends and in his students. Interesting tidbits of information had a habit of making their way to him.

  The first step was to meet the heretofore unknown Susanna Kessler. Happily, research wasn’t what it used to be, hour after hour, day after day, weeks to months to years of meticulous labor. No more! Frederic had googled Susanna Kessler.

  How marvelous to be alive at a moment in time when a stranger could be googled. From a wedding photo and brief accompanying article in the Times, he learned that a Susanna Kessler originally from Buffalo now lived in New York City. Another site described her as the executive director of the Cornelia and Robertson Barstow Family Foundation. Google didn’t list any other women named Susanna Kessler with a Buffalo connection.

  Frederic already knew that Robertson Barstow was heir to the Barstow Process of oil refining. Frederic had attended Harvard, and Harvard boasted a Cornelia and Robertson Barstow Scholarship Fund for the Sciences. Furthermore, Frederic knew from his avid reading of the Harvard alumni magazine, a veritable gold mine of potentially useful information, that he and Robertson Barstow had both lived in Lowell House. They didn’t overlap (Frederic was younger), but the Harvard houses inspired lifelong loyalty.

  Frederic had picked up the phone and called old Rob just like that, with the excuse of soliciting a donation for their alma mater. Several years before, Frederic had assisted the development office in this way, so he knew what to say. Much to Frederic’s surprise, Rob promised a substantial contribution.

  After settling this bit of business in a most satisfying way, they discussed their lives, Rob’s retirement, Frederic’s ever-fascinating career, and before you knew it, Rob had invited Frederic to an afternoon garden party at the family estate in Tarrytown in May, to celebrate the blooming of the lilacs in his mother’s famed garden. The party, Rob had noted, would take place whether the lilacs were blooming or not. Frederic surmised that this party was an annual event, but he could hardly torture himself about not receiving previous invitations in view of the fact that he hadn’t spoken to Robertson Barstow in . . . had he ever spoken to Robertson Barstow? Not to Frederic’s recollection.

  He hoped Susanna Kessler would be at the party, but of course he couldn’t inquire. He had a toehold, which was all he needed.

  By May, with any luck, Dan and Scott, his intrepid students, would be finished with their research and have a journal article or two sketched out, as well as the outline of both a book and a critical edition of whatever this Bach piece was. Might as well let them take care of the heavy lifting.

  A new cantata by Johann Sebastian Bach. It was like finding a new play by Shakespeare. The first live performance would sell out months in advance, and subsequently the piece would be performed in churches and in concert halls around the world. Thousands of printed scores would be sold. The first recording, the prestigious World Premiere Recording, would garner enormous attention.

  Momentous questions arose: Who would be the first conductor, the first orchestra, the first music publisher?

  And who better than Frederic to ponder these questions?

  Frederic was grateful to the cosmos for his good fortune. He was a public intellectual, not a stuffy academic. He wrote essays for The New York Review of Books and the Times Literary Supplement. He’d also written or edited more than a dozen scholarly books about Johann Sebastian Bach. He was the perfect man to deal with whatever Susanna Kessler had stumbled upon. After all, the discovery would have political ramifications. The cantata numbers listed on Scott’s manila folder were 46, 42, 18, 126 (Frederic was lucky in his near-photographic memory). What these pieces had in common was inflammatory religious content.

  Kessler was a Jewish name, wasn’t it? Frederic felt certain it was. He reached a preliminary conclusion that the discovery most likely concerned Jewish issues. More specifically, anti-Jewish issues. Why not take advantage of the controversy? He’d contact Elie Wiesel, bring him on board. The first performance should be in Israel, to highlight the moral problems of the piece and thereby garner even more attention. Perhaps the Bach Collegium Japan was the proper choice for the debut concert and recording—yes, a Japanese group, performing in Israel, to emphasize the global significance of the discovery. Their recordings were sublime. Such thoughtful work deserved to be rewarded. As to the other musical groups understandably competing for his patronage, he’d find some bone to throw them later.

  Where would the manuscript go, once its authenticity was proven? Surely Yale had the best facilities to care for it. Frederic would persuade some wealthy Yale donors to make Susanna Kessler an offer—if, that is, she could prove legal ownership. She might well not be able to prove legal ownership. Furthermore the German government might make a fuss, their national patrimony and all that Quatsch, but the Jewish element was a powerful weapon to use against the German government. He’d dealt with the German government before, on previous, less spectacular discoveries. Frederic was not intimidated by the German government. Germans remained transfixed by guilt—as well they should—for the crimes committed by their parents and grandparents. Frederic knew how to exploit their guilt and felt no need to apologize.

  As to the descendants of the original European owners, if any were still alive . . . he’d keep them in mind as the situation evolved, so that they, too, would be prepared to see the autograph go to Yale, one way or another.

  Although Frederic had never told anyone, Daniel Erhardt and Scott Schiffman were the best students he’d ever taught. They had a gift for bringing diverse evidence together into a coherent, illuminating whole. But Dan pushed his religious obsessions too far. From Frederic’s perspective, Bach’s true concerns were always and only aesthetic, even in an anti-Jewish cantata. Bach’s official duties at the Thomaskirche paid the bills for Bach’s overflowing family, and in Frederic’s learned opinion, that’s as far as Bach’s religious faith went. Bach had composed for the future, for eternal, universal artistic contemplation, separate from the trivialities of religion, politics, and any specific time or place.

  Initially, Frederic had been taken aback when Dan brought to his attention the evidence that Bach had often signed up to take communion soon after one of his children died. Astonishing, that such records had survived, and also that parishioners actually had to sign up in advance for communion, the demand being so strong. But Frederic himself took communion every now and again, at his son’s wedding mass, for example, and in and of itself it didn’t necessarily mean a thing. Not in terms of faith, at least.

  Dan also harped on the fact that Bach had owned an extensive library of theological books, including a Bible commentary whose margins were filled with annotations written by Bach himself. Someday Frederic might have to take a look at these books.

  The phone rang. He glanced at it.

  Despite all rational evidence to the contrary, Frederic Fournier knew God existed. Caller ID proved it. He knew when his wife was calling, or his son, or one of his graduate-student flirtations.

  The incoming call was international. Must be the result of an e-mail he’d sent to Sotheby’s in London a half hour ago, requesting a conversation. Sotheby’s, London, was the place where musical autographs were most often sold—not that Susanna Kessler was going to sell the cantata at auction—but Frederic was stirring the pot. Getting the buzz going. Putting himself at the center of attention.

  “Frederic! Good to hear your voice,” said Ian McCloud, director of books and manuscripts at Sotheby’s. Music manuscripts were McCloud’s special expertise.

  “And yours, Ian.”

  “Received your e-mail,” McCloud said. “Piqued the curiosity.”

  “And rightly so. I’ve run across something potentially rather interesting. Johann Sebastian Bach, as it happens. Sacred music. I’m waiting for confirmatio
n from my junior colleagues. Might take several months to cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s. But I’m hopeful. No, hopeful is overstating the situation,” he corrected, remembering that understatement was essential when speaking with an Englishman. “Look, we’ll see. I’ve said too much. Don’t like to get people’s expectations up, only to dash them. Step by step. No premature headlines. You know what the press is like.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Don’t want to fall off a cliff and bring you with me.” Frederic pretended to chuckle. “Still, I wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Perfect, McCloud had taken the bait.

  “A rare opportunity here—although I can’t promise you a sale. Who knows what the present owner may decide to do with the materials.”

  “Understood. Keep me in the loop.”

  “Will do, Ian.”

  They bid farewell and hung up. Life was good. Yes, it was. Classical music dying, as Philistines so often claimed? Not a chance.

  Be prepared was a motto Frederic was happy to share with the Boy Scouts.

  Poor Susanna Kessler. She wasn’t prepared. Despite her sophisticated job, she didn’t understand the pressures that would be brought to bear on her from the likes of dealers, performers, recording companies, foreign governments, possible descendants, archivists. Even the IRS, coming to claim unpaid estate taxes, if in fact her family owned this priceless artifact. She didn’t comprehend the exhausting demand for newspaper interviews, TV, radio, and so on. A PBS documentary. An over-the-top History Channel program complete with costumed actors reenacting Bach et al.