by Janice Weber
I cut to the society column. Ethel’s death stunned Washington. Several distinguished men (including Senator Phil Pixley) claimed to have been engaged to her, on the grounds that they had asked and Ethel had not given them a definite no. Even the president made a special trip to her coffin the night before the funeral. Mourners, including Ethel’s jilted English fiancé, overflowed the National Cathedral. After her burial in the family plot at the Congressional Cemetery, Fausto had everyone back to his house for a party that lasted seven days.
Switched off the screen. Thirty-plus years later, gone to seed, Fausto was still officiating at his mother’s wake. Why would a woman like that lean over a parapet, tempt fate so? A few months earlier, Ethel had jumped off a boat in London. Dress rehearsal?
I cabbed to the Congressional Cemetery, where Ethel moldered in the plot begun by her grandfather, the senator. A row of squat, identical monuments lined the main strip. Celebrity alley: John C. Calhoun, Preston S. Brooks, Henry Clay … once upon a time, this must have been the most prestigious resting place in town. Now the cemetery was bordered by tenements and a huge jail. Vandals had wrecked the front gate and overturned dozens of headstones. Everywhere I saw dead, ivy-strangled trees, overflowing garbage pails, weeds high as my knee: that sot Pixley hadn’t been exaggerating. This place was a disgrace.
“You want to visit J. Edgar Hoover’s grave?” my driver asked. “John Philip Sousa? Tip O’Neill? Private Matlovich?”
“How about Ethel Kiss.”
“Can’t help you with that one. There’s a directory in the chapel.” He stopped outside a simple structure in the center of the graveyard. Thick weeds brushed its stucco walls. Windows boarded, doors secured with corroded chains: the last service here may have been during the influenza epidemic of 1918. “Good luck.”
Bouncing over potholes, the cab left. I circled the chapel, looking for a way in. Best bet was to unpry the boards and No TRESPASSING sign that had recently been nailed over a bulkhead door. I’d need a crowbar, though. And I didn’t really want to poke around a desecrated church. Even at midday this cemetery spooked me. So green, bright, still, yet I sensed corruption wafting from the graves of the illustrious dead, as if they wanted to come back, win a few more elections … escape hell for a while.
Thunk: down the hill, a thin black man patted earth with his shovel. I walked over, waited for him to pack in a headstone he had just righted. “Excuse me, are you the caretaker?”
He wiped his brow with an old handkerchief. Age anywhere between fifty and one hundred. He could have been a ghost.
“No, I just try to keep the place up a little. Live across the street.”
“It sure needs work.”
“Oh yes.” He offered me hot water from his dented canteen. “You lookin’ for something?”
Careful, Smith. “My guidebook gave this place two stars. Is the chapel open? The cabdriver said I could find a map of all the famous people buried here.”
“You won’t find no map in that chapel. Vagrants were living there. Wrecked the place. A few weeks ago they finally chased them out and closed it up. Won’t open again until they find some fix-up money. Your best bet is to walk along the rows and read the headstones. All kinds of folks here. Lots of history.”
Just ragweed now. “Okay. Thanks.”
In death as in life, the heavies congregated on the hill. Slaves and Indians lay in the gulch by the jail. I hurried past the public vault, with its crooked iron doors agape. Didn’t take long to locate Ethel Kiss just a stone’s throw from another outstanding American, John Philip Sousa. Their beautifully tended graves were roses in a wilderness: I guessed the marines and Fausto came out here once a week with fertilizer and hedge shears. Granddaddy Senator’s black granite stele rose like a gigantic railroad nail, dwarfing lesser memorials in the vicinity. His name was etched in six-inch letters, challenging the reader not to recognize it. His daughter, Ida, Ethel’s mother, got four-inch letters on the north face, but she hadn’t lived as long. Ethel lay beneath a gorgeous pink granite headstone. “Her son Fausto,” I read with a shudder. Just a date and a dash: a death in progress.
Morbid curiosity drew me to their numbers. Granddad hung around a long time but his wife had died at forty-six. Ethel’s mother Ida had died at forty-nine. Ethel had died at forty-seven. I looked over the last half-entry in the plot. Tremor inside as something dark and heavy winged by: next month Fausto would be fifty-one. Way beyond the Kiss shelf life.
“Find what you wanted, miss?” asked the gardener.
No. Never. “I think so.”
Back to the Library of Congress, this time to find Ida’s obituary. A snap since I knew the day and date. Ida had died at home following a short illness. Due to the heat, burial had been immediate. I went back a few more decades to check out the demise of Ida’s mother. Big headlines and a long article listing the nabobs who had attended the funeral. She had also died at home following a short illness. Immediate burial. Bah.
The afternoon was shot and I was tired, empty, dusty with death. Returned to the hotel and plummeted asleep. Then the phone rang.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” fumed Bobby Marvel.
“I’ve been busy.” Looked at my watch: five-thirty. If I didn’t get out of here in one minute, I’d be late for a Brahms rehearsal. “How’s your nose?”
“Damn rug burn stings. I want to see you. Tonight.”
Men always got so territorial after a concert. I suppose it was a compliment. “Send a car to Fausto’s around ten,” I sighed. Bobby was my best link to Barnard and it was time for a few more questions. “I can drive around with you for an hour. Or come in if you want. You two can play a few duets.”
“Me? Play duets with Fausto? That’s not what I would call fun.”
He’d seemed to enjoy it well enough the other night. “We’ll order pizza.”
“I hate pizza,” Bobby growled. “You’re spending too much time with that repulsive weasel. I’d be careful if I were you. He’s a dangerous man.”
“And you’re a safe one?”
“Absolutely. But I can be extremely jealous.”
“Look, I’ve got to run. See you at ten.”
“Wear that fuzzy pink top for me, will you?”
I was beginning to understand Paula Marvel’s forty extra pounds, her wardrobe of virginal bows, and her arthritis. Small price to pay for running the country, and she could always divorce Bobby when they were busted back to Kentucky. Still, a bad marriage was like secondhand smoke: sooner or later it would kill you. Paula had been inhaling for thirty years. I threw on the fuzzy pink halter and dashed to Fausto’s.
Pulled the Corvette behind a Hummer in his driveway. If Rhoby’s taste in cars was any indication of her musical talent, this was going to be a long evening indeed. I let myself in and stood at the door of the music room. Unaware of my arrival, Rhoby and Fausto were futzing with chairs and stands. He wore a light blue smoking jacket and black pants: ducal in comparison with Rhoby’s grunge. As always, smoked fish and effervescent liquids waited on a sideboard. Fausto looked over and half smiled. “Ah, there you are.”
“Miserable traffic. Sorry.”
He watched my approach but didn’t kiss me hello. Rhoby did, however. Now that she was with arty types instead of politicians, she wore a nose ring and a few tiny barbells in her eyebrow. “I could have given you a ride,” she said. “Nothing gets in Hummer’s way.”
“I’ll bet.” Aware of both their eyes on my fluffy pink halter, I tossed my violin case on Fausto’s divan. Bad choice, this outfit. Should have worn a chador.
“It’s so great to be here!” Rhoby shivered in delight. “I’ve been practicing all day!”
“Our pleasure, believe me,” Fausto replied. “We’re always looking for new diversions, aren’t we, sweet?”
“Right.” Wrong. Disaster in that cool voice: did Fausto know I had been spying on him all afternoon? “How long have you been playing the cello, Rhoby?”
“Fifteen years
. I sort of dropped it since coming to Washington. It doesn’t fit into the lifestyle, if you know what I mean.”
Fausto gave a pensive A and watched me tune. His look lacked the conspiratorial warmth I would have preferred after bedtime events of last night. Ah well, at least he had straightened the rug on top of his piano. “We’re here to enjoy ourselves,” he said without a scintilla of smile. “Set for Brahms?”
He began the trio with magisterial poise, as if he had been playing it for years: no question who was going to rule this soundscape. Phenomenal tone. But Fausto had the advantage of plush fingers, pudgy arms, deep center of gravity … stuff a cigar in his mouth and he’d even look like old Johannes. It melted my brain all over again. Mind the gap, Smith!
Fausto handed his phrase to Rhoby, who came in with the mellifluence of a strangled loon. Once she got over her nerves, she just played louder. She could count like a son of a bitch, though. Out loud. “Excellent,” Fausto called after the first movement. “You’ve got a marvelous ear.”
“Thanks!” She retuned, for reasons unknown. “What tempo would you like in the scherzo? You’ve got all those nasty repeated notes.”
“Anything you can handle, dear. I’ll do my best to keep up.”
Rhoby took a running leap at the opening. After her fourth miss, she said, “I guess that’s a little too fast.”
“Just a hair slower, then. We can always ramp up later.”
Brahms took another beating. Few human inventions inflicted worse aural pain than a badly played cello, whose woofs and shrieks originated somewhere in the Ninth Circle of hell. Even Fausto needed a break after the second movement. “Whew! Can I get you something to drink?”
“Just a little juice, please.”
He mercifully brought me champagne. I was gratified to see him swallow a belt of bubbly before the adagio. What was he trying to accomplish here? Without Rhoby, the two of us could have been reading violin and piano sonatas in perfect bliss. “Have you played this trio before, Rhoby?” I asked.
“Oh yes. With Chickie.”
“My God!” Fausto exclaimed. “Is she a pianist?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. She only studied for a few years.”
I glared at him. “Ready when you are.”
He began with eight quiet chords. Then violin and cello had to play with each other for three bars. Here, at least, Rhoby had the courtesy to cringe a little, muttering “Oops” and “Sorr-eee!” as she trashed our duet. Soon I just closed my eyes and pretended she was Yo-Yo Ma after a lobotomy. Fausto got her next, in an extended section for cello and piano: excruciating. An orchestra could absorb a deadbeat string player or two, a trio never. But I humored him: music wasn’t uppermost on Fausto’s agenda tonight.
We plowed to the end. “Wow!” Wet and exhilarated, Rhoby laid down her cello. Since neither of her colleagues had stopped to make corrections, she may have presumed that we had liked her performance. “You guys are great! Let’s do it again!”
Fausto hit the food trolley. “Have a bite first,” he called. “Brain food. Les? What can I get you?”
Earplugs and hatchet. I got another glass of champagne. “We should form a trio,” Rhoby said, making herself a sandwich. “There’s potential here.”
It probably wasn’t Rhoby’s fault that her self-esteem swelled in inverse proportion to her talent. She had gone directly from Sesame Street to Capitol Hill. “One problem,” I said. “I live in Berlin.”
“You’re going back? I thought you’d be here for a while.”
Why would she think that? “Not the case.”
“How long will you be staying, then? We could play a benefit before you leave.” The studs in Rhoby’s eyebrow quavered as her jaw mashed the sandwich. “Chickering could pack the place.”
“No time. I’m going back in a few days.”
Touché: Fausto momentarily ceased chewing pâté. We all ambled back to the piano. “Tell you what,” he said, closing the Brahms. “Let’s read a little Haydn.”
Rhoby’s trepidation dissolved as she discovered that the cello part was identical to the piano left hand. All she had to do was imitate Fausto, who had had the foresight to bring the champagne bucket over to the keyboard. By the end of the third trio, he and I were fairly ripped: a good way not only to play Haydn, but to listen to him. We ended our reading session with Mozart. Rhoby thought her part was easy because she didn’t have many notes.
Fausto had become more remote with every page. Finally he stood. “That was fun, ladies. Let’s get some dinner. I know a great French restaurant.”
“Can’t.” I looked at my watch. “Someone’s picking me up in half an hour.”
For the first time that evening, he looked me directly in the eye. I flushed redder than Justine’s feathers. “In that case, I’ve got some bouillabaisse kicking around the fridge. Rhoby, have a drink. You earned it.”
She followed him to the Scotch bottle. “Not too much. I still have to work, you know.”
“I would think a little nip would help you through the night. All those nut cases calling in their conspiracy theories.” Fausto poured Rhoby a hefty highball and led us into his kitchen. “How does a cellist of your caliber end up at the night desk at the FBI?” he called, half disappearing into his Sub-Zero.
“I auditioned for orchestras for five years. They all discriminated against me because of my sexual preference.”
That was a joke, considering that nine out of ten conductors were gay, not to mention ninety-nine out of one hundred artistic administrators, music critics, record company executives, and concert agents. Fausto clucked sympathetically. “Tough going out there.”
“Then I met Chickering at my National Symphony audition.”
“My God! She plays the violin, too?”
“No, she was in the lobby of the Kennedy Center with Mrs. Marvel. It was love at first sight.” Rhoby sighed at me. “For Chickie anyhow.”
I smiled back. “How long have you been together?”
“Two years. To preserve my sanity, I got this FBI gig. Now the only time we see each other is after dinner. If Paula doesn’t need baby-sitting, of course. She thinks Chickie’s her slave. And Chickie sure loves her keys to the White House.” Rhoby finished her Scotch. “This town sucks.”
Fausto brought over three bowls of bouillabaisse and a rare white wine. “Did she recover from her faint last night?”
“Oh yeah. She was her old self by the time I got her back to Annapolis. I guess she doesn’t like monkeys.”
Rhoby spilled the story of her life to the only people in Washington to have asked her for it since she moved here. Fausto was an expert interrogator, smooth and cool as his bouillabaisse. Rhoby made conversation the same way she played chamber music: oblivious of all other parts but her own. When Fausto rounded her yet again to her job at the FBI, I understood why he had invited her over. “So you man the phones, eh? Who would call between midnight and eight?”
“You’d be surprised. People who are scared. Paranoid. People who have important information to pass on. This is great soup, Fausto.”
“Thanks. What do you do? Meet them?”
“Screen them. Sort the nuts from the legit callers. You get pretty good at smoking people out after a while.”
Sure, Rhoby. “Sounds more interesting than playing in an orchestra.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the victim replied. “But there are psychos out there.”
Fausto refilled her glass. “Vicky was worried about a call you got the other day. Some madman insisting on seeing you after your shift. Now that sounds dangerous.”
“She told you that? Stupid bitch! That stuff is all confidential!”
“Please don’t tell her I mentioned it!” If Fausto was fishing, he had just caught a whale. “Didn’t you call her that morning?”
“She likes to know when I leave work.”
“She was eating here when the pager went off. Poor thing was nervous for you.”
“She’s worse than
a fucking mother-in-law.”
I stopped slurping soup. “So did you meet the guy?”
“No way. I called the cops. They carted him away. Along with two other guys he was fighting with. I saw it happen right outside my window.”
“Three of them?” Fausto smiled insouciantly at me. “Good thing you played it safe. Don’t you wonder what your lunatic caller had to say? What if he saw a real Martian landing? The Loch Ness monster in the Potomac? Now we’ll never know.”
“Not my problem,” Rhoby replied, swabbing her empty bowl with baguette.
It was nearly ten. “Don’t get up,” I said, bringing my china to the sink. “I’ll wait outside. Nice playing with you, Rhoby.”
She wrapped me in a ferocious hug. “Can I look you up if I’m in Berlin?”
“Sure.” I caught Fausto’s eyes on my ass. “Take it easy.”
He accompanied me out to the thick, hot night. No moon and the crickets were getting louder. I flashed back to Ek, suddenly missing the clean life-and-death struggle of the jungle. I’d rather fight that waterfall again than deal with the perverted bestiary here. “Hope you enjoyed yourself,” I told Fausto. “Whatever game you’re playing.”
“It’s no game,” he replied as a long, dark car rolled down the driveway. “Who’s that?”
“Who do you think.”
Lightning over the treetops. “Bobby Marvel.”
Fausto had merely to move one inch, brush me anywhere with any part of his body, say one word, blink an eye, clear his throat, and I would send the car away. But he remained absolutely still as three vehicles halted beside Rhoby’s Hummer. “You’re right,” I said.
He grunted quietly. “Leaving your violin behind?”
