by Gerald Elias
But, as impressed and proud as he was of Yumi’s musicianship, it was the music itself that gave him unexpected insight. All the more haunting for its utter simplicity, the melody was hardly more than an upward arpeggio that gradually settled back down again to where it began. So modest, so unassuming, so unpretentious. It was Amadeo Borlotti, at least the Borlotti that Ubriaco was trying to portray. Yet the undercurrent in the piano was unpredictable and brooding. The first time it was in precise unison with the violin. Then, each ensuing time, it became more and more conflicted. It was like a calm sea with sharks below the surface. Even though the violin melody tried to retain its dark serenity, it inevitably showed its tragic face from behind its mask.
The playing stopped. Jacobus heard Yumi’s stockinged footsteps enter the living room.
‘How did it sound?’ she asked.
‘Not bad.’
She kissed him on the cheek.
‘I’m going to load the woodstove,’ she said. ‘Then I’m going to get into bed, pull up the covers, and read for a while. What better way to spend a winter night in the Berkshires?’
‘What are you reading?’
‘A really creepy mystery. Do you want me to tell you what it’s about?’
‘Mystery? Can’t be bothered.’
She gave him another peck, and soon Jacobus was alone.
Jacobus called Benson and reported the result of his conversation with Ubriaco and suggested they check two records: Borlotti’s bank records and the track record of a thoroughbred named My Flower Child.
‘Those might be profitable leads, Mr Jacobus,’ Benson said. ‘They’re certainly creative. I don’t think we’ll have much trouble tracking down where he banked his money, and I’ll get hold of the Saratoga authorities and have them talk to the track people there. I’m sure they’re familiar with the whole lot of ne’er-do-wells in that line of work. Maybe you and your friends could go there as well. Check out some of the music stores. Nose around the track. Who knows what you might turn up? It’s the middle of winter but maybe someone will enlighten us as to how Borlotti lost money without betting the horses.’
‘Keep an eye on Ubriaco, too,’ Jacobus said. ‘His bluster’s covering up something unpleasant just like his air freshener.’
‘Don’t you worry. And FYI, we’ve put out a missing persons alert for Borlotti, covering all the standard bases. Bus stations, train stations, airports. We’re beating all the bushes.’
‘Any leads?’
‘Not a trace.’
Jacobus was about to turn in for the night when the phone rang again. Someday, he thought, there will be a way to turn the damn things off.
It was Boris Dedubian, calling after hours at Nathaniel’s urging.
‘Your phone’s been busy,’ he said.
‘Call me Mr Popularity.’
‘Mr Williams was very insistent I ring you,’ Dedubian said, as if calling at nine at night was the most inconvenient thing he’d ever done. ‘That wood he showed me was, I must say, interesting. Very interesting.’
‘Are you at liberty to divulge what’s interesting?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Why, of course!’ Dedubian replied, sounding surprised. ‘After all, that’s why I’m calling.’
‘Never mind. Family joke. Tell me what’s interesting.’
‘Jake, the selection of wood used to make and repair fine violins – maple and spruce – is a crucial step in the process. Perhaps the most important consideration of all. You can have the finest craftsmanship, but if the wood is pedestrian, the violin will never sound good. I’m sure that much you know very well.
‘You can get those woods almost anywhere, but great quality is hard to find. I always keep my eyes open for when the old European luthiers retire. As soon as I hear they plan to fold up shop, I bid for their wood. You see, this wood Mr Williams brought me is very old. It has been cut from the tree three, maybe four hundred years ago. To me it appears this is not American wood. It is wood, I believe, that comes from the forests of northern Italy and western Yugoslavia.’
‘How do you know this?’ Jacobus asked. ‘Is it labeled, “fatto in Italia”?’
‘That’s funny, Jake,’ Dedubian said. ‘You are a very funny man. Of course, I don’t know this one hundred percent sure, but I am fairly certain, because it is in many ways similar to the wood on some of the great Cremonese instruments.’
‘How is it similar?’
‘That is a very good question. I have recently received a study from Cornell University, sponsored by the American Luthier Society, of the dendrochronology of the maple and spruce from two dozen famous Stradivaris, Guarneris, and Amatis. It is amazing what has been learned about wood and their ability to trace its origins. This wood that Mr Williams brought me, I believe, comes from those same forests. That is why he wanted me to call you.’
‘Everyone’s still trying to discover the “secret” of Stradivarius, huh?’
‘Yes. They do the chemical analysis of the varnish. They do the CT scans of the instruments so they can see the cross-section at any point. They do all the measurements down to the micro-millimeter.’ Dedubian chuckled. ‘And you know what? They overlook what is perfectly obvious to everybody.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Antonio Stradivari was a superior, uniquely gifted craftsman. No one can beat him.’
‘Not that I disagree, but don’t you have a few Strads in your shop that you’re itching to sell and haven’t been moving?’
‘Well …’
‘What’s holding them up?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Dedubian said. ‘They’ve got pedigree provenance with all the right certificates. Hill, Wurlitzer, Beare. They’re in excellent shape. They’re from his Golden Period.’
‘How much are you asking?’
‘Between three and five million.’
‘I wonder if that might have something to do with it.’
‘It might,’ Dedubian said, not at all put off, ‘but in the twenty-first century that will be considered a bargain. Believe me.’
‘No doubt,’ said Jacobus. ‘If we ever live that long. Boris, let me ask you about something else. Are there fluids in violinmaking that are particularly flammable?’
‘Jake, you know, you are a very funny man.’
‘Yes, you’ve told me that. I’m a million laughs. But can you answer my question?’
‘Jake, if the other tenants in my building knew the compounds I use, they would shut down my business.’
‘Could you be a little more specific?’
‘I’d be happy to. We use pure alcohol for touch-up work, turpentine for making varnish, zylene and acetone for cleaning, and nitric acid to color boxwood.
‘Nitric acid does not itself burn, but it oxidizes organic matter and makes it highly flammable. We also use anhydrous ammonia, which is explosive under certain conditions. It’s not, on its own, very flammable, but if the chemical were to leak, it can ignite when it becomes about sixteen to twenty-five percent of the air – a huge, usually detectable concentration – and reaches temperatures of at least one-thousand-two-hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Since it takes so much heat to ignite, it’s not usually the source of a fire, although it could ignite if a fire was caused by something else. Does that answer your question?’
‘Consider me enlightened. Thanks for calling, Boris. I owe you one.’
Jacobus sat alone in the dark. Accident or arson? He wasn’t sure now. His restless mind was never able to compartmentalize ideas or disciplines. Everything was interconnected. Inseparable. Thinking about the fire took him back to the Mozart sonata. Most composers would have been content to stick to standard expectations and finish the movement in a cheery major key. But nothing Mozart ever did was standard. Despite occasional glimpses of sunshine, he finished the movement as he began it, in ill-omened E-Minor. Yes, the story came to a conclusion, but without affirmation, leaving the listener uneasy, with more questions than answers. It was tragic. Or was it? Without understanding
how he’d gotten there, Jacobus found himself coming back to wondering what use a modest violin repairman might have for three-hundred-year-old Italian wood.
ELEVEN
Wednesday, December 28
Jacobus fed Trotsky his daily breakfast of liverwurst and a can of baked beans, and had stuck a few more parts of the apostles into the jigsaw puzzle when Nathaniel called. He was exasperated. A rare occurrence, especially first thing in the morning, Jacobus thought. Nathaniel had just spoken to the friendly folks at Concordia Insurance, ‘where integrity isn’t a word. It’s who we are.’
‘Jimmy Ubriaco might not be the most forthcoming person on the block,’ Nathaniel said, ‘but he was right about Concordia.’
‘You went to their office?’
‘No. Phone.’
‘Might it have been better to talk to them in person?’
‘In Fort Lauderdale?’
‘Well, it is warmer there.’
‘If it is, it would be nice if some of that warmth had rubbed off on their office manager, Sean Larson. After I identified myself, I told him all I wanted to know was whether any recent claims had been filed by Borlotti, who, I understood, was one of their clients. Larson said he was not at liberty to divulge that information—’
‘Obfuscation 101. Where is it they teach that course?’ Jacobus hollered.
‘My sentiments exactly, Jake,’ Nathaniel said, ‘but that was only the beginning. I asked whether he had even heard about the fire at Borlotti’s. He seemed very surprised and admitted he hadn’t, but said if that were so, they would undoubtedly be hearing from Borlotti soon. I told him that Borlotti has been missing since the fire—’
‘Let me guess. At which point your new friend, Sean, told you in that case they would have to wait for him to return and verify the loss before they could go any further with processing claims.’
‘You hit the nail on the head. He said, “Sorry, we don’t have an exception in his policy for that. We must hear from Mr Borlotti first. Anything else would be unethical.”’
Jacobus barked a laugh.
‘But I didn’t give up, even then,’ Nathaniel continued. ‘I mentioned some of the names on the Rolodex who we’d called and asked if any of them were Concordia clients.’
‘Stonewall?’
‘Reinforced concrete.’
‘Don’t forget, my dear friend, integrity is who they are. So that was the end of it?’
‘Almost. By this point I was getting a little frustrated –’ Jacobus laughed again – ‘so I asked to speak with Borlotti’s agent. Larson hemmed and hawed, and so I demanded—’
‘Bravo!’
‘And Larson told me that his agent, a gal named Minerva Forsythe, was unreachable at this time.’
‘She was in the ladies’ room?’
‘“She has taken an unexpected, indefinite leave.”’
‘Where did she go?’
‘Larson said Hawaii.’
‘Someone from Fort Lauderdale going to Hawaii? Likely story. I still bet on ladies’ room.’
‘Well, that was it. I know insurance companies can give you the runaround, but that one made me dizzy.’
‘Then why not try some of the others?’ Jacobus asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Borlotti’s company is Concordia, and probably a few of his customers. But there must be other companies that specialize in instrument insurance, where you have established contacts. Why don’t you call them? Do an end run?’
Williams sighed.
‘Later, maybe. I was thinking of coming back up today. What’s for dinner?’
‘Liverwurst and baked beans.’
‘I’ll take a rain check.’
With Nathaniel girding his loins for a grueling morning with the insurance companies and Yumi practicing for a recital, Jacobus felt the guilt of a wastrel if he didn’t do something productive. So he called Roy Miller and suggested breakfast at K&J’s.
‘I’ve got a repair on tap this morning, but it’s someone’s vacation home and the owner lives somewhere in Redondo Beach. It can wait.’
They both ordered the morning’s special, buckwheat pancakes with ‘artisan, ethically raised, house-crafted sausage patties’ and locally grown, organic blueberries.
‘What’s the repair?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Guy’s pipes burst overnight from the cold weather. His security service let him know and I got the call. If some of these out-of-town summer folks only knew what winters in the Berkshires were like, they could easily prevent stuff like that from happening,’ Miller forked down half a pancake. ‘But then when disaster strikes, they expect me to fix the problem yesterday, like all I do in life is wait by the phone for their call. Then they want me to clean things up so that it looks like new, and get all uppity when I send them a bill.’
‘Charge them extra for their whining.’
‘Don’t worry. I do. They should just count their blessings their security service called them. If the water sat there until summer, the house would’ve been a total loss.’
‘How did the security service know the pipes had burst?’ Jacobus asked.
‘The house has a thermostat that’s wired directly to their office. If the house temperature drops below a certain level, they automatically get an alert. During the storm on Christmas Eve their electricity went out, so the furnace couldn’t ignite, yada, yada, yada. By the time they called me and I got to the house the pipes had burst, but I was able to shut off the water so the damage wasn’t too bad. Sometimes accidents do happen, but if those morons had drained the pipes there never would’ve been a problem.’
‘You think Borlotti’s house burning down was an accident?’ Jacobus asked.
‘If he weren’t missing, I’d say for sure,’ Miller replied. ‘There’s nothing to suggest it wasn’t.’
‘What about the security alarm that didn’t ring?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I assume that with these security gizmos, just like with the thermostat, if a fire starts, the temperature of the house goes up so much that the security firm immediately gets a signal and comes running. Isn’t that how it works?’
‘Yes,’ said Miller. ‘Or the fire department. Sometimes they’re wired directly there. But you’re assuming Borlotti had a security system.’
‘Of course I am. What violin shop doesn’t?’
‘How do we find out for sure?’ Miller asked. ‘All his records were destroyed. You want to ask his friend, Jimmy what’s-his-face?’
Jacobus laughed. ‘I think I need to let Jimmy cool off for a while after the last time I spoke to him. But there can’t be too many security firms out here. You think you can give some a call and find out if any of them serviced Borlotti’s house? Only after you’re done with the plumbing, of course.’
There was too much food for Jacobus to finish so he asked Scott the server for a box to take home.
‘Sure thing!’ Scott said. ‘Savin’ up for lunch?’
‘No. My dog, Trotsky,’ he said.
‘Trotsky likes pancakes?’ Scott asked.
‘Just the blueberries.’
When Miller dropped Jacobus back home, Yumi was gone. She left a note on the door so that Miller would see it and let Jacobus know that she had gone to the outlet mall in Lee for post-Christmas sales. With nothing better to do, he took out his violin and began to practice. Not that he had anything to practice for. With few exceptions, he hadn’t performed publicly in decades and frankly had no desire to. For him, connecting with the music, holding the violin and feeling his fingers touch the strings and create this complex sequence of vibrations that found a gateway to one’s every emotion was all the reward he desired. Most of the music he now played he had memorized before he had gone blind. That was the big benefit of memorizing, difficult as it may be. Once tucked away in the brain, it was always there somewhere. After his blindness, learning new music became more of a challenge. He had to learn by ear, listening to the same music over and over ag
ain. And of course in those days, they didn’t have all these CDs that you could stop and start. They didn’t even have cassette tapes! So he had had to memorize vast swaths of music at a time, and though no one believed him when he asserted that’s how he learned the Alban Berg violin concerto, it was true.
Today, though, his muse gravitated toward the twelve Corelli violin sonatas, music not nearly as complex or dramatic as Berg, but whose clarity of form and melody helped clear his mind of all the tangled loose ends Borlotti’s disappearance had created. The perfect synthesis of intellect and heart, whenever Jacobus finished practicing Corelli he could think better and felt a greater understanding of humanity and the world.
He had just finished the fugue of the C Major sonata when Nathaniel called.
‘Finally done!’ he said. ‘You want to hear what I’ve found out?’
‘Later,’ Jacobus said and hung up. He continued on to the Adagio.
He put his violin away when his arms tired after playing through the first six sonatas. Then he lay down on his couch to take a nap, Trotsky thumping on the floor by his side.
He was awakened by Nathaniel’s call.
‘You have some interesting news,’ Jacobus said.
‘How do you know that, O, omniscient one?’ Williams replied.
‘Because you woke me up from my nap, so you better.’
Nathaniel had approached his carefully cultivated personal channels at FreedomWide, Alliance, and Northeast Mutual, the company Jimmy Ubriaco had said insured his school’s instruments. Nathaniel told them he was looking for claims Borlotti had filed himself or Borlotti’s customers had filed, which would be apparent because Borlotti’s name would be on the repair invoice.
‘Two things seem curious,’ Nathaniel said. ‘It looks like there’s a pattern over the years that started with small, inexpensive claims for repairs, then gradually increased into several thousand dollars for some instruments. The second interesting thing was that a good number of his customers owned high quality eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Italian makers of some renown, like Testore, Ventapane, Carcassi, Scarampella – instruments that fetched high five-figures and low six-figures, which they had bought from Borlotti.’
