by Gerald Elias
The interior was spacious, constructed of reverberant materials. It might have been well-designed for chamber music, but for conversation the acoustics were impossible for even the keen-eared Jacobus to decipher all but snippets of competing small talk. He did hear his name bandied about as Yumi escorted him through the room. And did he detect the occasional upward inflection, as in, ‘so that’s Daniel Jacobus?’ Apparently not everyone had gone to the symposium. He also took note of an emphasized word or phrase here and there, out of context but appropriate for the event and the demographics: ‘delicious as always,’ ‘commencement,’ ‘tenure track,’ ‘exceptional,’ ‘musical,’ ‘GPA,’ ‘scholarship,’ ‘sabbatical.’ And others less so: ‘outrageous,’ ‘fired,’ ‘mockery.’
Smells were equally intriguing. Of course there were the usual ones – perfume, body odor, dry cleaning, tobacco – which Jacobus shelved off into one part of his brain. He concentrated more on the abundance of savory and pungent aromas. Grilled meats, exotic marinades, fresh herbs and spices. Normally he would have started drooling, but his appetite was mysteriously in abeyance.
They crossed into another room. Quieter. Smells no longer of food but of leather, old paper, cigars. A library.
‘Here comes Charlie,’ Yumi said.
‘Charlie?’
‘Charles Hedge, the dean. Last night’s moderator. The faculty calls him Dean the Bean, as in bean counter. He’s always smiling. Just smile back.’
‘I’m getting tired being nice.’
‘Yes, I can tell.’
‘Mr Jacobus! You made it!’ Hedge said with guileless Midwestern sincerity.
‘I suppose.’
A brotherly pat on the back.
‘Great job last night. Injected a little spice! Livened things up! Kinderhoek is all about diversity of views.’
‘So I’m—’
‘We are so looking forward to your masterclass tomorrow. What a way to finish before spring break!’
‘Well—’
‘How did you like Feldstein Hall?’
‘Not—’
‘We just had it totally retrofitted. A million dollars. And a new Steinway. Aren’t the acoustics great?’
‘Yes, great. Great! Best I’ve ever heard.’
‘We got the money from our Feldstein endowment. The building itself was endowed by Dolly Cooney.’
Hedge enunciated Dolly and Cooney with special care.
‘Am I supposed to be impressed by that name?’
‘You don’t know Dolly? The founder of the Venerable Bead chain? She’s a Kinderhoek alum. When she was a clarinet student she started making handmade beads to help pay her tuition. That was back in the day when they still had to pay tuition. Who’d guess she’d be a genius at marketing beads? Who’d guess anyone would be? Lucky for her because, between you and me, she would never’ve made it as a clarinetist. Lucky for us, too. Dolly still lives here and is on our board. She comes to all our concerts. She’s a real kick in the pants. You’ll love her.’
‘I’m sure I will.’
‘Well, I’m talking your ear off. You go have a great time. I’ve got to go spread the cheer. See you tomorrow at the masterclass. I’m hoping we might establish a precedent with this, maybe call it our Distinguished Artist Master Class Series.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘We’d attach a donor’s name to it, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘But I feel our chances are pretty darn good of getting a six-figure gift for it. It’s doable. What do you think?’
‘Yes. Doable.’
‘And if things go well, you can count on coming back, maybe coach quartets? Hey, let’s talk.’
‘Sure. Just one question, Hedge.’
‘Yes?’
‘That cry at the symposium? I say something that hurt someone’s feelings?’
Hedge paused.
‘Nothing to worry about, Mr Jacobus. Total false alarm. Just the usual student hijinks.’
Hedge patted Jacobus on the back and was gone. Back into the fray in the living room.
‘Looks like you’re a big hit,’ Yumi said.
Jacobus shrugged. The tip of his cane clicked against an impediment on the floor. He slid his cane along it. The floor track for the sliding door to the veranda. He stepped over it and was outside again. The change to the fresh evening air, warm and moist, was a welcome relief from the cramped herd inside. Only a few people mingled in the tranquil dusk. The chirp of crickets and warble of wood thrushes painfully reminded him of the home he no longer had, but at least it was quieter out here.
‘Ah, Mr Jacobus!’
Cancel that. Jacobus recognized the voice of the audience questioner.
‘Schlossberg.’
‘Yes, it is I. Lord of this manor. We didn’t have a chance to meet at the symposium. Wonderful, wonderful talk. Wonderful for the kids.’
Schlossberg’s voice, deep and authoritative, was at the same time mellifluous and disarming. A combination of Leonard Bernstein and Barry White, whose recordings Nathaniel forced him to listen to.
‘The Lady Sybil has instructed me to ply you with our finest vintage.’
The alcohol that Jacobus detected on Schlossberg’s breath explained the slight slurring he almost convincingly concealed.
‘And how about a glass for my ward, the fair Yumi?’ Jacobus asked.
‘I’ll pass, Jake,’ Yumi said. ‘I just saw Tallulah inside.’
Jacobus understood the nuance of Yumi’s speech patterns as intimately as a Bach sonata. She was more intent on leaving than on actually going somewhere specific.
‘Who’s Tallulah?’ he asked anyway.
‘Tallulah Dominguez. She’s chair of the piano division. We’re playing a recital together at the end of the semester and we have to figure out when we’re going to rehearse. I want to catch her while I’ve got the chance. Back in a while.’
‘Women,’ Schlossberg said when Yumi was out of earshot. ‘Can’t live with ’em. Can’t live without ’em. But mainly, can’t live with ’em. Here, have a glass.’
Jacobus could think of no appropriate response, so he muttered a few random syllables. Schlossberg poured wine into Jacobus’s glass, spilling some onto his hand. Jacobus heard him pour more into his own glass, then put the bottle down with a thud.
‘A toast!’ Schlossberg exclaimed. ‘To spring!’
‘Mud in your eye,’ Jacobus said, and took a sip. It was nicely chilled. Slightly fruity but dry. Perfect for the season.
‘Did you know, my dear friend, that the goddess Cybele was the mother of all mother goddesses?’
‘Now I do.’
‘Well, believe it! In ancient Rome, the followers of Cybele believed she had a consort named Attis who was born via a virgin birth.’
‘Go figure.’
‘He died.’
‘Poor guy.’
‘So you say. So you say. But what you don’t know is that poor old Attis was resurrected each year during the vernal equinox. So I say, here’s to dear Sybil. Here’s to spring. Here’s to the vernal equinox, which bestows life and fertility to the land. At least for the immediate future.’
‘Well said,’ said Jacobus, wishing he were playing checkers with Nathaniel.
‘I’d show you around the hallowed premises,’ Schlossberg said, unselfconsciously emitting a low, rumbling belch, ‘but that wouldn’t really float your boat, would it? So how about I give you a seat here and bring you a plate of goodies? We can chat when I get back.’
‘Fine.’
From his deck chair, a comfortable folding wooden one with a cushion, Jacobus had his back to the woods. The conversation inside the house was directly in front of him and the sounds of the forest behind him. He stood up, turned around, and felt for the veranda’s railing. He rotated the chair one-hundred-eighty degrees and pulled it close to the railing. He sat back down, confident he had minimized the chances anyone would bother him.
‘Hey!’
That was clearly meant for someone else.
‘Hey there!’
‘Are you talking to me?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Mr Jacobus?’
‘You Tallulah?’
‘No!’ Nervous laughter. ‘I’m Audrey.’
‘Audrey?’
‘Audrey Rollins. At the rehearsal today. I played the Vivaldi solo.’
She spoke in explosive clusters of syllables.
‘Ah, yes. Dunster’s student.’
Her voice was too filled with pent-up energy for him to endure for any length of time. Jacobus sipped his wine and turned away, but sensing the girl hovering in place, concluded his tactic wasn’t about to succeed.
‘Didn’t know students were invited to this shindig,’ he said, conceding defeat.
More laughter. Nervous laughter. He always wondered what was behind laughter in response to nothing that was funny. It generally hid something.
‘I’m not a guest. Some students were hired to wait tables and clean shit up.’
‘Shit?’
‘Plates and glasses and stuff.’
‘Oh, that kind of shit. How’d you get hired? You take classes from Baker-Hulme?’
‘No! I mean, Aaron’s my chamber music coach … So what did you think?’
‘About what?’
‘About how I played the Vivaldi.’
Jacobus was disinclined to give a lesson, especially one that was so seriously needed.
‘I understand you’re playing in the masterclass tomorrow.’
‘Yeah! I’m really nervous.’ Apparently believing that was the wrong thing to say, she quickly corrected herself. ‘But I’m really excited!’
‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow.’
‘OK.’ Slightly deflated. ‘But I want to practice before the class so if you could tell me …’
This girl was not to be denied. Better to get her off his back sooner than later if he was going to enjoy some peace and quiet.
‘All right. First off, you play with a lot of energy. That’s good. But, number one, you’re not controlling it, so your tone is raw, and it’s throwing off your intonation. So just calm yourself down a bit. Don’t overplay.’
‘Cool!’
‘Whatever. Number two, for Baroque music your energy needs to be more horizontal and less vertical. You’re pressing too hard with the bow, so you’re not getting the clarity and transparency you need for the music to come alive. Too opaque.
‘Third, way too many accents. You accented virtually every beat in the melody in the first movement. Whack whack whack whack whack. That’s not a melody. It’s an assault. Bad enough if you only accented the first and third beats. Better yet if you just put some emphasis only on occasional downbeats.’
‘Wow. That’s great! I can’t wait to tell Professor Dunster.’
‘Actually, better if you didn’t, honey.’
‘I suppose. Anything else?’
‘You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?’ he said.
Again the nervous laugh. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
Jacobus had just given her some general technical advice. Maybe something more poetic would be enough for her to leave him alone.
‘Nothing. All right. One more thing. What’s the name of this concerto?’
‘“Spring.” I think.’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah. “Spring.” I’m sure. Definitely.’
‘So it has to be light. Right? And joyful. Springtime! Just imagine. Winter was long and cold and dreary. In your parlance, it sucked. Now you get to go outside in the sun and play again. You have to make it sound like that.’
‘Cool!’
‘You know the sonnet Vivaldi wrote?’
‘Yeah!’ Pride was swelling. ‘“Springtime is upon us—”’
‘No, no, no!’ Jacobus barked. ‘He wrote no such thing. Vivaldi was Italian. He no speaka da English. What he wrote was, “Giunt’ è la Primavera e festosetti la Salutan gl’ Augei con lieto canto, e i fonti allo Spirar de’ Zeffiretti con dolce mormorio Scorrono intanto.” Etcetera. There’s music in them words. “Springtime is upon us” sounds like a post-apocalyptic novel for fourth-graders.’
‘Boss!’ Audrey said. ‘I’ll memorize the whole—’
‘Audrey!’ It was the voice of Aaron Schlossberg. ‘Entrapped yet another victim with your dogged curiosity?’
‘Sorry.’ The energy in her voice dissipated like morning fog.
‘Why don’t you and Lucien go clean up poor Elwood’s mess? The dear professor seems no longer capable of carrying on a conversation and holding a plate of food simultaneously. Time for you and that boyfriend of yours’ – heavy emphasis on ‘boy,’ Jacobus noted – ‘to earn your keep.’
She went off without a further word.
‘Don’t mind her,’ Schlossberg continued.
‘She called you Aaron.’
‘That is my name, I believe.’
‘But she called Dunster, her violin teacher, Professor Dunster.’
‘Times are changing. Elwood is definitely old school.’
Jacobus didn’t care what students called him as long as they played their scales in tune.
‘I brought you some tasty morsels,’ Schlossberg said. ‘Tell me what you think.’
As Jacobus received the plate from Schlossberg, their hands touched. Jacobus, who had imagined Schlossberg as being tall and slender by the quality of his voice, was surprised at how thick, almost swollen, his fingers were.
‘Got a fork?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Unnecessary. It’s on a skewer.’
Jacobus found one end of a short wooden skewer and, after first poking himself in the cheek with the pointed end, put it in his mouth. In a temporary state of denial about his unsettled stomach, he pulled off a small chunk of meat with his teeth. Different, tender. Unusual sauce – sweet and savory at the same time. Delicious.
‘Rabbit?’ he guessed.
‘Close! You’ve got a better sense of taste than most. Squirrel. Marinated with Eastern Red Cedar berries. Not really a cedar. It’s a juniper. Juniperus virginiana.’
‘You hunt squirrels?’
‘Vice versa. They hunt me. They get in the attic, so I trap them. But, hey, why waste good squirrel? Right?’
‘They told me you’re an expert forager. But they forgot to mention you’re also a born exterminator.’
‘Who knew? Right? But I must concede that wandering through the woods does beat banging one’s head on the attic rafters. Being in the woods gives me inspiration. You hear that murmuring brook back there? That not only provides me with a year-round watercress supply, it was my stimulus for my Landscapes IV. Love of nature. Like Beethoven.’
‘You’ve got chutzpah,’ Jacobus said. ‘Even Brahms knew he was no Beethoven.’
‘Hey, growing up as a little runt in Brooklyn you need a little chutzpah to get where I am now.’
‘And exactly where is that? To paraphrase our recent vice-presidential candidate, “I served with Beethoven. I knew Beethoven. Beethoven was a friend of mine. Schlossberg, you’re no Ludwig Beethoven.”’
Applause.
‘Well said, Jacobus,’ Schlossberg said, laughing. ‘You should’ve run for VP. You probably would’ve done better. But you must admit, they lambasted Beethoven’s music in his day no less than mine is now. Even more in some critical circles.’
‘On the other hand, Beethoven was also the most renowned composer of his day.’
‘Ditto here, if I may say so without incriminating myself. Now try this.’
Jacobus felt another plate pressed into his hand. He was having a hard time disliking Schlossberg regardless of what he felt about the man’s music and his ego.
‘You’ll need a fork for this one,’ Schlossberg said. ‘I’ll give you a hint. It ain’t spinach.’
Steamed greens of some sort.
‘Garlic in it.’
‘Good start. Wild garlic scapes,’ said Schlossberg.
‘You did
all the cooking?’
‘Yes, sir! Dame Sybil took care of all the rest. She’s such a detail person. Allows me to devote my full attentions to the kitchen.’
Jacobus let the flavors linger in his mouth.
‘Chicory!’
‘Very good, Jacobus! Cichorium intybus. You’re the only one to get it right. How do you know chicory?’
‘A friend of mine, Nathaniel Williams, he’s from the South. Cooks with it. But there’s something else too, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve got my goat.’
‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know that goats love it, too. Stinging nettle. Urtica dioica. Of course, when you cook it, it takes the sting out. It was traditionally eaten to treat all kinds of disorders – kidneys, urinary tract and gastrointestinal tract, skin, cardiovascular system, flu, rheumatism, gout. You name it. Ready for one more?’
Jacobus’s stomach had been threatening to rebel after the first bite of skewered squirrel. Now the mutiny was close at hand.
‘I better not,’ he said.
‘But I insist!’ Schlossberg insisted. ‘You’ll love it. I won’t even make you guess. Chanterelle mushrooms, Cantharellus cibarius, picked fresh this afternoon, sautéed in butter and wild sage.’
‘You eat like this all the time?’
‘My doc tells me I’m not supposed to. Diabetes. But since I don’t tell him, I’ll live forever. Like Attis. With the wonder of modern medicine, all I have to do is poke myself in the thigh with a needle from time to time and I eat and drink what I want. And most of what I want is in my own backyard. Other than paying a regular visit to the wine store, you can survive quite happily without ever having to set foot in Price Saver. Better, in fact.’
‘Only if you can pick me some Folgers out in your woods here.’
‘Here, take this plate,’ Schlossberg said. ‘There’s someone over there I want to introduce you to. Back in a sec.’
Jacobus, his stomach in turmoil, counted to ten before extending the plate over the side of the veranda and, as inconspicuously as possible, committed the Cantharellus cibarius to the shrubbery below. Schlossberg returned shortly thereafter, accompanied by someone emitting an overpowering dosage of English Leather cologne, which did nothing for Jacobus’s digestion.
