Spring Break

by Gerald Elias

  ‘Shall I call the campus security?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re going to,’ Jacobus said.

  ‘And why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Because rigging the evaluations wasn’t the worst part of what you did. One of your discoveries in your deep probes into the school’s computer banks was a deep, dark secret about one of our illustrious faculty members. Wasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve already said that. You were lying the first time and you’re lying this time, too. You know all about the sexual harassment complaints that were written about Aaron Schlossberg. You know all about the reports and the whitewash and the—’

  ‘He was a rapist!’

  ‘Ah! So you do know! And you were a blackmailer! Schlossberg detested you, as do most of the other faculty members. You told Schlossberg what you’d found and threatened to expose him. I would guess he offered to pay you handsomely. But your price tag was something even more valuable: his support for your tenure. But at some point, he had enough, or maybe – amazingly enough – his sense of ethics got the better of him. He threatened you back and vowed to go public and let the chips fall where they may. And that’s why you poisoned him on the night of his party.’

  Jacobus waited. Let Tawroszewicz call security now if he wanted.

  The response was not what he expected. Tawroszewicz laughed. A tickle at first, which expanded little by little until his bellow filled the entire room. Jacobus thought Tawroszewicz might have gone mad.

  ‘Now you don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Tawroszewicz roared. ‘Why would I murder Schlossberg? He was my biggest hope for tenure. My ace. I could not give up my ace. You know what I will have if I don’t get tenure? I will have nothing. I tried twenty, thirty applications, auditions before getting this job here. “Sorry to inform you …” “After considerable deliberation …” Those were best answers. Mostly was nothing. If I lose here, who wants me? Twenty, thirty will be nothing. And once you are student conductor, you are always student conductor. Professional orchestras won’t even look at you. You smell like student conductor. So where do I go, Mr Know Everything, if I don’t get this job? I killed Schlossberg? You make me laugh. Go ahead. Arrest me. I laugh even more.’

  Jacobus got up and left the room, listening to Tawroszewicz’s howls echo through the corridor as he departed. Jacobus didn’t care that Tawroszewicz thought he had just humiliated him. He had made some progress. He had learned something. He wasn’t sure where it would lead, but the variations were spiraling back toward simplicity.

  ‘Jacobus!’

  Though the volume was raised, Jacobus immediately recognized the practiced monotone of Harold Handy.

  ‘What finds you roaming these hallowed halls?’ Handy asked.

  ‘I heard about Lisette Broder. Wanted to find out what was happening.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Poor Miss Broder. Dying suddenly is becoming quite the campus rage. The administration is fairly confounded, I’m telling you.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Why, ninety-million dollars so! Here they’ve planned all this hoopla to cajole the Feldstein progeny to fork over a large helping of their unearned fortune, and Aaron and Lisette have gone and ruined it. Hedge can’t decide whether the show must go on or whether canceling it “in memory of” will bring the greater return, so for the moment he seems to be in a state of rigor mortis. Some of us hope it’s just temporary.’

  ‘And you. What’s your take?’

  ‘March 26, 1827.’

  ‘Beethoven’s death!’ Jacobus said. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Exactly. What of it? One of the most dramatic deaths ever. The mighty Beethoven lay on his deathbed, unconscious for all everyone knew. His death rattle had gone on continuously for hours if we’re to believe his biographers. But then, in midafternoon the sky turned unaccountably black, from whence was unleashed a supernal bolt of lightning and a violent clap of thunder. Beethoven opened his eyes and raised a defiant fist to the heavens!’ Handy cleared his throat. ‘And then Beethoven was no more.’

  ‘I know the story.’

  ‘Yes, but who cares? It’s the music we care about, not Beethoven’s death. If Charles Hedge were to raise his fist to heaven upon his expiration, who would care? And let’s not forget that Beethoven was a schmuck during his lifetime.

  ‘The moral of the story is, people drop dead all the time. How they die can be more or less creative – Lully put a baton through his foot while conducting and died from the infection – but chances are everyone’s going to die one way or the other, sooner or later. The point is, Jacobus, the rhythm of life goes on. Music goes on. The vicissitudes of this conservatory, with all its warts, will continue to imperfectly churn out imperfect young musicians into the unforeseeable future, and then that, too will someday come to an end. After that, who knows? Maybe by that time Beethoven will have been forgotten entirely.’

  ‘You’re suggesting I pack my bags and go home.’

  ‘Perish the thought! I’ve found you to be one of the most engaging minds to come across this campus in ages. You were a breath of fresh air at that symposium. I’m just presenting the big picture. Whether you decide to leave well enough alone is none of my business. All I’ll say is I just think the wrong people chose to die. But what do I know? I’m just a music historian.’

  What Handy hadn’t mentioned, Jacobus noted, was the startling coincidence that Beethoven and Schlossberg died on the same day. Jacobus wondered if that fact might have given Schlossberg some solace in his last hours. He was reasonably confident Schlossberg would have preferred going out with a bang, as Beethoven had, instead of rotting to death, alone in a hermetically sealed fishbowl. Then again, maybe murder was poetic justice. But why hadn’t Handy, the astute historian, bothered to mention the coincidence? Surely he must have realized it.

  When Jacobus returned to the inn, he was intercepted by the desk clerk. He was in no mood for the distraction, having for a second time barked up the wrong tree in a looming forest of wrong trees. First Audrey, then Tawroszewicz. Who next? If he were wrong enough times and if enough people were murdered, there might be only one suspect left standing, and even then Jacobus wasn’t sure if he’d get it right.

  Once again a member of the Kinderhoek club had tried to humiliate him. Hedge, Connie Jean, Sybil, Al Pine, now Tawroszewicz. And for what? No one wanted him around. No one cared. Maybe Handy was right. Maybe he should just pack his bags and leave.

  Even though he said, ‘Don’t bother me,’ in a tone which meant it, the clerk, well-trained to deal with surly guests, persevered pleasantly.

  ‘But, Mr Jacobus,’ she said, ‘you’ve received a postcard.’

  ‘Postcard?’ Jacobus asked himself as much as to the clerk. Who the hell would send him a postcard? Who even knew he was here?

  ‘Read it to me,’ he said.

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  Silence followed.

  ‘Well, go ahead. I’m waiting,’ Jacobus said.

  ‘I don’t know if I can read this. It’s a little embarrassing.’

  ‘Honey, I’m used to being embarrassed. A little more isn’t going to kill me.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But I’m just the messenger, OK?’

  She cleared her throat:

  ‘Dear Jake,

  Greetings from Merry Old England. Just got done with some business in London. Looking forward to getting back to the city and whuppin’ yo’ white ole checkers ass. Fondly, N.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Mr Jacobus. Shall I throw it out for you?’

  Jacobus couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed out loud.

  ‘Nah, that’s OK. I’ll take it. I’ll add it to my hate-mail collection. Tell me. What’s there a picture of on the card? Spotted dick?’

  ‘Let me see. It says, “Margaret and Dennis Thatcher at the doorstep of the prime ministerial mansion, Chequers.” She’s wearing a—’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Jacob
us said. ‘Very fine.’ He pocketed the postcard and pulled out his wallet. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and gave the clerk a generous tip and thanked his friend Nathaniel from the bottom of his heart.

  He went to his room, and while he showered and shaved, he hummed ‘Rule, Britannia.’ He couldn’t remember the last time he had sung in the shower, either.

  ‘You still want to be part of our investigation?’ he said to Chase Anderson on the phone.

  ‘I’m pretty busy right now,’ he said. He sounded doubtful. ‘Exams. You know.’

  ‘I’m about to bust the case wide open,’ Jacobus responded. ‘If you’d rather not be in on it …’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘I have a clandestine assignment for you. I need you to come here, pick up a secret envelope, and deliver it to Lucien Knotts without anyone but him knowing. Then tomorrow, he’ll probably have a small package for you to deliver back here. Think you can do it? I hope that’s not too much—’

  ‘Sure thing. I have a late shift at the hospital tonight. I can drop by before. Seven thirty?’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  Jacobus continued to refine his taped narrative and added messages to Yumi, Nathaniel, and Roy Miller. He made a second, short recording on a separate tape, inserted it into an envelope, and sealed it.

  ‘You’re not looking very well, Mr Jacobus,’ Anderson said when he arrived.

  ‘You’re not looking so hot, yourself,’ Jacobus replied. Anderson laughed.

  ‘It might take a while for Knotts to give you what I asked for,’ he continued. ‘Be sure to let him know how to contact you at any time. You can do that?’ He handed Anderson the envelope that contained the taped message for Lucien Knotts. To sustain Anderson’s enthusiasm, he added, ‘It’s of the utmost importance.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Anderson said. ‘You figured out who did it?’

  ‘I have. But if I divulge that information too soon, it may put more lives in jeopardy.’

  ‘Gotcha! You can count on me. And, may I say, you’ve been great to work with.’

  ‘You may. But then again, you may not. Now get the hell out of here.’

  After Anderson left, Jacobus thought about going to get some dinner but his appetite seemed to have left him. In fact, he hadn’t really felt hungry for weeks. What he did feel was tired. He went to the bathroom where he coughed up some more of whatever it was and, without undressing, went to bed.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Wednesday, April 8

  Among the advantages of being blind is the ease of imagining oneself anywhere one wants. Jacobus was disinclined to leave his room at the inn. For one, he wasn’t feeling particularly well, but mainly he was stuck there until Chase Anderson either called or arrived with the package. So all Jacobus had to do in order to be in his old home, which now existed only in his memory, was open his motel room window. Whether it was cloudy or sunny outside was immaterial. It was better he didn’t know because it made it that much easier to imagine it was sunny. A fresh spring breeze carried the songs of chickadees into his room. Chickadees always buoyed his spirits. He pulled a chair over to the window and sat there, and very shortly he was lounging in his living room in the Berkshires.

  It was the same with people. They were little more than voices to him. Sure, they each had their own unique scent, and once in a while he’d actually touch someone. A handshake here, an accidental bump there. Occasionally Yumi hugged him, which always felt good. Jacobus spent extra time reminiscing upon Yumi’s English grandmother, Kate Padgett. Though he had only met her in person once and hadn’t ‘seen’ her for years, theirs had been as close to a serious relationship as Jacobus had ever had with a woman, but … He wasn’t going to think about that.

  He also never cared too much about whether it was day or night unless he had an appointment somewhere. If there was something he needed to do, he did it. If he was tired, which lately was more often than not, he would sleep. He had the luxury of spending hours on end to think without the distractions of visual images dancing in front of him.

  In addition to the tape of Schlossberg’s music, Jacobus had checked out Don Giovanni from the library. For him it was not only Mozart’s greatest opera; he considered it one of the great operas, period. Plus, the subject – Don Giovanni’s rape of Donna Anna and his ultimate descent into hell – seemed apropos at the moment. It helped him think. At the beginning of the opera, Donna Anna’s father, the Commendatore, is slain by Giovanni as he is trying to defend his daughter’s honor. At the end of the opera, he returns as a ghostly statue, daring Giovanni to take his hand. Giovanni, fearless in his arrogance, is too proud to refuse, but as soon as their hands make contact, Giovanni feels the icy hand of death. He sings: ‘Who lacerates my soul? Who torments my body? What torment, oh me, what agony! What a hell! What a terror!’

  The chorus of demons responds: ‘No horror is too dreadful for you! Come, there is worse in store!’

  Schlossberg, Jacobus thought, with his rich baritone voice, was the obvious Giovanni. Mia Cheng or Audrey Rollins fit the role of Donna Anna, one of Giovanni’s many ‘conquests.’ But who was the Commendatore in this plot? Jacobus asked himself. And though Schlossberg got what he deserved, were the killer’s intentions noble, as were the Commendatore’s? Or, more likely, were they the usual: jealousy, greed, ambition, or power?

  The phone rang. It was Yumi. She asked Jacobus how he was doing. He said he was fine. Yumi said she was going to try to come up to the conservatory to hear Mia perform the Vivaldi on Friday night. She didn’t mention anything about Lisette Broder. It sounded like she hadn’t heard the news of her death. Should he tell her? He decided not to for the moment. She said maybe she could drive him back to New York after the concert because Saturday morning she had her first judo lesson.

  ‘Judo?’ Jacobus asked. ‘Isn’t that what matzohs are made of?’

  It took her a moment to get the joke.

  ‘Matzohs are just like your humor,’ she replied.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Dry and tasteless.’

  Jacobus laughed. ‘Pretty soon your jokes will be as bad as mine.’

  ‘As I always say,’ she answered, ‘I’ve learned from the worst.’

  ‘Seriously,’ Jacobus said. ‘Why judo? Aren’t you worried about your hands?’

  Yumi explained that unlike many other martial arts, judo didn’t require hitting or breaking things. It was like wrestling, but based more upon balance and quickness than size and strength, and was a great way to stay in shape. If anything, it would be beneficial to her violin playing.

  ‘But why? Aren’t there other ways to stay in shape?’

  ‘If you really want to know, it’s because of what happened to Mia and Audrey. There are too many Schlossbergs in this world for my taste, and if anyone touches me against my will, I want to be able to break his arm.’

  Jacobus thought about that for a minute.

  ‘If you learn judo like you learned the violin,’ he said, ‘I pity the pervert who touches you.’

  Yumi laughed and said she had to go to a rehearsal. She repeated that she would try to make it on Friday.

  ‘Yumi,’ Jacobus started, then stopped.

  ‘Yes, Jake?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ll see you Friday.’

  Sometime later, a knock on the door made Jacobus jump. He had fallen asleep. A second knock. Tentative. He had hoped it was Anderson, but it didn’t sound like it.

  ‘Mr Jacobus?’ came the voice through the door. Mia Cheng’s voice.

  ‘Door’s unlocked,’ he called.

  ‘I hope I’m not bothering you,’ she replied.

  ‘Of course not. Sit down. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I’m thinking of quitting the violin,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You do?’ She sounded incredulous. ‘How could you know?’

  ‘I’ve known why ever since the first time I heard you play, though I wasn’t sure what it meant at the time. Let me g
uess. You’re thinking of quitting because you hate to play the violin. I’d go so far as to say you’ve always hated it. Because your parents forced you into it. Because you associate it with everything painful in your life. You rebel against the notion that just because you do something well – which, I have to say, you do very, very well – it means you must do it, and for all these years you’ve felt too guilty to admit to yourself that this is something you don’t want to do. You’ve been the white sheep in the family but haven’t realized it until now.’

  ‘That’s exactly how I feel! How did you know?’

  ‘Because, honey, you’re not the first one or the last to feel this way. It’s all too common. But I must say with what you’ve gone through, I’m amazed that you’ve stuck it out as long as you have. You’ve got a long life ahead of you, and as much as some musicians may proclaim it, music is not necessarily the be-all and end-all. You’ve got a head on your shoulders and you’ll find what you want in life sooner or later. Probably sooner. Feel better?’

  Mia began crying. Jacobus hadn’t intended that response but, since he was no good at comforting people, he just let her cry. Suddenly he felt her arms around him. She was hugging him, which made him even more uncomfortable. As he sat there, his arms at his sides, she thanked him profusely between sobs for being the first person in her life to understand. It was getting too personal for him.

  ‘Have you told anyone yet?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Not even Ms Shinagawa. She’ll kill me when she finds out.’

  Jacobus thought about Yumi and her new hobby.

  ‘No. I don’t think she’ll kill you.’ Someone else, maybe. ‘What about Friday?’ he asked. ‘You going to play?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t decide. Should I?’

  ‘Up to you, sweetheart. You don’t want to let the rest of the orchestra down.’