Spring Break

by Gerald Elias

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  Jacobus had an idea.

  ‘On the other hand, if you could get someone to replace you …’

  ‘I wish. But who?’

  ‘How about Audrey? She’s not as good as you, but she loves music.’

  ‘But, she’s out of the program. She’s disappeared!’

  ‘Maybe not.’ Jacobus explained how Mia could contact Audrey and left it to her to make the decision.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Thursday, April 9

  Jacobus answered the phone.

  ‘It’s me, Chase. I’ve got the package. I can be there in about a half hour.’

  ‘Today Thursday?’ Jacobus asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘About ten. In the morning.’

  ‘Good. Bring the package.’

  It was going to be a long day. He quickly washed and dressed and organized himself, placing the tape recordings of his thoughts, some money, and an empty plastic hotel room laundry bag on the desk. He carefully placed the trash can next to the desk chair. He had barely sat down when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in. It’s unlocked.’

  Chase Anderson fumbled at the door. He was clearly excited by his undercover activities.

  ‘Hand me the bag,’ Jacobus said.

  Jacobus was pleased that the paper bag was stapled shut, as he had instructed Lucien. He tore open the top of the bag and withdrew the requested item from it.

  ‘You know what this is?’ he asked, holding it up.

  ‘A mushroom.’

  ‘Not any mushroom. A Gyromitra esculenta! A false morel! Here, take a close look.’ He handed the mushroom to Chase and dropped the discarded bag into the waste paper basket next to him.

  ‘No shit! This is the kind—’ Chase said.

  ‘That killed Aaron Schlossberg. Make sure you wash your hands before eating anything. Chase, I have a very important assignment for you. I want you to take this mushroom to Dr Dahl, the medical examiner at the Cooney Medical Center, and tell him to test it against the lab results that he should be getting any day. We need to corroborate how Schlossberg really died. Do you think you can handle that?’

  ‘For sure. Can I put it back in the bag?’

  ‘Take this plastic one,’ Jacobus said, handing the laundry bag to Chase. ‘It will keep the mushroom more sterile. No false positives or shit like that. I’ve got one other assignment for you that’s equally important. I want you to take the cassettes and the money on the desk here. Mail the cassettes special delivery to Martin Lilburn, care of the New York Times. Use the money for the postage. I don’t have the exact address. Can I trust you to get it for me?’

  ‘No problem, Mr Jacobus. I’ll get the address and an envelope and send it out right away.’

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘Is that all? I mean, is there anything else I can do?’

  ‘Actually, there is. I’ve got an appointment this evening. Can you drive me somewhere? Somewhere not far?’

  ‘I’ve got a class until six. I can cut if—’

  ‘No, no. That’ll be fine. Pick me up when you can.’

  As soon as Jacobus heard the door close behind Chase, he reached into the trash can and retrieved the paper bag he had discarded. And then he waited.

  The only question left was how merciful he should be. If he had been in Audrey’s position, or Mia’s, or probably any number of unnamed victims, he would have killed Schlossberg without any compunction whatsoever and not lost a minute’s sleep. He would have slept better, in fact, knowing he had eliminated the worst kind of scum. The kind who, so enamored of their own greatness, feel entitled to prey upon the vulnerable, who only want to please.

  A poor black man robs a convenience store and gets twenty years in jail, but a famous white professor who robs young women of their optimism, their self-worth, and their future gets what? A reprimand? No, not even that. A free pass. Jacobus would give him a castration.

  If the system provided justice, Jacobus would have counseled patience. But the system only provided protection for the abuser and victimized the abused.

  But wasn’t the young woman partly responsible? they would ask. Might she not have been at least partly complicit in their relationship? Didn’t she accept favors willingly? Might the professor have misunderstood her intentions? We’re just trying to understand. We must be fair. We’re just trying to get to the bottom of this.

  ‘The bottom of this’ is power. The power of the professor over the student; the man over the woman; the dollar over morality. That’s why he had hoped it had been Audrey and Lucien who killed Schlossberg. That would have been justice. ‘The death of the great composer Aaron Schlossberg is a tragic loss to the world.’ Fuck him and fuck the world.

  Jacobus heard a crash. He shook his head as if waking himself. He had overturned the desk. How had he done that? He was panting. He dropped to his hands and knees and desperately searched for the discarded paper bag among the broken desk lamp, which had become unplugged; the phone, whose complaining dial tone accused him of mistreatment; the dented trash can, which had been knocked over; the Gideon Bible, telephone book, hotel guide, and other miscellaneous disgorged contents of the desk drawer; and his indispensable cassette recorder. At last he found the bag underneath the desk blotter. He tried to set the desk aright but no longer had the strength.

  He went into the bathroom and let the cold tap run over his head. He sat back down on the side of the bed and considered the source of his rage. It was justified, yes. But the intensity. Where had that come from? He knew the answer, though for his whole adult life he had tried to deny it, and rarely acknowledged it, even to himself.

  ‘It’ was his own victimization by a sexual predator when he was a little boy, a participant in the Grimsley Violin Competition. ‘It’ was when one of the judges, the renowned pedagogue, Fyodor Malinkovsky, offered him a great future in return for … favors. He had escaped the worst humiliation when he gagged and vomited on Malinkovsky’s legs. Of course, that sealed his fate regarding the competition, but not winning was not the wound that had never healed. ‘It’ never would.

  So Jacobus had a dilemma. Schlossberg’s killer had done the world a favor, in his view. But what if the reason for killing him was not to rid the world of a serial rapist but rather to replace one form of evil with another? That would not do. In that case, justice – if there were such a thing – would have to take its course. Jacobus would present the options. Where it would go from there was anyone’s guess.

  Jacobus waited for Anderson in the lobby so that he wouldn’t see the devastation in his room. He wore his jacket though it was still warm.

  ‘I’ve been invited to Sybil Baker-Hulme’s house for dinner,’ he told Anderson, when he arrived.

  The bumps, the crunch of tires against crushed stone, and the discomfort of worn-out suspension reminded Jacobus of driving in Nathaniel’s VW Rabbit over the dirt driveway that led to his house that was no longer there. Even the evening spring air, with the car window rolled down, had a similar, inviting freshness. But it wasn’t exactly the same. And it wasn’t Nathaniel in his Rabbit, Jacobus reminded himself. It was Chase Anderson driving his Gremlin along Sylvan Hollow Road.

  The house he had lived in all those years – and which had stood for a hundred more before he had first set foot in it – now existed only in the memory of a blind man. What good was that? And when he was gone, what then? Who would remember the house? Who would remember him? In short shrift, neither would ever have existed. Maybe the scribes who wrote down all the begats in the Old Testament weren’t totally worthless after all. Biblical Connie Jeans.

  ‘Stay here,’ Jacobus said, getting out of the car. ‘Wait until she opens the door. Then take off.’

  Jacobus began to walk toward the house. He stumbled when he stepped on an uneven slab of flagstone.

  ‘You need help?’ Anderson called.

  ‘More than you can imagine
. But stay in the car anyway.’

  ‘When do you want me to pick you up?’

  ‘I’ll call you if I need you. You’re a good kid.’

  Jacobus resumed his approach and found his way to the front door. Having no idea where the doorbell was, he knocked hard. It was a big house, so when he heard footsteps coming from inside he breathed a sigh of relief. He felt the pocket inside his jacket yet again.

  ‘Mr Jacobus!’ Sybil Baker-Hulme said, more annoyed than surprised. ‘What brings you here this time? I’ve had more than enough of you.’

  Jacobus turned back to Chase Anderson, smiled, and waved. Anderson drove off.

  ‘I heard you were distraught over Lisette Broder’s death. I just wanted to come and commiserate.’

  ‘I’m in no need of commiseration, Mr Jacobus. Especially from you.’

  ‘Yes, I know how you must feel. But there’s something I’d like to ask you to help me with and, as you see, my ride is gone. Can you believe he just drove off like that? Young people these days! You wouldn’t want me to walk home, would you? At night. It is night, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very well. If you must. Come in. You can call yourself a cab on your way out.’

  He followed Sybil Baker-Hulme’s footsteps into the library, though by now he could have found it on his own.

  She offered him a drink with a voice cold enough to have chilled it. He was happy to accept a Scotch, no ice, which she placed on a small table next to the easy chair he sat in. Yes, a Scotch would be just right.

  ‘Now, what is it you say you need my help with?’

  ‘Just this. The score to Anwar and Yitzhak was not with your husband when he died. And the harpsichord part to Vivaldi’s “Spring” wasn’t with Lisette Broder when she died.’

  Sybil laughed, but Jacobus noted its forced cadence. It spoke volumes. How ridiculous, it said, but how true.

  ‘And is that supposed to mean something?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s how I hope you can help me, because no matter how I go round and round with it, I always comes back to one conclusion.’

  ‘And what conclusion is that?’

  Jacobus held the glass of Scotch in both hands. With the fingertips of his left hand he tapped out the beginning notes of ‘Spring’ against the glass. Such joyful music.

  ‘Come! Come! Out with it!’ Sybil demanded. ‘I don’t have all night to dawdle.’

  ‘I’m not sure how to say this in a subtle way. But what it means,’ Jacobus said, almost reluctantly, ‘is that you killed them both.’

  Sybil laughed again, this time an augmented fourth higher. The devil’s interval. Any Baroque specialist would realize that, Jacobus thought. How ironic.

  ‘Surely—’

  ‘Sorry. That wasn’t fair of me to just drop that on you like that,’ Jacobus said. ‘Let me tell you a story. I’ll start from the beginning. Maybe it’ll sound familiar. And cut out the fake laugh. It’s getting on my nerves.’

  ‘I don’t need to listen to this.’

  ‘Oh, but you do! By the time I finish, you’ll appreciate why.

  ‘The story starts like this: Many years ago, a comely English lass – let’s call her Sybil – is smitten with a budding, smooth-tongued American composer – let’s call him Aaron. Aaron has no difficulty reciprocating her smittenness. It’s his nature. The old story: boy meets girl, boy screws girl. They fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after.

  ‘Except for one thing. When Aaron brings fair Sybil back home to New York, Sybil finds out there’s been another woman in Aaron’s life. Let’s call her Lisette. Aaron says not to worry. She’s yesterday’s newspaper. So with hardly a blip, Aaron and Sybil return to their fairy tale existence, and Lisette finds cold comfort in being everyone’s second string.

  ‘Years pass. They’re the perfect couple. Sybil and Aaron become celebrities in their fields. They’re highly sought-after both for their expertise and their personalities. And why not? They’re both brilliant and attractive and have eminently persuasive voices in their own way. The lifetime faculty positions they accept from a renowned conservatory – let’s call it the Kinderhoek Conservatory – are a dream come true. The sky’s the limit. They’re irresistibly bon vivant.

  ‘The only problem, as Sybil soon finds out, is that even as Aaron gets older – a little gray around the edges, a couple more inches on the love handles – the women he’s attracted to do not. In fact, they’re students. Students at the conservatory. And it’s more than a gleam in his eye or a charming penchant for pinching. It’s what the older generation used to call philandering.

  ‘Rumors about Aaron’s proclivities spread among the conservatory community. What does Sybil do? She sees the danger. She doesn’t want to see her whole wonderful ball of wax melt before her very eyes as the result of her husband’s sophomoric behavior. What’s more important to her, she asks herself? Her career and her celebrity, or her marriage?

  ‘Sybil weighs the pluses and minuses. Maybe that’s just the way men are, she thinks. Like the French. They all have lovers, don’t they? It’s Aaron being Aaron. It’s in his DNA. And where’s the harm? No one has complained, as far as she knows. So Sybil decides to tolerate, to forebear, knowing that her husband is having affairs with virtually any young piece of ass he can lay his hands on.

  ‘A new character enters the story. Let’s call him Bronislaw. Bronislaw is hired to conduct the conservatory chamber orchestra. Bronislaw is Polish without polish. His lack of musical style is anathema to everything Sybil has learned from her years of exhaustive research, and his boorish personality is repugnant to her, though for some reason the students give him positive evaluations. Aaron, strangely, also seems to have been won over by Bronislaw, and supports him in his effort to secure tenure. If not for Aaron, in fact, Bronislaw would be toast.

  ‘Sybil simply can’t fathom this. She can understand gullible students being impressed by a cretin, but Aaron? Warts aside, Aaron is a brilliant man whose musical standards were always light years ahead of anything Bronislaw would ever come close to achieving. Sybil remains in the dark, frustrated and angry.

  ‘That is, until one day, by accident, Sybil finds Aaron in an amorous embrace with a student in a practice room. Let’s call the student Audrey. Audrey plays the violin, and though she’s pretty good, she’s no prodigy. In a rage, Sybil says a lot of nasty things to Audrey, accusing her of seducing not only her husband but also Bronislaw as well, which Sybil has concluded must be the case because Audrey is sitting concertmaster of the chamber orchestra and doesn’t deserve to be there.

  ‘Audrey tries to defend herself, says it was Aaron who was the instigator and that it was Aaron who had asked Bronislaw to place her as concertmaster. And how could Bronislaw refuse, with his tenure in the balance? Audrey says that she, like all the other students, hated Bronislaw. That it was absurd for Sybil to even think she would sell her body to him simply for a month of sitting first chair in a student chamber orchestra. No one would do that.

  ‘Even in her high pique, Sybil begins to figure out that something is going on that’s not kosher. She becomes suspicious of those glowing evaluations Bronislaw brags so much about. She quietly speaks to other students, who all confirm what Audrey said. At least she was telling the truth in that regard. Everyone hates Bronislaw but the evaluations say otherwise. There can be only one answer to this riddle. And so Sybil confronts Bronislaw and, accusing him of somehow doctoring the student evaluations, threatens to report him to the administration, because in her mind he isn’t even fit to replace Sam Consiglio as janitor.

  ‘But Bronislaw is not the type to be easily intimidated. He says, “You might want to talk to hubby before blabbing to Hedge.”

  ‘And so Sybil does. And Aaron confesses that, yes, there had been some reports filed about him – nonsense of course, he says – about sexual harassment. Girls just trying to cover their asses. Whoops! Wrong use of vocabulary. But nevertheless, there are those reports, and Bronislaw somehow discovered their c
ontents. How? Aaron has no idea. But there you have it, and unless Aaron supports Bronislaw for tenure, Bronislaw will blow it all up for them. There you go. Whole truth. According to Aaron.

  ‘So it isn’t the raping of his students that weighs on Aaron. It’s those pesky reports. He would not like them going public. Definitely not. Nor would Sybil, who thought she was on the cusp of solving one problem only to find she now has another even bigger one: She has a husband who is a serial rapist being blackmailed by an incompetent she loathes. What to do?

  ‘She could confront hubby head on. File for divorce. Turn him in. But she doesn’t do either. She could expose Bronislaw for his blackmail, but if he calls her bluff and blows the whistle it will be the end of Aaron. At best, he’ll be disgraced, his career down the tubes. At worst he’ll end up in prison for a very long time. As a loyal spouse, Sybil would likely take some deep hits, maybe even lose her job and her stellar reputation. That part doesn’t sit well with her. Not at all.

  ‘But on the other hand, if Sybil does nothing, remaining mum with the knowledge of her husband’s criminal behavior, Bronislaw might well get his tenure, and what’s to say he wouldn’t continue to hold the damning information over the couple’s heads forever? Their lives would be hell.

  ‘And that’s when Sybil has the aha! moment: She’ll kill hubby and, for all appearances, make it look like he died of natural causes! The poor man’s diabetes did him in. He should have taken better care of himself. It was a stroke of genius! Dispensing with the rapist husband and getting the blackmailing colleague off her back in one fell swoop. Men! You can’t live with ’em, but you sure can live without ’em. I’m paraphrasing Aaron here.

  ‘But how and when to do it? That’s the challenge. The devil in the details. Sybil comes up with a plan. At Aaron’s famous spring equinox soiree, she’ll mix in a little false morel, Gyromitra esculenta – I love saying that – into one of his artful recipes. She learns how to dabble in the dark arts of the wonderful world of poison mushrooms from Wild Living, one of hubby’s own books on foraging, sitting right there on her library shelf. Ironic, isn’t it? With his diabetes, she knows there’s a good chance it’ll kill him. Even if the medical examiner determines it was not his diabetes but mushroom poisoning that killed him, any reasonable person would chalk it up to a terrible, terrible mistake. Darn those false morels. The evil twin to the tasty, safe ones. Poor Aaron! Poor widow Sybil!