Pizzicato: The Abduction of the Magic Violin

by Rusalka Reh

  “Just my little joke,” he says hastily and coughs into his fist. “Forgive me. And just close your eyes again. Good, that’s it.”

  When both of them have closed their eyes again, Mrs. Needham, with a furious grimace, taps her forehead as if to ask, Have you gone crazy? He takes no notice, but places Pizzicato on his lap, as he has seen Darius do, and begins to pluck the strings. He puts an extremely self-important expression on his face, even though his patients can’t see it. Ulrich Needham is nothing if not an actor. If you’re going to play the role, he says to himself, then play it properly. He raises his eyebrows and flares his nostrils, because that’s how he imagines a true musician would look when he played.

  The sounds that he produces from the violin are nothing like those that Darius makes, but are harsher and more abrupt—he can hear that for himself—but he figures that won’t matter.

  “Okay,” he says at last, then stops plucking and plunks Pizzicato down against his desk. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s have those little eyes open again, shall we? The…uh…performance is over! So now let’s have a look, eh?” He stands up and tears the bandage off the young man’s cheek.

  “Ouch!” screams the man and puts his hand up to his cheek.

  “Let me see!” snaps Ulrich and pushes the young man’s hand to one side. “Hm,” he says then and pushes his slipping spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose. “Hm. Well, yes, that does look a lot, lot better! And by the time you get home, it will be completely healed. Take my word for it.” Hastily he sticks the bandage back on.

  “What about you?” he asks, grabbing the elderly woman under the armpits and roughly pulling her out of her chair. “Now just take a few steps, madam. Come on, come on. Don’t pretend you’re too tired!” He lets go of her and gives her a little shove.

  She takes a wobbly step forward, staggers on the spot, and collapses with a dull thud onto the linoleum-covered floor.

  “Oh my God, Bunny…um…I mean, oh my God!” cries Mrs. Needham, aghast, and she helps the groaning patient back on her feet, then quickly thrusts the crutch under her arm.

  “Yes, well,” says Ulrich in a firm voice, “as I said, the cure will be completed very rapidly before you even get home. Now, if you’d be so kind, there are about a hundred and fifty more patients waiting outside to see my mother and me, so have a nice day!”

  Impatiently he ushers the bewildered woman and the baffled man out of the office and slams the door behind them.

  “What does it mean, Mother?” he moans. “Why didn’t it work?”

  He stamps his foot. His mother puts her arm around his waist.

  “But Bunny, darling! No virtuoso ever fell from heaven! First you’ve got to get used to playing the violin. You’ll soon get the hang of it.” She pinches his cheek. “After all, that gash already looked a lot better. And the woman did take one step without her crutch! Isn’t that a success? And if it comes to the worst, we’ve still got the boy!” she says, pointing downwards.

  “Hey!” cries Darius and kicks the wall of the cellar in which he’s been locked for the last two days and nights. He knows that no one can hear him, no matter how loud he shouts or how hard he hammers the massive metal door, which is so thickly and softly padded inside that any blow will be swallowed up as if by a cushion of feathers. Not even the slightest sound can escape.

  Angrily he kicks the padded door again and then throws himself down on the mattress on the damp gray-green concrete of the floor.

  He hasn’t touched the bottle of water and the bar of chocolate that Mrs. Needham, with her twisted smile, put out for him sometime this morning. His head is swirling. How can I get out of here? This must be the hundredth time he’s asked himself that question and looked around for a way out.

  There’s no window in the cellar. It’s dimly lit by a light-bulb hanging from the ceiling, which curves up into a kind of vault at the top. Close to Darius’s mattress is a crumpled, dried-up spider in a torn web. Black plastic pipes with white splotches of paint run like snakes along the masonry walls. Darius breathes in the sickly dampness of the air. Piled up in one of the arches are a wooden sled, an old paint bucket with a solidified brush, and a vacuum cleaner. A toilet and a washbasin are behind a plywood door. Beside the main door hangs a fire extinguisher. He has scanned these things so often with his eyes that he could draw them blindfolded. This place is ten times worse than the garden shed. Not even Queenie can get him out of here.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Lovely Old Jacket

  “So you fainted?” says Mrs. Needham, looking dubiously at her son. “Could it be that you simply wanted to cut in line?” she asks and brusquely motions to Mey-Mey to sit down on the chair in front of the chrome-and-glass desk.

  Mey-Mey obeys. They’re not exactly friendly people, she thinks to herself. But the main thing is that they’ll see me now, and then I can go straight home. She looks around, taking it all in.

  Every inch of the mint-green painted walls is covered with newspaper cuttings, proclaiming the “wonder doctor.” Climbing up around the window frame is some shining plastic ivy. On the desk are a travel brochure and a fur coat catalog, which Ulrich Needham hurriedly stuffs into a drawer when he realizes that Mey-Mey is looking at it. On the other side of the room is a white curtain that has been partially opened. Behind it is a mat, and on the mat, carelessly discarded, lies—

  Ulrich bangs his fist on the top of his desk. “Okay,” he says in harsh tone, “let me tell you that we have no time for little actresses here.”

  At the moment when she is about to raise her stiff finger and speak, Mey-Mey’s eyes again fall on the mat behind the curtain. She pauses in confusion. What’s lying there—no doubt about it—is Darius’s lovely old jacket! So could it be that he’s here as well? Not knowing what to do, she stands up. Maybe he’s in the waiting room!

  Her thoughts are rudely interrupted.

  Mrs. Needham has seen the girl’s face as she spotted the boy’s jacket, which stupidly, has not yet been cleared away. And she’s noticed something else too: the brown spot on Mey-Mey’s neck, which is only to be seen on violin and viola players who play regularly.

  Coldly she says to her son, “This girl is not ill. But she knows more than is good for you and me, you can bet your life on it.” With a pad of cotton in her hand, she goes up to Mey-Mey—who is taken completely by surprise—and presses it over her face. “Now you can really faint away, you little beast!” she whispers.

  In no time, Mey-Mey’s senses are deadened, and she falls into a deep sleep.

  “Quick, let’s get her into the cellar!” whispers Ulrich. Two minutes later, the patients in the waiting room are surprised to see that, in spite of all their huge workload of healing, the wonder doctor and his mother still have time to hurry past them, smiling sweetly and carrying a giant cardboard box for a television set.

  Five minutes later, Darius is surprised when the partners in crime fling open the padded door and dump a large cardboard box on the floor. When the door slams shut again, once again the cellar is left to its musty silence. Except that there is now a soft breathing sound, and it’s not coming from him.

  “Mey-Mey!”

  Darius looks into the box with amazement and opens it with a rip. Gently he lifts his friend out, carries her to the mattress, and carefully lays her down.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Shyly he touches her cheeks. But her eyes remain closed. Darius picks up the bottle of water and holds it to her lips. The water runs down her chin. He quickly wipes it dry with the sleeve of his sweater.

  They’ve drugged Mey-Mey too, he thinks. But why? What has she got to do with all this? He lays her head in his lap and sits motionless looking at her. This is not where I’d hoped to see you again, he says to himself. We’d both have been a lot happier at the musical evening with Schubert. Softly he strokes her smooth black hair.

  Then suddenly Mey-Mey’s eyes open, and she’s looking straight at him.

 
“Darius!” she murmurs. “Where are we? What are you doing here?”

  Darius is really happy that Mey-Mey is able to talk now. “We’re in a cellar,” he answers. “Unfortunately.”

  Once again he supports her head and holds the bottle to her lips. This time she drinks.

  “Thank you.” She lays her head back in his lap. With a sigh she closes her eyes again. “We’ll find a way out,” she says, and her voice is firm and clear despite her drowsiness.

  Darius tenderly strokes her hair again and then her cheeks. “Yes, we’ll find a way out,” he says. “Definitely.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Queenie Wakes Up

  “You’r making a viola da gamba, Mr. Archinola? Oh, that’s exquisite!” Alice’s mother is standing in Mr. Archinola’s workshop and admiringly clasps her hands in front of her mouth. She bends, as if in prayer, over the wooden interior of the viola, to which the carved neck with its elegant scroll and ribs has already been attached. “All my life I’ve loved gamba music,” she enthuses. “That dark, elegiac twilight tone—it’s so solemn and always sounds as if it’s harboring some strange secret.”

  Alice is surprised that her eighty-two-year-old mother is able to discuss the qualities of a viola da gamba with a master violin-maker. And that she can do so after they’d touched down only a few hours ago! Archie had called her, sounding very excited, and had begged her to come back as quickly as possible with her mother. He’d told her some garbled story about a wonder doctor. And that he’d missed her. And that the boy had left. So Alice had booked the next available flight, and now she was here with her mother.

  “Shouldn’t we be thinking about our appointment with this wonder doctor?” she asks, stepping between her mother and her friend.

  Absentmindedly Mr. Archinola glances at his watch. “We should indeed!” he exclaims. “We’re already late!”

  And the three of them hurry out of the house.

  Soon afterward, they’re sitting in the overcrowded waiting room of the villa on Angel Street. The telephone at the reception desk never stops ringing.

  “Dr. Needham’s office, Angelica speaking, how can I help you?” warbles the receptionist like a singing doll.

  If the patients were a little more observant, they would realize that her voice has gotten quieter during the last few calls, and finally she has turned her back on them and lowered her head.

  “What?” she whispers, clearly dumbfounded. “You’ve got what? All of a sudden your leg is paralyzed, though Dr. Needham treated you for hives? Uh-huh. Yes, I’ll tell him.”

  Trembling, she puts the receiver down, but before she can go in and inform her employer about his patient’s new problem, the phone rings again.

  “Your husband has a temperature of a hundred and five degrees and a rash all over his body after coming to us with a paralyzed leg—yes, I understand, I’ve got it.” She is close to tears. “At least has his paralyzed leg been cured?” she ventures to ask, her voice now hoarse. “Oh, it hasn’t. Now both legs are paralyzed. Of course I can understand that you’re upset. I can understand completely. I’ll inform the doctor as soon as I have a second…Hello? Hellooo?”

  The caller has hung up.

  Angelica, the receptionist, sinks back on her chair. Is something wrong with the doctor? she wonders anxiously. All day long it’s been one disaster after another! Everybody seems to have been worse off after the treatment than before! No, not just “seems”—they really have! When the telephone rings again, she picks it up and immediately puts it down again. Then she stares in embarrassment out into empty space.

  The waiting room door swings open. “I want to sit at the front!” pipes the squeaky voice of a little girl.

  And a man’s deep voice answers, “But someone’s already sitting there, as you can see. So please just stay with me.”

  Mr. Archinola turns around. Then he gets up and bows to the astonished carer. “Good afternoon,” he says courteously. And he shakes Queenie’s tiny hand. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  Queenie nods. “Have you still got my daffodils?” she asks.

  “I’m afraid they faded away,” says Mr. Archinola, in a tone of deep regret.

  Ben perches on a window ledge, as there are no vacant chairs in the waiting room. Queenie takes her much-too-large pink backpack off her back and leans against the long legs of the giant, who puts his hands on her shoulders.

  “What a nice coincidence, seeing you here, Mr. Archinola,” says Ben, smiling. “I’ve come here because of our Queenie—she hasn’t grown an inch for three years,” he explains, stroking Queenie’s hair. “This doctor’s supposed to possess magic powers. But what I’d really like to know is, how’s our Darius getting on with you? Is he giving you a lot of trouble?”

  The friendly expression on Mr. Archinola’s face suddenly freezes over. At the same time, he raises his eyebrows and his ears. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it, gasps for air, and then shuts it again.

  Queenie gives him a curious look. “What’s the matter with the violin man?” she asks, tugging at Ben’s fingers till the knuckles crack. “He looks like a fish.”

  Ben also wants to know. “Is something wrong?”

  Mr. Archinola tries to pull himself together. “The boy…isn’t he…” he stammers, and gesticulates wildly with his hands, “…isn’t he with you in the children’s home?”

  Ben looks at him in alarm. “No. Darius is supposed to be with you!” Then after a moment’s silence, he says softly, “Oh my God!”

  “You’re all looking as if you’ve just seen Beelzebub!” laughs Alice’s mother, coming over to join them. But when she sees Mr. Archinola’s stony face, she turns deadly serious. A few of the bored patients prick up their ears.

  “Let’s go outside,” whispers Ben. “I think there are more important things than a visit to the wonder doctor!”

  Scarcely have they gone outside when they hear the trembling voice of the receptionist. “We’re closing for today!” she calls out. “The doctor and his esteemed mother are exhausted, and they’re urgently in need of a break from their miracles. We ask you for your understanding, and please come back tomorrow.”

  A flood of furious patients comes out of the front door, while the people in the line start protesting.

  “So you got this phone call on Friday and haven’t heard anything from Darry since then?” Ben asks Mr. Archinola.

  The four of them are standing in a circle near the steps leading to the villa.

  “That’s right,” says Mr. Archinola, still sounding horrified. “I spoke to him in person! Otherwise, I wouldn’t have believed any of it.”

  Alice wraps her knitted jacket more tightly around her and puts her hand on his arm. “I think we should go to the police right away instead of wasting more time.”

  “You’re right,” says the disconsolate Mr. Archinola. “I just hope Darius is all right,” he adds in a quiet voice. “I feel so guilty now!”

  “Have you seen Queenie anywhere?” Ben is turning to look in all directions.

  “I think she popped back into the doctor’s a few minutes ago,” says Alice’s mother.

  “Just wait, and I’ll go and get her,” says Ben and disappears into the villa.

  Scarcely two minutes have gone by when the front door opens again, and he comes out, leading Queenie by the hand. With her large pink backpack, she looks as if she’s just come back from hiking.

  “Just imagine, she was exploring the examination room!” says Ben. “Fortunately, there was no one in there.”

  He ruffles Queenie’s hair, and she grins. “And now let’s get to the nearest police station as fast as we can. We’ll take my car.”

  During the drive, they discuss every detail of the case and decide that once they’ve talked to the police, they’ll also search for Darius themselves.

  “It could be a long night,” remarks Ben.

  Alice’s mother is snoring softly in the backseat, with her mouth open. Next to her sits
Queenie. She has both her arms around her backpack, as if it is a teddy bear.

  Alice looks anxiously out of the window. I only hope nothing has happened to the boy, she thinks.

  For hours Queenie had helped in the search for Darius. But with no success. Now she’s tossing and turning in bed. She mumbles softly, as if she were talking to someone.

  When she wakes up, the day is dawning. Suddenly she remembers something very important. Something she noticed yesterday in the office of that weird wonder doctor, but then forgot again.

  She slides out of bed quietly, so as not to disturb Jessica, and scurries down the cold staircase to the carer’s bedroom. It’s Ben who is on night duty. Without knocking, she slips through the door and creeps up to the narrow wooden bed.

  Ben’s long hair is spread out over the pillow like fine, wavy lines in the sand. Queenie thinks he looks like a sleeping angel—or maybe a dead angel. Anyway, he looks rather handsome.

  “Hey!” she whispers and shakes his angelic shoulders. “Heeey!” she then shouts, because although he grunts, he doesn’t seem to want to wake up.

  “Eh…what? What’s the matter?” Ben sits up as straight as a candle.

  Queenie switches on the bedside lamp, and Ben blinks. “I know where Darry is,” she says cheerfully. “I saw his totally favorite old jacket.”

  Ben grabs hold of her hand. Now he, too, is wide awake. “Where?” he asks.

  Queenie holds a hand over his ear and whispers something.

  “I’ll just get my clothes on,” he cries, “and off we’ll go. And we’ll tell Mr. Archinola right away!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ready to Fire

  Mey-Mey puts a piece of chocolate in her mouth. “Ugh, ugh, I shall never eat Snickers again once we’re out of here,” she groans and stands up. “Eventually someone’s bound to come looking for us.” She drums her fingers impatiently on the fire extinguisher next to the door.