Death and the Maiden
Page 19
On his way out, Ivan Lensky said to Jacobus, “I hear you meet baby brother Peter.”
“An interesting character.”
Lensky laughed and Jacobus cringed in anticipation of the pounding on his back. Lensky thankfully refrained.
“Yes. Peter. He sing, then he ablute, then he sing again and ablute. Always same. Right?”
“Stress relief?”
“No. Smell relief. Peter is like silent fart. You didn’t notice?”
“Maybe he’d just abluted when I got there. And I have a cold.”
“Lucky you. See you tonight. Then we drink.”
“Budyem.”
“Ha!” said Lensky, but his voice was already farther away.
As the rest of the group dispersed, Jacobus heard another voice emerge to address him.
“Enjoy the show,” said Malachi.
“Yeah. Well at least you have no reason to suspect Yumi anymore,” Jacobus said to Malachi, as the group dispersed.
“And why is that?”
“There’s a finger in her case too. They’ve each gotten one.”
“So that makes them all innocent? We don’t even know what the crime is yet, so no one’s off the hook. Plus, who else is having something on the side with both Kortovsky and Haagen?”
“Malachi, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, except there’s nothing for her to be ashamed of, and it’s none of your business, or mine, or anyone else’s! And who did you hear that rumor from, anyway?”
“Jacobus, I’m the police here. Not you. But as you may know, musicians can never keep secrets. I’ll be in touch.”
* * *
On the way back to Nathaniel’s apartment, Jacobus, in his raspy, guttural voice, hummed what he could remember of the tune that Peter Lensky had been singing when Jacobus had arrived at his residence in Queens, hoping that Nathaniel could identify it.
“I’m not sure,” said Nathaniel, but I think it could be Louis Armstrong. After a long night.”
“Jealous.”
“But I’ll check it out.”
“Thanks. You do that.”
Nathaniel dropped Jacobus off at the apartment, grabbed his cello, and left to go uptown to teach at the Rose Grimes School in Harlem. Jacobus walked Trotsky who, unused to being cooped up for the day in an apartment, had converted the living room Castro Convertible into a chew toy and was eager for a diverting change of pace.
Jacobus had compiled a mental list of questions for Oro, including whether the limping man had body odor, and dialed the phone.
“Buenas tardes,” said a voice.
“You speak English?”
“Buenas tardes.”
“English? Speak English?”
“¿Qué? ¿Por favor? ¿Repita?”
“Oro? There?”
“Ah, sí! Oro no esta aca. Esta afuera. Afuera. No estoy seguro de cuando regrese. ¿Desea dejarle un mensaje?”
“Oro! Oro! Goddammit!”
“Lo siento, señor. Por favor, llame mas tarde. Gracias. Adiós.”
Jacobus opened his mouth, ready to continue combat, but when the call was disconnected, he decided it wasn’t worth arguing with the dial tone.
TWENTY-TWO
Because of Con Ed construction, the cab had to stop a half block from Carnegie Hall. Jacobus counted out seven single bills—always singles, in order to know how much money he had in his tattered wallet—and, after an extensive exploration of the Plexiglas shield in front of him, found the opening and handed the money to the driver. He got out of the cab and with his cane lodged in the crook of his elbow, covered his ears with his hands, lured by the dulcet tones of the Con Ed jackhammer to the entrance of the hall. By the time he got there, his gray windbreaker—which had been green when he bought it, but what did he care?—was already cold and wet from the dark, heavy drizzle. Jacobus made his way to the box office where he and Nathaniel had agreed to meet. That was his first mistake. From the moment Lilburn’s article about the missing Kortovsky and the missing finger hit the newsstands, business at the box office was brisk, and he was jostled uncomfortably by the “will call” crowd. While he waited, he thought about how concertgoers understood so little of the behind-the-scenes activity required to produce a concert, and how naïve he had been when he was younger in the same regard. He had figured all he had to do was practice his ass off and the rest would take care of itself. They should teach a course in college, he mused, about preparing for auditions, renting concert halls, selling tickets, PR, videochoreography, lawsuits, missing violinists, and errant fingers, and then see how many budding prodigies still wanted to try to be one of the one-tenth of one percent that actually made a career.
“Good evening, Jake,” came a voice he recognized.
“Boris.”
“It should be a wonderful concert tonight, don’t you think?”
“No doubt. If you like a three-ring circus.”
“Yes.” Dedubian laughed. “I know what you mean. And how are you tonight?”
“Boris, I have to tell you. I don’t expect a lot from violin dealers, but I have to say you outdid your profession the other day with Haagen. You were an exceptional prick and now you’re here to hear her play? Don’t see how that all fits together as a successful business model.”
“You know, Jake, I think I got caught up in all the bad publicity the quartet had gotten and had taken sides with Mr. Short. But you’re right, business is business, and maybe after the concert I’ll have a chance to apologize to her.
“In the meantime I’m supposed to meet a pretty, young lady who just got a job with the Philharmonic. I’ve got that Guadagnini with me that you liked so much; she wants to try it out for a few days. You haven’t bumped into her by any chance? She was supposed to be right here.”
“Tell me what she smells like.”
“Jake, you are so funny.”
“Okay then, tell me what she feels like. You’d probably know that.”
“You make me blush, but I think I see her over on the other side.” Jacobus heard Dedubian’s quick footsteps. “If she doesn’t buy the fiddle, I’ll give you a call,” Dedubian said, his voice already at some distance.
“Don’t bother.”
Jacobus heard the crowd begin to funnel through the doors into the auditorium and still no Nathaniel. One thing about professional musicians, when they have to perform they’re always on time (otherwise they’d be fired), but when they’re on the listening end, who knows when they’ll show up. Except Kortovsky, who liked to keep people waiting just for the sheer joyful manipulation of it.
What to do about Yumi? He didn’t hold it against her that she had an affair with Kortovsky. He knew it really was none of his damn business. But because she clandestinely saw Kortovsky right before he disappeared and maybe was killed, and was already in Malachi’s line of sight because of the damn finger, she was getting herself into serious hot water. How she could concentrate tonight was beyond him. He was just glad he was not in her shoes.
“Sorry I’m late, Jake,” said Nathaniel, breaking into his thoughts. “I was coming from uptown and the subway got stuck on Seventy-second and I had to walk the rest of the way.”
“Uptown where? Montreal?”
“The music school. Didn’t even have time to drop my cello off at the apartment.”
“Well, you can sit on it during the concert. Will give you a better view.”
“My, we’re in a bit of a swivet this evening, aren’t we? Would it help that BTower told me to say hello to you for him? He couldn’t come tonight because he has too much paperwork but wanted me to thank you again for turning his life—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Jacobus. “Just tell him to stick to Bach and not bee-bop. I gotta go to the bathroom.”
“There’s only a few minutes. You need a hand?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Never mind. I’ll meet you at our seats.”
Jacobus made his way against traffic and entered the me
n’s room off the lobby. With the concert about to start, he didn’t hear any other patrons as his footsteps echoed in the resonant marbled room. Rather than having to worry about his aim in public, he chose to sit in a stall rather than stand at a urinal. As he was completing his task he heard the men’s room door open—momentarily allowing the flurry of preconcert noise to enter—then close. He got up, remembered to zip up his fly, and was washing his hands when suddenly the tap was turned on full blast, soaking his shirt up to his elbows.
“What the—”
“Ah, Mr. Jacobus,” said a familiar voice. “What a chance coincidence to meet you here. We seem to have wet ourselves a wee bit, I see.”
“You always like to drop in unexpected, Short? Come to pout, have we?”
“‘Pout’ is not the word. ‘Collect’ is more like it.”
“Give them a break. What were they supposed to do? Kortovsky’s still missing.”
“Yes, but they chose Lensky, didn’t they? Well, you may tell them they will regret their choice. And so will you. Good evening to you, Mr. Jacobus. Enjoy the concert.”
Jacobus heard Short’s footsteps echo away, dried himself as best he could, and as quickly as possible made his way to his aisle seat, AA 101 in the Dress Circle, next to Nathaniel.
“Looks like you got yourself all wet, Jake,” said Nathaniel. “I told you you needed help.”
“Fuck you,” said Jacobus and explained his encounter with Short.
“I can see Short from here,” said Nathaniel. “He’s sitting down there on the main floor with Carino. They’re not the only interested parties here, either. Lipinsky and Greunig are there too. One big happy family.”
“Did they bring their vodka?”
Jacobus felt a pair of legs brush by his.
“Evening, Jacobus. Hey! Looks like I’ve got the seat right next to Nathaniel.”
“Malachi!” said Jacobus. “How did you manage that? I thought they were sold out.”
“Easy. I just kept an eye on Nathaniel and kicked out the kid sitting next to him. He’d snuck in anyway—some flea-bitten music student.”
“Shouldn’t you be backstage where the action is?”
“I figure if there’s going to be trouble, you’ll be in the middle of it somehow. Besides, just for your information we’ve got a bird’s-eye view—no offense—so I can keep an eye on all our friends from here.”
Jacobus was about to tell Malachi to also keep an eye out for Kortovsky when Nathaniel interrupted.
“Shh. The lights are going down.” Through a smattering of applause, Nathaniel continued. “Power Ramsey’s coming out. Guess he’s going to tell everyone what a genius he is.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Ramsey, his voice, to Jacobus’s ear, not as haughty as it had been earlier, “welcome to this historic evening in which we celebrate the life and music of Franz Schubert with perhaps his greatest masterpiece, ‘Death and the Maiden.’ We are experiencing a brief delay, but I assure you the performance will begin shortly.” When he continued with, “I would like to acknowledge this evening’s generous sponsors,” Jacobus, aware of the stall tactic, went into daydream mode until he finally heard, “And please turn off all cellular phones. Thank you and enjoy the performance.”
Listening to the impatient New York audience murmur its discontent at being unexpectedly discommoded, like the crowd at Yankee Stadium during a rain delay, Jacobus felt a hand grip his shoulder, not all that gently, either.
“That you again, Short? Going to throw me over the balcony? Think twice. I’ve got protection.”
“No, Mr. Jacobus,” said another familiar voice. “It’s me, Sheila. Sheila Rathman. You’re wanted backstage. Urgently. Lieutenant, Mr. Williams, please come too.”
“Sorry, I can’t leave my cello here,” said Nathaniel.
“Then bring it,” said Rathman with unexpected force.
“What’s up?” asked Jacobus.
“We have a problem.”
“What happened? Kortovsky show up?”
“I wish.”
* * *
Power Ramsey was having a conniption amid the entire assemblage.
Yumi and Annika Haagen found Jacobus.
“Jake, you won’t believe this,” Yumi said. “Ivan and Pravda aren’t here.”
“So they’re late. The subway from Queens got stuck. It’s not unheard of.”
“For Pravda it is,” said Haagen. “She’s always the first one to show up. Sheila called both of their home phones and cell phones. Pravda always answers one of them.”
“Unless,” said Malachi, “they’re the ones who placed the fingers in the cases. I heard all about the prank mother and son pulled on Haagen at the school yesterday.”
“Maybe you should dispatch some officers to check out Lensky’s place and the mother’s in Flushing,” said Jacobus.
“I am the police here,” said Malachi. “Not you. But I’ll consider it.”
“Those cowards,” muttered Haagen.
“Jake, I don’t know,” said Yumi. “I’m worried about them.”
“Them?” Ramsey wailed. “What about my performance! Oh, my God! My performance!”
“Get Short to play,” said Jacobus. “He’s here. He’s good. He’s a schmuck, but he’s good. You don’t have much choice.”
“I will not play with that blackmailing toad!” said Haagen.
“That would only solve half the problem, anyway,” said Yumi. “We’d still need a cellist.”
“Then cancel,” said Jacobus. “Give them their money back so they can go downtown to Barnum and Bailey for a different circus.”
“Never!” said Ramsey. “That would be a fiasco! It will be the end of me.”
“And the end of the quartet,” said Yumi.
“I have an idea,” said Ramsey. “Yes. I think this will work.”
“What do you have in mind?” asked Haagen.
“A recording! That’s what we’ll do! Not to worry, Annika dear. There’s a great old recording of the Budapest Quartet playing ‘Death and the Maiden,’ or maybe the old Kolisch Quartet. Yes, they both recorded it about the same time Marian Anderson recorded the song. We’ve got the hookups all set up. I’m sure we could find a record in minutes. Yes, that will be even better than—”
“You must be kidding!” Jacobus heard Yumi say, beating him to the punch.
“Why would I be kidding?” Ramsey asked. “At a time like this.”
“Two reasons,” Yumi said. “Number one, we’ve signed a contract to perform, so we’re going to perform, and if we don’t you’re still obligated to pay us.”
“And number two?” Jacobus prompted, liking what he was hearing.
“Number two is, there’s simply no substitute for a live performance. I don’t care if it’s Jesus Christ and the Guardian Angels Quartet playing, if it’s a recording, you’re cheating the public. People don’t pay good money to watch a wheel of black plastic spinning around, or lights flashing, or a bunch of smoke and mirrors. They pay to hear live musicians creating something before their very eyes and ears that will change their lives, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
Jacobus had never wanted to hug his protégée more.
“We are?” asked Ramsey. “Pray tell, how?”
“They’ll play,” said Yumi.
“Who’s ‘they’?” asked Jacobus.
“You. You and Nathaniel. You’re going to play.”
“That’s ridiculous!” said Jacobus, putting a temporary hold on the hug. “Even if I could, I don’t even have a violin.”
“Didn’t you say,” asked Nathaniel, “that Dedubian was here with that Guadagnini?”
“Yes, but…” Jacobus sputtered. “I haven’t played in public since … I can’t remember the last time. Nathaniel, when’s the last time we performed together?”
“May 1959. Beethoven. ‘Archduke’ Trio.”
“See?” said Jacobus. “Ages ago. I’m out of shape. We haven’t rehearsed. I’m not—”
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“What’s the matter, Jake?” asked Haagen. “No balls?”
* * *
Five minutes later Dedubian was backstage, beckoned there by Sheila Rathman.
“Of course, it would give me great pleasure to have Jake play on this violin,” said Dedubian. “It is one of Guadagnini’s greatest. Owned at one time by the great virtuoso Eugène Ysaÿe. Made in Turin in seventeen—”
“Enough sales pitch, Bo,” said Jacobus. “I imagine a performance on it here might even enhance its value?”
“Yes,” mulled Dedubian. “No doubt. Good thinking, Jake.”
“In that case, if you want me to play on it, you agree to give Annika here an appraisal on her Gasparo for what it’s really worth. No bullshit this time.”
* * *
Power Ramsey made the announcement, spinning the disaster as positively as possible. While he rambled on glowingly about Jacobus’s greatness and how honored they were to have him and Nathaniel Williams collaborate with the world’s foremost string quartet, Jacobus frantically reacquainted himself with a violin he had played on only briefly, and that was years ago. It was a beautiful-sounding instrument, with a powerfully rich resonance that would make it the equal of Haagen’s Gasparo and Yumi’s Vuillaume, but every violin is different, and compared to his own Neapolitan instrument, all the dimensions were a fraction of a millimeter off, making it a challenge to play with accurate intonation.
The greater stress by far, though, was not physical; it was psychological. Even though he couldn’t see Carnegie Hall, he could feel its vastness compared to the cozy ten-by-fifteen space that was his own and in which he had been playing exclusively for the past thirty-plus years. Though he couldn’t see the two thousand people sitting out there, he could feel their judgmental, almost predatory presence compared to the single obedient student for whom Jacobus would occasionally demonstrate a phrase or fingering.
What petrified him the most, though, was that he would be performing with Yumi, his former student, and the thought that he might embarrass himself in front of her, that he might fail when she was so reliant upon his ability to rescue her in her moment of greatest need, made him almost unable to walk, let alone play the violin. What if, after all the things he had told her about music, about the violin, with such great confidence and certainty, he were now to fall on his face, ruining Yumi’s career, not to mention his own reputation? Would it make a mockery of all that he had taught? Would the world consider him a fraud? Worse, would Yumi consider him a fraud?