Death and the Maiden

by Gerald Elias

  “No.”

  “Do you know where she went between the rehearsal and the concert?”

  “I’m not her goddam oba-san. No. Why?”

  “Ortiz, put an APB out for Yumi Shinagawa. Stake out her apartment. If you find her, arrest her.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” Jacobus demanded.

  “What’s going on is I was just informed that Ivan Lensky and his mother, Pravda Lenskaya, were found murdered in Lenskaya’s home. Slashed. Time of death, about three or four hours ago.”

  “You think Yumi did that?”

  “And then there was one, Jacobus. She’s the only one left, and now she’s hiding.”

  “Don’t be so damn melodramatic, Malachi. Use your brain. What about Crispin Short?”

  “I had a plainclothesman sitting next to him the entire concert.”

  “Well, what about Peter Lensky?”

  “Peter Lensky? The invalid son? He’s not even on the radar.”

  “But he was in Lima the night Kortovsky disappeared.”

  “And so were a lot of other people. Including Yumi. Now get out of here so I can do my job.” He called to Ortiz. “You’re in charge here. I’m heading out to Flushing.”

  Jacobus heard Malachi’s footsteps move away. Peter Lensky might not be on Malachi’s radar, but he was on Jacobus’s. He had his own destination in mind, and if he was right, it would be dangerous.

  Jacobus made his way backstage, found Yumi’s case, and under the guise of caring for her violin, deftly expropriated the cell phone that was still there. He received a thirty-second tutorial from Nathaniel on how to use it—no, it did not have a rotary dial—so they could stay in communication, and sent Nathaniel off to tail Short. He picked up Yumi’s case with feigned nonchalance, as if it were his own, and on his way out he instructed Power Ramsey to return the violin he had just performed on, the Guadagnini, to Dedubian. Ramsey, vaguely responsive, must have been in a daze. Jacobus had a hard time getting him to say anything other than some babbling, “My enchantments! My enchantments!”

  * * *

  Moments later Jacobus pushed his way to the front of the line at the stage door.

  “Call me a cab,” he hollered at the security guard.

  “You’re a cab!” said the guard. It was the same voice that had tried to kick him out of Carnegie Hall, the belittling voice, he recalled, from which he had been protected by Haagen so recently.

  “Damn you,” said Jacobus, meaning it.

  He exited onto Fifty-sixth Street into the rain, but knowing how few cabs drove by there at this time of night, circled around the building to the front of the hall and made his way to the curb. To avoid the construction he stepped out onto Fifty-seventh Street, heedless of being run over, and extended his arm to signal for a cab.

  A taxi skidded to a halt on the wet pavement.

  “Hop in, buddy,” said the cabbie, “before you get killed.”

  Jacobus gave him the address.

  “That a violin?” asked the driver. “Or a machine gun?”

  “Violin,” muttered Jacobus, hoping a truthful answer would forestall further conversation, and wondering if everyone in New York had done a stint in the borscht belt.

  “Hey, listen to this,” said the driver. “Just the other day, this tourist gets in my cab and says, ‘Mister, how do I get to Carnegie Hall?’ You know what I told ’im?”

  “Fuck you, buddy,” said Jacobus. “I’m not interested.”

  “Exactly! That’s exactly what I told ’im!” said the cabbie. “How’d ya know? Hey, for guessing right, you want me to introduce you to a nice girl I know? She likes meeting interesting people.”

  “Hell with the girl,” said Jacobus. “Just get me where we’re going as fast as you can.”

  “Whatever you say,” said the cabbie. The taxi lurched forward, throwing Jacobus back in his seat.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Yumi opened her eyes. Or at least it felt as if she did. She wasn’t sure because it was just as dark when she opened her eyes as when they were closed. She blinked a few times to test them, but the result was the same. Her consciousness seemed to ebb, then return. Where was she? How long had she been unconscious? She was fairly certain she was indoors because the intense, unnatural blackness matched the darkness of the Carnegie Hall stage. Undoubtedly, if she were outside in New York City—assuming she still was in the city—there would be light coming from somewhere.

  She wished she had Jake’s ability to perceive sounds and smells in darkness. She tried to emulate Jake, to analyze all nonvisual stimuli, but so far she was coming up blanks.

  She tried to trace events to the last moment she could recall. She was sitting onstage. Marian Anderson’s video performance of “Death and the Maiden” had begun. The human mound of dancers and their selected audience members, panting but trying to maintain their frozen positions in the darkness, separated the quartet from the audience. They wouldn’t have long to wait. Soon the stage lights would be turned on and everyone would stand for bows. Yumi had been thinking what an amazing, if unanticipated, achievement it had been for Jake and Nathaniel, but Jake especially, to have performed “Death and the Maiden” without any rehearsal, from memory, and with such stunning conviction.

  And then, at the end of Anderson’s first stanza, the voice had whispered in her ear, “Pravda needs you. She needs you now. There is a cab waiting for you at the stage entrance.”

  There had been soothing urgency in the voice, though in its hushed tone she couldn’t tell whether it had been male or female. It was a voice she felt drawn to trust, though she had no idea whose it had been. Unseen by the audience, still riveted to the singing on the big film screen and on the other side of the dancers piled on the stage, it was not difficult for Yumi to flutter undetected into the wings. Not knowing her destination, she left her violin in its case next to Jacobus’s. She thought it odd that the voice hadn’t waited for her but chalked that up to the sense of exigency it conveyed. Conflicted by a sense of haste yet determined to avoid a disturbance as the concert continued without her, she trotted on her tiptoes, like a foal, to the stage door.

  Exiting, she looked for the cab, but there was none, so she waited. None of the traffic and bustle on Fifty-seventh Street at the front of the building was to be found here at the back. The audience inside was still transfixed to the film, so she was alone on the street. The weather had turned chilly again; it was dark, and it had started to rain. She became impatient. Was this a hoax? She looked to the right since Fifty-sixth Street is one way from the west, to see if her cab was coming …

  That was the last thing she could remember. Had the voice led her into a trap? Or had something else gone wrong? And now she was here, wherever here was. How long she had been here, she had no idea. She strained with her eyes, ears, and nose to ascertain something—anything—but was unsuccessful in all her efforts. Unexpectedly, her head began to nod. Was she still drugged? Perhaps it was the total absence of stimuli. Perhaps it was the utter futility. Perhaps it—

  A terrifying thought jumped, unbidden, into her mind. Had she become blind, like Jake? The silence too was profound. Was she deaf as well?

  She tried to reject the notion, but in sudden vertiginous panic she attempted to stand up, only to find her hands and feet tied to the chair in which she was sitting. She struggled unsuccessfully against the bonds holding her down.

  “So you’re finally awake.”

  She recognized the voice.

  “Aaron! Aaron, is that you?” Yumi asked, peering into the blackness.

  “Who did you expect?”

  “Where on earth have you been? What’s going on?”

  “I’m afraid we have a bit of a problem.”

  “Well, just untie me and let’s get out of here.”

  “I’m afraid that it’s not that simple. You see, you’re the problem.”

  “Me? What are you talking about?”

  “Well, the little liaison we had—you know, in Lima—a
nd everything that led up to it. It didn’t go over very well with Annika. She felt betrayed. Very betrayed, by both of us. Now it’s necessary to make things right.”

  “What do you mean, ‘make things right’?”

  “We’re going to have to forget about that marketing study and bring back Crispin.”

  “You mean you want me to resign? Because you seduced me and now you’re feeling guilty? Okay, we seduced each other. But is this the way you negotiate? Drug me, kidnap me, and tie me up? Do you think you can intimidate me like that? You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

  “I’m afraid it’s gone even beyond that,” said another voice, chuckling, “if you can believe it.”

  “Crispin!” said Yumi. “You’re in on this too?”

  “From the beginning, love,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ve committed a no-no, and now we’ve got to make amends.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just that we’ve all come to the conclusion that we need to get back to basics. No marketing studies, no behind-the-scenes hanky-panky. Just some solid, all-for-one, one-for-all music making. Sorry to say, you’re the odd girl out. Permanently.”

  “What do you mean, permanently?”

  “Haven’t you figured that out yet, dear Yumi? We’re going to have to do you in. We’ve no other choice.”

  “You’re going to kill me? This makes no sense. It’s ridiculous!”

  “Why you say redeekooloos?”

  “Pravda! What’s happening? I don’t understand what’s happening!”

  “Look,” said yet another voice.

  “Ivan!”

  “Let me tell you what was. Aaron is first violin, right? He leads quartet. He is like big boss and make decision. It’s his job. His decision: He want Crispin back; he want you dead. So what can we do? We say bye-bye and then we drink you toast. Ha!”

  Yumi’s head was swimming.

  “Yumi, dear, it will be all right. It’s just something we had to do.”

  “Annika?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t an easy decision. It’s been wonderful having you in the quartet, and, pfff, I’m just sorry things haven’t worked out better, but…”

  “Annika, please. Don’t let them.”

  “Hey, honey, enough with the tears.”

  “Jake!” said Yumi. “Thank God you’re here! I don’t know what’s going on. Maybe it’s the drugs they gave me. Tell them they’re all crazy!”

  “So maybe they’re a little meshuga, but who isn’t? This kind of stuff comes with the territory.”

  “Jake, what are you saying? Why is this happening to me?”

  “I’m saying deal with it. Death comes to all of us sooner or later. No one can help it if yours just happens to be sooner. Look, no one forced you to be part of the quartet, right? You’ve talked the talk, honey. Now you’ve gotta walk the walk.”

  “No, Jake. Please. You can’t mean this.”

  “But he is right, Yumi. After all, I’m only the first violinist, but he was your teacher. You need to listen to him.”

  “No, Aaron. It’s not right,” she pleaded.

  “That’s what everyone says. But it is right. And it is time.”

  “Yes, love. Time to pay the piper, isn’t it? Ta-ta, then.”

  Yumi felt a pair of hands around her neck. Aaron’s? Crispin’s? Pravda’s? Ivan’s? Annika’s? Jake’s? There was nothing she could do, and, since she understood nothing, there was nothing she could even think of doing. Her breathing became constricted, but why struggle?

  She heard a thumping. Was it her heart, beating its last? A hand was placed over her mouth, and a voice said, “Be quiet or I’ll kill you.” Someone was knocking at a door.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Well, if it isn’t Comrade Kutcherpekirov!”

  “Jake?” Yumi gasped. Light from outside the room flooded in. Dim though it was, it blinded her.

  “Mr. Jacobus, this is a surprise,” said the one voice she didn’t recognize. “This was meant to be, I see now. Please come in. Ah! You have brought your violin. Will you give us another concert?”

  Yumi’s eyes were still adjusting to the light.

  She was seated against the back wall of the room and could see Jacobus standing in the doorway on the other side of the piano.

  “Jake, what’s happening? Why are we in my rehearsal studio? Where is everyone?”

  “As my compadre Oro likes to say, all in good time, Yumi dear,” Jacobus said.

  “You don’t want me to die?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course not. You haven’t paid me for your last lesson yet. We’ll just be packing our bags and leaving Lensky here to clean up your rehearsal studio,” Jacobus said in an excessively loud voice.

  “Lensky?” said Yumi, addressing the only other individual in the room. “You? You’re not Ivan Lensky!”

  “Not Ivan,” said Jacobus. “Baby brother Peter, with a little secret. Peter, would you care to join us for a visit to the police station and tell them all about it? That’s probably your best option.”

  Suddenly Jacobus felt his arm being grabbed. He held tightly to the violin case as Lensky hustled him into a chair so forcibly it almost tipped over, nearly spilling him onto Yumi’s lap. Jacobus placed the case and his cane next to the chair. Too bad Trotsky’s not here, Jacobus thought. The wittle woozie would lick Lensky to death.

  “I am sorry this must happen, Mr. Jacobus,” Lensky said, locking the door. “You are one of the few people who understands that what they called a concert at Carnegie Hall tonight was a, a…”

  “A travesty?” Jacobus offered.

  “A blasphemy! And if not for you it would never have happened. This video! This light show! This dancing! It was painting the rouge of the whore on the face of the Virgin Mary. When the purity of music is defiled—”

  “Hey, I’m with you on that score, Rasputin!” said Jacobus. “Those were almost my very words and you will get no argument from me. I think Power Ramsey can dance off into the sunset to the tune of his videochoreography and never come back. It’s just when you go around murdering people that we go our separate paths.”

  “Murder?”

  “Isn’t that what you call it when you chop people into little pieces? Or have you forgotten about Lima, for starters?”

  “This is all very interesting, Mr. Jacobus,” said Lensky, “but if I were to have committed murder, why would I go all the way to Lima?”

  “Two reasons: convenience and coincidence. You went there because shortly before the tour Crispin Short told you—e-mailed you, to be more precise—that Kortovsky and Haagen were going to fire your mother. Since your mother always felt that special maternal need to take care of you, and you’re used to playing that game, aren’t you—you’ve been acting the frail invalid for years—you figured, ‘Hey, now’s my opportunity. Five zillion miles away from home, and I’ll make it look like a drug killing and who’ll ever know?’ Right?

  “Ironically, though, that whole marketing study mishigas wasn’t true. Dear Crispin was just trying to get you all fired up so you’d convince Mama to go for his deal. He just wanted to be part of the gang. He didn’t realize heads would roll. Literally. Your mother was not going to be fired, according to Annika.”

  “Obviously, you can never prove that, now that Haagen’s dead,” said Lensky.

  “Oh, my God, no!” said Yumi.

  “And just how is it we know that she’s dead, Peter, m’boy?” asked Jacobus. “Telepathy?”

  Lensky had no response.

  During the silence Jacobus hoped his plan to contact Nathaniel was working, because if Lensky’s need to “ablute” was related to his anxiety level, his body odor was already in the danger zone, as ripe as the aged Gorgonzola he had eaten at Lensky’s lair.

  Jacobus had dialed Nathaniel’s number on Yumi’s cell phone and put it in the violin case, leaving it on, before he had knocked on the door. Nathaniel should have been able to hear both Yumi and him mention that they we
re in the rehearsal studio. Nathaniel should be here any moment now.

  “You speak in a frivolous tone, Mr. Jacobus,” Lensky finally replied. “But I sense you speak out of fear. There is no need to fear death. You should view it as a comfort, especially someone like yourself: infirmed, old, your skills wasting away. You should welcome death. You should welcome me—”

  “The singing Kevorkian?”

  “For I am someone with whom everyone on earth will someday be familiar,” said Lensky.

  “You’re from the IRS, then?” asked Jacobus. “Jehovah’s Witness, perhaps?”

  “Ah, you try to mock me, but your jest will not help, because I am Death. I am despised and acquainted with grief, and I am here for you.”

  “Well, that’s very kind,” said Yumi, “but as you probably can tell, I’m still quite young. And fit!”

  “Young or old, who among us knows when the end will come? When you will step off a curb and be killed by a speeding cab whose driver is racing to a fare, listening to some rock-and-roll monstrosity on his MP3 player. Or when you are in your apartment, practicing a Mozart quartet, and an errant bullet from a drug transaction a block away shatters your window and pierces your brain. Or when a harmless, microscopic cell receives a command to multiply inside your body until it becomes the life force and you the parasite.

  “Death begins from the moment of our birth. We are each a cell-manufacturing factory, but though at first we churn them out, sooner or later production becomes sluggish; our cells deteriorate faster than our bodies can replace them and the living ones are overwhelmed. Sooner or later I take you with me.”

  “To tell you the truth,” said Yumi, “I’m feeling pretty good about my cells at this time—”

  “You think it is not yet the right time for you,” said Lensky. “I ask, when is there a wrong time? Is it not better to go when you are still young, vibrant, alive, than to suffer as your body and mind decay through old age? Which would you putrefy first, Yumi Shinagawa? Would you rather have an active mind while a prisoner in your moldering body? Or live until you are ninety or a hundred but with a mind that can only recall the applesauce someone just spooned into your flaccid mouth and is now drooling down your chin?