by Gerald Elias
Nathaniel explained that Higginson was a Civil War veteran whose major claim to fame was as the founder of the Boston Symphony, which he single-handedly financed and nurtured for almost forty years. Though Higginson didn’t have the same vast resources as Andrew Carnegie, he was one of the greatest and most dedicated patrons of the arts the country had known, and a well-trained musician himself.
“Lovely,” said Sylvia. “Maybe before Yumi here falls asleep you’ll care to share with us some of Matthilda’s words of wisdom.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Nathaniel. “Here we go.
“ ‘August Twenty-four,’ ” he began. “ ‘H’—that must be Holbrooke—‘and HL’—Henry Lee Higginson—‘had a row at dinner tonight. It was terribly embarrassing. Fortunately the help spoke no English or we surely would have been thought little of by those in no position to think such things.’ ”
Matthilda Barrington’s text, in the quaintly chatty style of the time, followed with a description of a dinner that the Grimsleys and Higginson were having at a restaurant in Tuscany. She then reflected upon the envy Grimsley bore toward Higginson, especially of the high esteem in which Higginson, the philanthropist, was regarded. “ ‘I must admit H has been a bit jealous of HL over the years. HL has become so famous with his Boston orchestra, but hardly anyone outside our circle knows poor H, even though he has lots more money than HL and, fortunately, has never had to work for a living.’ ”
She spoke of the circumstances around which Grimsley accidentally came across the Piccolino Stradivarus, which had been lost for generations, in a dusty corner of a curio shop in Italy and bought it as a present for his wife, not knowing its true value; and how, on a lark, he had taken it to Aram Dedubian (Boris’s grandfather) at his violin shop in Rome. “‘“That Dedubian,” said H, “is a sleazy looking fellow, but they say he knows his business, and I say if a man knows his business it doesn’t matter what he looks like or where he comes from.” ’ ”
After a thorough inspection, Aram had said, “ ‘ “Mr. Grimsley, I don’t know where you found this violin, but in my opinion this is the violin made by Antonio Stradivari for Piccolino Cherubino in 1708, and purportedly owned for a time by Niccolò Paganini.” ’ ”
Grimsley then told Higginson, “ ‘ “I didn’t want Dedubian to wheedle his way out of what he just said, so I told him to put it in writing along with what it was worth. He did so but suggested I leave the violin with him so that his restorer—a curious Neapolitan named Bartolini or Bardolino or something like that—could shine it up. He said though the violin was in mint condition, this swarthy little fellow was the finest restorer in Italy—though from the look of him I found that hard to be believed—and would make the appearance of the instrument ‘worthy of the name Stradivari,’ as Dedubian put it.
“ ‘ “At first I didn’t want him to put his peasantlike hands on it, but then, after thinking about the situation with the cold logic of an American businessman, I decided there was good reason to leave the violin with him. In any event, today, several weeks later, I walked out of his shop with a Stradivarius worth five thousand dollars! Mind you, in New York one can obtain a perfectly decent German violin for twenty dollars. And all because my little Matthilda wanted a souvenir!” ’ ”
Grimsley had heard the legend of Matteo Cherubino, aka Il Piccolino, which included the tale that he had been born on leap day and so technically died at the age of thirteen (indeed, Stradivari’s label to Cherubino inside the violin seemed to corroborate this). Now, having the three-quarter-sized Stradivarius himself gave Grimsley the idea to establish a trust fund for a violin competition “ ‘to be held only for child prodigies up to the age of thirteen, and which will be held only every thirteen years so that we don’t saturate the market with little toddlers in knickers.’ ” Grimsley went on to describe the prizes and perks that would be associated with the Competition: “ ‘ “a Carnegie Hall recital, a concerto performance with a great orchestra” (H winked slyly at HL to make his intent clear), “and the use of my little Stradivarius for the recital and concerto.” ’ ”
Higginson thought it was a horrendous plan. Grimsley, dumbfounded by Higginson’s response, asked why. “ ‘Well, Henry stood up, right there in the middle of the restaurant for everyone to see, and actually pointed his finger at my Holbrooke and said, so slowly that I’ll never forget his exact words, “Because you’re condemning the winner to a life of misery and the runner-up, no matter how brilliant, to a life of obscurity. You can’t simply harvest talent, bottle it, package it, market it, and claim a profit. If I hired children, no matter how talented, for the Boston Symphony, I’d first be laughed off the stage, and then, no doubt, I would be locked up.” ’ ”
The two men almost got into a fistfight—“‘The scene reminded me of that nasty baseball player, Tyrus Cobb, arguing with an umpire’ ”— but Higginson walked out of the restaurant before they came to blows.
“Well, anyway,” said Nathaniel, slapping the book shut, “it kind of meanders from there.”
Jacobus expressed appreciation of Higginson’s scruples but suggested that as entertaining as Nathaniel’s growing book collection might be, their time might be better spent talking to people who were still alive.
“Maybe. Maybe,” said Nathaniel, “but somethin’s buggin’ me and I can’t put my finger on it. Hey, Jake,” he whispered. “Yumi here’s fast asleep. She’s using her arms for a pillow.”
“Well, just hoist her up in those big arms of yours and get her to bed. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
As Jacobus stood up to leave, he felt Sylvia entwine her flabby arm through his.
“I don’t need your help,” protested Jacobus, attempting to disengage her.
“I know you don’t, Jake,” said Sylvia, holding on tighter. “It’s just that I thought if I were nice to you, you’d give me a bigger tip, that’s all.”
Jacobus relaxed. “How long have I known you, Sylvia? 1960?”
“Nope. I’ll never forget when we first met. February 12, 1958—chopped liver on dark rye with extra onions. Lincoln Birthday Special. Why?”
“Are you still as good-looking as you said you were then?” asked Jacobus, smiling.
“Haven’t changed a bit, Jake.”
ELEVEN
Jacobus walked to the nearby Stuyvesant Hotel, where he had booked a room, having refused Nathaniel’s invitation to stay at his place. Jacobus’s years of solitude had made it almost impossible for him to endure more than small doses of human contact.
The night was quiet and as cool as it would get. He strolled along the nearly vacant sidewalk, head down, musing deeply. What should he do about MAP? And the recovery of the Piccolino? How could he tie them together? Should he? What did he know for sure? What was he guessing at? What were the unsupported hunches of an old man?
He heard the wet hiss of car tires cross his path on the damp street in front of him, and after taking a few more steps, confidently extended his toe to feel for the curb at the corner. That’s the beauty of Manhattan, he thought. Eighty-six steps, every block, as long as he walked in a straight line. Once he had been asked how he was able to walk in a straight line without being able to see. He had replied, “Same way you know where your dick is when the lights are out.”
The sound of the traffic patterns told him when the light was green or red, though at this hour traffic consisted only of an occasional taxi or delivery truck. He crossed the street.
As far as the first question, what to do about MAP, Jacobus felt strongly that none of the coterie stole the Piccolino. He was almost certain, though the almost bothered him. It just seemed too much of a risk, even for a fast eight million dollars, compared to the danger of being exposed for all the wrongdoing they were covering up. Why risk their fame and fortune? But regardless of whether or not one or more of them stole the violin, he would use the theft as a wedge, use it to get through the door. He would get under their skin—he knew he was good at that—unsettle them, create su
spicion, fear of exposure, turn one against the other. He had already set the wheels in motion with Lilburn.
Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six. Fifty-third Street. Jacobus stepped into the street. Almost halfway across, he heard a car to his left speeding westbound, crossing Seventh Avenue. A horn blared. Jacobus whirled and jumped back to the corner. “You momzer!” he shouted. The car hadn’t even slowed down.
His second try crossing the street was uneventful.
Who could have stolen the Piccolino? he asked himself, putting the car out of his mind. Answer: Anyone had the opportunity. Trying to guess who could have gone in and out that door was a waste of time. Let the cops interview everyone who was there.
Jacobus felt wet. Whether he was sweating from his close call, or it was just the smelly, dank city humidity, the hot dampness clung to him uncomfortably.
Who had the means? Answer again: anyone. All someone needed were two rocks and a violin case. No other traces. Dead end.
Motive? Now there’s the intriguing part.
He smelled the stale beer of a cheap bar as he passed Fifty-second Street, which almost made him throw up. Overdid it on the pastrami, he thought, which made him want to throw up even more. Not too many blocks to go, he consoled himself, swallowing bile.
Money and greed were out as far as he could tell. If Nathaniel and he could both agree on that, it was probably true. Probably.
Other motive? A sicko who gets off on the thrill of stealing little violins? Well, the world was full of sickos, and he couldn’t totally rule it out, but there was nowhere to go with that.
Then what? What other motive?
Somewhere between Fiftieth Street and Forty-ninth, a voice said, “Hey, mister, want a flower?”
Hmm, thought Jacobus, Asian inflection? One of those Hari Krishna bums. Money-grubbing fruits.
“Beat it,” Jacobus said.
Suddenly he was grabbed by his collar and yanked forward so hard he was pulled off his feet.
“Jesus!” shouted Jacobus. “What the hell have I got you could want?” He was not afraid, but he felt helpless.
The voice had bad breath to go along with it. It was in his ear.
“My boss says to tell you to drop your investigation,” it said, then added what sounded like an effort of improvisation, “or you’re going to lose your own piccolino.”
“Tell your boss to go fuck himself,” said Jacobus, and he spat at his attacker.
The voice let out a mean, semistifled laugh as it shoved Jacobus backward.
Jacobus careened into a garbage can, knocking it over. The can rolled down the street, sounding like firecrackers on Chinese New Year, echoing in the otherwise silent night. By the time Jacobus recovered his balance and cursed at his bruised hip there were no footsteps to be heard, and midtown Manhattan was again eerily quiet.
Prick! Goddam prick! Jacobus was seething; wondering too—but not really caring—whether the car had also been meant to scare him. One night in New York City and he had been threatened with being reported to the police, almost run over, and now mugged. He wiped molding ketchupy french fries off his shirt with his snotty handkerchief, vowing revenge. He resumed walking to the hotel, now with a slight limp. His ears stayed alert, but no echo followed him.
He stopped in his tracks. Revenge! Could that have been the motive for stealing the Piccolino? Revenge against whom? Against the owner of the violin, against Grimsley? Why? No information to decide one way or the other.
Revenge against the Grimsley Competition? Why? Personal reasons? What reasons? Ruined career? He himself had suffered unspoken humiliation at the 1931 Grimsley—more than anyone would ever know—that had gnawed on him his entire life. Could there be another out there like him?
Jacobus began to walk faster, limp forgotten.
Ruined career! Whose was ruined? Winners? Unlikely—they won. Losers? Maybe. Last-place finishers? Unlikely. Last-placers may bitch, but to steal the Piccolino? Too extreme. Nope, not last-place finishers.
Jacobus smelled the hot dogs and heard the salsa music seeping out the open door of the all-night restaurant (or so it called itself) on the same block as his hotel. Salsa did nothing for him, but a hot dog! Maybe tomorrow. Very close to the hotel now.
Very. Close. Second-place finishers!—Higginson’s prediction! “Because you are condemning the winner to a life of misery and the runner-up, no matter how brilliant, to a life of obscurity.”
Runners-up! Very close, runners-up. Not ruined careers. Worse. Stillborn careers. So close! So close! Lifetimes of frustration, creative voices silenced. Lives ruined. What might have been but for one capricious decision. The Piccolino as metaphor for gross manipulation of art. So remove it. Destroy it. And destroy the Grimsley Competition.
Jacobus’s thoughts were racing. He stopped just to breathe, steadying himself with a hand against the wall of a building. He thought maybe his reasoning was just a way to rationalize a hunch. Maybe it was the product of his own bitter experience. Probably. Nevertheless, he had an assignment for Nathaniel—trace the lives of second-place finishers of the Grimsley Competition. Can’t be too many. Only every thirteen years. Lilburn’s photo. Find out who in the photo came in second. Lilburn might have given him the clue he needed.
Jacobus sat alone in his room at the Stuyvesant dressed only in his boxers and wife-beater under-shirt. He sat with his hands on the arms of a desk chair, his chin on his chest, a position in which he was accustomed to spending many hours at a time though it never brought him respite. A half-empty pint of Jack Daniel’s was on the desk next to a half-empty pack of Camels. When he had arrived, the bellhop had insisted on walking him to the room and had made the unpardonable gaffe of asking, “May I turn the lights on for you, sir?” Jacobus had said, “What are you, an idiot?” before tipping him.
It was quiet in the middle of the night, with few distractions. A toilet flushing from room 321. A fleeting splash of a soccer game on a Spanish TV station as a door opened and closed. Otherwise, only the intermittent churning of the outdated air conditioner intruded upon the silence, and that too had given out sometime earlier.
Jacobus was organizing his thoughts. With the attack tonight the situation was becoming increasingly complicated. The jerk had tried not to laugh when Jacobus told him to tell his boss to go fuck himself. Was Jacobus merely being taunted? Or did the laugh mean his boss was not male? If so, the boss could have been Victoria Jablonski, Cynthia Vander, Rachel Lewison. Or Yumi. No other females knew of his involvement. If not a female boss, then what about homosexual? Grimsley? Maybe Lilburn? Or did it mean nothing? Maybe the thug’s accent wasn’t really Asian. If it was, would that tie him to Yumi, or, again, was it just a meaningless detail? It wasn’t even clear that the only people who knew about his involvement in this investigation were Nathaniel, Yumi, and the handful associated with MAP whom Nathaniel had contacted for interviews. At this point there was nothing to be concluded and little more to be conjectured.
Jacobus sat for a long time—an hour, maybe two or three—before he felt satisfied that his thoughts were in order. More questions than answers but at least an infrastructure. Sometimes Jacobus’s thoughts came as slowly as the constipated grandeur of a Bruckner adagio. At other times they rushed forward in complex cascades with the intriguing potential of a Debussy chord progression.
Jacobus found the room telephone and pressed 0.
“Front Desk,” answered the night manager.
“I’m suffocating in here.”
“Sir?”
“The air conditioner’s broken. Send someone up to fix it.”
“It’s very late, sir. Have you tried opening the window?”
“The air conditioner is mounted in the window. If I open the window, the air conditioner will fall very fast onto someone’s head and kill them. You want me to do that?”
“I’ll send someone up right away.”
As he waited for the maintenance person, he went over once more what had become his mo
st convincing scenario. It surprised him, but he couldn’t deny it added up better than anything else.
Am I sure? An educated guess? Just coincidences? Don’t overlook what’s right in front of your face, he had cautioned Yumi about the Mendelssohn Concerto. Good advice for himself.
There was a knock at the door.
“It’s unlocked.”
“May I turn on the lights, sir?”
“We going to play that game again? What’s your name, anyway?”
“Salvador, sir.”
“Well, Salvador sir, just fix the damn air conditioner with or without the lights on, sir.”
As Salvador noisily disassembled the unit, Jacobus tried but was unable to regain his train of thought. He poured himself another drink and said, “Sir Salvador, you want a drink?”
“Thank you, sir, but I can’t on duty. But I think I’ve got your problem solved here. The filter was packed with crud and was overheating the compressor, which automatically shut itself off. I think if I just clean out the filter it should work fine.”
“Hmm,” said Jacobus. “You always good at solving problems?”
“I do my best.”
Jacobus decided he needed to hear his thoughts out loud, and get a response, in order to make sense of them. And, at this point, better a stranger than Nathaniel, especially a stranger who had half a brain. Jacobus outlined the whole situation in as coherent a nutshell as he could, only leaving out names, while Salvador finished his repairs.
“I say you’re now off duty. Sit down and pour yourself a drink, Salvador.”
“So what was it about the Japanese chick that makes you think she’s in on it?” asked Salvador, sipping his unexpected Jack Daniel’s.
“First, silently obedient. Second, showing up for her first lesson in July—unusual—and the day after the theft. Third, the quality of her footsteps.”
“Hey, that’s stretching it, man.”
“All by itself, maybe. But what about her fascination with the spiderweb? The steel in her playing, and the passion underneath. Her shock at being tagged ‘sinister.’ She didn’t bat an eyelash when I laid into her—and then to play the Mendelssohn flawlessly!”
