by Gerald Elias
Davis had performed virtually every major concerto with every major orchestra until his retirement from the stage only a decade earlier, leaving a legacy as both an artist and a humanitarian. He seemed to remember every performance and was not hesitant describing each one in blazing detail, from Sir Thomas Beecham’s droll one-liners—“Owen, perhaps your Brahms could benefit from a bit more sauerbraten”—to Toscanini’s fiery rants. Nathaniel wished he had thought of taping this conversation—monologue, really—for his personal archives but satisfied himself with furious note taking. Finally Nathaniel brought the subject around to, “Whatever happened to that little girl, Kate Padgett, who finished second in the 1931 Grimsley?”
“Padgett, Padgett? Can’t say I recall the name. So many years ago . . .” There was silence. Davis must have exhausted himself. He had been talking nonstop and it was well into night in England.
“Piddle?” he said.
“Say what?” asked Nathaniel.
“Piddle? No. Plush. No, Piddle. Yes, not Plush. Piddle it is.”
“It must be late, Sir Owen.”
“Aha, you think I’m daft! Senile! Is that it? It is Piddle. In Dorset, next to Plush. That’s it.”
“That’s what, Sir?”
“Her hometown. Padgett’s hometown. Check the Piddletown Herald—goes back to the 1600s. They must have something. Wonderful talent. Should have won. Bad lot, that Grimsley. Good luck, sir. Off to bed now, Mr. Giles! Good-bye, sir.”
SIXTEEN
The Dedubian et Fils violin showroom was on the twelfth and top floor of the elegant Bonderman Building, a grand turn-of-the-twentieth-century edifice. The Bonderman had one of those old-fashioned elevators, wood paneled with a well-oiled brass grate inner door that had to be closed by hand. That hand was provided by the white-gloved, uniformed elevator operator Sigmund Gottfried, a small old German who had been working the elevator since Jacobus was a student. They first met when Jacobus went to the Dedubian shop, at that time run by Boris’s father, to get a new bridge for his violin. In those days Jacobus knew very little about violins. The elder Dedubian used to tease Jacobus in his sardonic Armenian accent, chiding him that he couldn’t tell the difference between a Tononi (a highly regarded Italian violin maker) and a “No-Tone-y.”
As Jacobus entered the elevator with Yumi, Gottfried said, “Ah! Mr. Jacobus. It has been a long time. Has it not?”
“Not long enough, Ziggy,” said Jacobus.
Gottfried chuckled. “Ja,” he said. “The violin business. It never changes.”
Gottfried had a little battery-operated fan running in the elevator, which, along with the dim light, provided a modest oasis from the blinding heat and sun outside.
The elevator was of the vintage variety that would brake sharply about a foot or so before reaching its destination, and would then slowly coast the remaining distance until perfectly even with the floor. Jacobus was well prepared for this, but Yumi, whose only elevator experience had been with high-tech Japanese designs, was not, so when Gottfried began his maneuvers in order to admit a passenger on the fifth floor, she lost her balance and would have stumbled but for Jacobus, around whom she instinctively wrapped her arms.
Gottfried apologized profusely to Yumi, and Yumi to Jacobus. Though Jacobus did not respond aloud to Yumi’s apology other than to grunt, that simple human contact—Yumi’s arms momentarily around his shoulders—was enough to give Jacobus a sense that maybe there was a shred of purpose to his life, but rather than being buoyed by this thought he felt it only destabilizing. For the first time he began to doubt the assuredness of his instincts. In the cold light of day, he thought, what, really, do I know about this young lady to even speculate that she was involved with such a brazen plot to steal a violin? Why couldn’t one of the MAP coterie have done something so patently ridiculous? After all, the same confidence they had mustered to attain their position of dominance of the music world could easily serve them as well to execute a theft. And why couldn’t it have been anyone, someone else entirely out of the blue, who stole the Piccolino? What compounded Jacobus’s distress was that he knew the most likely out-of-the-blue candidate was himself.
Jacobus’s ardor for dismantling the Musical Arts Project was also ebbing. Yes, he despised them, but if the rest of the world could live with their bullying tactics, why should it be upon his shoulders to do the dirty work? Jacobus did not suffer zealots gladly, and his own actions were beginning to smack of that which he loathed. After talking to Dedubian and Grimsley, and then Strella, Rachel Lewison, and Victoria Jablonski the next day, he would simply report his findings to Nathaniel and go back to his cloister in the Berkshires. Why had he agreed to help Nathaniel, anyway? Was it to destroy MAP, as he had so confidently boasted to himself, or was it due to something far more difficult to admit? Was it, as Salvador had insinuated, only to distract an old man from his loneliness?
The elevator doors slid open to reveal the Dedubian showroom, which contained hundreds of the world’s greatest violins. Gottfried said, “Good to see you again, Mr. Jacobus. And good luck.”
Jacobus offered Yumi words of caution as they entered a world of nineteenth-century opulence.
“Just remember,” he said, “even though Dedubian and I have been friendly for what, thirty-five, forty years, he’s got violin dealer in his genes.”
Jacobus recollected Dedubian’s shop from long before he was blind. Over the years the sounds and smells had remained the same, so he assumed that the sights hadn’t changed much either. The cavernous main hall still extended from the front to the back of the gray stone building, which when it was erected commanded a sweeping view of midtown Manhattan, including Carnegie Hall just a few blocks away. Faded Persian rugs sprawled across polished oak parquet floors. Through curved glass windows with wrought-iron balconies, the city’s hazy light cast shadows on dark, elaborately carved woodwork ascending twenty feet to the ceiling with its turreted skylights. Precise temperature and humidity controls kept out the oppressive heat and protected the instruments that hung in glass cases everywhere. Violins sitting on silk-covered tables awaited inspection by discerning hands, eyes, and ears.
Jacobus felt Yumi tug at his sleeve. “Mr. Jacobus, there is a man trotting toward us.”
“Face kinda like a horse with a smile? Fancy gray suit?”
Before Yumi could reply, a voice with an elegant Eastern European accent intervened. “Jake, my old friend! It has been too long.”
“Bo,” said Jacobus. “Forty years in America and your accent is worse than ever. Must help sell the fiddles, huh?”
“You make me blush, Jake. And who is this attractive young lady on your arm?”
“New student, Yumi Shinagawa,” said Jacobus.
“A new student! Ah! Miss Shinagawa, is it? Yes? Konnichiwa, Shinagawachan. So very pleased to meet you. If only Jake could see what a beauty he has! And those eyes! Tell me the truth, either they’re made of pure jade or you’re part Irish leprechaun.”
Jacobus was amused by Dedubian’s salesmanship much more than he admired it. At least the suckers go away smiling, he thought.
“You know,” Dedubian said, now in a confidential tone, “a student of Daniel Jacobus must play on only the best instrument. I happen to have just received a perfect, perfect J. B. Vuillaume—mint condition!—but I will only sell it to the person who is the right fit.”
“Like Cinderella?” asked Jacobus.
“Just so, Jake. Just so. You put it so well. Shinagawa-chan, you, dear, may be that person. Beautiful, sensitive, but with strength! Would you allow me to show it to you, Miss Shinagawa? I have it on consignment for eighty thousand dollars, but if you leave it to me, I think I could get the owner to come down on the price, but only if you really love it.”
“What about lowering your commission also, Bo?” chided Jacobus.
“Let’s let the young lady—”
“Bo, I’m sure Miss Shinagawa would be happy to try it, but she’s not going to buy anything without her
mother seeing it first.”
“Of course, of course, by all means. And did your mother come with you today, dear?”
“She is in Japan, Mr. Dedubian,” said Yumi.
“Oh. I see. I see. Well. In the meantime, you wanted to talk to me, Jake?” said Dedubian. Jacobus felt a polite push as Dedubian guided him and Yumi into his private office.
“About the Piccolino,” said Jacobus.
“Yes, the Piccolino.”
Dedubian hesitated. Jacobus wondered if Dedubian was about to make something up. Maybe MAP did have something to do with it.
“Jake,” said Dedubian, “you and I have known each other for a very long time. I have never, never been so humiliated in my life. You see how this has affected me—see, I haven’t even offered you a seat yet. Please, please,” he said. Jacobus felt Dedubian bodily corral him into a very comfortable leather easy chair.
But he hasn’t denied anything, has he?
“Cognac?” he asked Jacobus.
“Coffee,” he replied.
“Mrs. King,” he announced to his secretary over the intercom, “espresso for Mr. Jacobus.”
“Mind if I smoke?” asked Jacobus.
“Sorry, Jake, my insurance for all these instruments is exorbitant enough as it is, and that’s without permitting smoking. If I let anyone smoke, do you know what—”
“Screw that. Forget it.”
“O-cha, Miss Shinagawa?” Dedubian asked.
“Thank you.”
“And make that tea for Miss Shinagawa,” he added into the intercom.
“Jake, my grandfather, Aram, fled the Turks and set up a shop in Rome. My father, Ashot, who expanded the business to Paris, fled the Nazis for New York. Now, here, in America—in America!—your Gestapo police barge into my business and interrogate me about this damned violin right in front of my clients. It’s unbelievable!”
“Don’t worry too much about that, Bo,” said Jacobus, smiling. “Most of your customers already think you’re a crook, anyway.”
Jacobus heard Yumi gasp at this blatant insult of the world’s foremost violin dealer. She might never have heard worse, Jacobus thought, but Dedubian has . . . and from me too.
Dedubian chuckled but didn’t disagree.
“What am I to do, Jake? What am I to do? I am just a businessman. I like musicians. But some of them think I’m cheating them because I have to make a little profit when I sell a fiddle. Yet at the same time they think I am being unfair when I say no when they try to sell me their fiddle at such a high a price even I would be embarrassed!
“Then they ask for inflated insurance appraisals from me. They want me to put in writing that their piece-of-shit instrument is worth fifty percent more than it really is, giving me the excuse ‘just so I won’t have to get it appraised again for another three years.’ Then they go and try to sell it two weeks later for the value I appraised it, using the piece of paper with my name on it as justification. Who is fooling who, Jake?”
“That may be,” said Jacobus, “but you have to admit that the price of a good old violin has gone through the roof. Most working musicians can’t even afford them anymore. A Gagliano that was going for ten thousand dollars in ’75 now goes for a hundred, and the Strad that Joe Lefkowitz bought from you for twenty thousand in 1960 is now worth a million.”
“But that is because of the collectors, Jake. Not me. If someone offers me top dollar for a violin I’m selling, what am I supposed to do, interview him to find out if his purpose is noble enough? Jake, I just want to save enough in the next few years so I can retire to my condo in Montreux.”
“Come on, Bo,” said Jacobus. “Don’t give me that line. You could have retired to your condo ten years ago and thrown in all your girlfriends in the bargain. If you sold only the inventory Grandpa left you at just half market value, you could probably own Montreux itself.”
“A slight exaggeration. A slight exaggeration,” said Dedubian. “You flatter me. But let’s come back to the issue at hand. Why would I ruin all that by stealing a violin that everyone would know I stole as soon as I sold it? I wasn’t even there when it was stolen, for God’s sake. I was stuck on that damned Long Island Expressway. Jake, between you and me, as old friends, you must believe me when I tell you I have very good reasons I could never do such a thing. You know and I know, only a crazy person would steal that fiddle. Why can’t the police understand that?”
Jacobus did believe him, more or less. Rather, he had no reason not to believe him, though there was that protest-too-much tone in his voice. Something was being left out.
“Any ideas specifically who might have done it, Bo? Anyone of your MAP buddies who were at the reception capable of arranging it? Make believe you’re taking this seriously and mull it over for a minute.”
“Well, Jake, I’ll be honest with you. We all know no one’s perfect. Strella, maybe he’s conniving and greedy enough to want it. Vander’s mother is ambitious enough. Grimsley, he’s got money problems, but he already owns the Strad, so why would he steal his own violin? Victoria’s ambitious too, but she’s got great violins coming out of her tight little you know what; and as for Rachel . . . well, she just does not have the nerve, period.
“No, Jake, I do not think any of my MAP colleagues would have done it. I know they didn’t do it. Though the question I ask myself is not who, but why? Why, Jake? It just does not make sense. Unless, of course . . .”
“What, Bo?” asked Jacobus, sipping his espresso. “You have a theory?”
“Unless,” Dedubian continued cautiously. “I have known some collectors—whose names I cannot reveal—who have no desire ever to resell their instruments. They buy them, put them in a vault for safekeeping, and every once in a while take them out to look at them, touch them, talk to them. It makes them feel good to be able to say, ‘I own a Stradivarius.’ You know the sort, Jake.”
“Yes. Morons.”
“Well,” said Dedubian, “I did not want to say that word because they are my clients; I have to call them connoisseurs. But I think you have captured the essence.”
“Would any of these ‘connoisseurs’ have stolen this violin, Bo?”
“That is the trouble with my theory, Jake. They might buy a violin way above market cost with no questions asked, but basically they want anonymity, so they stay as far away from trouble as possible.”
“So how strongly do you think the Piccolino’s in the hands of a collector and will never see the light of day again?” asked Jacobus.
“It is possible, of course,” said Dedubian, “and believe me I have made some discreet inquiries. But I doubt it. I sincerely doubt it.”
At that moment, Mrs. King’s voice blared over the intercom.
“Mr. Dedubian, Ms. Jablonski’s on line one. She—”
Dedubian cut her off. “I’ll call her back,” he said hastily.
Jacobus sensed embarrassment in Dedubian’s voice.
A relationship? Jacobus pondered to himself, continuing to sip his coffee. Or something else?
Jacobus’s own fling with Victoria happened too long ago for him to be jealous of Dedubian now, but he felt a twinge nevertheless. Affairs with students had always been ethical anathema to him, but Victoria had clearly turned the tables. Young and lusty and full of herself, Victoria had made Jacobus the first big notch on her gun. When she ended the relationship in search of younger, more adventurous fare, his relief had been only mildly tinged with regret.
“And you, Miss Shinagawa,” said Dedubian, “you have been so polite and quiet. What’s your point of view?”
Dedubian and Victoria, thought Jacobus. Is there an angle there? Is that why he’s changing the subject?
“Me?” asked Yumi.
“Why not? A student of Daniel Jacobus must by definition be highly intelligent and perceptive as well as talented.”
“Certainly I am not able to understand this business if you and Mr. Jacobus—”
“Not at all,” said Dedubian. “We would consider
any theory you might have most seriously and respectfully. Wouldn’t we, Jake?”
Jacobus nodded. He had planned on asking her the same question at some point, but better someone else be the first to do it. He put his coffee down, sat back, and pretended not to be overly interested.
“Well,” started Yumi tentatively, “I am reminded of a story my grandmother told me when I was a little child.”
“Yes, go on,” encouraged Dedubian.
Jacobus heard Yumi gently place her teacup in its porcelain saucer as she began her story.
She told a tale of a famous wood-carver name Ichiro Noda who had lived in her small village centuries ago. The village managed to get by from scratching crops out of the rocky mountainside. Noda-san, however, became very rich and famous and came to be referred to as Noda-sama. Master Noda.
“One day he decided he wanted to help the poor villagers, so he built a shrine outside the village, actually carving the trees that were literally still growing in the earth. It took him years to finish, but at last the shrine attracted the attention of people from all over the land, as Noda-sama predicted it would, and they traveled hundreds of miles to the shrine as a religious pilgrimage. They would come to the shrine by the hundreds, and then by the thousands, to pray for good fortune, and of course they would spend their money in the village, as Noda-sama had also predicted. In a few years the villagers grew comfortable, and then even prosperous. But as their fortunes grew they gradually forgot to tend their land, which became useless. After a time they also became greedy and began to fight each other. One day, Noda-sama, who had seen what his shrine had done to his village, decided it was his responsibility to set things right, so he cut down the trees that formed the shrine and burned them to ashes. Instead of being appreciative of this act, which for an artist like Noda-sama was an act of supreme sacrifice, the villagers were horrified that the source of their wealth had been destroyed. They were so angry at Noda-sama that they chased him with sticks and torches out of the village into the mountains, where he spent the rest of his life as a poor hermit.”
