Devil's Trill

by Gerald Elias

  “This room is the one concession to England that my late husband, Mr. Hashimoto, was willing to make,” said Kate. “Now that I’m getting on in years myself I’m glad he did. I don’t know if I could enjoy my tea sitting on the floor anymore. Here we are, Jake. Here’s your chair.”

  The dining table was old England but the meal pure Japanese. It started with sashimi, fillets of fresh raw fish from the local streams, served with spicy wasabi—which to Jacobus’s palette tasted so fresh it must have been ground from leaves plucked from the same streams as the fish—pickled ginger, shredded daikon, and soy sauce. The mixture of flavors and textures aroused his taste buds.

  “Isn’t Mr. Shinagawa joining us?” Jacobus asked Keiko, his mouth still half full of a perch fillet.

  “My husband,” said Keiko, “works for the prefectural government. His office is in Kagoshima, which is several hours from here and makes it impossible to commute. So he has a flat there, and we go to visit him on occasion.”

  “Well, I’m sorry that I won’t be able to meet him on this trip,” said Jacobus, swallowing. Time to bait them like they baited this fish, he thought.

  “Perhaps sometime in the future,” said Keiko.

  “I hope so. Could you please pass a little more wasabi? But that puts Yumi in a particularly uncomfortable position.”

  “How so, Jake?” asked Kate, with a hint of tension that anyone other than Jacobus would have missed.

  Hooked her! I am on the right track, dammit.

  “Well, here we are, three violin teachers and one student. It’s not very fair, is it, three against one? I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes!”

  “Yes, we’ll do our best not to gang up on you, Yumi-chan, won’t we?” Kate laughed, relief evident. “After all, it’s difficult enough studying with one teacher at a time. Mr. Jacobus, I see you have finished your sashimi. Lovely, isn’t it? The next course will be served momentarily.”

  Without another word Jacobus heard Keiko slide her seat back and remove herself to the kitchen.

  Efficient chain of command we have here, Jacobus thought. No question who the boss is either.

  “You see, Jake,” said Kate, “in a more traditional household it would be me in the kitchen while everyone else eats. But fortunately for me I’m a horrific chef—no doubt my English genes—and, frankly, some traditions just aren’t worth a hoot.”

  Keiko brought in a huge tray of tempura served on rustic bamboo baskets. Thinly sliced vegetables from the family garden plot, shrimp, and fish had been dipped in a light batter and quickly deep-fried.

  Jacobus dipped a tempura onion into the slightly sweet sauce. He smiled as he took his first bite, and Keiko commented, “Ah, Jacobus-sensei. I’m so glad it pleases you. Here we like good food.”

  “I have a friend who says the same thing,” replied Jacobus, thinking about Sol’s comment. Family. Music. Doing the right thing. Food.

  “Then next time you visit us, you should definitely bring him with you,” Kate said. “But in the meantime, we are happy to have you all to ourselves.

  “Since all of us—or should I say three-quarters of us—are teachers, and since you’re here for such a short time, Jake, would you mind terribly if we picked your brain? What a horrible saying, ‘picking your brain,’ but would you mind?”

  “Well,” said Jacobus, wiping off some tempura sauce dripping down his chin with his shirtsleeve, “if that food was intended as a bribe, you’ve succeeded. I’ve told Yumi that the key to understanding is asking questions. So go ahead, pick away.”

  And sooner or later the game’ll begin. Now we’re just setting up the chessboard.

  “That is so kind of you, Jake. As you know, Keiko and I teach only beginners, but you’ve had advanced students brought to you by teachers like us from all over the world. What I’d like to know is, have you found any problems in violin playing that seem to be universal? After all, if music is truly the universal language, one must also reasonably expect that there will be universal speech impediments.”

  “You’d be surprised how many, but why that should be the case probably has more to do with the way one thinks about playing than about anything physiological,” answered Jacobus.

  “Hmm. Your pedagogical tone suits you well, Mr. Jacobus, but could you kindly provide an example?”

  The two of them engaged a deep discussion of the difficulty students around the world have with the little finger of either hand—that finger being the weakest, thereby creating the tendency for the greatest tension, the result of which can bollix up one’s whole technique. They were surprised and pleased that each had come up with similar solutions to solve the dilemma, and in addition how actually to use the fourth fingers to one’s advantage to play in tune in the case of the left hand, and how to guide the bow with the right. What sounded like a purely technical symposium to most people was for Jacobus a Shakespeare sonnet.

  “Kate,” said Jacobus, “you’re a mind reader.”

  Keiko brought in the final course, served on distinctive black lacquered trays. Cha zaru soba, a delicate noodle made of finely ground buckwheat and green tea, served cold and dipped in its own unique sauce, was especially refreshing on a muggy summer evening.

  “How did you know this is my favorite dish?” asked Jacobus, loudly sucking up the noodles in the approved Japanese manner.

  “As you say, we’re mind readers here, Jake,” said Kate, lighthearted. “We also know why you are here in Japan.”

  Ah, the chess match begins.

  “Do you?” asked Jacobus. He continued slurping.

  “Certainly. Yumi has told us about your investigation of the theft of the Piccolino Stradivarius, and you have come to seek Furukawa’s counsel to help you apprehend the thief.”

  “That is partly correct.” Time to position my pawns.

  “Oh? And which part is that?”

  “I indeed came to seek Furukawa’s counsel. However, please understand that capturing the thief is no concern of mine.”

  “No? If not that, then what is your concern?” asked Keiko, surprise in her voice.

  “Only to see that the violin is returned. That’s all that my friend Nathaniel Williams asked me to do. I have no desire to bring the thief to justice, and who the thief may be is of no importance to me.”

  “But how can you expect to retrieve the violin without knowing who the thief is?” asked Keiko quietly, as she poured chilled wheat tea into four porcelain cups.

  “Join me in a cigarette, Jake?” asked Kate.

  “Thanks,” said Jacobus. She inserted one, already lit, between his lips.

  Must’ve lit them both in her mouth. Cool customer, Granny.

  “To answer your question, Keiko, I don’t plan to retrieve the violin,” said Jacobus, blowing out some smoke.

  “Mr. Jacobus, you puzzle me,” said Keiko. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain.”

  “It is my belief,” said Jacobus, “that whoever stole the violin will return it.”

  Taking another deep pull on the cigarette, he felt Kate’s warm smoky breath on his face. Must be leaning forward. Getting interested.

  “Surely you can’t be serious,” continued Keiko. “If the thief had good reason to steal it in the first place, why do you think it would be returned?”

  “I didn’t say the thief had a good reason,” said Jacobus, “but for argument’s sake, why not assume for a moment the thief had good reasons. What would those reasons be?”

  “Greed would not be a good reason,” said Keiko.

  “Clearly.”

  “Or profit.”

  “A good reason,” said Yumi, “would be to do good.”

  “And how would stealing something be doing good?” asked Jacobus.

  “You have said so yourself,” said Yumi. “In your opinion the Grimsley Competition represents everything bad about music. Without the Piccolino, there would be no Competition, so by stealing it, the thief is making the world better.”

  “Yeah, that may have
been the intent,” said Jacobus. “And maybe it’s even a good intent.”

  “So you agree, then,” said Keiko, “that the violin should not be returned?”

  “No.”

  “And why not, Jake?” asked Kate.

  Jacobus heard her slowly rub out her cigarette butt in an ashtray, pick up her teacup, and take a long, slow sip.

  Time to move out my knight.

  “Has the world really become a better place? I don’t think so. A young kid, the kid who won the Grimsley, who has the potential to become a fine violinist, is distraught. She’s suffering potentially debilitating pain from playing on an inferior instrument, and her budding career may be ruined. Otherwise honorable people have been corrupted by its lure. I’m the chief suspect in this theft business, which I don’t care for very much. And finally, the police have accused me of murdering Victoria Jablonski.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Kate’s porcelain teacup shattered on the wood floor. Jacobus instinctively lurched his head away, protecting his face from splintered shards and scalding tea.

  “Murder! I have heard nothing of murder!” cried Kate.

  “I am sorry, Oba-san!” cried Yumi, jumping up. “I have not had a chance to tell you. Please don’t harm us, Mr. Jacobus!”

  “What?” Jacobus was astounded. “Why should I harm you?”

  “Because of what you did to Miss Jablonski!” said Yumi. “At first, I thought you did it because of what she did to me. When she slapped me the humiliation was worse than the pain. When I heard she was dead I almost forgave you. But then you were so wild and angry and desperate, and you forced me to return here. I thought, is my family in danger now? What could I have done? If I had refused, you would still have come here. I had no choice. I had to go with you. I had to protect my family. I decided I would continue to play the role of student, but I tried to keep you away from here. And now I have failed.”

  “My God!” said Jacobus. He had indeed brought Yumi to this place because of the murder, but not because he had done it. He had thought Yumi killed Victoria after Victoria’s humiliation of her, during that brief disappearance in Carnegie Hall after which she had brought him his violin with the missing G-string. There had been her violent reaction to Miller’s announcement of Victoria’s death and her erratic behavior, all of which had made him increasingly sure of her guilt. That’s why he insisted on her coming with him, to get her out of harm’s way, at least temporarily. But now he realized from Yumi’s reaction that his own scenario had been equally wrong.

  “And I am also sorry,” said Jacobus, rising from his chair. “I’ve shocked you unnecessarily.”

  “Indeed you have, Jake,” said Kate. “You’ve made my hands tremble. Not even the Paganini Concerto could do that.” She tried, unsuccessfully, to conjure up a laugh.

  Jacobus explained what had happened the day they went to Carnegie Hall and how his suspicions of Yumi forced him to take her with him for her protection.

  “You must believe me that when I left Victoria Jablonski’s office the only injury I left her with were her bruised feelings.”

  Jacobus heard Yumi already mopping up the tea and the splintered cup, Keiko consoling Kate in Japanese.

  “I’ll be all right. I’ll be all right,” said Kate. “That poor, poor woman! What will become of all her students? And what is going to happen to you? Oh, my God!”

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Jacobus. “Neither the thief, nor I, had anything to do with the murder. I’ll just need to convince the police of that when I go back to New York. Justice will eventually prevail, I’m sure,” he said with a smile he was fairly certain wasn’t convincing.

  “Well, where do we go from here?” asked Kate.

  Her words were rapid-fire, their pitch elevated.

  “Where?” asked Keiko.

  “Yes, we don’t want to spoil a lovely dinner, do we? Could I have another cigarette? Yumi, light one for me please. My hands are not quite settled yet.”

  Jacobus heard the deep intake of tobacco smoke and then the slow exhalation.

  “Let’s talk about the weather,” Kate said. “Yes. Tell me about the weather. Shall I tell you about the weather? It has been a bit dreary today, don’t you think?”

  The conversation came to a halt as they listened to the drizzle outside turn into a steady shower. Jacobus let the silence continue.

  Gathering her defenses. Give her time. It won’t make a difference.

  “Why don’t we listen to Sensei’s gift?” asked Keiko in a quiet, soothing voice.

  The endgame begins.

  “Yes, let’s. Splendid idea, Keiko,” said Kate.

  “Oba-san,” said Yumi to Kate, “I will clear the table.”

  “Good. And Keiko, would you please go fetch the tape recorder? My dears, Mr. Jacobus has presented us with yet another mystery—I hope a more pleasant one. I’ve got it somewhere in my sleeve. Here. A tape recording with no title. Would you care to give us any clues, Mr. Jacobus?”

  Moving out my rooks to capture the queen.

  “I’ll tell you a little bit about the music. Your job is to guess the performer. The piece, for violin and piano, is called “Sicilienne” and is only about three minutes long. The composer was a woman, Maria Theresia von Paradis. She was a contemporary of Mozart and much admired by him as a skillful pianist as well as a composer. What is especially noteworthy about her to many people, though not to me, is that from the age of five she was blind.”

  “Is it not also remarkable,” said Keiko as she inserted the tape, “for a woman to have achieved success as a composer long ago, as until recently it has been so difficult to do even as a performer?”

  Keiko pushed Play.

  Jacobus heard someone inhale slowly. He was fairly sure it was Kate. Resigning? Or just getting ready?

  This particular Sicilienne was not nearly as dramatic or technically difficult as the one that begins Tartini’s “Devil’s Trill” Sonata. Rather, it had an extreme simplicity and poignancy hovering undecidedly between happiness and sadness, transformed by degree from moment to moment. It was the angel compared to Tartini’s devil. Jacobus had once read a description of such music as “smiling through tears.” That the composer had suffered through the obstacles of blindness, and of being a female composer in a man’s world, heightened one’s appreciation of the sublime resignation of the music.

  Though the tape had obviously been duplicated from a scratchy old 78 recording, it came through clearly that the violinist, the accompanying pianist, and the composer spoke as one. Every sighing nuance, every shift, the expressive use of vibrato, told the wordless story.

  The listeners were entranced, and when the final, fading note was lovingly abandoned to silence, the listeners remained motionless.

  Keiko spoke first. “Sensei, you have brought us a beautiful treasure that we will never be able to repay. From what you have told us about the composer’s blindness, I can only guess that it is you yourself on the recording.”

  “You flatter me, Keiko, but I must admit that it is not me. Nor, I am sorry to say, do I believe I have ever been able to play so beautifully.”

  Yumi said, “Then it must be Fritz Kreisler. Or Mischa Elman. Perhaps Nathan Milstein. Oh, I don’t know.

  “Grandmother, are you crying? You have not moved.”

  “You are an extraordinary man, Mr. Jacobus,” said Kate.

  “And you are a remarkable woman,” he said quietly.

  Checkmate.

  No one spoke.

  He now knew he had been right. And now Kate also knew that he knew. He knew that Yumi had suspected he had known, and shortly he would confirm that with her and Keiko. He had prepared for this moment since leaving New York. He would now prepare them for the return of the violin, for which he needed Kate’s help. She would help because she already understood.

  “Recently, Yumi asked me about perfection,” Jacobus continued softly.

  “Obviously, dear,” Kate said to Yumi, regaining her matr
iarchal tone, “there is no such thing. To search for perfection is futility itself.”

  Yumi asked, “But playing the violin, isn’t it important to try to play perfectly? Like the recording?”

  “It’s important to try, perhaps, but one must acknowledge it’s physically impossible, even if there was an aesthetic definition of perfection, which there isn’t.”

  “What about playing in tune?” asked Keiko. “Certainly something is either in tune or out of tune.”

  “One would think so,” said Jacobus. “But that’s not necessarily the case either.”

  Jacobus went on to explain in great detail how playing a note in tune with one open string of the violin might make it out of tune with another because of distinct overtone series. “And that’s why it’s problematic for a violinist to play with a pianist, because of the fundamentally different way half steps on the piano are calibrated. It’s all compromise,” he concluded. “No perfection there.”

  “So what can a violinist do when playing with a pianist?” asked Yumi.

  “Make decisions. Human, musical decisions. Does that disturb you?”

  “If there is no perfection, what is the goal of practicing?”

  Kate intervened. “The goal, dear, is to search for beauty, an essential element of which is imperfection. That may seem contradictory, but for something to be perfect, it must contain imperfection, for that is what makes it human and enables us to appreciate its beauty. But then, of course, it is no longer perfect. A paradox. Sad but true.”

  “Oba-san,” said Yumi, “this is very confusing.”

  Jacobus interrupted. “Your grandmother’s exactly right. Take the Beethoven Violin Concerto, maybe the most ‘perfect’ concerto ever written. Even so, Beethoven knew there must be a flaw, if you can call it that, incorporated into the music.”

  “What flaw?” asked Keiko.

  “For example, when the cadenza of the last movement ends up in the totally wrong key of A-flat Major, harmonically the most distantly related from the ‘correct’ key of D Major. And why? If Beethoven had wanted to be ‘perfect’ it would have been less interesting. By including an imperfection, he gives the music unpredictability, humor, mystery, making the resolution of all this musical ‘confusion’ more fulfilling, more powerful. He gives it a unique beauty, and that is what we, as musicians, must strive for.”