by Gerald Elias
Yumi asked, “Then is there nothing in music that’s perfect?”
Jacobus responded, “Maybe your grandmother can answer that.”
Kate said, “Yes, Yumi. The Piccolino Stradivarius. It is perfect. And that’s why whoever stole it did so.”
For the first time since he had arrived in Japan, Jacobus was unable to restrain the snarl in his voice. “But is it perfection? No! It’s a piece of wood, at most a symbol. Not real. And look at the tragedy it’s caused. And how many more tragedies if those who have it continue to conceal it?”
“Of course, you are precisely correct once again, Mr. Jacobus.” Jacobus heard Kate shift her weight—leaning back?—and after a brief pause, she sighed. “And that is why whoever stole the violin will see that it is immediately returned to Miss Vander.”
Keiko burst out in frantic Japanese but immediately silenced herself.
Yumi, younger and less reserved, cried, “Oba-san! How can you say this?”
“It’s all right, dear,”said Kate gently, almost with a smile.“Mr. Jacobus knows everything.”
“How can he? How do you know?”
“The recording we just listened to,” Kate said.
“Yes?” asked Yumi. “I don’t understand.”
“That was your grandmother playing,” said Jacobus.
THIRTY-THREE
Jacobus understood the way that sound could affect one’s psyche. What he marveled at at this moment, though, was how his own mood itself seemed to alter the very sounds he was hearing. Somehow, the quality of the sound of the rain falling on the rice paddies had changed. No longer was it dismal and remorseful. Now it seemed serenely revitalizing, refreshing, at peace.
Kate spoke. “It appears our clairvoyant Mr. Jacobus has unraveled our scheme, and that’s all there is to it. Yumi, please go fetch the violin for Mr. Jacobus. I’m sure at some point he’ll be kind enough to explain how he managed such a prodigious feat. Keiko, please bring me another cup and pour us all some more tea.
“Well,” Kate continued lightly when Yumi returned, “it seems we have two choices. Either we can allow our good Mr. Jacobus to return to New York with that violin, or we can kill him, though I don’t recommend the latter as it would deprive Yumi of a perfectly fine violin teacher.”
The only response was the sound of the rain.
Kate cleared her throat. “Obviously my humor was not appropriate for the moment. Of course Mr. Jacobus will take the violin to its rightful owner, and we can only hope that he will be understanding of our motives for removing it in the first place.”
“More than understanding,” responded Jacobus. “Totally sympathetic. Be assured that the mystery of the stolen Stradivarius will remain a mystery to all but the four of us.”
“For that, Mr. Jacobus, we bow our heads in eternal gratitude. Our fates are totally in your hands and at this point all we can ask of you is to please tell us how we ended up there.”
“How?” asked Jacobus. “How would take a very long time to explain, so for now let me just say that if not for the unlikely coincidence of Max sending Yumi to me to study, and me being asked by my friend Mr. Williams to find the violin, how would never have been possible. On the other hand, I would like to tell you what I believe happened, and please correct me if I’m wrong.
“Kamryn Vander had a recital at Carnegie Hall. Keiko, you attended both the performance and the reception, absolutely inconspicuous, one of many elegant Asian women who so frequently attend concerts in New York. Then the security guard, Harry Pizzi, received the message to go to the stage door because Yumi, the accomplice, having climbed the fire escape to the top of the Patelson building—I’m guessing dressed in black to be invisible against the night sky—had just hurled baseball-sized rocks through the stage-door window. It was timed for just about when the celebrants at the reception would be getting restless to leave, with their minds more on traffic and bed, not violins. That was your signal, Keiko, and it was also the diversion you needed. You waited to see which security guard would take the bait and quickly but smoothly made your move while Yumi hightailed it out of there. Am I right so far?”
“Go on, Mr. Jacobus.”
“You then entered Green Room B from the corridor before Robison had a chance to switch places. Here’s a question for you. What if the door had been locked?”
“I would have picked it easily, Mr. Jacobus,” said Keiko. “I have been practicing. And after all, it was not a door to a bank vault.”
“No doubt your dexterity from playing the violin would have been helpful as well,” said Jacobus. “Once you were in the room, if someone had caught you there, you would have apologized in rapid Japanese and backed out of the room, and no one would have given it a second thought. But so far so good.
“Now the question is, how to get the violin (a) out of the case, and (b) out of the room. My guess is that if the violin were locked in the case you would have brought a bigger case with the insides cut out so you could just put the three-quarter-size violin, case and all, right inside it. No one would have questioned someone carrying an instrument case in Carnegie Hall.”
“Yes, it was a viola case,” Keiko said quietly.
“There you go. But, in fact, the Piccolino’s case had not been locked, which we know because it was left there, and since there were no unexpected fingerprints on the case you were no doubt wearing white gloves, which would have fit in just fine with most of the other ladies in the audience.”
“Yes.”
“So anyway, you had gone into the room from the corridor door, but with Robison now sitting at that post, which you knew because you heard him talking to me, you exited through the door to Green Room A and left Carnegie Hall with the rest of the throng. And like the others you hailed a cab on Fifty-seventh Street. The cab took you to JFK, and you were on the plane to Japan well before the police alert to the airports went out.
“Congratulations, and thank you for saving me the trouble.”
“What trouble was that, Mr. Jacobus?”
“A minute after you stole that violin, I tried to crush it myself, and if it had been in the case like it was supposed to be, I’d be in the slammer right now.”
“I’m glad we could be of service,” said Kate. “But if you know all of this, why doesn’t anyone else? Why not the police?”
“Because, Kate, you and I, we think alike.”
“Well, Jake, would you be interested in inspecting the mystery violin?” Kate offered. “After all, you’ve gone to all this trouble to find it.”
“Why the hell not? I wouldn’t mind knowing what the big deal’s been all about.”
Jacobus heard Yumi remove the Stradivarius from its case. Her hand was on his, tentatively, preparing him to accept the instrument that had been the source of endless misfortune.
It was in his hands. With its neck nestled in his left hand, he gauged the flawless, albeit reduced, dimensions of the instrument with his right. He rolled his fingertips over the scroll’s demonic dragon head, maple-hard and intimidating. Slowly his fingers slid lower along the delicate neck of the violin, the rounded contours of its shoulders, the graceful inward curves of its ribs, the roundness of its bottom.
Jesus! he thought. He had never held an instrument like this.
He placed his palm on the Piccolino’s back to gauge its proportions and its gentle arching. The instrument accepted the warmth of his touch almost as if the violin were breathing in response.
It must be me breathing, he thought, or my pulse coursing through my fingers. That must be it.
Turning the violin over, he put his fingers on the belly of the instrument, seeking the openings of its f-holes—the most elegant and yet the most challenging carving of the craftsman—forming a visual image in his mind. Aroused by the violin’s unique beauty and power, his hand began to perspire. He could understand being unable to part with it. He almost wanted it to be his.
Jacobus brought the violin to his ear, to pluck the strings, to hear and to
feel the Piccolino’s vibrations. To submit to the Siren. G-string, D-string, A-string, E-string.
Jacobus was puzzled. He plucked them again: G, D, A, E.
Frowning, he muttered something under his breath.
“Excuse me, Jake,” said Kate. “What is that you said?”
Louder, but still to himself, he said, in long, drawn-out vowels, “No. No.”
He plucked the strings more harshly. G, D, A, E.
“No what, Jake?”
Jacobus did not like being toyed with. Ever. But the implications of what was happening strained his already frayed nerves beyond a tolerable point.
“Give me a bow.”
“Well, since you put it so politely, here.”
Jacobus pulled the bow along the open strings, gauging the quality and duration of their resonance. He tried to prevent his arm from trembling, with limited success. He quickly adapted his left hand to the instrument’s shorter string length and played a few slow three-octave scales from the very bottom of the violin’s register up to its highest frequencies.
He stopped and held the violin out at arm’s length, an Inquisitor, madly and incorruptibly certain of his Truth, brandishing a cross before a heretic.
“No, this is not a Stradivarius, Mrs. Padgett,” snarled Jacobus. “This violin is not a Stradivarius, Mrs. Padgett! Where is the Piccolino Stradivarius, Mrs. Padgett?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Jake,” said Kate. “It’s impossible! I am equally certain that the violin we have before us is the same one I saw in the Grimsley as I am that this young lady is my granddaughter.”
Jacobus was fed up with the world. He didn’t give a damn anymore.
“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Make a copy, keep the original, send me back with a fake holding my cock in my hands. Very clever. Fool the blind man, huh? Your lovely granddaughter already tried that on me once. Send me to prison while you sit here sipping your tea.
“It is no secret, Mrs. Padgett, that the violins made in Cremona in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries—the violins made by the Amatis, the Guarneris, and Stradivari—have a unique sound. The Cremona sound. A smoothness, a richness. Where the E string sounds as warm as the G. Where the instrument sings with the sound of every great opera singer, soprano to bass, rolled into one. And that within the Cremona sound, the sound of a Stradivarius, especially one in pristine condition, is itself unique. A Guarnerius may have more power, but a Stradivarius has a warmth, a tone that gives it a soul. A unique soul. An unmistakable soul.
“This violin is not a Stradivarius, Mrs. Padgett. It is not even Cremonese. It is a good fake—like you. And I had been stupid enough to have thought better of you.”
“Mr. Jacobus!”
Yumi’s voice. Louder than usual. What the hell did she want?
“Mr. Jacobus, just two things. First of all, don’t you dare talk to Grandmother like that. I will not permit it!”
She will not permit it, thought Jacobus. She will not permit it! Pretty brazen for a little thief. How he had mistaken her. For a while she had actually touched him with her playing. With her dedication. She had almost renewed his faith in himself. But now. He really should have given up teaching.
“Yeah?” said Jacobus. “And second?”
“Second,” continued Yumi. She paused for a moment. Jacobus waited. What polite little excuse can she come up with now?
“Why the hell,” she hollered, “would we be so silly to risk exposure, to risk everything, by having a copy of the Piccolino Strad made just in case we would be caught, when we believed we were totally successful with the theft? And we were totally successful. If we hadn’t been, I would have returned to Japan with Mother. But no, I stayed to learn music from the great Daniel Jacobus, Furukawa-sensei’s highly esteemed friend and colleague. I would become a violinist. I would be happy. I asked for no more.
“How could we have known?” she said, more to herself than to anyone in the room. “How could anyone have known you would be the one person in the world asked to find the Piccolino?”
“It’s all right, dear,” said Kate. “No one could have predicted it. No one could have known.”
There was a moment of quiet, a light patter of gentle rain falling on the rice paddy outside. Jacobus hoped that Yumi had finished. Everything she said had been painfully true.
“What had I done to make you suspect me?” Yumi cried out, her eyes fixed on Jacobus. “With every question you asked, with every glance—even with your blind eyes—I sensed you knew something more about me no matter how I answered. You were an animal trainer with a whip, backing me into a corner. What could I do? Go home and never return, which would make you suspect me even more and end my hopes of playing the violin? If I stayed, what then? You would wear me down, little by little, with your questions.
“Why didn’t I leave after our second lesson, when you threw me out? I’ve asked myself that question over and over. It would have been the perfect opportunity. If I had, you wouldn’t be here now. On our drive back to your house from New York, do you know what I thought?”
Jacobus shrugged, his head down.
“I thought I finally understood why you had taken me to New York. I thought it was a test. That you were testing my will by exposing me to the ugly realities of being a musician. That these people—these agents, these dealers, these competitions, even these teachers—were like the Eta of Japan. Do you know who the Eta are, Mr. Jacobus?” asked Yumi.
“Yumi!” exclaimed Keiko.
“See?” said Yumi. “We don’t even talk about them here. They’re the hidden undercaste of Japan who work with corpses—butchers, leather-workers, gravediggers who live in the poor dark fringes of our cities. Do you know what is Eta in English? ‘Full of filth.’
“I had thought that perhaps you had been trying to make the tunnel dark so that the light at its end would be brighter. Those meetings with Dedubian, Vander, Grimsley, Rachel, Strella, Jablonski—especially Jablonski—had opened my eyes, showed me how idealism, devotion to the beauty of music could be compromised in so many ways. Dedubian, a man who makes money by holding hostage the instruments musicians must have, who in so many words called me a thief! Those people aren’t Eta. They are worse than Eta!
“I had thought you were trying to open my eyes. I had thought you were trying to make the profession look as grotesque as possible so that I would cling to my integrity with ever more strength. I had thought I no longer hated you on that ride home. I had thought I was indebted to you. But no, you were just trying to catch me!
“And, Mr. Jacobus, even if we were so silly as to try to make a copy of the Piccolino that looks and sounds exactly like the original, how could we have done that in a matter of days? That makes no sense at all. And since you were correct in all your assumptions about us, and give yourself credit for being such an analytical genius, why now do you believe all those assumptions were wrong? That would be damned stupid, if you ask me.”
Jacobus thought for a moment, in silence. Then he burst out in a wheezing laugh.
“I knew I was right,” he said, in between efforts to inhale.
“What’s so funny, Jake?” said Kate. “Right about what?”
“I told Yumi at her first lesson that by the end of the year she’d be arguing with me and I’d be learning something from her. It happened sooner than I thought.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Jake’s bones were tired. Tired from the last six days. Tired of the tension and tired of the effort. Tired of dishonesty and of death. His was not the tired of ‘I need a good night’s sleep’ or ‘I need to get away for some R and R.’ His was the exhaustion of a ruined soul, with just enough strength to recall, perhaps for one last time, the happier moments of one’s life. Of thinking that not breathing might be easier than breathing. Sitting neck-deep in the Shinagawas’ cedar-lined furo, a half-empty bottle of Suntory his sole companion, he had little expectation that the intense heat would penetrate his bones to provide him some
temporary resuscitation, because he knew his trials had only just begun.
It had been a bitter triumph, and he did not rejoice in having tracked down Kate Padgett. The mystery of the real missing Piccolino had not been solved—Kate, Keiko, and Yumi were unanimous in their insistence that they had no idea the violin in their possession was a forgery, and he believed them. And soon he would be in police custody for the murder of Victoria Jablonski. It was clear that Yumi had not killed Victoria. Or was it? He would almost prefer to be unjustly convicted than to see her justly accused. When she had sobbingly confessed that she had suspected him in Victoria’s murder she had been so remorseful that he was convinced. It couldn’t have been an act. Or could it?
One thing he knew for sure. Someone had outwitted all of them. For the first and maybe last time in his life, Jacobus felt his age.
Some chess game! he thought. Me, the great Grandmaster. I wasn’t even playing with the right person.
He took what little comfort he could from the surrounding silence and, for once, in his darkness. He leaned back, pressing hard on his useless eyes with his tired wet hands.
Then there was a sound.
He strained to hear, motionless, allowing the drops of water to trickle off his elbows and blip into the furo.
It was the sound of the wooden door of the bathroom sliding open with a soft reptilian hiss. Silently. Almost silently. Closing slowly, carefully. He listened for the light switch to be turned on. He didn’t hear it. It would be dark also for the intruder, Jacobus’s only advantage. Bare feet slid carefully on the wet tile floor, seeking a secure foothold in the darkness.
