(2005) Until I Find You

by John Irving

  “Tranquillo,” Dr. Horvath said with surprising softness, in Italian.

  After that, Jack just listened to his father play. Jack couldn’t believe how William kept playing, or how no one in the congregation left—how they never moved a muscle. They were standing, Dr. Horvath and Jack—Dr. Krauer-Poppe stood the whole time, too. Jack couldn’t speak for the others, but his legs didn’t get tired; he just stood there, absorbing the sound. William Burns played on and on—all his favorites. (What Heather had called “the old standards.”)

  William played for over an hour. They heard Handel, and everyone else. When his dad began Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor—the famous piece that had been such a crowd-pleaser among the prostitutes in the Oude Kerk in Amsterdam—Dr. Horvath nudged Jack.

  “We are almost leaving,” Dr. Horvath said.

  Naturally, Jack didn’t want to go, but he saw that Anna-Elisabeth was watching him. Jack trusted her; he trusted them all. It was a hard piece of music to go down the stairs to, but Dr. Horvath and Jack quietly descended. His father was too busy playing to see them go.

  It was warm in the church; all the doors were open, and the windows that would open were open, too. The sound of the Bach poured into the little square; it came outdoors with them. The Bach was not as loud outside—in the trees, or on the stone stairs leading away from the church—but you could hear every note of it, almost as clearly as you could hear it in St. Peter.

  That was when Jack saw all the people in the open windows and doorways of the surrounding buildings. Everywhere he looked, there were people—just listening.

  “Of course it’s not quite like this in the winter!” Dr. Horvath was saying. “But still they come to hear him play.”

  Jack stood at the bottom of the church stairs, in the middle of the little square—just listening and looking at all the people. There wasn’t a sound from the construction workers, who had long ago stopped working. They were standing at attention on the scaffolding, their tools at rest—just listening. The man who’d been wielding the hammer had his shirt off; the two men who’d been working with the flexible saw were smoking. The fourth worker, the pipefitter, held a small piece of pipe in one hand—like a baton. He was pretending to be a conductor, conducting the music.

  “Those clowns!” Dr. Horvath said. He looked at his watch. “No finger-cramping episodes so far!”

  The Bach sounded like it was winding up, or down. “There’s more?” Jack asked. “Another piece after this?”

  “One more,” Dr. Horvath said, nodding.

  Jack realized, from the way they were standing, that the construction workers on the scaffolding knew the program as well as Dr. Horvath knew it; they looked as if they were getting ready for something.

  Suddenly the Bach was over. It happened simultaneously with a puzzling exodus—families with children were leaving the church. Some of the mothers with younger children were running; only the adults and the teenagers stayed.

  “Cowards!” Dr. Horvath said contemptuously; he kicked a stone. “Get ready, Jack. I’ll see you later—for some jogging!” Jack realized that Dr. Horvath was preparing to leave him.

  Jack also realized that he knew the last piece. In his case, he’d just heard Heather play it in Old St. Paul’s. How could he ever forget it? It was Boellmann’s horror-movie Toccata. The construction workers knew the Boellmann, too—perhaps William Burns always played it last. The construction workers clearly knew everything that was coming.

  It wasn’t at all like not being able to hear it, when Jack had stood outside Old St. Paul’s. What poured out of the Kirche St. Peter was deafening. Jack was not familiar enough with the Boellmann to detect his father’s first mistake, the first finger-cramping episode, but Dr. Horvath obviously heard it; he winced and made a fist of one hand, as if he’d just shut his fingers in a car door. “Time for me to go back inside!” Dr. Horvath cried.

  There came a second mistake, and a third; now Jack could hear the errors.

  “His fingers?” he asked Dr. Horvath.

  “You can’t believe how the Boellmann hurts him, Jack,” Dr. Horvath said, “but he can’t stop playing.”

  Jack thought of those prostitutes within hearing distance of the Oude Kerk, no matter how late at night or how early in the morning; now he knew why they couldn’t go home if William Burns was playing.

  At the fourth mistake, Dr. Horvath was off running. “I like to be there when he starts undressing!” he called to Jack, taking the stairs three at a time.

  The music raged on—the soundtrack for a chase scene to end all chase scenes, Jack imagined. In his next movie, there might be such a scene. Maybe he could get his dad to play the Boellmann—mistakes and all.

  The errors, even Jack could tell, were mounting. The construction workers were poised on the scaffolding.

  “I have a son!” Jack heard his father yell, over the deteriorating toccata. “I have a daughter and a son!” his dad shouted. Then William’s fingers locked—his fists came crashing down on the keyboard. A flock of pigeons exploded from the clock tower of the Kirche St. Peter, and the construction workers started singing.

  “I have a son!” they sang; they had even learned English, listening to William Burns. “I have a daughter and a son!” they sang out. They had more enthusiasm than talent, but Jack had to love them.

  “Venite exultemus Domino!” his father sang, the way you would sing or chant a psalm.

  One might assume that ordinary construction workers in Zurich wouldn’t necessarily know Latin, but this wasn’t the first time these men had listened to William Burns, and—as Anna-Elisabeth had told Jack—these workers were a little different.

  “Venite exultemus Domino!” the four workers sang back to Jack’s father.

  The man who’d earlier been hammering now held his hammer in one hand, his arm high above his head; the two workers with the flexible saw held it aloft, as if they were offering a sacrifice. The pipefitter had seized a long length of pipe, which he held straight up—like a flagpole.

  “Venite exultemus Domino!” Jack’s dad and the workers sang out, together.

  Jack knew the Latin only because he’d just been at Old St. Paul’s with his sister. “Come let us praise the Lord!” their father was singing. “I have a son. I have a daughter and a son! Come let us praise the Lord!”

  The construction workers went on singing with William.

  People were coming out of the church—now that the Boellmann no longer thundered on, now that there was no impending collision. Jack knew that his dad had taken off all his clothes, or he was in a partly undressed phase of the process. Back at the Sanatorium Kilchberg, Nurse Bleibel—either Waltraut or Hugo—would be getting the ice water ready. And then the hot wax, and then more ice water—as Anna-Elisabeth had explained.

  Soon William Burns would be standing naked in the Kirche St. Peter, if he wasn’t naked already—his full-body tattoos his only choir. And then, both gently and efficiently, Dr. Horvath would begin to dress him—or both Dr. Horvath and Dr. Krauer-Poppe would dress him. After that, they would be on their way—back to the clinic.

  The concert was over, but the construction workers were still applauding. That was when Jack knew that he and his father had always been playing to an audience of more than one—although it had helped Jack, as a child, to believe that he was performing only for his father. (Jack and his dad would have to have a conversation about William’s dispute with The Wurtz over the word audience—that and many other conversations.)

  Jack walked away from the square, down those narrow streets. Some of his father’s congregation were in the streets; they walked along with him. It was quite a wonderful feeling to know that Zurich was where Jack belonged, at least until William Burns was sleeping in the needles.

  Jack was thinking that he would go back to the Hotel zum Storchen and change into something more suitable for jogging.

  It was after midnight in Los Angeles—too late to call Dr. García at home. But Jack didn�
�t need to have a conversation with his psychiatrist. He would call her office and leave a message on her answering machine. “Thank you for listening to me, Dr. García,” Jack would tell her.

  It was four-thirty in the morning in Toronto, or some ungodly hour like that. Caroline would still be sleeping, but she wouldn’t mind a wake-up call from Jack—not if it was about his father, her dear William. In fact, Jack couldn’t wait to tell Miss Wurtz that he had found him.

  Acknowledgments

  In Toronto: Helga Stephenson, Bruce Smuck, Dr. Martin Schwartz, Detective Ray Zarb, Debbie Piotrowski.

  In Edinburgh: Mary Haggart, Bishop Richard Holloway, Florence Ingleby, Alan Taylor, Kerstie Howell, Aly Barr, Bill Stronach, David Valentine, John Kitchen, Elaine Kelly, Euan Ferguson.

  In Halifax and New Glasgow, Nova Scotia: Charles Burchell; Jerry Swallow, a.k.a. Sailor Jerry; Dave Schwarz.

  In Copenhagen: Susanne Bent Andersen, Kirstin Ringhof, Merete Borre, Trine Licht, Morten Hesseldahl, Lisbeth Møller-Madsen, Lasse Ewerlöf, Bimbo.

  In Stockholm: Charlotte Aquilonius, Doc Forest, Torvald Torén, Unn Palm, Anna Andersson.

  In Oslo: Mai Gaardsted, Janneken Øverland, Kåre Nordstoga.

  In Helsinki: Olli Arrakoski, Päivi Haarala, Jaakko Tapaninen, Tapio Tittu, Diego, Nipa, Taru.

  In Amsterdam: Robbert Ammerlaan; Joep de Groot; Henk Schiffmacher, a.k.a. Hanky Panky; Louise van Teylingen; Willem Vogel.

  In Los Angeles: Robert Bookman, Richard Gladstein, Alan Hergott.

  In Zurich: Ruth Geiger, Anna von Planta, Professor Waldemar Greil, Dr. Andreas Horváth, Dr. Oliver Hartmann, Dr. Stephanie Krebs, Dr. Alice Walder, Dr. Christine Huwig-Poppe.

  Special thanks to: Kelly Harper Berkson, David Calicchio, Kate Medina, Harvey Ginsberg, Craig Nova, Alyssa Barrett, Amy Edelman, Janet Turnbull Irving.

  Permission Acknowledgments

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:

  Carcanet Press Limited: Excerpt from “A Slice of Wedding Cake” from Complete Poems in One Volume by Robert Graves, published by Carcanet Press Limited. Reprinted by permission.

  Hope Publishing Company and Stainer & Bell Ltd.: Excerpt from “Lord of the Dance” by Sydney Carter (1915–2004), copyright © 1963 by Stainer & Bell Ltd. Rights in the United States and Canada administered by Hope Publishing Company, Carol Stream, IL 60188. Rights throughout the rest of the world administered by Stainer & Bell Ltd., 23 Gruneisen Road, London, N3 1DZ, England. Reprinted by permission of Hope Publishing Company and Stainer & Bell Ltd.

  Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC: Excerpt from “When I’m 64” by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, copyright © 1967 (renewed) by Sony/ATV Tunes LLC. All rights administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN, 37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  Special Rider Music: Excerpt from “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” by Bob Dylan, copyright © 1963 by Warner Bros. Inc. and copyright renewed 1991 by Special Rider Music; excerpt from “Mama, You Been on My Mind” by Bob Dylan, copyright © 1964 by Warner Bros. Inc. and copyright renewed 1992 by Special Rider Music; excerpt from “Mr. Tambourine Man” by Bob Dylan, copyright © 1964 by Warner Bros. Inc. and copyright renewed 1992 by Special Rider Music; excerpt from “Just Like a Woman” by Bob Dylan, copyright © 1966 by Dwarf Music; excerpt from “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue” by Bob Dylan, copyright © 1964 by Warner Bros. Inc. and copyright renewed 1992 by Special Rider Music; excerpt from “Idiot Wind” by Bob Dylan, copyright © 1974 by Ram’s Horn Music; excerpt from “I Want You” by Bob Dylan, copyright © 1966 by Dwarf Music. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Reprinted by permission.

  The Society of Authors: Excerpt from “Oh When I Was in Love with You” by A. E. Housman. Reprinted by permission of The Society of Authors as the Literary Representative of the Estate of A. E. Housman.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JOHN IRVING published his first novel at the age of twenty-six. He has received awards from the Rockefeller Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Guggenheim Foundation; he has won an O. Henry Award, a National Book Award, and an Oscar.

  In 1992, Mr. Irving was inducted into the National Wrestling Hall of Fame in Stillwater, Oklahoma. In 2001, he was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

  Also by John Irving

  BOOKS

  The Fourth Hand

  My Movie Business

  A Widow for One Year

  Trying to Save Piggy Sneed

  A Son of the Circus

  A Prayer for Owen Meany

  The Cider House Rules

  The Hotel New Hampshire

  The World According to Garp

  The 158-Pound Marriage

  The Water-Method Man

  Setting Free the Bears

  SCREENPLAYS

  The Cider House Rules

  Any dialogue or behavior ascribed to the characters in this book—those who are real people as well as the characters who are imagined—is entirely fictitious. This is a novel.

  Copyright © 2005 by Garp Enterprises, Ltd.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  See Contents for Permission acknowledgments.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Irving, John.

  Until I find you: a novel / John Irving.

  p. cm.

  1. Actors—Fiction. 2. Tattoo artists—Fiction. 3. Missing persons—Fiction. 4. Fathers and sons—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3559.R8U58 2005

  813'.54—dc22 2005042894

  www.atrandom.com

  eISBN: 978-1-58836-479-1

  v3.0