Death and Transfiguration

by Gerald Elias

  Dedicated to orchestral musicians, without whose three centuries of determined efforts the Three B’s would have been hard-pressed for employment

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Part of my enjoyment writing novels is working with a team of real pros to create the best presentation of the book possible. In that way it’s like an orchestra with the release date of the book as the “performance,” but I cringe at the thought that this analogy would make me the conductor. In any event, there’s a lot more collaborative give-and-take, and I have not yet even come close to glaring menacingly at my perspicacious agent, Josh Getzler, and his assistant, Maddie Raffel, of the Hannigan Salky Getzler agency; or the St. Martin’s Press team of my thoughtfully critical editor, Michael Homler, musically compassionate production editor, Geraldine Van Dusen, and publicist, Bridget Hartzler, who has since passed the baton to equally tireless Justin Velella; or my new personal publicist, Janice Evans, who has an uncanny nose for finding a story; or my wry, dog-loving copy editor, Cynthia Merman, for whom I almost make mistakes on purpose just to hear her response.

  My son, Jacob, an amazingly creative artist and musician, is always a fount of insight when discussing the relationship between the two art forms, and first introduced me to the genius of J.M.W. Turner’s visionary land- and seascapes. My crack medical team, comprising my nephew, Dr. Richard Elias, an eminent New York oral surgeon; his wife, Dr. Tamara Elias; and colleague Dr. Nancy Lynch, ensured that my hospital diagnoses and terminology weren’t totally cockeyed; and my old negotating buddy, legal eagle Stephen Rosenfeld, provided his customary perceptive comments, in particular regarding the Author’s Note.

  For the connection of my books and music to the world of the Internet, continued kudos to my dear sister-in-law, Melanie Patton, for designing and maintaining my multimedia Web site.

  Finally, thanks to the dedication, musicianship, and great stories of all my orchestra colleagues, whose exuberant artistic spirit breathes life into Death and Transfiguration.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Death

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Transfiguration

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Also by Gerald Elias

  About the Author

  Copyright

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Few sounds in the universe elicit a greater visceral thrill than that of an orchestra, a hundred musicians strong, performing a symphonic masterpiece by Beethoven or Tchaikovsky. The unique combination of strings, winds, brass, and percussion that comprises the symphony orchestra is one of the great cultural achievements of mankind. It is the very power of the music, though, and the apparent passion with which the musicians perform it, that spawns a slew of illusions and misconceptions among concertgoers and the public regarding the true nature of the relationship between concert organizers and performers.

  For example, because the musical rewards are so enriching, there’s the notion that since musicians love what they do, they don’t need to be paid. Even assuming that the first part of that is true (and it isn’t always, by any means), it suggests, absurdly, that the less one enjoys what one does for a living, the more one should be compensated.

  I’ve often heard a variation of this: “You play music so beautifully, but what do you do for a living?” not taking into account that there really isn’t much time left over when one is rehearsing for and performing more than a hundred concerts a year.

  There’s also the illusion—created by the musicians’ uniform formal attire and intricate synchronicity—that they all get along as well as Masons on a picnic. In reality, there are as many different, and often conflicting, personalities and points of view among orchestral musicians as in the General Assembly of the United Nations. Indeed, when musicians walk off the stage after a concert, you’ll hear as many of them lambasting the performance they’ve just completed as praising it.

  There, too, is the notion that the musicians select the music they perform. While some orchestras do have artistic advisory committees that suggest repertoire, this task is relegated primarily to the music director (the principal conductor) and a staff of artistic administrators. Many are the times when the musicians would rather be playing anything but the music thrust in front of them.

  Playing in a symphony orchestra is not only an artistic endeavor, it also is a job. The musicians have an employer, receive a biweekly paycheck with which they pay for things like houses and their kids’ education, and like any other workers with an employer, there is a relationship defined by compensation, schedule, and working conditions. In the symphonic field this often leads to prolonged, contentious negotiations. On a personal note, some of the most creative work I did as a member of both the Boston Symphony and Utah Symphony was to negotiate and pen contracts on behalf of the musicians. It was certainly more fun than playing Bruckner’s Eighth Symphony.

  Perhaps the biggest illusion of all, though, is in regard to the conductor. What in fact does he really do? (For the record, these days there are a growing number of shes on the podium.) During the concert, it appears as if he derives spontaneous inspiration from the sounds he hears, and by conjuring up some mystical telepathy imparts that inspiration to the musicians by waving his arms and appearing impassioned. How else to account for the airborne Leonard Bernstein, the balletlike magic of Seiji Ozawa, or the rapture of Klaus Tennstedt?

  The reality, though, is that all great conductors spend their lives studying the music down to its most infinitesimal detail, from which they determine their interpretation. They then do the heavy lifting with the musicians during the rehearsals in which every physical gesture imparts specific information, and that process (not necessarily the interpretation) can range from enlightening to deadly boring. The performance itself is essentially a reenactment. When the stars are properly aligned, it sometimes comes off in unexpectedly exciting fashion. More often than not, though, everyone on stage can readily predict the outcome.

  This means the relationship between the conductor and the musicians is crucial, because it’s his interpretation that is imposed upon the musicians. For a meeting of the minds to occur, not only must the conductor be the best musician on the stage, he also needs to have the rehearsal skills and personality (which can come in many forms), and most of all an unflinching level of conv
iction, to get the musicians to buy into his vision. This single-minded pursuit of a musical vision is both necessary and a source of friction. In an apparent paradox, some musicians yearn for a conductor who takes control of the orchestra while others chafe at the same conductor for “telling me how to play my instrument.”

  Last summer I was playing doubles tennis with some of my retired former Boston Symphony colleagues. As usual, we spent much of the time retrieving balls hit into the woods, providing ample opportunity to reminisce about our years as orchestral musicians. At one point one of my friends commented, “When there’s a great performance the conductor always gets the credit, but when there’s a bad concert the orchestra always gets the blame. The reality of it should be the other way around.” A debatable point, perhaps, but it does help explain why traditionally there’s often a love-hate relationship between a maestro and the musicians. Sometimes it’s hate-hate; rarely is it love-love, except perhaps when the conductor throws a good party.

  Though all the characters in Death and Transfiguration are fictional, the situations—from the auditions to the rehearsals to the contract negotiations—are all as real as the high price of gasoline. In fact, many of the insults emanating from the mouth of mythical maestro Vaclav Herza are actual quotes from conductors. Like a ship’s captain, the person on the podium with the little stick in his hand, even the least competent, has almost irrationally unfettered authority. On the sea, that unquestioned chain of command can mean the difference between survival and a sinking ship; on stage, it might not be actual life or death, but it can certainly feel that way when a concert begins to run aground. For sure, a strong hand at the helm may be necessary to steady the ship, but just as you have your occasional Captain Bligh who exceeds the bounds of authority on the high seas, you have your maestro who does the same on the high C’s.

  When I began writing the Daniel Jacobus mystery series that takes place in the seamier corners of the classical music world, the very first question that burst forth from the lips of many of my colleagues was, “How are you going to kill the conductor?” Note, please, the question was not “whether” but “how.”

  It’s a funny thing, Alice, dying is just the way I composed it in “Death and Transfiguration.”

  —Richard Strauss to his daughter-in-law as he lay on his deathbed in 1949

  In the necessitous little room, dimly lighted by only a candle-end, lies the sick man on his bed. But just now he has wrestled despairingly with Death. Now he has sunk exhausted into sleep, and thou hearest only the soft ticking of the clock on the wall in the room, whose awful silence gives a foreboding of the nearness of death. Over the sick man’s pale features plays a sad smile. Dreams he, on the boundary of life, of the golden time of childhood?

  But Death does not grant sleep and dreams to his victim. Cruelly he shakes him awake, and the fight begins afresh. Will to live and power of Death! What frightful wrestling! Neither bears off the victory, and all is silent once more!

  Sunk back tired of battle, sleepless, as in fever-frenzy the sick man now sees his life pass before his inner eye, trait by trait and scene by scene. First the morning red of childhood, shining bright in pure innocence! Then the youth’s saucier play—exerting and trying his strength—till he ripens to the man’s fight, and now burns with hot lust after the higher prizes of life. The one high purpose that has led him through life was to shape all he saw transfigured into a still more transfigured form. Cold and sneering, the world sets barrier upon barrier in the way of his achievement. If he thinks himself near his goal, a “Halt!” thunders in his ear. “Make the barrier thy stirrup! Ever higher and onward go!” And so he pushes forward, so he climbs, desists not from his sacred purpose. That he has ever sought with his heart’s deepest yearning, he still seeks in his death-sweat. Seeks—alas! And finds it never. Whether he comprehends it more clearly or that it grows upon him gradually, he can yet never exhaust it, cannot complete it in his spirit. Then clangs the last stroke of Death’s iron hammer, breaks the earthly body in twain, covers the eye with the night of death.

  But from the heavenly spaces sounds mightily to greet him what he yearningly sought for here: deliverance from the world, transfiguration of the world.

  —Poem by Alexander Ritter, a friend of Richard Strauss, describing the music of Death and Transfiguration and included with the consent of the composer as a preface to the score. Prose translation by W. F. Apthorp.

  PROLOGUE

  “You shouldn’t have pushed him over the edge.”

  “What a metaphorical way to die.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “He was ready to jump. I only shortened his misery. I did him a favor.”

  “You didn’t have to push him.”

  “Look, he was an over-the-hill alcoholic.”

  “And a Communist.”

  “That, too. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Where’s your driver?”

  “At the end of the bridge. Waiting in the car.”

  “In the dark?”

  “Again you speak metaphorically?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Don’t worry. He knows nothing other than to wipe my ass when I tell him to.”

  “Never contact me again. Never.”

  “As I said, you have nothing to worry about.”

  DEATH

  ONE

  THURSDAY

  It even felt like a Thursday. Days of the week, mused Jacobus, are like keys in music, each possessing a distinct personality. Thursday. Thursday, he considered, that would be B-flat major. Not brilliant like A major, not friendly like G major, not even the nestled warmth of F major. Certainly not morbid, like G minor, the key of the Devil’s Trill Sonata, Danse Macabre, and the slow movement of Death and the Maiden. What day would G minor be? Not Thursday. Thursday didn’t feel like death, at least not any more than usual. Jacobus didn’t know it for a fact, but he would have bet the Spanish Inquisition did not start on a Thursday. Thursday. Just … B-flat. It didn’t matter whether the summer heat was melting the tar on Route 41 or you were freezing your ass off going outside for firewood on a frigid February night, you can always tell when it’s a Thursday. Today’s steamy, mildew-inducing drizzle had been no exception. At least until the phone call.

  The summer morning had started out the same as the others for the past week. Jacobus, sweat dripping down his back, twiddled the pawn between his thumb and fingers. It was the one piece on the board that hadn’t started to gather dust, because every day since Nathaniel had left for Europe, Jacobus had been twiddling that insignificant chunk of wood as if that action alone might somehow divulge how it was he had managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

  To be brought down by a lowly pawn! Once again Jacobus felt its pedestrian curves and grooves, no different from any other pawn. To have allowed Nathaniel to queen a pawn, exposing his own king, rendering it helpless and defenseless! In a breathtaking turn of events he had resigned in ignominy. Yeah, he thought, I could have taken the pawn with my queen, but then she would have been captured by his knight, and the game would be over in three more moves. Four at the most. It wasn’t that Jacobus minded losing—actually, he did mind, terribly—it was the humiliation of so precipitous a demise that Nathaniel had even refrained from gloating—at least verbally, but who knew if he was silently smirking?—no easy task for someone who had oft been the object of Jacobus’s unrestrained victory celebrations.

  Jacobus refused to use his blindness as an excuse for not “seeing” the impending disaster. Though they used black and white pieces for Nathaniel’s benefit, they used pieces from separate sets of different size so that Jacobus could always tell which were his when feeling the board. They never bothered with the chess player’s rarefied vocabulary, “black Q4 to white K5,” or whatever terminology it was they used. Rather, Nathaniel would say, “Just moved my bishop three spaces toward the kitchen,” which was a lot easier for Jacobus to remember. Nevertheless, Nathaniel’s minuscule
white pawn had leveled his oversized black king. An ironic twist here, thought Jacobus, considering their respective skin colors and sizes.

  Jacobus mentally reenacted each move, trying to ascertain what he could have done differently. Every one had seemed so well reasoned, so well calculated, taking into account his overall strategy amid the local skirmishes, the majority of which he had won. Yet somehow, unbelievably, Nathaniel had managed to navigate his pawn all the way through to his end of the board. Though consumed with self-loathing for his failure, Jacobus mused upon the miraculous metamorphosis of the pawn: A dispensable, almost worthless foot soldier, finding itself in the right spot at the right time, becomes, by some mysterious alchemy, a queen, the ultimate power broker. It made no sense. What anonymous medieval chess master had come up with that rule? It was stupid, Jacobus concluded, because it simply never happens in reality. GIs don’t become Jackie Kennedy, and she wasn’t even a real queen. It was the only rule in chess he could think of, in fact, that didn’t have its reflection in the real world.

  The brittle ring of Jacobus’s ancient black rotary phone shocked him out of his petulant reflections. He hadn’t gotten a call in days, and that last one was a wrong number asking for the Williamsville Inn. When Nathaniel left for Europe, Jacobus pulled the plug on the answering machine that his friend had imposed upon him. He had told Nathaniel that an answering machine was worthless because even if he received any messages he wouldn’t answer them, but just to humor him he let Nathaniel install it. Now it was uninstalled.

  Jacobus reached for the phone. “Yeah?” he said, annoyed at being disturbed in the middle of self-flagellation.

  “Dr. Jacobus?”

  “There’s no Dr. Jacobus here,” he said and hung up.

  Bored with flogging himself over the pawn-cum-queen, with his right foot he located his cane on the floor beside his chair, retrieved it, and poked his way into the kitchen. The path was so familiar from the pattern of grudging creaks in the worn pine floorboards that he could easily have navigated with his ears alone. Jacobus needed the cane, however, for other purposes.