Death and Transfiguration

by Gerald Elias

  “Why do you keep files on all the conductors?” asked Jacobus. “This is Herza’s orchestra. There aren’t any guest conductors.”

  “You’re right, we do have a unique situation here. Some orchestras, like Boston, have a music director, a principal guest conductor, a conductor emeritus, a pops conductor, a couple of assistant conductors, at least a half dozen guest conductors during the winter season, and another truckload during Tanglewood. Hell, there are more conductors there than musicians! That might create the spice of life for the troops, but you don’t get the same distinct, individualized sound that you got when it was Koussevitzky’s Boston Symphony. Nowadays, all the orchestras are pretty much vitamin D homogenized. Except ours. No one can mistake any other orchestra for ours.

  “But all good things—or if you’re a Herza basher, bad things—must come to an end, and the man is clearly unwell. There will be a day when Harmonium will need a successor, or successors. He can barely make it to the podium some days.”

  “Yet if there’s one thing you hear in his music,” said Jacobus, “it’s his power. I can’t see what the hell he’s doing. Give me some insight.”

  “That’s the same thing, Mr. Jacobus, that all the talentless asshole conductors—”

  “The zero-tens—”

  “You’ve got it, have been trying to figure out. If you’re watching Herza from the audience, sometimes you can’t even see him move. He sits there and, yes, his hands move—a little. His gestures have never been very dramatic, and now in his dotage they’re almost nonexistent. Yet when he raises his head and gives you that stare of his, it’s like he’s giving you not only all the information you need to play the way he wants, he’s transferring power into your own gut. And then, when he actually does make a physical gesture, he can get the orchestra to blow the roof off. I remember one time in the Allegretto of Beethoven Seventh, he made that twenty-four-measure crescendo—you know the one I’m talking about—from pianissimo to fortissimo, and all he did was start with a closed fist in front of his face and gradually unclench his fingers. It was hair-raising. Most of the guys respond pretty damn quick, anyway, because if you don’t, you’ve got hell to pay.”

  Jacobus wanted to get back to the subject of Sherry O’Brien’s file, but the phone rang.

  Parsley said, “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Jacobus. Probably Adrianne about the cancellation. Shouldn’t be long.”

  Jacobus, listening to one side of the conversation, gathered that Herza was true to his word; the concert was indeed going to be canceled. The greater part of the discussion, though, was to do with whether to pay the extras and substitutes for the concert, plus a day of per diem for everyone, even though there was no longer any orchestral service. That expense alone was well over $10,000.

  Parsley made the case that Harmonium was obligated to pay them. A contract had been signed, and this was not a force majeur, a situation totally out of their hands to prevent. He was clearly getting resistance, however, from his superior at the other end. Though Jacobus admired Parsley’s controlled, patient responses, he believed a few choice obscenities would at least have added some spice to the discussion.

  One of the benefits, if it could be deemed that, of being blind was how miraculously easy it was to become invisible to others. Maybe, thought Jacobus, it was because in order for his ear to be closest to the sound he was listening to he turned his head away, giving the impression he wasn’t paying attention. So as Jacobus sat there like a piece of furniture, Tyson Parsley had no qualms explaining the entire contract to his boss and, from there, urging reconsideration of the cancellation.

  Jacobus tired of waiting, and though he was curious to find out more about O’Brien’s situation, he was considering leaving when his thoughts were interrupted by a familiar birdlike whistle coming from the hall. The volume received a boost when the door to the office opened, then the whistling stopped abruptly.

  “Hey, Beanie! Look what the cat drug in!” said the Whistler.

  “Cappy! Beanie!” said Jacobus.

  “I see the oaf of office is occupied,” said Beanie. “Can you believe I can’t see a damn thing where I’m sitting on this ridiculous stage, and what’s he doing? He’s on the phone. As usual.”

  “It wouldn’t help your playing, anyway,” said Cappy. “Jake, come join us for lunch. We heard there’s a new place in Lenox.”

  Jacobus thought about waiting for Parsley to finish his phone call and about all the Carnegie Deli cold cuts waiting for him at home, but since he didn’t have a ride anyway …

  EIGHT

  Lilburn, having parted company with Jacobus after the abrupt termination of the rehearsal, found Herza’s dressing room. What he hadn’t expected to encounter was Lubomir Butkus barring his entrance.

  “I regret to inform you that your interview with Maestro is canceled,” said Lubomir, in an accent similar to Herza’s but with feigned, rather than innate, authority.

  Lilburn pleaded his case. “But I’ve come all the way from the city for this.” He removed an already saturated handkerchief from the pocket of his snug sport jacket and wiped his brow yet again. “It was Harmonium staff, in fact, who proposed this specific time. The story has been in preparation for months and must run before the opening of Harmonium Hall next week.”

  “Maestro is very upset at the treatment he has received here. He has canceled tomorrow’s concert.”

  “That is precisely one of the issues I would like to discuss with him,” Lilburn dissembled. “The world needs to hear his point of view. If you would please inform Maestro Herza that—”

  “I don’t inform Maestro of anything.”

  “Please be kind enough to convey to Maestro Herza that if he consents to speak to me, I will be happy to listen to his opinion of how he has been treated here. And please inform … let him know that without his own words, my article will be lacking in the gravitas so crucial in exciting the public awareness of the historic opening of Harmonium Hall to the degree to which—”

  “Maestro doesn’t need PR from the New York Times to sell tickets to his concerts, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Could you just please ask him?”

  “Very well.”

  Lubomir entered Herza’s dressing room and closed the door behind him. Lilburn checked his watch three times before he emerged.

  “Maestro will speak to you for five minutes. And remember, remain standing, do not shake his hand, and do not speak until you are spoken to.”

  Lilburn stood in front of Herza’s desk and had the opportunity to examine all the framed photos of the picturesque Berkshire Mountains, twice, before the maestro looked up from his score.

  “You wish to speak to me?” asked Herza.

  “Thank you for your time, Maestro. I was at the rehearsal just now. I understand that you were not permitted to rehearse ‘Life and Disfiguration.’ What is your reaction to that?”

  “That is none of your business. Is there anything else?”

  “The opening of Harmonium Hall next week is perhaps the most important event in the history of your orchestra since its founding. It is the first time, after decades of being primarily a touring orchestra, that it will have a real home. Could you tell me what it means to you?”

  “It is a place to play music.”

  “Would you care to elaborate on that?”

  “No.”

  “Maestro, I understand that the musicians are now in contract negotiations with management over a new and substantially revised contract. The deadline is the night before the opening concert at Harmonium Hall.”

  “I have nothing to do with negotiations.”

  “But are you concerned at all that a strike or a lockout might prevent the opening from occurring?”

  “My musicians are the highest paid in the world. They are expected to be in their seats for every concert. They will be there.”

  “Maestro,” said Lilburn, “you have assembled a very interesting program for the opening of Harmoniu
m Hall.”

  “I am not interested in ‘interesting.’ There is great music and there is shit music.”

  “Clearly. I say ‘interesting’ in that the program reflects the cooperation you’ve received from the governments of the Czech Republic and Prague, and is associated with your Czech past and your renown with the music of Strauss.”

  “It has nothing to do with any of those things.”

  “But certainly, there is no denying that Don Giovanni, of which you are performing the overture, was premiered in Prague, that The Moldau and ‘New World’ Symphony are two of the most iconic works of the entire Czech repertoire, and your interpretation of Death and Transfiguration is considered unparalleled.”

  “You critics miss the point entirely.”

  “Then you’ll please enlighten me.”

  “First, I will say a word about overtures. Other conductors program overtures at the beginning of concerts partly because they are usually no more than ten minutes long. They feel this gives the audience something entertaining to listen to but also allows a chance for latecomers to get to their seats without missing ‘the meat’ of the program. Parking lot music, you may say, that usually results in polite, restless applause.”

  “I take it you do not subscribe to this way of thinking.”

  “I certainly do not. In Don Giovanni we have a hero for whom life is no struggle but who is nevertheless ultimately dragged into hell by the ghost of the man he has murdered, the father of the woman Giovanni ravished in the first scene. In Death and Transfiguration, we have a hero who struggles for his very breath in life but goes to heaven. A critical juxtaposition, wouldn’t you say?

  “Most people, including yourself, apparently, think The Moldau is about a river. It is not. It is a metaphor. It is about the progress of life, from its fragile beginnings through its joys and turbulence and on to its end, its magnificent end. I correct you in your reference to the piece you call the ‘New World’ Symphony, Dvořák’s final symphony. That is not its name. It is titled the Symphony in E Minor, opus 95, ‘Z nového světa,’ or as you would say in English if you were accurate, ‘From the New World.’ In your naïve arrogance you assume the reference is to America because Dvořák happened to be living here when he wrote it. I kindly refer you to the last note of the piece to suggest you don’t know what you are talking about. After all the buildup to it, why does Dvořák hold the last note out, getting softer and softer, until it disappears into infinity? Why doesn’t he just end it in the big-bang grand tradition of lesser composers? I don’t suppose you have ever given that a moment of thought. I will tell you. He is saying that everything that came before it is insubstantial, a mirage, a figment of imagination. Life is a mirage. The ‘New World,’ in fact, is what exists after the last note.

  “So here you have your connections, Mr. Lilburn. I am not so mundane as your limited imagination would have you believe.”

  “Maestro, I have only a few brief moments remaining. Your ascent to the pinnacle of the conducting world, from the time you were a student of Furtwängler and Strauss, to your departure from Prague in 1956, to your first fame in this country when you stepped in at the last moment for an ailing Leopold Stokowski, to your continued efforts on behalf of your native land with Alexander Dubček and Václav Havel, to the founding of your orchestra, Harmonium—all this has been well documented. Is there anything, Maestro, of a personal nature of which the public is unaware that you would care to add to this account?”

  “No.”

  “What of your feelings when your country finally found true independence when the Iron Curtain fell?”

  “As you say, it is well documented.”

  “Then I have only one final question. Were you or have you ever been troubled that your two idols and mentors, Wilhelm Furtwängler and Richard Strauss, had, though they sought to qualify their complicity, well-known associations with the Nazi Party?”

  “Your five minutes are up.”

  NINE

  “Welcome to K&J’s Diner, ‘a place for grub.’ I’m Scott, and I’ll be your server today,” the waiter announced to no one’s interest. “Our special today is pulled elk sliders with a Dr Pepper barbecue sauce. Do you gentlemen need a few moments to decide on your luncheon preference?”

  “I’ll have the meat loaf,” said Jacobus.

  “With or without raspberry tapenade?”

  “Without. I’ll have the Heinz 57 tapenade.”

  “Same for me,” said Cappy.

  “I need a few minutes,” said Beanie.

  “Certainly,” said Scott the server. “And something to drink in the meantime?”

  “You have Rolling Rock?” asked Jacobus.

  “Excellent choice.”

  “Make that two,” said Cappy.

  “A pair of Rolling Rocks. Sounds good. And you, sir?”

  “Still water, please,” said Beanie. “No lemon. Ice on the side.”

  When Scott the server was out of earshot, Beanie whispered, “Why do they always put ice in water without asking? You’d think they would ask first before putting additives in your drinks.”

  “Interesting point,” said Jacobus.

  “Interesting as yesterday’s weather,” said Cappy.

  Jacobus changed the subject. “Why do you suppose they call this place a diner? I thought diners had counters and Formica tables and smelled like grease.”

  “Time is passing us by, Jake,” said Cappy. “Those days are long gone. They only call it a diner to evoke the nostalgia of a bygone era.”

  “That’s not it at all,” said Beanie. “There’s no specific definition of ‘diner.’ Anyplace one eats could reasonably be called a diner.”

  “So how is it,” Jacobus asked, trying a different subject, “after all this time, you guys are still together, and on the last stand?”

  “Six years ago I went to Tiny and asked to be moved back,” said Cappy. “I couldn’t stand it anymore, with his fingerings over each note and marking up the part every time the conductor said something profound, like ‘good morning.’ It’s like he was born with a pencil in his hand and the music said ‘this space for doodling.’”

  “I just so happen to believe,” said Beanie, “that if you’re going to play your best, it doesn’t hurt to have all the information in front of you.”

  “So you say, O Prince of Digitation. I happen to be more the adventurous type,” Cappy said to Jacobus.

  “There’s a fine line between adventurous and deadbeat,” said Beanie.

  “See what I mean, Jake?” said Cappy. “So I moved back, to get rid of Mr. IBM here, and, to tell you the truth, I don’t mind not being in Herza’s line of fire anymore.”

  Scott the server brought their drinks and asked Beanie if he had decided.

  “I’ll have the Cobb salad,” he said. “Dressing on the side. And are the olives green or black?”

  “Black, sir.”

  “Okay. Pitted?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, that explains half the story,” said Jacobus after Scott the server left, “but pardon me if I’m a little confused. Maybe I’m getting doddering in my old age. But explain to me, how did you end up together again after just one of you moved back? After all, don’t orchestras these days have seating rotation in the string sections? I don’t get it.”

  “That’s an easy one,” said Beanie. “I requested to be reseated next to Cappy.”

  “But why, if you can’t stand each other?”

  “Simple,” Beanie continued. “I’m going to sit next to him until the day he dies.”

  “Well, I guess that explains it,” said Jacobus. “There’s a beautiful logic to that.”

  “If you had Cappy turning pages for you,” said Beanie, “you’d know what I was talking about.”

  “Not that again,” said Cappy.

  “I never thought I would say this,” said Beanie, “but I actually have learned one thing from Cappy. He has made the art of turning pages into a leisure activity. By th
e time he’s put his viola down, made sure he’s nice and comfy, perused the music he has just played, and deigned to turn the page, the rest of the orchestra’s already halfway through it. It’s enough to give you an ulcer.”

  Scott the server arrived with their lunches. “Will there be anything else?” he asked.

  “You have some Rolaids for an ulcer?” Jacobus asked.

  “I can check,” said Scott.

  “Never mind.”

  Scott left, but Cappy wouldn’t let the argument go.

  “Maybe if you’d let me get within fifty yards of the music,” he said, “I wouldn’t have to take so much time. Jake, it’s like he’s set up a police barricade around the music so that he can—”

  “So that I can have enough room to bow freely, see the music, and see the conductor without getting a hernia,” said Beanie. “Is that too much to ask?”

  “It is if everyone else in the section has to sit in each other’s lap!”

  “Boys, boys!” interrupted Jacobus through a mouthful of meat loaf, in the rare role of conciliator. “Hey, did you hear the joke about the two violists in the back of the section?”

  “I know a joke about one violist in the back of the section,” said Cappy. “And the punch line is Ebeneezer Frumkin.”

  “That’s not the one I had in mind. In this story, the last violist is also a conductor, and one night the music director gets sick right before the concert, so management, frantic for a replacement, asks the violist to conduct, which he does to great acclaim. The next morning at the rehearsal, he sits down in his customary seat, and his stand partner says, ‘Where were you last night?’”

  “I don’t get it,” said Beanie. With his fork, he carefully separated the yolk from the white of the hard-boiled egg in his Cobb salad, sprinkled some salt on it, dipped it in the salad dressing, cut it in half, and cautiously ate it.

  “I heard an even better one,” said Cappy. “One night, this violist goes back to his house. He finds that it’s been burned down to the ground, and his dog is dead on the front lawn. He runs around crazy, calling to his wife, who appears in a total mess, all bruised up and so forth. He says to her, ‘Oh, my God, what’s happened?’ She says, ‘I’ve been beaten and raped, he killed the dog, and then he burned down the house.’ The violist says, ‘Who did this dastardly thing? It’s unforgivable! Who?’ She says, ‘It was Maestro! Maestro did this!’ at which point the violist’s eyes open wide and he says, ‘Maestro came to our house?’”