by Gerald Elias
Jacobus guffawed at that one, but Beanie was silent.
“I don’t know why you always have to take a dig at Herza,” he said.
“What do you mean, ‘a dig’? Did I say the word ‘Herza’? It was a joke!”
“Every opportunity to degrade a great man. It never fails.”
“Hey, the ‘great man’ is a vampire. He sucks the blood out of everyone. It’s what keeps him alive.”
“So why are you still in the orchestra, then, Mr. Zombie?”
“Because it pays great, the benefits are great, the pension is great—”
“And the music is great,” added Beanie.
Before Cappy was able to argue even that point, Jacobus intervened.
“That was quite a display Maestro put on at the rehearsal.”
“He’s just having his period,” said Cappy.
“Yes, he is strict,” said Beanie, “but fair.”
“Yeah, just like old Nazis,” said Cappy.
“He’s not a Nazi. He’s a Commie.”
“When I was in the BSO,” Jacobus said, refereeing yet again, “we once had Kurt Sanderling conduct us.”
“Is this another viola joke?” asked Beanie.
“No. This is a true story, and your comment just reminded me of it. I mention it because Sanderling fled Germany to escape the Nazis, but he made the mistake of going east instead of west and ended up in Russia.”
“Where he had a great career.”
“Indeed, because he was a great conductor. Anyway, we were in the middle of rehearsing Bruckner Seventh, and he makes a mistake, which someone of his caliber would almost never make. So he stops and tells the following story: ‘Where I come from,’ he says, ‘they say only conductors and KGB never make mistakes. But of course they are wrong. Sometimes KGB make mistakes.’ That one comment broke the ice, everyone had a good laugh, and the performance went better than if he had never made that mistake.”
“And your point is?” asked Beanie.
“I guess my point is that you don’t have to browbeat professionals to be a good conductor.”
“Hear! Hear!” said Cappy, swallowing his last bite of meat loaf.
“I need some coffee,” he added. The others concurred, finding at least one point of common ground. Cappy beckoned Scott and put in the order, declining the French press option.
“Except that Herza is a greater conductor than Sanderling ever was,” said Beanie, continuing the argument.
“Give it up,” said Cappy. “You sound like the Shanghai street corner.”
“I noticed a lot of Asians on the roster,” said Jacobus.
“Is something wrong with that?” asked Beanie. “They are highly capable.”
“And compliant, and malleable, and ‘well trained,’” said Cappy.
“Someone might say you’re sounding a little racist,” said Jacobus, perplexed but pleased with his newly discovered diplomatic skills. All it took was two people more pigheaded than he.
“I know it’s a touchy subject,” said Cappy. “I’ve got nothing against the Asian girls—”
“I’ll say,” said Beanie. “You should have a bucket for your drool.”
“Except that they’re all young and inexperienced. And they’re all Megas. But did you also notice there are no longer any Europeans in the orchestra? Not even from Maestro’s own homeland? There’s something to be said for having the compositions we play performed by musicians from the same culture as the composer. The guys in the orchestra, they used to come from everywhere, and the orchestra benefited from having all that international flavor. Hell, at least the stories were a lot more interesting. Now, the only old farts left are has-beens like Beanie and me.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“What about O’Brien?” asked Jacobus. “She played for me. I haven’t heard anyone better, Austrian or Asian, period.”
“The Ice Maiden? Yeah, she’s good. Real good,” said Cappy. “But she’s not a member.”
“Ice Maiden?”
“Cold as a whitefish on a Green Bay winter morn. When she first joined the orchestra, some of the younger fellows tried to get close to her—she’s not bad-looking in a chunky sort of way. No dice, though. Doesn’t have a close friend in the whole orchestra.”
“She happens to be a dedicated musician,” Beanie retorted, “who puts her art first. I think she’ll win this audition.”
“Really?” said Jacobus. “But didn’t I hear she’s filing a grievance against Herza?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” said Beanie. “She just wanted to make a point—an unfounded one, in my opinion. In the end, Maestro will discount personal issues and choose the best candidate.”
“You want to lay me odds on that?” asked Cappy.
Beanie balked.
Scott the server came with the bill and wished them a good day.
“Twenty dollars for a Cobb salad?” Beanie remarked. “That’s outrageous!”
“If she wins,” Cappy said, “I’ll pay for lunch next time.”
“You’re on,” said Beanie.
TEN
In a rare display of equanimity, Cappy and Beanie split the cost of Jacobus’s lunch and departed arguing over whether the tip should have been based upon the cost of the meal before or after the tax. Tired of the badgering, Jacobus remained to decompress and finish his coffee, which was better than his home-boiled Folger’s. He was counting out single dollar bills from his wallet to add to the tip when he heard two people walk past his table. One of them, an authoritative female, said to Scott the server, “Over there. There in the corner.”
The acerbic voice was unfamiliar, but the distinctive asymmetric gait of the second person that dragged by his table was not, so when Jacobus heard the hurried footsteps of Scott the server pass his table on the return trip, he asked for a refill on his coffee.
Pretending to be lost in thought, Jacobus directed his finely honed hearing toward the conversation taking place right behind him. As he had painstakingly trained himself to do, he blocked out that which he did not want to hear: the clatter of silverware, the chatter of extraneous voices momentarily silenced with mouthfuls of pulled elk slider, and piped-in Barry Manilow singing about someone named Lola that provided an extra and unwanted challenge to his concentration. If they’re going to ruin a perfectly decent meal with that crap, Jacobus thought, at least they should hire some poor slob to perform live and let him earn a living.
“The BSO is playing hardball,” said the woman. Her voice, like her perfume, emanated from a spot immediately behind Jacobus’s back. “If we cancel, we lose the eighty-thousand-dollar concert fee.”
“That doesn’t interest me,” said Vaclav Herza, from the far side of the table. “Tell them it was an act of God.”
“An act of God is when a damn tornado plows through the Berkshires and rips the shit out of the hillside. It’s not when a conductor throws a tantrum. That may be an act, Vaclav, but whatever you may think, you’re not God.”
“So I should sell my art, my soul, for a pittance?” asked Vaclav Herza.
“Hello, I’m Scott and I’ll be your—”
“Leave!” said Herza.
“Hey, no problem. I’ll just give you a few moments to decide on your dining choice.”
“Wait,” said Adrianne Vickers. “Just bring us some hot tea.”
“We have a choice of—”
“It doesn’t matter. Just go.”
“When you’re running a two-million-dollar deficit,” Vickers continued, “eighty thousand dollars is not a pittance, Vaclav. That’s the fee we lose if we don’t play. And as CEO it’s my ass on the line for that, not yours.
“And it’s not selling your soul, either. It’s just playing a concert with one less rehearsal than you’d like, which is still more than any other conductor gets.”
“By canceling,” replied Herza, “I am teaching the bean counters that artistic integrity will not be compromised, regardless of the bottom line, as you mana
gers like so much to say. The bottom line is music, not dollar signs. If they have to suffer by informing their patrons that Herza will not perform due to their mercenary philosophy, then perhaps the patrons will rise up and demand quality. If I were to capitulate on my ideals now, what message do you think that would send?”
“What planet are you on, Vaclav? The BSO would love nothing more than for you to stick to your guns. They’re going to get ten thousand people on the fucking Tanglewood lawn for tonight’s James Taylor concert. It’s been sold out for so long that he just agreed to give another performance in our slot tomorrow and donate the profits to the Tanglewood student program if we pull out, so they’re only too happy to get out of this. It’s a PR and financial disaster for us, and—”
“It is too late. Herza has spoken.”
“Then what are we going to do with the commission? We’ve already paid Fouk thirty thousand, and we owe him another thirty.”
“We’ll play it another time. Anyway, it is a piece of shit.”
“Vaclav.”
“I said, no more about this. If you want to talk, tell me about the hall. Is the hall finished?”
“The hall is almost finished.” Her voice was petulant, like a scolded child.
“Almost! What does this mean? Is there a stage to play on? Are there seats for an audience? When Herza conducts, is he ‘almost’ ready?”
“Keep your pants on, Vaclav. It will be ready. They’re just finishing the details—light fixtures, carpet, painting, making sure the toilets flush. Feel free to test them at your convenience. The auditorium is totally done. You, for one, will have nothing to worry about.”
“Have the acoustics been tested?”
“Over and over again. Everything according to your specifications. They say it’s even better than the halls in Boston and Vienna, that it will make Avery Fischer sound like a subway station.”
“A subway station makes Avery Fischer sound like a subway station.”
“You know what I mean. Now we just have to pay for it.”
“I’m not interested in that.”
“No, you wouldn’t be. But we’ve got a deficit. We’ve got contract negotiations with the musicians, and we’ve got a capital campaign that depends on the hall being ready to go.”
“Just pay the musicians what they want and get that over with.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Not as easy as you think. If I could, I would pay the vultures nothing. They don’t know what real work is. Their lives are one long paid vacation, and yet they complain continuously that they are being mistreated.”
“Like that O’Brien?”
Jacobus’s ears perked up even more. He congratulated himself on the one thing in his life for which he was still disciplined—his daily listening regimen.
“How dare that young hussy have the audacity to bite the hand that feeds her?”
“Don’t get all hot and bothered, Vaclav. Her grievance—if she ever files it—will get nowhere. You should make an example out of her. A warning for the rest of them.”
Herza did not respond. Maybe he was mulling. Maybe he decided the conversation was over. Jacobus froze, his coffee cup poised in his hand. Then, from deep within Herza’s gut arose a long, slow belch.
“They’re all the same,” Herza continued, to Jacobus’s relief. He resumed sipping his coffee. “A distasteful necessity, like the toilets, but a necessity nevertheless, and I must have the best ones if I am to achieve what Brahms and Mozart have instructed me to achieve.
“You look at me as if I were insane, Adrianne. Yes, they have been dead for a hundred, two hundred years, yet they instruct me. Through their music. And it is my responsibility for the world today to know their genius. If I do not, who will?
“It is your responsibility to provide me with the tools. And since these so-called musicians only understand money and nothing else, you must pay them what they ask for.”
“In order to do that we have plans to diversify our activities.”
“I don’t care what your plans are. Pay them what they want and get it over with. They must not be permitted to hold the opening of the hall hostage for their pettiness.”
“I don’t think they have the balls to strike. We would lock them out first.”
“If they strike, or if you lock them out, it’s the same disaster. And if either of those things happens, I’ll make sure you pay the price.”
“Don’t you dare threaten me, Vaclav. It doesn’t become your charming self.”
“Doesn’t it? Just be careful.”
“I think it’s time to leave,” said Vickers. “Even the tea wouldn’t help.”
“Help what?”
“My stomach. You make me sick to my stomach.”
* * *
Jacobus’s coffee had long since turned cold. He heard Vickers and Herza get up from their table and walk past him on their way out of the diner, Vickers striding briskly, Herza lumbering behind. He picked up his mug and pretended to drink.
Knuckles lightly rapped on his table. He had been sitting there a long time, too long, perhaps. Scott the server was impatient for his tip, or to seat the next customers.
“I’ll be leaving in a jiff,” Jacobus said, imitating Scott’s perky tone.
“Watch your step,” said a distressingly familiar voice, very close to his ear, very quietly. The voice of a partially disabled, aged East European. “Blind people sometimes have a way of encountering accidents. They can fall down and never get up again.”
ELEVEN
SUNDAY
Jacobus fumed even more than the decrepit taxi that shuttled him back to his house. He arrived home with a tightness in his stomach. Herza might not be Ayatollah Khomeini or Mohammar Ghadafi, but he was one first-rate schmuck. Jacobus should have guessed as much. No conductor that good could be otherwise, Tiny Parsley’s TAC notwithstanding. But whether it was worth trying to take him down a notch—as O’Brien had pleaded for him to do—even if he could, was another matter.
The pain in his gut hadn’t subsided, and he ended up spending a good part of the night wearing down a path to the toilet. Trotsky had even stopped following him down the stairs to the one antiquated bathroom in the house, having finally concluded that they were not in fact about to embark upon a new adventure. Was it the meat loaf, Jacobus asked himself, or was it Herza that made him sick? He hoped it was Herza because he had really liked the meat loaf. Maybe he should’ve ordered the pulled elk sliders. This thought had prompted another visit to the toilet.
By Sunday morning Jacobus was exhausted, but determined not to be a bedridden invalid he made his way downstairs and, after dragging his brute of a dog off the couch by the collar, became a sofa-ridden invalid, resting his head on its threadbare arm. He tried making himself a cup of coffee but could not keep even that life-giving necessity down without wrenching opposition. At one point Trotsky had come snorting, wagging his stubby tail, and dropped his drool-soaked, heavy-duty, rubber-bone dog toy directly on Jacobus’s stomach, presuming that all his master needed was a playful diversion to rouse him from his languor. He did not quite construe Jacobus’s response, which was to take the toy and thump the dog on the top of his head. Trotsky thought it was a wonderful new game and barked for more, finally giving up only when Jacobus turned on his side with his back to his loyal friend and played dead.
Throughout his physical torment, one question dogged Jacobus. Herza had clearly gotten the better of him. His shrewdness and perceptiveness were undulled by infirmity and should not be underestimated. Jacobus had learned that lesson, and it was a good one, if only to have taught him a little humility. The question was: Why? Yes, Jacobus admitted, it might be rude to eavesdrop on someone’s conversation. But to elicit an unmistakable death threat? Toward a total stranger from someone already in a position of power? Of all that he overheard, was there one thing in particular that Herza wanted to protect from prying ears? That would prompt Herza to take the extreme measure of confronti
ng him? Though the entire conversation between Herza and Vickers was distasteful, it was typical of the ones that had caused Jacobus to flee from the world of classical music decades ago.
Jacobus rolled onto his back. Locking his arm over the top of the couch, he managed to leverage himself into a sitting position. Taking advantage of a full-phase swivet before it subsided into mere heartburn, he picked up the telephone sitting next to the overflowing ashtray on the corner table beside the couch and dialed information for Martin Lilburn’s number. Who better than a reporter doing a story on Herza to have valuable information? Jacobus was fairly certain that his participation in this tussle between O’Brien and Herza, which was of no personal consequence to him, would be a futile exercise of wheel spinning, but it clung to him as tenaciously as his stomach bug. What was it about their standoff that persevered in needling him? He tried to banish the thought that his interest might be altruistic, that he was trying to help someone in need. Maybe he was merely bored with his own directionless life, trying to get himself high on the quick fix of trumped-up intrigue. As usual, when Jacobus began to engage in personal introspection, he changed the subject.
Holding the phone to his ear, Jacobus remembered that Lilburn might well still be in the Berkshire area and so he had no way of contacting him. Even if Lilburn had a cell phone, how does one find out someone’s cell phone number? Damn, worthless contraptions! He could call the New York Times office in the city and try to get them to give the number to him, but it was Sunday. It might take him the whole day. The hell with it. He decided to wait for a more opportune time and was about to return to his prone position when he had another idea. The Tanglewood switchboard put him through to the personnel office.
