Death and Transfiguration

by Gerald Elias

  Lulich, the wounded wildebeest surrounded by hyenas, stares at his music, immobilized with fear.

  “I said stand up.”

  Lulich continues to stare at his music, psychologically anesthetized, waiting to be eviscerated alive.

  “Maestro, that’s not done in this country,” says a voice. To Lulich, it sounds miles away, but it comes from the unlikely person of his stand partner, Ebeneezer Frumkin.

  “Not done?” replies Herza. “Herza decides what is done and what is not done, in this country or any other. Now you may join your friend in a duet. Stand up, now.”

  “I will not,” says Frumkin.

  “He’s right,” Junior Parsley shouts.

  “And who are you?” asks Herza, suddenly under siege. It isn’t clear whether Herza truly does not recognize the principal trombone player who is also chairman of the orchestra committee, or simply considers Parsley’s statement to be out of order.

  “What do you mean?” asks Parsley.

  “I asked who you are. Is that such a difficult question? What is your name?”

  “Junior Parsley.”

  “May I say, Mr. Junior Parsley, hearing your playing is even worse than your voice. Even a deaf person would know you were out of tune, and your sound sickens me.”

  “No more than looking at you.”

  “How long have you been in this orchestra, Mr. Junior Parsley?”

  “Twenty-two years.”

  “Twenty-two. That is twenty-one too many. Leave!”

  Parsley carefully hands his instrument to the second trombonist, then lunges forward, knocking over stands, sending music flying. Fortunately for him and for Herza, there are four rows of musicians between them, just enough to restrain the enraged and powerful trombonist. Tiny is immediately by his twin brother’s side and seizes him by the arm.

  “Get him off this stage!” Herza orders. “He has no business among serious musicians.”

  “You little prick,” Junior yells as Tiny tows him off. “You’ll get yours.”

  Herza laughs. “It’s too late to apologize.”

  Herza turns back to the violas. “And you. All of you. You play like cattle. This rehearsal is over.” He places his baton on the podium and limps off the stage.

  Lubomir is waiting for him in his dressing room with a towel in one hand and an iced tea in the other.

  Herza swats at the tea and sends it shattering against the wall.

  “Get me Parsley—Tiny Parsley—now. And clean that up.”

  Herza paces until Lubomir returns with Tiny.

  Without preamble, Herza says to Parsley, “I want him fired.”

  “Who?” asks Parsley. “Who do you want fired?”

  “You know, you idiot,” says Herza. “The trombonist.”

  “But he’s my brother. I can’t fire him.”

  “He was insubordinate and you will fire him in the next hour or you’ll both be fired.”

  “Junior will file a grievance, and your decision will be overturned. Do you want that to happen, Maestro?”

  “They will not overturn it.”

  “And how can you be so sure?”

  “After I inform the grievance committee that your brother disguised himself as you with your eye patch in order to spy on a confidential meeting of the executive board, their sympathies will no doubt change.”

  “How do you know he did that?” Tiny Parsley stammers, his voice deflated.

  “The fool almost knocked over the glass of water that was six inches from his hand. Clearly he had not developed the ability to compensate for lack of depth perception with one eye. Any child could have seen that. Now get out.

  “Where’s Donaghue?” Herza asks Lubomir after Parsley leaves. “I am tired.”

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

  * * *

  Donaghue has the engine purring and the air conditioner on full blast. He gives no indication of having just exchanged pleasantries with Tyson Parsley, nor would it ever have occurred to Herza to ask. Once the doors of the Lincoln are closed, the summer heat is held at bay, as are, it seems, the assaults that have been thrust upon Herza’s sovereignty.

  “Insolent bastard twins,” Herza comments as the car heads north on the West Side Highway.

  “These contract negotiations,” says Lubomir from the front seat. “They’re fraying everyone’s nerves.”

  “They’re not fraying my nerves. I haven’t spoken impudently, out of turn.”

  “No, Maestro.”

  “I haven’t slashed my wrists like that hussy.”

  “No, Maestro.”

  “Well, there you have it. There will be no more of this nonsense. I won’t tolerate it.”

  “No, Maestro.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  The first several miles are spent in silence contemplating the heavy traffic. As they approach the merge with the Henry Hudson Parkway, they become increasingly bogged down. The cause of the bottleneck, an overheated Cadillac Eldorado that blocks the left lane of traffic, is being attended to by a large man in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt while his wife shouts deprecating comments about his sexual prowess from the sanctuary of the car’s interior. It is at that point that Donaghue, the former security guard, again spies the gray Ford Taurus in his rearview mirror that has been several cars behind them for some time. There is nothing suspicious about this as there are thousands of cars going in the same direction.

  “Do something about this traffic,” demands Herza from the backseat. “I don’t have time to waste.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” says Donaghue. He picks up the communication device that has been installed in the car, pretends to push some buttons, and speaks something unintelligible into it.

  “They’re taking care of it right now, sir.”

  As soon as they pass the stalled Cadillac and the rubberneckers who are the real impediments, traffic begins to flow. Herza sits back, satisfied that his demands have been promptly met.

  Donaghue maintains his speed and so does the Taurus. He exits the parkway and drives toward Herza’s Riverdale neighborhood, an oasis in the big city that almost feels like the countryside. He turns in to Herza’s tree-lined one-way street and pulls up to the curb. It is a high curb and, the street being narrow, Donaghue has to park close to it to allow other cars to pass, making the door of the Town Car impossible to open on his side, so by practice Lubomir gets out and opens the street-side back door to help Herza out. Donaghue glances in his rearview mirror. The Taurus is in the middle of the road behind them, not moving. When Herza is halfway out of the car, the Taurus suddenly springs to life, heading directly for the Lincoln. “Jesus and Mary, at least let me out first,” Donaghue mutters and braces himself in a fetal position.

  Lubomir, in the act of extracting Herza from the car, has his hands under Maestro’s shoulders. He, too, finally sees the Taurus accelerating toward them. Instantaneously, he pushes Herza back into the car and throws himself on top of him. The Taurus rips off the Lincoln’s open door, careens against its front fender, and then, tires screeching, races away.

  Herza is up like a cat.

  “Who was it?” Herza commands. “Tell me who it was.”

  “I have no idea, sir,” says Donaghue. “It all happened so fast.”

  * * *

  By the time the police arrive, Herza has already gone to his bedroom and has left Lubomir with instructions that his nap is not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Since Herza hasn’t seen anything, anyway, the police are temporarily content to honor his request. Instead, they take pictures of the damage and scrape some paint shards left by the other car from the right front panel of the Lincoln. They also interview Butkus and Donaghue, from whom they glean conflicting stories.

  Butkus is convinced the collision was intentional with the goal of killing the maestro, a plan that he miraculously foiled. Donaghue, on the other hand, says he believes it was simply an impatient New York driver who misgauged the width of the narrow str
eet and did not anticipate the door of the Lincoln opening at the last second. He tacitly blames Butkus for not seeing the Taurus bearing down upon them.

  When the police ask Donaghue who he believes might have been bent on killing Vaclav Herza, he claims ignorance. “God’s plan,” he says, “is beyond me to understand.” Yet when they ask the same question of Butkus, his reply is, “Only about a hundred people.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Nathaniel had been able to book a couchette for the overnight train from Lucerne to Prague. After making his reservation, he called the office of Sinfonia Prague.

  Nathaniel asked the man who answered the phone, “Pardon me, do you speak English?”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. What do you want?” he asked impatiently.

  “I’m an American author,” Nathaniel lied. “I’m doing a biography of Vaclav Herza. I was wondering if I could do some research.”

  “He hasn’t been here for forty years. Why don’t you just talk to him?”

  “Oh, I certainly will,” Nathaniel extemporized. “I just need to do some background to know what questions to ask him. He’s not a very patient guy, as you may know.”

  “I am the orchestra manager, not a historian. I am busy.”

  “If I came to your office, could you show me your archives?”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “Okay, ten o’clock, but I am busy. What is your name? I must know to let you in.”

  “Nathaniel Williams. And what’s yours?”

  “Jan Hus.”

  “Like the religious reformist who was burned at the stake?”

  “Yes, like that.” Hus hung up.

  The three other bunk beds in Nathaniel’s train compartment were occupied by travelers who stared at him with inexplicable disapproval. Was it because he was American, black, very large, or simply a stranger? He could have predicted he would be assigned a top bed. In attempting to ascend it he managed to step on the arm of the lower occupant, which didn’t help his popularity. Nor did his snoring, exacerbated by the discomfort of an unsupportive, undersized mattress. He arrived in Prague sleep deprived and uncharacteristically crabby, but at least the Swiss-run train was precisely on time, giving him the whole day to make headway on his detective work.

  He took a cab to the Old Town Square, the Staroměstské náměstí. Most of the cafés had not yet opened, but he did find an information kiosk and purchased a tourist map of the city. He ambled about the square to orient himself and stretch his cramped legs before going to the office of Sinfonia Prague. Impressed by the Old World charm of the plaza in general, he was particularly engrossed by the fifteenth-century astronomical clock at the edge of the square, a magnificent combination of science and art that no one could dare attempt to reproduce in this day and age. One of Nathaniel’s previous professional assignments had been to track down and retrieve an early-nineteenth-century Limoges table clock that had been stolen from an art museum in Cleveland. That piece had been valued at several hundred thousand dollars, so he could only wonder what the Prague clock was worth. There was little danger that a clock the size of a small apartment building would be stolen, but damage? As Nathaniel gazed upon it, admiring its aesthetic qualities, he suddenly realized that the clock, as a functional tool, was telling him it was almost 9:30. Finding an outdoor café nearby that had just opened for business, he quickly downed a boiled egg, muesli with yogurt and berries, toast, and several cups of strong coffee. He twisted the map around to align the clock in front of him with its location on the map and set off on his adventure, going across the square and making a right turn at a street called Železná. After a few more turns he found himself at the office of Sinfonia Prague and rang the bell—one of those old-fashioned ones you wind clockwise—in the middle of the locked door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Nathaniel Williams, to see Jan Hus,” he said and was buzzed in. He ascended a half flight of stairs and followed an arrow to the left on which were scrawled the handwritten initials SP, and found himself at a small, spare office. The only person in the office was a young person—probably a man—sporting a spiky blue Mohawk haircut, nose and tongue rings connected with a gold chain, coin-sized plugs in his earlobes, a swastika tattoo on his forehead, and a cutoff black T-shirt with the enigmatic logo EGG PROJECT on it. He was leaning back in a swivel chair, with eyes that would have been staring at the ceiling had they been open. Czech punk rock blared angrily.

  “Excuse me,” said Nathaniel, loud enough so he could be heard over the din, “I’m looking for Jan Hus.”

  “I am Hus,” said the young man, opening his eyes but otherwise not changing his position.

  “The orchestra manager?”

  “Orchestra manager, stage manager, business manager. I do everything around here.”

  “Well, thank you for letting me do this research. If you could just show me your archives…”

  “This way,” said Hus, snapping himself up from his chair. Nathaniel followed him into a windowless, poorly lit back room of chipped plaster walls and undulating wooden flooring. Unlabeled gray metal file cabinets lined two of the walls. Faded posters of past orchestra events in cheap frames with cracked glass were propped carelessly against the walls. The Formica table in the middle of the room had a carton on it with dust obscuring whatever was written on it.

  “I go to lunch at one,” said Hus.

  “What’s in the file cabinets?” asked Nathaniel.

  Hus shrugged. “Who knows? I am not a librarian,” he said, and left.

  What now? Nathaniel asked himself. It was still possible he could make it back to Lucerne for the Mahler Second conducted by Claudio Abbado, a performance he was certain he would treasure. In order to tell Jacobus he had made an effort, he would take a cursory glance at the contents of the file cabinets, then hastily retrace his dusty footprints out the door.

  Starting from the left wall and working clockwise, he quickly opened one drawer after another to get an overview of what was inside. There seemed to be no particular organizational rhyme or reason to the files, neither of chronology nor subject matter. Compounded with the fact that it was all in Czech whether written by hand or typewriter, Nathaniel didn’t see anything that could be any help at all. Some drawers were so badly warped he was unable to yank them open.

  The second-to-last cabinet proved to have something Nathaniel at least could understand: old concert programs. They weren’t in folders, merely piled into the drawer. He pulled out a handful and quickly dismissed the hope that they had been stacked chronologically.

  Nathaniel gathered up an armful of programs and, spilling some along the way, laid them upon the dusty tabletop. After retrieving a second load, he nosed around the remaining cabinets and, finding no others, spent the next hour organizing them, hoping something might be gained from that exercise. Herza had conducted the orchestra from its founding in 1945 until his departure in 1956, so Nathaniel decided that after 1957 there probably wouldn’t be anything of value, but since the programs had been in disarray he examined all of them.

  Many of the earliest programs were one-page affairs printed on cheap paper, containing only the barest information: the date, the music to be played, the name of the conductor—always Herza—and the soloists. As time passed, the number of annual concerts increased from a handful to over eighty, and the programs became more opulent, in booklet form on glossy paper with black-and-white photos. In 1951, the names of the orchestra musicians began to be listed, then names of sponsors—most prominently the Communist government, since orchestras in Soviet bloc countries were generally fully subsidized by the state—the history of the orchestra, and professional bios of the soloists and conductor.

  It was this last that interested Nathaniel. Though he couldn’t read Czech, he saw that all the later bios of Herza were identical, so he took one of them into the office. Jan Hus had resumed his catatonic pose, though the din of the rock music had disappeared.

  Nathaniel cleared
his throat. “Excuse me,” he said, but there was no response.

  “Excuse me,” he said again, in a louder but still polite voice. Again, no response.

  Nathaniel looked closer and saw that Hus was wearing miniheadphones. There was less than an hour left before Hus was going to take a break from his hard work and go to lunch, so Nathaniel approached him and lightly tapped him on the shoulder. Still nothing. Finally, Nathaniel shook him, if not vigorously, at least with definite purpose.

  Hus’s eyes slowly opened. He looked around, as if unfamiliar with his surroundings, and removed his headphones.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” said Nathaniel, “but I just wanted to ask you a question.”

  “What is it?”

  “Could you translate this bio of Vaclav Herza for me?”

  “I’m not an interpreter,” he said. He reinserted his headphones and leaned back, closing his eyes. “I am the manager.”

  Nathaniel returned to the archives and sat down with the last few programs that Herza conducted, hoping he would be able to find something he could understand that might also be helpful.

  The music on the programs included mostly standard, traditional repertoire, with extra-heavy doses of the big three Czech composers, Bedřich Smetana, Antonín Dvořák, and Leoš Janáček, and a formidable representation of Richard Strauss’s five greatest tone poems, Don Juan, Till Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks, Death and Transfiguration, Also Sprach Zarathustra, and Ein Heldenleben. There was a smattering of contemporary music of Czech composers whose names Nathaniel didn’t recognize, and some Soviet composers whose names—Shostakovich, Khachaturian, Kabalevsky—he could, even when written in the Cyrillic alphabet. But all in all, nothing productive.

  He looked at the roster of Herza’s last few concerts, about seventy-five musicians all told, just enough to get by for all those Strauss works. He wasn’t surprised that none of the musicians’ names meant anything to him. Most of them were Slavic, with a good helping of German, who might also be Czech citizens, considering the long history of Teutonic domination of the country. His final exercise before packing up was to run his finger down the musicians’ roster from concert to concert and try to glean something from that information. There was only one notable personnel change. In Herza’s last concert, on November 17, 1956, the principal trumpet player of Sinfonia Prague was one Petru Mihaescu. Before that it had been someone named Klaus Jürgens. Nathaniel looked at earlier programs. Jürgens. Jürgens. Jürgens. As far back as he could find, it was Jürgens. It struck Nathaniel as odd that a conductor would change principal trumpets at his last concert. It was possible this Jürgens had simply gone on vacation, but typically in such a case the program would still have listed him. Maybe Jürgens had decided to retire when Herza left.