Death and Transfiguration

by Gerald Elias

  Jacobus returned to the front desk.

  “Goddammit, now can I go see her?” he asked.

  “We’re on the phone, sir, with a patient. Please be patient.”

  “What’s your name?” Jacobus demanded.

  “Waconah, sir.”

  “Well, Waconah, I’m going to file a complaint with your supervisor.”

  “Yes, sir. Here’s the form. Just fill it out and pop it in the mail. No stamp necessary. And we’ll let you know as soon as we can about visiting your granddaughter.”

  Jacobus walked in the opposite direction from the chairs until he reached the wall, and stood next to a watercooler. He thought about what he would say to Sherry when he saw her. He wouldn’t be maudlin. He would be straightforward. Look, he would say, I want you to get better. Soon. Here’s a book. If she wanted to talk to him, fine. If not, he would leave the book by her bedside and make his exit. Short and sweet. He just wanted her to understand.

  “Sir,” came the sound of Waconah’s voice. Maybe she was calling to him. He tapped his cane in front of him like a Geiger counter that had found the mother lode and made his way to the desk.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Ms. O’Brien’s condition still hasn’t stabilized. No visitors. None at all. We’re sorry about that.”

  * * *

  Back in his living room chair, Jacobus merely sat, having eschewed his violin in fear of being jilted a second time by the inability of music to assuage his angst. With little appetite for music or food, what else was left for him to do? Trotsky, sensing Jacobus’s malaise, gave him a wide berth, tiptoeing the perimeter of the room as he panted his way to the water bowl in the kitchen.

  Jacobus had anointed himself king of the chessboard, but now he felt powerless as a pawn cavalierly traded for the off chance of some future positional advantage, and which sat, an impotent spectator, at the side of the board. He ran his fingers through unwashed, tangled gray hair. He hadn’t changed his clothes for days, and his sunken cheeks were rough with thickening stubble. He supposed he should attend to his hygiene. A shower, a shave, fresh clothing, would probably make him feel better, but he shuddered at the thought of shaving with that antiquated electric razor that buzzed raucously and hacked at his skin like a lawn mower with pitted blades, and so his inertia reigned. Oh, to be able to see, if only in order to shave with a real razor! But no, if there was one feat even he, the great Daniel Jacobus, would dare not attempt, it was shaving with a real razor.

  He rubbed his steel-wool cheek, this time with some purpose. What thought had just flashed through his mind? Jacobus tried to dredge it up from the border of his awareness, like the theme from the second movement of an obscure Boccherini string quintet. Was it important? How could he know unless he retrieved it? He kept rubbing, hoping by that action to bring the thought to the surface. Why is the thought of shaving hounding me?

  Jacobus dialed a familiar phone number.

  “Roy,” he said, “Sherry O’Brien didn’t try to kill herself. She couldn’t have. Someone else did it to her.”

  “Slow down, Jake,” Roy Miller said. “I hope this isn’t one of your famous hunches that can’t be proved.”

  “Up yours, Roy! She couldn’t have done it because the doctor said her wrists were so badly slashed that she couldn’t move her fingers. That means once the first wrist was cut, it would have been impossible for her to cut the other.”

  The line was silent for a moment. “You might be on to something there, Jake.”

  “Check the blade that was found next to her. I’ll lay odds it doesn’t match the other razors she had in her hotel room. Then check to find where it might have been bought and see if a salesperson can ID—”

  “I know what you’re saying, Jake. Don’t worry. We’ll do the police work. Do you know who this someone might be, if your theory pans out?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I have a famous hunch.”

  * * *

  Jacobus dialed New York City information, but with the city’s bucketful of new area codes was momentarily stymied until at length he was informed that Herza’s was 718; this victory was offset by the additional notification that the number itself was unlisted. So Jacobus called information for the Harmonium office and after several sidetracks was put through to an administrative intern. By contriving a gruff accent of unidentifiable origin, Jacobus convinced her he was an official from the upper echelons of the Czech government requiring an urgent consultation with the maestro.

  The phone rang. Even if O’Brien had cut herself, Herza had held the psychological scalpel in his hand and Jacobus had done nothing to prevent him from wielding it. But, he was convinced, Herza had been there, or at least his surrogate. Jacobus had second thoughts. Was he up to the task? Five times the phone rang. Answer the damn phone. She had called his name. Jacobus. She was right. He was responsible. Six times. Could Herza be away?

  “Hello?” answered a voice.

  “Who are you?” Jacobus asked.

  “I am Lubomir Butkus, Maestro Vaclav Herza’s personal assistant. Who are you?”

  “I am Daniel Jacobus. I would have had my personal assistant call you but I gave him the day off.”

  “I have no days off.”

  “In that case, may I ask, Lubomir, where you were on Tuesday evening?”

  “At my master’s side. As always.”

  “And where, may I ask, was your master’s side on Tuesday evening?”

  “That is none of your concern. Or your business.”

  “May I have a word with Maestro, please?”

  “I’m sorry. He only speaks to those he has requested. He’s very busy.”

  “This is very important.”

  “Really, now. Maestro is resting. He’s had an exhausting day of rehearsals and meetings.”

  “It’s a matter of life and death. Really.”

  “Life and death? I hardly think so,” said Butkus with a pretended chuckle.

  “Look, you asshole,” said Jacobus, tired of the toying, “the concertmaster of Maestro’s orchestra may very well die because of Maestro. So I’m sorry if Maestro is inconvenienced, but if she should die because Maestro was too busy, you can be sure that Mr. Lilburn at the New York Times will be the first to hear about it.”

  “Please hold for a moment. I’ll explain your issue to Maestro.”

  Jacobus heard conversation, but it was too soft and Jacobus could not make out the exchange. Butkus returned to the phone.

  “Maestro says he is too busy. But,” Butkus continued, suddenly whispering.

  “But what?” snapped Jacobus.

  “I have a favor to ask of you. I’ve heard of your reputation among musicians.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “I believe there is a plot against Maestro,” said Butkus. “A conspiracy by the musicians.”

  “To do what? Throw him a surprise party?” asked Jacobus.

  “To humiliate him. I don’t know what they are planning, but I can tell there’s something going on. A whispering campaign to do something at the opening of Harmonium Hall—to sabotage it—and I implore you to intervene and stop it.”

  Have I not spelled out my suspicions? Jacobus asked himself. Could this lackey be so delusional? Or, worse, could he in fact be innocent?

  “Well, I hate to let you down, Lubomir, but if a little humiliation doesn’t kill him, maybe someone else will.” Jacobus slammed down the receiver, not for the first time.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  In contrast to its bustling activity, the lights in Prague’s Staroměstské náměstí were dim, and those that shone reflected in confused profusion off the puddles that had accumulated between the cobblestones during the day’s drizzle. Nathaniel, standing in the middle of the square, turned his tourist map every which way. At night, nothing looked as it was supposed to. Whoever came up with name “square” for this asymmetric, multisided plaza must have had a rare form of dyslexia, he thought.

  Again, he aligned the astro
nomical clock to his left with its enlarged facsimile on the tourist map. He then looked at the x that Jan Hus had scrawled for the Café Espoire, which was now to the upper left at the end of one winding street, and traced it back to an intersection with another that should theoretically empty onto the opposite side of the square from where he stood. He looked again in that direction; according to the map, the street he was seeking should be there, but all he saw was the obstructive side of a building—a church or museum, perhaps. He headed toward it anyway, hoping that his confidence, false though it might be, would be rewarded.

  Nathaniel circumnavigated the church, for that was what it was, and came back to his starting point without finding the street he sought. He tried it one more time and halfway around came to an unlit alleyway, obscured by the evening mist. This must be it, he thought, though it could hardly be called a street. He followed it nevertheless, and within a few echoey steps was the only person in sight, a sudden and disconcerting transformation from the busy square. A few minutes later he came to an unmarked intersection, and on faith he turned left and hoped for the best. Most of the buildings—whether residences or businesses he couldn’t tell—were devoid of activity and luminescence. Clearly this was not a part of town frequented by the tourist crowd.

  The small lit sign two blocks away encouraged Nathaniel to quicken his pace. Café Espoire. Thank you, Jesus! As he approached the entrance, men’s conversation emerged from within.

  Nathaniel was greeted by the entrenched stink of beer, cigarette smoke, and urine, and took one step back. It was even worse than the Circle of Fifths, the bar that he and Jacobus were once invited to in New York City. There, at least, the aroma of garlic overpowered the less appealing smells. Visions of the clear blue waters of Lake Lucerne beckoned. He forced his feet to advance. Encroaching upon territory grudgingly ceded by two of the bar’s bleary patrons, who viewed him with unabashed disapproval, he approached the bartender.

  “Excuse me, do you speak English?”

  “Speak English, speak Spanish, speak Italian, speak German, speak Czech, speak—”

  “Is there a gentleman named Mihaescu that works here? A musician?”

  “Petru? Yes, he is here, but I wouldn’t say he works.” The two boozers responded with a low rumble that Nathaniel interpreted as laughter.

  “Can you tell me which one of these gentlemen he is?”

  “Well, you see, I say he is here, but right now he is not here.”

  More rumbling.

  “When do you expect him?”

  “He is supposed to play at ten, so come back at eleven. Maybe he’ll be here by then.”

  Nathaniel looked at his watch. He had almost two hours to kill until ten.

  “What do you recommend I do between now and then?”

  “Sit. I bring you a Pils.”

  “Maybe I’ll put a hold on that for when I come back,” Nathaniel said, convinced by the stale air and stale company of the prudence of going elsewhere. “What about in the meantime?”

  “What do you like? Girls, shopping, sightseeing, girls, music, clubs, art—”

  “Music. I’m a music lover.” Thinking back upon his earlier meeting with Jan Hus, he asked, “Is Sinfonia Prague performing tonight?”

  “Why them?” The bartender sounded dismissive. “They don’t start until October, anyway.”

  Nathaniel thought for a moment. “Would there be a production of Don Giovanni going on by any chance?”

  “Sure! There is always Don Giovanni in Prague. First performance of Don Giovanni was here in 1787. Mozart loved Prague. Was his second home. There is an estate—”

  “Could you show me on the map where the performance is?”

  Nathaniel produced the map from his back pocket. It had already become frayed, soggy, and bent to the contour of his imposing buttocks, but he didn’t think it was in all that bad condition for the time it took the bartender to find the venue.

  “There!” he finally said, pointing to a spot on the other side of the square. “Don Giovanni, every night. The tourists love it.”

  Nathaniel thanked him and left quickly, only in part because the performance started in less than a half hour. He hoped tickets were available.

  Fifteen minutes later, Nathaniel was among the approximately one hundred patrons squirming in cramped seats in an auditorium whose shabbiness was not totally cloaked by poor lighting. Before the remaining light was extinguished, he opened the file that Garnisova had given him at the Pravo office. There was surprisingly little from 1956, which Nathaniel chalked up to the vagaries of time; the file thickened as it plodded toward the present. Garnisova, bless her heart, had also included recent articles relating to the negotiations among the Prague government—which had donated the funds for the construction of Freedom Bridge—New York City, and the builders of Harmonium Hall. Though everything Nathaniel browsed through was interesting, it shed as little light on the assignment with which Jacobus had entrusted him as the feeble house lights that shone on the meager results of his day’s labor. Closing the file, Nathaniel readied himself for the world-famous Prague production of Don Giovanni. Performed by puppets.

  The overture began, played not by a live orchestra but by a recording. The recording was old and worn and the amplification questionable. Nathaniel sighed and looked at his watch. The curtain went up, revealing a wooden Leporello, Don Giovanni’s right-hand man, lamenting his station in life and wishing he were a real gentleman. The comic lightness of the short aria, sung by a marionette backed by a miniature set of a grand palazzo, brought a few amused chuckles from the audience. Then suddenly, Don Giovanni and Donna Anna, who has just been assaulted by Don Giovanni, rush out in a frenzy. Donna Anna’s father, Il Commendatore, appears, seeking revenge, and, in a one-sided sword fight, is slain forthwith by Don Giovanni. It all happened so fast, with such tumult, that Nathaniel forgot he was watching string-manipulated dolls. They seemed to have come to life with personalities of their own, and the torment was palpable. This was no lighthearted children’s adaptation. Donna Anna’s plight aroused a striking degree of pathos; Nathaniel sat back in his seat, intrigued, and watched with rapt attention. So adept were the puppeteers, it seemed that the marionettes were able to change their facial expressions. Nathaniel could easily recall much more wooden acting at the Met.

  By intermission, however, he had had enough. His bulk threatened to overwhelm his flimsy chair’s ability to support him, and as much as he appreciated the creativity of the production, the actions of the characters on stage had become repetitious. Nathaniel decided that the ghost of Il Commendatore would have to drag Don Giovanni into hell’s abyss without his moral support.

  * * *

  Nathaniel had no difficulty finding his way back to the Café Espoire, partly because he was familiar with the route, but also because he now had Mihaescu’s music floating on the night air to guide him. He checked his watch. The band was actually ahead of schedule.

  He took a corner seat, ordered a pilsner, and observed Mihaescu and his trio. The traditional folk music that formed the core of their repertoire was punctuated with arrangements of the Largo from Dvořák’s “New World” Symphony and Mozart’s Don Giovanni, and of international plums like “Condor Pasa” and “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head,” which prompted Nathaniel to request another beer. One of the musicians, a skinny young man hidden behind baggy, tattered clothing and a halfhearted beard, switched from string bass to drums to keyboard, while an older, stocky gentleman wearing a red vest, red fez, and red face alternated on clarinet, accordion, and panpipes. Mihaescu, eagle nosed, in an old wool jacket with elbow patches and sporting a black beret on his wavy graying hair, had an assortment of trumpets, cornets, and flügelhorns at his disposal. Nathaniel, a former musician, noted how cleverly the aging trumpeter allowed his two cohorts to do the heavy lifting while he preserved his embouchure, playing short, easily executed midregister phrases and taking frequent breaks to moisten his chops with a glass of beer, scrupulously mon
itored by the bartender to make sure it was never empty. Mihaescu’s sound had a light, pleasing clarity, relieving any doubt Nathaniel had that he was the classically trained musician he was seeking.

  “Petru?” Nathaniel asked, as the group took a cigarette break after a rousing rendition of “Climb Ev’ry Mountain.” “Petru Mihaescu?”

  “Yes?” asked the trumpeter.

  “I’ve really enjoyed listening to you,” Nathaniel said truthfully. “Can I buy you a beer?”

  “Why not?” Mihaescu said, taking a seat opposite Nathaniel. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Go right ahead,” said Nathaniel. Though he did mind, what difference would the smoke of one more cigarette make to the omni-present haze? He signaled the bartender for a beer.

  “Tourist?” Mihaescu said, sizing up Nathaniel.

  “Sort of. I was just at the Lucerne Festival, and this is my first time to Prague.”

  “No doubt, then, you’ve seen the puppet Giovanni and are now taking in our internationally celebrated nightlife.” Mihaescu gestured grandiloquently to his shabby surroundings.

  Nathaniel laughed. “I guess you know the routine.”

  “I happen to be on that recording. Of the puppet production.”

  “Really?” Nathaniel was surprised to hear that. It also saved him ten minutes of finding an entrée to get Mihaescu to talk about his orchestra experience.

  “A fine orchestra. You’re a man of many talents, Mr. Mihaescu,” he added.

  “Hmm, yes I am. Call me Petru.” Mihaescu took a long drag of his cigarette, blew the smoke up to the ceiling, and followed it with his eyes. “Yes. Sinfonia Prague, that record. When they were still good, back in the sixties.”

  “May I ask why you left the orchestra to play…”

  “In a smelly club, you mean?”

  “I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” said Nathaniel.

  Mihaescu shrugged. The beer arrived. Mihaescu lifted the glass and effortlessly downed its entire contents. He wiped the foam from his mouth with his sleeve.

  “The real story is how I came to play in that orchestra in the first place.” Mihaescu left that morsel dangling and concentrated on his cigarette, holding it vertically in front of him and peering intensely at it, as if it held some unspoken secret.