Enigma Variations

by Bradley W Wright

  I waited in a short line and procured a couple of champagne flutes from a white gloved bartender. When I returned to Maggie she was speaking to an older man with florid cheeks and a white goatee.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the glass from me. “Justin, this is Archibald Matthews. Archibald, Justin Vincent. Justin is an old friend. In town for a day or two.”

  Archibald Matthews nodded, raising an eyebrow. “Yes. Indubitably. A pleasure to meet you.” He said in a pretentious drawl, lifting his chin and peering down at me. “Was it this performance that drew you to our city?”

  “Yes, actually it was.”

  “You must be an enigma enthusiast as well.” He took a deep breath, no doubt preparing to tell me his theory about the variations.

  “I’m sorry Archie,” Maggie cut him off. “We’ve got to get to our seats. Maybe we’ll see you at the reception?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Oh well, then another time,” Maggie said as she turned, pulling me with her. “That man is impossible,” she whispered, sipping her champagne. “He’s on the board too. Filthy rich. Old money. Always disagrees with every new initiative. Always calling for outside audits that never turn up anything but end up costing a fortune. Anyway, drink up and we’ll go in and you can tell me why you’re here in Seattle.”

  We had ascended some stairs and made our way to the entrance to the founders tier box seats. Setting our empty glasses on a tray outside the door, we entered and seated ourselves in plush comfort just above and to the right of the stage.

  “Now,” Maggie said, turning to me. “What’s your secret mission?”

  I hesitated, unsure how to start. “In addition to my artwork, I sometimes do what you might call investigative work.”

  “Like a private investigator?” Maggie held a hand to her throat, seeming simultaneously shocked and titillated. The soft light reflecting off the deep red and gold furnishings gave her patrician features the look of a concert goer in one of Édouard Manet’s paintings.

  “Sort of,” I answered. “Mostly focused on recovering stolen property of high value.”

  “Oh dear. You must be a CIA agent or something. I won’t ask any more questions about that. But why this concert? And why do you need to attend the reception? Is there a suspect here?” She gave me a conspiratorial wink.

  “Possibly a suspect,” I answered, smiling. “Someone who might be able to give me some information at least.”

  “How thrilling!” The lights were dimming and the orchestra was tuning their instruments. “I can’t wait for the reception. There won’t be any fights or chases or shooting will there? No, good. Now, I’ve got to pay attention. We have a new cellist.”

  ****

  After the last standing ovation, we rose and let the crowd pull us along. The music still filled my head and I felt like I was swimming through warm honey. The concert had opened with pieces by Brahms and Bartók, then finished with the Enigma Variations. There was something tantalizing about the music—a feeling of hidden knowledge hinted at but never revealed. I could sense the enigma but, of course, simply listening to the music—even a beautiful live performance—would never allow me to solve the mystery. People like Julian Wolhardt—with far greater understanding and depth of knowledge—had spent lifetimes studying the score. Still, I was left with a feeling of something lingering, almost seen, like an animal heard in the woods, a flash of white through the branches but never glimpsed whole.

  Rather than follow the crowd down to the lobby and out the doors, Maggie took my arm and steered me down a hallway, then across the upper lobby where the moon shone through a wall of glass. We ended up at a restaurant that was part of the concert hall and was apparently the location of the reception. A Seattle Philharmonic staffer posted at the door greeted Maggie.

  “Mrs. Shaughnessy, please come in.”

  “Thank you, Caroline. This is my date, Mr. Vincent, man of mystery.”

  “Justin. Nice to meet you,” I said and shook hands with her quickly before Maggie dragged me inside. “What’s the occasion for this reception? Or is it just standard?” I asked as we entered the room.

  “We do these a few times every season. The development people like to give the big donors a little frisson by putting them in the same room with a few members of the alien species known as real artists. So, a few musicians are volun-told to be here and the conductor of course. Tonight it’s Johann.”

  “Got it.” I glimpsed a bar across the room with glassware sparkling in the dim light and a guy with an impressive moustache mixing drinks. “There’s a bartender over there with a waxed moustache. Always a sign of well-made cocktails. Would you like a drink?”

  “Something citrusy with gin please. I need to mingle for a bit if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. I’ll go get the drinks.”

  It took fifteen minutes to get the drinks. I waited in the line, chatting with the second violinist who was a fan of Miyazaki movies, then waited again while the bartender crafted the cocktails with infinite attention to the smallest detail. When I finally got back to Maggie and handed off her drink she was deep in conversation with another board member, talking about the Bartók piece and comparing it to other performances. The conversation was a bit too inside-baseball for me so I wandered off and spent the next half-hour working my way through the crowd, trying to get close to Johann Benderick.

  Benderick was not a tall or imposing man—about my height, maybe sixty years old, with thinning blond hair going to gray and an ascetic face that he held high with an almost military bearing. He had a steady stream of admirers who seemed to want to stand very close while speaking to him and to make physical contact by touching his arm or shoulder. It was obvious to me that he was uncomfortable in the crowd and would like to be elsewhere. I positioned myself to his left, waiting for an opening. I was about to approach when a woman in a floral print dress and very flashy rings on almost every finger pushed past me. She hugged him crying out, “Johann, such an elegant performance tonight!”

  I stood back again, waiting my turn. Finally, after a couple of minutes of monosyllabic answers from Benderick, she seemed to take the hint, gave him another hug which he partially fended off, then strode away calling out to someone else over the heads of the crowd. I grabbed my opportunity.

  “Bender39,” I said, looking straight at him with a calm expression.

  He started, and turned his gaze on me. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “Bender39,” I repeated. “Your screen name I believe.”

  He looked bewildered for a moment, then calmed himself, looking almost angry. “Yes. I’m Bender39. I don’t know how you figured that out or what your point is.”

  “Sorry, just needed to get your attention. I’m a fellow enigma enthusiast. I need to speak with you if you’re willing. I have something to share that might be of interest.”

  “About the variations? A possible solution?”

  “It’s related to a solution recently announced by another member of the forum. JW48. I would rather speak in private though. Maybe tomorrow?”

  He pursed his lips, silent for a moment, not taking his eyes off me. “I’m not sure why I’m saying yes,” he replied at last. “But yes, fine. Please come by tomorrow morning at ten. I’ll be in my office. What’s your name?”

  “Justin Vincent.” I took a card from my inside pocket and handed it to him. It just had my name, the word ‘sculptor’, and my portfolio website URL.

  “Sculptor?” He said, looking up from the card. “I’ll tell the receptionist to send you up when you arrive.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be here at ten. I loved the performance tonight by the way. It was powerful.”

  Benderick nodded, turned, and, seeing no more supplicants nearby, walked quickly toward the exit. I pondered the ease with which I had convinced him to speak with me as I watched his stiff back recede. He had to be a true disciple of the enigma, I decided—eager enough for any kind of information to assent to
a meeting with a complete stranger. Either that or there was some piece of information I was missing. Maybe there was something else going on. Maybe he had a motive beyond just finding the solution to the riddle. Whichever it was, I would find out in the morning.

  “Justin! It’s almost time for me to turn into a pumpkin.”

  I turned and saw Maggie at my side. “Okay. I’m ready to go,” I replied, studying her face. She was tipsy. I could tell by the subtly shifting weight she placed on my arm and her slightly unfocused eyes.

  “Come with me. My driver’s waiting outside.”

  Maggie leaned on my shoulder on the drive to my hotel, eyes closed. When the driver pulled up to the entrance she looked up at me.

  “Shall I come in?”

  I pondered for a moment. “No, sorry. I don’t think that would be a good idea. Valerie gave me very specific instructions not to allow myself to be seduced by you.”

  “Really! Why not? Are you two involved?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I guess it’s all right then. I had a lovely evening. Did you get the information you needed from our mystery suspect?”

  “I made a good start, thanks to you.”

  ****

  I arrived at the Seattle Philharmonic offices on foot a couple of minutes before ten AM the next morning. A receptionist with Betty Page hair phoned Benderick’s office and, after a hushed conversation, gave me directions. I knocked on the blond wood door and heard him call to me to enter.

  The office was large, with Berber carpeting in a light, warm gray, and white walls. There was a piano, shelves of books, a desk scattered with large music scores, and, in the center of the room, a seating area. Behind the desk, a floor to ceiling wall of windows looked out over the waterfront and the cerulean expanse of the Puget Sound beyond, Benderick flipped a score closed, stood from behind the desk, and gestured for me to sit. I chose a Wegner lounge chair. He crossed and sat opposite me on the requisite Eames daybed upholstered in a nubby pale jade fabric.

  “I like your sculptures, Mr. Vincent.” He waved a hand toward the laptop on his desk. “I’ve been looking at your website.” He seemed more relaxed and comfortable today, in loose linen drawstring pants and a black T-shirt. He was not one of those ethereal beings like Maggie who wore fancy clothes effortlessly. He clearly preferred comfort.

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  “However, I must get straight to business.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a rehearsal at eleven. What kind of information do you have?”

  I sat back and thought for a moment, searching for the best way to proceed with him. “The other member of your forum. JW48. Do you know who he is?”

  “No. I don’t know any of them.”

  “He’s a composer. He lives in Southern California.”

  “A film composer?”

  “Yes. He’s a friend of a friend of mine. Shortly after he announced on the forum that he was close to a solution, his house was ransacked and his notes were stolen.”

  A strange look crossed Benderick’s face—one I couldn’t read. He quickly controlled himself and reasserted an expression of bland indifference. I had come straight out with the main fact in an attempt to surprise him into some sort of reaction. I had gotten the reaction but I wasn’t sure what it meant.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied. “I don’t know him personally but we have been acquainted for many years through the enigma forum. I’ve always found his knowledge of the music to be impeccable.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted his solution badly enough to break into his house and steal his notes?”

  “No. Nobody specific although, of course, many people know about the reward and I’m sure there are many lurkers in that forum. It was rather silly of him to announce it like that, for anyone to see. I never take it seriously when someone says they have a solution. So many have been proposed but they all fall short in the end. We’ll probably never know until the envelope is opened. Maybe not even then. How did someone find out who he is or where he lives though?”

  “I found you. It wasn’t difficult.”

  “Would you mind explaining how you accomplished that? I have always thought the forum was anonymous.”

  “Sorry, I can’t tell you that.”

  “Are you working for this person? I thought you were a sculptor.”

  “I am. I also do favors for people sometimes though. Track down things they’ve lost. It’s a kind of specialty of mine.”

  “I see. Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m sorry you came all the way to Seattle.”

  “It hasn’t been a waste of my time. The performance last night alone was worth the trip.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it. I don’t get to conduct the variations often. It’s always a fight to get them into a program. Not big ticket sellers.”

  “May I ask you a question about the variations?”

  “Yes. I have a little time still.”

  “What’s your theory? Do you have a piece of music you think fits?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t believe anyone will find incontrovertible proof of one particular melody being the inspiration, or overarching theme. Elgar was very familiar with the use of extended harmonies. This simplistic idea that we will find a well-known melody that is an obvious fit seems highly dubious to me. I’ve always been more interested in the other part of the riddle. The dark saying which must be left unguessed. To me, that is a more interesting mystery. I’m no mathematician or code breaker so I’ve never hoped to solve it myself. I just like to keep up on any new developments and read what others are thinking. When I play the music, or conduct it, though, I feel like I can intuit that dark saying, like it’s on the tip of my tongue. I can feel it viscerally. It’s something magnificent. There are those who think it’s some kind of mystical or occult incantation. You know that Elgar spent time working at an insane asylum?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes. He worked for a time as the bandmaster at the Worcester City and County Lunatic Asylum. He was twenty-two. The band was made up of the attendants at the asylum, not the patients of course. They played at dances that were held for the patients. It was Elgar’s first job as a composer and conductor. Tremendously important to his formation as a composer. Some people say he became close to and spent time with a particular patient—a man who had been driven mad by his experiments with magic and the occult. He was a descendent of Benvenuto Cellini.”

  “Cellini? The Italian sculptor?” I strained to remember my art history. I knew I had studied Cellini. “He did the famous statue of Perseus with the head of Medusa didn’t he?”

  “Yes. But he was also a soldier, a musician, and an occultist. He wrote a pot-boiler of an autobiography. Murder, mayhem, intrigue. It’s all in there. Including the summoning of demons via ritual magic. It’s worth a read. Anyway, he had a lot of affairs with both women and men and this inmate was supposedly a descendent via an illegitimate offspring. He had tried to reproduce Cellini’s experiences summoning demons. They say Elgar learned magical incantations from this patient and that he later encoded them into compositions. The dark saying in the variations would be one example.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes. But I find the idea unconvincing. As I said, I feel the power and meaning in that music and it is not something occult or evil. It’s more like a heavenly vision, a parting of curtains after millennia of darkness to reveal the sun. Don’t you agree? You heard it. You experienced it. I could tell from your face when I met you last night. It’s the reason I agreed to meet with you.”

  “Yes. I think I did feel it,” I replied, struck by Benderick’s enthusiasm, the clear, almost beatific aura that lingered around his words. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. You’ve been…” I hesitated, wondering how useful the conversation had really been, “…very generous with your time.”

  Chapter 8

  Salamanders and Keyloggers

/>   June 29: San Francisco

  I found a public domain version of the autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini on gutenberg.org, downloaded it, and began reading it on the plane. I was well into the book by the time we landed at SFO and thoroughly embroiled in the fascinating narrative. There was no way to tell whether most of his stories were truth or fiction but they were definitely entertaining and he didn’t shy away from embellishment. For example, early on he told a story from when he was five years old:

  “My father happened to be in a basement-chamber of our house, where they had been washing, and where a good fire of oak-logs was still burning; he had a viol in his hand, and was playing and singing alone beside the fire. The weather was very cold. Happening to look into the fire, he spied in the middle of those most burning flames a little creature like a lizard, which was sporting in the core of the intensest coals.”

  Little Benvenuto’s father called him to the basement, showed him the creature, and told him it was a mythical salamander which legends said were born from fire. He then proceeded to give Benvenuto ‘a great box on the ears’ which he explained was a trick to make Benvenuto remember the moment later—a strategy that apparently worked since fifty-eight year old Cellini remembered it well enough to add the anecdote to his book.

  A light thump alerted me that we had landed. I turned off my e-reader and looked out the window. Beyond the tarmac, the bay was still and tranquil. After deboarding and making my way through the airport, I took the BART downtown and walked home along the waterfront rather than riding the crowded T train. I had arranged to meet Ashna for drinks in the late evening but I had a few hours to kill before that. I was looking forward to making some progress on the half-finished sculpture in my studio, reading some more Cellini, and maybe getting in a workout at the Krav Maga gym I frequented but hadn’t been to for months. My years of Krav Maga training had literally saved my life not long before. I shuddered, remembering the cold and silence of that clearing in the woods. It had been a close call but the walk along the bay was pleasant and soon dispelled the bitter memory of that night.