Enigma Variations

by Bradley W Wright

  “No, I’m fine. If this is correct, I think I know what the counterpoint is. There is a very well-known hymn set to a tune by JS Bach that uses this verse, in German of course.” Wolhardt approached the phone and sat at the piano. He closed his eyes and began to play single notes, hesitantly. “Trying to remember it,” he said. His playing gradually became more confident as the tune came back to him. “This could work. I think this might be it. I have to go. It will take me an hour or two to be sure. I’ll have to lay them out together.”

  I could see him fading away, turning inward, his brain following the threads of the problem already. “Okay. Good. I’m glad my idea helped,” I said. “Go work on it. We’ll be in touch later.”

  ****

  “Justin, wake up.”

  Low hum of jet engines. Smell of recycled air. I looked out the window and saw nothing but clouds.

  “What? Don’t you remember the doctors said I need rest?”

  “Whatever. You’ve been sleeping for two days. I want to read this to you.” She held her phone out. There was a cup of coffee on her tray table. “Ready?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Let me have some of that coffee. Is it about the variations?”

  “Indeed. Here it is: Elgar’s enigma solved at last? Over one hundred years ago, Sir Edward Elgar posed a riddle to his fans, a riddle that has continued to baffle even the most erudite of academics down the years. Scholars believe the enigma takes the form of a secret counterpoint to Elgar’s theme from which all the variations are derived. Some also believe, Elgar having been a keen cryptographer, that the composer wove an encrypted message or clue into the music itself. Finally, a solution, reached via a highly original method, has been proposed and given to a panel of experts to judge. The solution was submitted two days ago by Julian Wolhardt of Culver City, California. Mr. Wolhardt, a film composer, has been working on the enigma for many years but only recently made a breakthrough that led to his startling solution. The expert panel released a statement this morning saying that his proposed solution has serious merit. They plan to meet within the month to discuss the proposal in person and issue their judgment. Has the enigma finally been solved? Only time can tell. In a bizarre twist, the panel that will decide the fate of Mr. Wolhardt’s solution was assembled by none other than Morgan Jutting, the reclusive billionaire and enigma enthusiast who was murdered only days ago. Mr. Jutting had offered a reward of one million pounds for a solution to the riddle. The panel, made up of highly respected scholars, has the power to recommend that the reward be bestowed. However, given the death of Morgan Jutting and the resulting turmoil, it is unknown whether or not the reward will still be on offer.”

  I took a sip of Ashna’s coffee, thinking. “So he sent it in?”

  “Yeah. I told you he did. You need to get over this concussion, dude.”

  “I know. I’m feeling better. I hope Belka’s okay. Where do they keep them? Not down in the cargo bay with all the suitcases I hope.”

  “He’ll be fine. They have a special heated and pressurized area for animals. I checked. You gave him the cat Prozac didn’t you? I never figured you for a cat guy Justin.”

  “Me neither. I like him though. At least I got something out of this job, if Victoria Butler doesn’t pay that is.”

  “She’ll pay. I can feel it.”

  Chapter 23

  Coda

  September 30: Los Angeles & Culver City

  I went to Los Angeles again at the end of September for an opening at the new gallery. Valerie was showing three of my pieces. It was a good night. I saw a lot of old friends—mostly refugees from the Bay Area who had fled South for the cheaper cost of living. The wine was good. The D.J. was good. Emilio had found his feet as a gallery manager. The place was doing well. Julian Wolhardt even made a brief appearance. He waited patiently while I talked to a stringer from Artforum, making up some BS about seeing beyond the distraction of conspicuous reality and the tension of opposites posed in a duality. Finally, the reviewer wandered off to speak with another artist and I turned to Wolhardt, offering a hand. He took it and pulled me into a quick hug.

  "Your work looks great. I love the patina. You didn’t believe a word of what you were saying to that girl did you?"

  "Not really. But you have to play the game if you want the fame, as they say. There’s an expectation of a certain level of utterly meaningless nonsense. It’s not good enough to just produce the product, you also have to explain it in the most abstruse terms possible."

  “Yes, we have that in the movie music business too. It’s more for the directors and producers though. Listen, how long are you here for? Would you mind coming by? I have something to give you and it would be good to catch up.”

  “Sure. I’m here for a couple more days. Maybe tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Perfect. Is three o’clock okay?”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  ****

  I pulled up to Wolhardt’s bungalow a few minutes before three the next day. His street looked just the same. Things didn’t seem to change much in southern California. Even when new things were built, old things torn down, the character didn’t change. Los Angeles was like a vast amoeba that just sucked every new thing in and coated it with shiny Los Angeles amoeba fluid until it looked indistinguishable from the old thing it had replaced.

  I crossed the dry lawn and pressed the button for Wolhardt’s doorbell. The chimes sounded inside and floorboards creaked. He opened the door smiling, a little stooped. He had grown a moustache. I guess I noticed it the night before but it hadn’t struck me like it did now. He’d had a moustache in the old photo on his mantel too. It was white, like his hair.

  “Come in,” he said, standing aside. “Thanks for coming by.”

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe it’s late in the afternoon but I have some coffee on if you’d like a cup.”

  “Sounds great. Thanks.”

  “Okay, show yourself into the living room and I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Soon we were both seated. He had brought a pot of coffee out on a cloisonné tray with cups, spoons, and little stoneware ramekins for sugar and cream.

  “First,” Wolhardt said, reaching into his shirt pocket, “I want to give you this.” He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a check for a large amount. “Ten percent right?”

  “Yes, that’s the normal fee. It seems like too much in this case though.”

  “Nonsense. You figured out the clue. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Doubtful. You would have gotten to it without my help.”

  “Maybe. Who knows how long it would have been though.”

  “How’s the enigma community taking it?”

  He waved a hand, looking away. “Oh, you know. They still want to argue about it. I think when you spend a lifetime on something you don’t want to admit that the search is over, someone else got it first. You know they’re making a movie about Elgar? They asked me to write the incidental music.”

  “Nice!”

  “Enough of that, though. I want you to tell me the story if you don’t mind. What happened? How did you get my things back, and the solution?”

  I looked at the floor for a minute, thinking. “I guess I owe you that,” I said and closed my eyes, pressing fingers to my lids. I thought for a moment longer. “After I was here,” I began, “I made a trip to Seattle.”

  I gave him the medium version but it still took almost half an hour. When I finished he sat for a moment, unspeaking, concern in his eyes.

  “There’s one thing I’m still not sure I understand,” I said. “The timeline of Dworkin coming to London. And how and when Jutting knew who I was.”

  “I might be able to clear that up. I’ve spoken with Johann Benderick a couple of times by phone. You know he posted to the forum after you visited him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Jutting was reading the forum posts too. He had his own hackers working on that forum
and on you and everybody else involved. He apparently figured out who Dworkin was and sent his niece to Philadelphia to meet with him. He didn’t know Dworkin was insane. She brought him back to London. Jutting wanted to talk to him about the dark saying. He thought Dworkin might have useful information.”

  “That must have been right after I left.”

  “Yes. Dworkin told her you had been there apparently. They realized he was off his rocker pretty quickly but they had already brought him to London. He was staying with a friend. But then, an associate of Benderick’s, an Archibald Matthews, who was in London on vacation, had dinner with Jutting and met the cryptographer. He mentioned it in an email to Benderick and Benderick put two and two together. He figured out Jutting had the stolen notes.”

  “But Jutting didn’t have the notes yet at that point if I’m following.”

  “No matter. He was after them. He knew who had them. So Benderick contacted Jutting and threatened him, told him to return the notes or he would make it public. Jutting and his niece figured out a way to throw you both off the track—have Dworkin steal the notes. But a fake version, not the real thing.”

  “All thrust, no vector,” I said, musing on the convoluted machinations.

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just something Ashna said about Dworkin.”

  Wolhardt nodded, eyes still crinkled with concern. “You could have been killed, you know.”

  “True. They weren’t playing around.”

  “He nearly killed his niece too? A madman. Why do you do it?”

  “You mean go after things for people?”

  “Yes. You’re a good artist. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No one’s ever asked me that question before.”

  “I like you Justin. You don’t seem happy.”

  “Happiness. No not much. What do the words mean to you? The verse from Corinthians?”

  “I guess Paul meant that our knowledge of God and his ways is incomplete or partial, that we won’t really understand until we see him face to face.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I think it’s a good metaphor. I’m not much of a Christian though.”

  “Did you know that Corinth was famous for its bronze? They actually made mirrors out of bronze. That might be what he was talking about. No matter how good your bronze mirror is, it’s going to give you a dark, distorted reflection. For me, art is like that. I try to look behind the veil and make something true and honest. But most of the time, I just see the imperfections in the final product. I’m never really happy with it. I keep doing it because I have some kind of drive to do it that I can’t shake.”

  “A dark bronze reflection. I think you might have just given me a title for the music I’m going to write for the film. I know the feeling you’re describing.”

  “Yes. When I complete a job though, that’s something I did. No imperfections matter. It’s binary. I did it or I didn’t do it. I have the thing or I don’t.”

  “Maybe if you don’t have it though, it’s because you are dead.”

  “That’s the risk.”

  “I get it. It doesn’t seem worth it to me. However…” The door chime rang, cutting him off. “Aha. I hope you don’t mind but I invited a friend over. She wanted to meet you.”

  “I knew someone would be joining us.”

  “Really? How did you know?”

  I pointed to the tray. “Three cups.”

  “Of course.”

  “Who is it?”

  “An actress. Quite a famous one.”

  “Interesting. I assume she’s missing something?”

  “Yes. A very valuable item.”

  A word from the author…

  I am a writer, teacher, and educational technology professional. I was born in the Midwest and grew up in Seattle but have been slowly migrating southward with stops in Portland, Eugene, San Francisco, and now Los Angeles where I live with my wife, son, and JiJi the cat. I studied Dance and English Literature as an undergraduate and Anthropology in grad school. Before embarking on my current career, I worked as a professional ballet dancer.

  Find out more at:

  web: http://bradleywwright.com

  twitter: @rabbit_fighter

  Thank you for purchasing

  this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

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  contact us at

  info@thewildrosepress.com.

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