by Gerald Elias
Why? he asked himself. And why then? What had been going on inside Ziggy to drive him to kill himself? For Jacobus, who had known despair, whose life had taken dizzying downward spirals, the very contemplation of suicide had been sufficient to prod him away from the abyss. Even when he lost his eyesight literally overnight in his sleep, his response had not been despair. It had been anger and defiance, and the next day he won the audition for concertmaster of the Boston Symphony, playing the audition, unbeknownst to the audition committee, entirely from memory. Only then did he grudgingly accede to his friend’s insistence that he go to the hospital.
He had been at the precipice only once, when he no longer cared what the outcome would be—when the love of another human being was offered to him and he realized his capacity to reciprocate had been irretrievably taken from him in his childhood in a manner he would never divulge. At that moment, there on the edge, he had been almost happy to let go, and would have but for Nathaniel’s strength. Nathaniel, who had literally pulled him from a watery suicide. Was that the way Ziggy had felt at the last moment? It seemed so from his note. But for what reason? Jacobus had never told anyone his story. Had Ziggy kept his own secret? Or was there some reason he simply could not handle his newfound freedom after his cloistered life? He had seemed so content, with his fancy new car and his easy generosity.
Yes, there had been something going on with violins. Of that, Jacobus had little doubt, but in the violin business there was a fine line between unscrupulous transactions and outright illegal dealing. Jacobus did not know whether Ziggy had crossed it, but even if he had, would that have been sufficient reason to take his own life? Was there more? Guilt? Despair? A harmless little man caught up in something too big? If so, Ziggy had concealed it well.
“That’s all she wrote,” Jacobus said to Nathaniel. He had never felt so tired. “I think it’s time to pack it up.”
“Jake, I know how you’re feeling, but let’s not give up yet,” Nathaniel urged him. “I’ve still got those other calls to make, and maybe if Ziggy’s photos weren’t in Salt Lake City, he might have left them in New York. Let me call Alonzo Fuente to see if we can get into the old basement.”
“Whatever,” said Jacobus. He jiggled the almost melted ice cubes in his diluted scotch. “I know what you’re doing. Trying to buoy my spirits. I suppose I should thank you.”
“No need.”
Nathaniel called Fuente and told him that Ziggy had died. He and Jacobus wanted to see if there were any effects he might have left behind they could send to his family out west. Fuente, after expressing his sorrow at the passing of “the little guy,” explained that in order to build the new elevator, the weight of the new shaft had to be supported by an entirely new bracing system.
“They installed those braces in Basement Two and reinforced the floor of Basement One, where they installed a new furnace and incinerator, the new kinds that work real good, but they still weigh a ton. That means all the access to Basement Two had to be cut off, totally. No stairs, no emergency access, no elevator. The only way to get down there would be to jackhammer through the new floor, and I don’t think my boss would be too thrilled to do that. We’re already about eight months behind. Sorry about that.”
“As I said,” said Jacobus after Nathaniel hung up, “case closed.” He asked Nathaniel to dial first Rosenthal, then Malachi, and admit defeat. Their responses were somber but respectful. They knew what it meant.
Jacobus rose slowly and stumbled toward his bedroom, groping along the way, tired and forlorn. He felt that somehow he had caused Ziggy’s death, something he said or did. Somehow he was responsible. And for what? Trying to exonerate someone who probably committed the murder of a great man? It was now time to let the chips fall where they may. He just needed to lie down.
TWENTY-TWO
DAY 6: TUESDAY
The next morning Jacobus dragged himself bleary and morose into Nathaniel’s kitchen, having for once overslept. Nathaniel had gone out early and returned with coffee from Mud in Your Eye and cheese Danish from the Lower Crust, Jacobus’s favorite bakery.
“Thought these might cheer you up,” said Nathaniel.
“Thank you,” said Jacobus. “That was very kind of you.”
They ate without talking. The only sound intruding upon Jacobus’s despondence was the Bach cantata “Ach Gott, wie manches Herzeleid,” broadcast on WNCN. “O God, how much heartache,” the chorus began. The music and text, like so many of Bach’s cantatas, had the uncanny ability to expose his innermost feelings.
“Just forebear, forebear, my spirit, Confronteth me within these times.” The words alone did not cut through his devout atheism, but Bach’s genius to perceive their musical and spiritual potential combined with his supreme ability to mold them into profoundly articulated counterpoint moved Jacobus to his core.
“I am content in this my sorrow, for God is my true confidence.” Jacobus sighed and was about to say something, but then decided against it and picked at the crumbs of his pastry. His resignation and his catharsis were complete.
“Well, I guess we should be going,” said Jacobus, though he had eaten only a few bites.
“Whatever you want, Jake.”
The phone rang. Nathaniel answered it.
“Just one second, Yumi. I’ll put him on. Jake, it’s Yumi. She’s got a problem.”
Jake took the receiver. “Hello, dear.”
“What’s wrong, Jake?” Yumi said. “You never call me ‘dear.’ ”
“No, no! Everything’s fine.” Jacobus decided he would not burden Yumi with the news of Ziggy’s death. It was, after all, her first tour and she didn’t need any distractions. Besides, she hardly knew Ziggy, anyway. “What can I do for you? Is there a problem with the tour?”
Yumi explained that the concerts were going extremely well. The tour had so far been a big success and they were being treated like royalty wherever they went. The problem, she explained, was that Aaron Kortovsky, the first violinist, “was getting personal.”
“Well, you can’t say I haven’t warned you; playing string quartets is a very personal thing, Yumi,” said Jacobus. “That’s one reason why it’s so difficult for quartets to succeed. Each member feels very deeply about the music, and after a while any suggestion to change things even the slightest from the way you want it starts to feel like an affront. But don’t worry about it, Yumi. Aaron is a pro. He’s been around the block, so feel free to stick up for what you think.”
That’s not what she meant, Yumi explained. Kortovsky had come to her hotel room after the Markner Quartet concert and had put his hands where he shouldn’t have.
“You mean he tried to put the munch on you?” asked Jacobus, appalled.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that, but I think that’s what he did. I told him no, but now I’m worried he might try to kick me out of the quartet if I don’t say yes. What should I do, Jake?”
Jacobus was rarely in the mood to play the role of the counselor, and at this moment it was the last thing he needed. Why couldn’t teaching the violin just stop with teaching the violin? But with Yumi it was different. Yumi was like a daughter to Jacobus. Their relationship had endured the gamut of emotions. Not that it had all been peaches and cream. There had been a time when there was mistrust, and even a moment when Yumi thought Jacobus intended to bring harm to her and her family. But that was before; now their bond was unbreakable. For Yumi to have been taken advantage of and put in a position of personal and professional vulnerability incensed Jacobus, adding yet another layer to his misery. It wasn’t fiction for women to be given the take-it-or-leave-it threat. He had seen it happen between orchestra conductors and female musicians, and even between conservatory teachers and their students. All too often he heard credible stories of that type of behavior among testosterone-overloaded male musicians, and Yumi was not one to exaggerate.
“These guys,” said Jacobus, his voice rising, “when they go on the road, think that just because they le
ave their wives at home, the world becomes their personal harem.”
“But Jake, Aaron’s wife is Annika!”
Annika Haagen was the violist in the Magini Quartet and was on tour with them.
“Jesus! Either that guy has too much chutzpah or too little brains,” said Jacobus. “Yumi, if Kortovsky is dumb enough to make another advance, what you’ve got to do is make it abundantly clear that although you greatly value playing music with him, his actions are both immoral and illegal. You got that? You don’t need to have him reported to the police, but you got to give him the impression it’s a possibility. I know it’s a tough balancing act, but if you want to keep your position in the quartet, you need both to be respected and to have a good relationship with the guys.”
“Okay, Jake, I’ll do my best,” said Yumi. “Maybe that’s why the Markner Quartet has lasted so long. All four of them are male.” Jacobus was relieved to hear Yumi laugh.
She began to talk about the Markner’s compelling performance of the affecting Shostakovich Eighth String Quartet in which, to her delight, Shostakovich included extended use of his “signature” motive that they had talked about at the café.
“But Jake,” she said, “I’m still not sure how he got D–E-flat–C–B out of the name Shostakovich.”
Jacobus, considering Yumi’s unsettled state, explained with uncharacteristic patience. “D is for his first name, Dmitri. That’s easy enough, isn’t it? E-flat represents the S at the beginning of his last name, C replaces K—it’s Russian spelling, after all—and the B is for the H at the end of the name. Shostakovich, conveniently for us, skipped over the other letters.
“And now that I’ve given you yet one more free lesson, tell me, how was the Mozart?”
Yumi related how wonderfully they played, their uncanny sense of what each musician in the ensemble was doing, their beautifully blended sound, and, of course, Mozart’s incredible ability as a composer. She said it had been a spiritual experience for her.
Jacobus replied that he hoped that it had been educational as well, and that to a certain extent it might have balanced the negativity of her encounter with Kortovsky.
“Look, Yumi,” he said, “call me whenever you need to,” though he hoped she wouldn’t have to anymore.
Jacobus hung up and sighed again. Everyone has their tsores, he thought. Allard, BTower, Ziggy, now Yumi. But why was it he always seemed to be in the middle of it? He sat there in Nathaniel’s kitchen for what seemed only a moment, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Car’s all packed, Jake,” said Nathaniel. “Whenever you’re ready.”
There was very little conversation on the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Jacobus’s house. Even if he had his sight, neither the brilliant azure of the August sky nor the friendly flitting of wood thrushes, chickadees, and robins in the forest surrounding his home would have lifted him from his deep resignation.
“There’s a salami on your doorstep,” said Nathaniel.
“Is that a punch line to a joke, Nathaniel? If it is, don’t bother.”
“There’s a note attached to it.” Standing on the stoop to Jacobus’s house, Nathaniel picked up the salami and read, “ ‘Hey, Jacobus, you putz! Where you been? Call me. Novak. P.S. Why don’t you get yourself a damn answering machine?’ ”
Jacobus didn’t respond.
“Well, don’t you think we should call him, Jake?”
“Would it make a difference?”
Nevertheless, once they were inside Nathaniel dialed Novak’s number and handed the phone to Jacobus.
“Aha!” said Novak. “I found them. I found copies of all those certificates.”
“And?” asked Jacobus.
“I told you it wasn’t a Sigmund Gottfried. It wasn’t anything like a Gottfried. I was right.”
Jacobus was perplexed but only slightly interested. He thought it would have been Ziggy, but it was too late to close the barn door. Who was it, then? he asked.
“You won’t believe this. A guy with six consecutive consonants in his name. Never trust a guy with six consonants.”
“Dammit, are we going to play Will Shortz, or are you going to tell me?”
“Hey, Jake. Don’t get hot under the collar. The name is Orin Oehlschlager. Got that? Double O. Oehlschlager.”
TWENTY-THREE
When Haskell arrived at the surveillance room after his morning rounds, Gundacker reported that BTower had already been “practicing” for hours. No more pacing. No banging or shouting. Just calm and collected in the middle of his cell.
“Damn,” said Haskell. He had brought a magnifying glass with him so he could see what BTower had been doing with the fingers of his right hand. He also figured that with only one day left, BTower would be starting to play some notes with his left hand. The glass would undoubtedly have come in handy for that. Now it appeared he had missed the boat for his third lesson. He slumped in his chair, resigned himself to an uneventful day, and rummaged through his lunch bag to extract his sandwich.
“Whatcha got today, Bailey?” asked Gundacker. “Looks good.” He stared at his limp peanut butter sandwich.
“Eggplant parmigian on baguette,” said Haskell.
“Jeez!” exploded Gundacker. “Every day you got something great for lunch and all I get is this damn peanut butter sandwich. I’m sick of it!” He hurled it at the monitor, where it stuck momentarily, causing no damage that a spray bottle and a paper towel couldn’t remedy.
“Look, Gruber,” said Haskell, patiently. “All I bring for lunch is just leftovers. Whatever we don’t eat the night before, April just puts together for the next day. Now, why don’t you just go and ask Clorinda to fix you something other than peanut butter?”
“Clorinda?” asked Gundacker, bewildered. “Clorinda doesn’t make my lunch!”
“Then who does?” asked Haskell.
“I do!” said Gundacker.
Haskell leaned back and examined the man he had been working with for the past two years.
“What’re you lookin’ at,” asked Gundacker. “What’d I say?”
“I thought I knew you, Gruber, but sometimes people can fool you, what they really are. But you just taught me one real important lesson.”
“I did? What’s that?” Gundacker said.
“Only that in life, Gruber, you make your own peanut butter sandwich. And now because of what you have just taught me, I need to go see that young Mr. BTower personally. It’s against regulations, I know, but I got to do it. You don’t mind if we switch shifts just for today, Gruber? Here, you can have my lunch.”
“Be my guest,” said Gundacker, already reaching for Haskell’s bag.
Haskell made his way to BTower’s cell. He could have used his key to enter. He could have hollered, “Hey, BTower,” but instead he knocked. For several moments there was no response. Then finally, “Slide the tray under the door if you have to.”
“It’s not lunch,” said Haskell. “Can we talk?”
“You’ve got the key,” said BTower.
Haskell entered the cell. BTower was still standing in the middle. Haskell eyed him in two new perspectives. Physically, BTower was no longer a two-dimensional object on a monitor, a character on the soaps. More important, Haskell bore with him the new insight provided, unknowingly, by Gundacker.
“You got something to say?” asked BTower. “Go ahead. Or are you going to just stand there.”
Haskell, older by at least a generation, towered over BTower, but he was momentarily at a loss for words. He hadn’t actually planned what he was going to say to the young celebrity, whose fame and notoriety unaccountably made him even more tongue-tied.
“I been watching you practice,” he said. “On the monitor.”
“So?” BTower asked.
“I was just wondering, when are you going to do something with your left hand?”
“You mean,” asked BTower, who was now smiling, “because I only got twenty hours left?”
“That’s partly
what I mean,” said Haskell.
“You play the violin?” asked BTower.
“Nohow,” said Haskell, “but I’ve been followin’ right along. This would’ve been my third lesson, but Gundacker say you’ve been workin’ all morning.”
“Well,” said BTower, “you haven’t missed anything. I needed to get the sound right before practicing the left hand, but I think it’s time to start practicing the note.”
“One note?” asked Haskell, who for someone rarely surprised was clearly caught off balance. “These last few days I guessed you been practicing everything that’s ever been written. Y’know, for old time’s sake. Now you talkin’ one note?”
BTower laughed. “Jacobus—that old blind fart last week?”
“The one we had to hold you down from?” asked Haskell.
“Yeah, him. He challenged me to understand the first note of Beethoven’s ‘Kreutzer’ Sonata, an A-major chord, in my head. At first I thought he was full of shit, but then I thought, What the hell? What better have I got to do in this place? What’s the difference if I spend five minutes taking him up on it? But then, the more I started thinking about it, analyzing it, the more I understood. And it just kept going, you know? It took my mind with it. If I had to explain everything I was thinking while you were watching, it would take more time than I’ve got left.”
“You know,” said Haskell, carefully choosing his words, “I noticed you been angry for a long, long time, and then when the blind man come, you get angrier than ever. Then you start with your phantom practicing a few days ago and every day you get calmer and calmer. Now you almost sound grateful that the man have a hand putting you in this place.”
“I cursed him every day for that, don’t you worry,” said BTower. “But you know what, Haskell? I’ve learned something about music—life, maybe—that I never would’ve if I hadn’t ended up here. So maybe I lucked out in a way. What’s better, to live a long time, make a lot of money, be famous, and not understand anything, or learn something worth knowing even if it means getting your neck stretched at an inconvenient time?