Spring Break

by Gerald Elias

  ‘Just a little tired after a million years of teaching?’

  ‘It happens to the best of them.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Jacobus said.

  ‘But the real catalyst for the deal falling through was Schlossberg’s death. Just like when Yugoslavia fractured upon Tito’s death, the moment Schlossberg was buried, the fragile Kinderhoek alliance disintegrated into so many baby Balkans.’

  ‘There are two things I don’t understand,’ Jacobus said. ‘First, why did Schlossberg support Tawroszewicz in the first place? I haven’t heard one person say anything favorable about him, either musically or personally. The second thing is, it seems that before Schlossberg’s death the two of them were buddy-buddy but since then Tawroszewicz has disavowed their friendship.’

  ‘All of those I interviewed had precisely the same two questions, and I’m afraid that I haven’t heard any good answers. In fact, those two questions are about the only thing that everyone had in common. That and the computers.’

  ‘Computers?’

  ‘Well, not the computers themselves. But myriad complaints about having to do everything online now. Class rolls, grades, scheduling, payroll. Constantly updating their bios. You name it. I tell you, I am not unsympathetic. At the Times sometimes it feels as if journalism has simply become a means of providing employment for computer technicians. We don’t talk to real people as much as we stare into the glowing monsters.’

  ‘If everyone at the conservatory hates that computer crap,’ Jacobus asked, ‘why does the school do it?’

  ‘Oh, I presume it’s what Connie Jean Hawkins wants, and I suppose she convinced Hedge it was what all modern institutions need, and I imagine they got a grant for it. But over the last eighteen months it seems they’ve gone from dialup to Ethernet to wireless, and there have been an endless series of glitches.’

  ‘The only word you just said that I understand is glitches,’ Jacobus said.

  ‘Well, it’s the way of the world, I suppose. Though they may well be museum pieces by the end of the twentieth century, I still find the pad and the pencil to be the journalist’s indispensable tools.’

  ‘In your doodling did you write down anything interesting about Schlossberg? If I recall, he was supposed to be the subject of your interviews.’

  ‘Most of it was simply corroborative. It was constructive to see his composing studio, courtesy of the widow Sybil. Curiously enough, between those two eminent musicians there was not one piano in the household. Speaking of museum pieces, she has her collection of clavichords and harpsichords and other keyboard dinosaurs, and—’

  ‘Do you suppose that could be why they found him at a piano in the school practice room? Composing an opera on a harpsichord is like trying to roast a turkey on a Bunsen burner.’

  ‘Good stab, Jacobus. But I don’t think so. Schlossberg did all of his composing on his computer using a sampler with an electronic keyboard in his studio. It was an impressive array of technology. Besides, if he needed to use a piano, I presume he would have used one of the better ones in a teacher’s studio. In any event, a piano would not have been adequate for Anwar and Yitzhak. Its scope is simply too vast. Sybil was quite forthcoming and showed me Schlossberg’s unfinished score. It was quite ingenious how he integrated acoustic instruments and the human voice with computer-generated sound. His scores in the library are filed chronologically so you can see the progress of his creativity. Between them and his books on foraging, his work filled half the family library.’

  ‘And what was in the other half, books on stomach remedies for each?’

  ‘Jacobus, as someone of your keen intellect you should try to keep an open mind.’

  ‘All right. I will.’

  ‘You will?’ Lilburn sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘Yes. But I reserve the right to say something is a piece of shit if I think it’s a piece of shit. Meaning, if it has no discernible melody, no discernible harmony, no discernible rhythm, no discernible relation to the instrument for which is written, no discernible connection to our culture, and no discernible reason for existence other than to have received a grant from a group of like-minded esoteric pseudo-intellectuals.’

  Lilburn offered a considered response.

  ‘That seems reasonable,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave it at that. But to answer your question, the other half of the library was Madame’s. The books she authored, of course, but legions of early editions and manuscripts going back centuries. Monteverdi, Josquin, Purcell. Gesualdo, even! Composers of great genius whose music is heard all too infrequently. Imagine, the time span between some of those gentlemen and Vivaldi equals the time between Vivaldi and Aaron Schlossberg! What a collection! I must say it was awe-inspiring. Such history and such greatness. May I suggest that you have her show you around the library – just her half if you insist. Even if you can’t see those scores, just being in their presence is something quite wondrous.’

  Jacobus considered the possibility. He recalled that Sybil had invited him for a reading of her new book. As unappealing as that was, there was tempting ancillary potential. And he wasn’t thinking of the scores.

  ‘How is Madame feeling about Tawroszewicz at this point in time?’ Jacobus asked. Of all the simmering animosities, that one seemed closest to boiling over.

  ‘Surprisingly, she’s placed him on her backburner. Now that Tawroszewicz will have to defend his tenure ambitions without Schlossberg’s support, Sybil seems content to let him dangle at his own peril. He really doesn’t appear to have much support anymore.’

  ‘And what about Schlossberg’s extracurricular activities? I heard gossip there was a time when the accompanist, Broder, had a throbbing heart for Schlossberg.’

  ‘I haven’t been able to corner Broder. She’s booked all day, every day, accompanying the students for just about everyone’s studio. I do want to talk to her, as she and Schlossberg overlapped as students at NYU for a year. I’d like to fill out his younger days. But as for the gossip, it’s just that. Gossip. Unsubstantiated. There’s no way I could include any of that for a reputable publication.’

  ‘How about for the New York Times?’

  ‘Not even for them.’

  Jacobus hadn’t finished his breakfast, his appetite having deserted him. He had almost forgotten that Chase Anderson was still there. He hadn’t said a word. To his credit, Jacobus thought. Lilburn was kind enough to pay for everyone’s meal. ‘The Times provided me a generous per diem,’ he said. ‘I’ll consider this part of my research.’

  Anderson helped Jacobus into the wheelchair. According to the doctors, it would only be a few more days before he could try walking on his own. Not a moment too soon.

  ‘Who was Gesualdo?’ Anderson asked when they were outside. ‘Mr Lilburn sounded very impressed.’

  ‘Gesualdo was a sixteenth-century composer with a highly chromatic sense of tonality. Almost futuristic.’

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘That’s not the only thing that’s cool. He’s famous for chopping up his wife and her lover when he caught them in flagrante delicto.’

  ‘Whoa! Did they catch him?’

  ‘Yes they did.’

  ‘And hanged him?’

  ‘No, they didn’t. You see, in addition to being a composer he was also a prince, which gave him immunity from prosecution. He went scot-free. Though it’s said he spent the rest of his life in repentance.’

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘Where to next, boss?’ Anderson asked Jacobus.

  Now he was calling him ‘boss.’

  ‘By any chance, did Ironsides have an assistant?’ Jacobus asked.

  ‘Sure did. I have a memory for detail. His assistant was a bodyguard who had previously been a delinquent.’

  ‘You seem to be going in the opposite direction.’

  ‘I get your gist, sir. But I have to say, what I just learned about music from you and Mr Lilburn was totally amazing.’

  ‘So now you want to become a musician?’


  ‘Actually, no, sir. You convinced me I’m going in the right direction.’

  ‘Atta boy. Did you manage to find Lucien Knotts’s professors? As part of our investigation?’

  ‘Jeez! I totally forgot. It totally slipped my mind. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Good thing you have a memory for detail. What do you say we totally go to your computer and find out, since we have nothing better to do?’

  They drove eastward on winding country roads. Anderson accelerated past intensely pungent dairy farms, slowed down to twenty-five in hamlets that often sported no more than a gas station and pizza parlor, and arrived a half hour later at the community college campus. Most of the buildings were of recent vintage and, in consideration of the limited financial resources of local government, were of utilitarian design with an emphasis on white, unadorned cinder block. As they passed the outdoor sports facilities, Anderson mentioned that the 4C baseball team had won the national junior college championship three years before.

  ‘That’s very impressive,’ Jacobus said. ‘Were you on the team?’

  ‘Before my time. Only two-year programs here. Are you asking because I’m black?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like all blacks have to be athletes?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. My best friend is black and he can barely get his fat ass off the couch except to reach for potato chips.’

  Anderson laughed.

  ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that, because certain white folks have preconceptions about us.’

  ‘Everyone has preconceptions about everyone else. White folks. Black folks. Old folks. Young folks. Teachers. Students. Most of the time they’re wrong.’

  ‘Most of the time?’

  ‘Most of the time.’

  They drove to the college library, which, with limited hours during the spring break, was about to close. Jacobus thought about preconceptions until Anderson pulled into a space at the parking lot. Anderson helped Jacobus out of the car and wheeled him through the heavy front doors, one of which closed upon his bad foot.

  ‘Dammit!’ Jacobus howled. ‘I feel a preconception coming on and it has to do with intelligence.’

  ‘Careful, sir,’ Anderson said, ‘or you might end up with two bad feet.’

  They managed to get to the computer room without further incident. No one else was there. Anderson situated Jacobus in his wheelchair next to a computer table and turned on the computer. It hummed to life.

  ‘Takes about three minutes to boot up,’ Anderson said.

  ‘Whatever that means.’

  As they waited, Jacobus said, ‘I’d assumed information about professors would be confidential.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be. But the school’s spyware is way old and the firewalls and security systems they’ve set up are so easy to navigate around that anyone with half a brain can hack anything they want.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Jacobus said.

  Once the computer was operational, Anderson logged in to the college Internet system. Jacobus could hear him typing faster than Paganini’s Perpetuum Mobile.

  ‘OK. We’ve got it. Got his campus ID, courses with section and course numbers, his profs. You want to know his grades, too?’

  ‘His teachers are all we need.’

  ‘You know, I could even change his grades if I wanted to. But he got all As on his midterms so—’

  ‘Just the teachers, please.’

  ‘OK. This semester he’s taking hotel management with Robert Windham, culinary arts with Arlene Shames, and accounting with Natt Considine. Name your poison.’

  ‘Phone numbers?’

  ‘Let’s see. They have their office phone numbers here on campus, but not their home numbers.’

  ‘So we can’t get hold of them since they’re on vacation?’

  ‘Looks like it. Are we stuck?’

  ‘Try them anyway. Maybe one of them will be in their office. If not, maybe they’ve left a contact number on their answering machine.’

  ‘Good thinking, Mr Jacobus.’

  ‘Thank you. I try to stay current with technology.’

  Anderson dialed each of the numbers but with no luck. The best he could do was to leave a message to call his cellphone and hope that one of them would respond.

  Jacobus had convinced himself that if he pushed himself, refusing to admit his energy level was on the wane, his ‘not insignificant growth’ would go away. He felt he had succeeded sufficiently for the day and told Anderson they had done enough for now.

  When they arrived back at the inn, Yumi was waiting for Jacobus in the lobby.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Jacobus asked. ‘I thought you worked for a living.’

  It was a line he had often used with Yumi, and one which typically evoked her laughing retort, ‘No, I’m a musician,’ but on this occasion her response was serious.

  ‘I took the day off. I took the rest of the week off, in fact. It was only a pops concert, anyway.’

  ‘I thought Harmonium’s policy was to never play pops.’

  ‘Times change. They need to raise money. Just like conservatories. But that’s not what I’m here to discuss.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  Yumi hesitated.

  ‘I don’t want to be rude, Chase,’ she said, ‘but I have to ask you to excuse yourself. I’ll take over the wheelchair.’

  Neither Jacobus nor Anderson knew what was up and both hesitated.

  ‘Why don’t you go see what else you can find out about Lucien’s whereabouts?’ Jacobus said to Anderson. ‘Or make an appointment for me with Sybil Baker-Shmaker. Just do something for our investigation.’

  Anderson politely acquiesced and departed.

  ‘What’s up?’ Jacobus asked.

  ‘I’ve booked a room upstairs,’ Yumi replied, her last words until they arrived at the room. From the way the wheelchair swerved as she pushed him, Jacobus knew her mind, usually so orderly and focused, was distracted.

  As soon as she turned the key and opened the door, Jacobus sensed a third presence, but he still had no idea what was going on. He heard Yumi sit in a chair next to him.

  ‘Jake,’ Yumi said, ‘I’ve asked Mia Cheng to come here. I called Mia last night, as you requested. We spoke briefly, but from what she told me I felt we needed to meet face-to-face. Jake, you have to promise me that nothing we discuss here leaves the room unless we decide otherwise.’

  Those were almost the same words he had used with Dr Simons about the growth on his lung and he had a feeling this news wasn’t going to be much better. In all the years he had known her, Yumi had never spoken to him like that, had never issued an ultimatum, even when someone’s life was in danger. There was an unaccountable coldness underneath the surface. Even her tirade against him after the aborted masterclass had been less ominous. What to make of it? There was only one way to find out.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Understood. Hello, Mia.’

  There was no response.

  ‘I’ll start,’ Yumi said. ‘I think it will be easier that way. Mia told me that she and Audrey Rollins were sexually abused by Aaron Schlossberg. It was ongoing and—’

  ‘Sexually abused?’ Mia interrupted. ‘Those are words they use in newspapers. Those are words that protect him! It wasn’t sexual abuse.’

  Jacobus stiffened. His hands flexed around the arms of his wheelchair. He heard Yumi shift in her seat.

  ‘It was rape,’ Mia continued. ‘And he turned us into prostitutes.’

  Jacobus pressed his right palm against his forehead, a hundred questions to ask. An old man’s lechery. Yumi must have sensed that he was about to speak and placed a restraining hand on his arm. He kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Mia, tell us how it started,’ Yumi said. It wasn’t an order. It was an invitation. Jacobus understood. If any voice would get the answers to the questions, it wouldn’t be his; it would be Yumi’s, a soothing female voice. Secure, dependable, and sympathetic. In contro
l.

  ‘When we first got to the conservatory,’ Mia said, ‘he had one of his parties. It was in the fall. He liked to invite freshmen. He made us feel important because he was so famous and we were nothing, and even though the faculty were there he paid more attention to us than to them.’

  ‘Who do you mean by “we”?’

  ‘All the freshmen. And he’d tell us about the great music we would be collaborating on. That was the first hook: “collaborating on.” We were special! To work with the great Aaron Schlossberg as equals! He was so smooth. I need some water.’

  Jacobus heard Yumi go to the bathroom sink and fill a glass.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said, handing it to Mia. She returned to her seat.

  ‘Once in a while,’ Mia resumed, ‘he’d take his “special students” out into the woods for foraging parties. Not just girls. Boys, too. Everybody wanted to be a “special student.” He was just grooming us. Then after the first year, he’d invite us over to his house, to listen to music. He’d serve us drinks—’

  ‘Alcohol?’

  ‘Of course! Like we were adults. And we would discuss music, and he’d ask us our opinions.’

  ‘Wasn’t Sybil there?’

  ‘For the innocent get-togethers, yeah. But when she went out of town for one of her symposiums, that’s when he started showing us porn.’

  ‘Did that make you uncomfortable?’

  ‘Hell, yeah! What do you think? But he made us feel like we were all in on this big adult secret. And he would talk to us like we were on his level. Like, “How would you describe the difference between adult films and art films by Polanski or Bergman?” As if we didn’t know. But he kept it very intellectual. Very suave. You know his voice.’

  Mia stopped.

  ‘I’m glad he’s dead,’ she said.

  And stopped again.

  ‘Do you want some more water?’ Yumi asked. ‘Maybe this is enough for today.’

  ‘No, no. You haven’t heard the good part yet. That’s when he started handing out the prizes. He’d make sure that the girls who stuck with the program got special consideration, like soloing with the orchestra or recording his newest masterpiece. And then when you tried to be respectful and thank him for one thing or another, he’d give you a hug, and then next time he’d kiss you on the cheek, and the next time it was on the lips. He had the whole routine down pat. He was a real pro. He was such a pro that you almost felt like you were the one that wanted it and he was the one resisting temptation, and you’d feel guilty if you denied him. But it was my fault.’