Death and the Maiden

by Gerald Elias

  “That’s for the police to figure out, not me. Don’t you find it a bit strange, Mr. Jacobus, that there has not been one verifiable eyewitness who could place my client at any of the crime scenes? My client is a big man, which perhaps you are not able to notice, and would be hard to miss.”

  “But Oro saw him at the concert in Lima!”

  “At a concert! Kortovsky was alive and well long after the concert. This makes my client a serial killer? It would be my fondest dream, Mr. Jacobus, if I walked into the courtroom and the DA’s case against my client amounted to someone possibly having seen him … at a concert! In summary, there is no evidence tying my client, who has no prior criminal record, to the deaths of Haagen and Peter’s family. Regarding the others, as far as I know, Kortovsky’s disappearance has not been classified as a death, let alone a murder, and Vasalin’s death has been classified as an accident. In any event, their cases are out of our jurisdiction.”

  “Ah, yes. Jurisdiction! Aren’t you forgetting the small detail that Malachi doesn’t seem to agree with your bullshit? That he arrested Lensky for—”

  “For alleged attempted assault on Ms. Shinagawa, as I said. That is the one and only charge. The murder investigations are ongoing. No one has been arrested for those yet. And if my client is implicated, Jacobus, as you and I know all too well, Malachi has been known to err in his judgment.”

  Jacobus, not being able to disagree on that point, had no response. He himself had been suspected by Malachi in the murder of Victoria Jablonski years before, and Malachi had arrested BTower in the death of René Allard, only to be exonerated at the last hour by Jacobus.

  “In conclusion, Mr. Jacobus, I would strongly recommend that not only should you refrain from medical diagnosis, you should stop kidding yourself about your self-styled police work. You have dangerous fairy tales that leak like a sieve, and though you may be a fine musician, as a detective all you’ve done is endanger people, and if you aren’t careful you may well find yourself at the wrong end of a lawsuit of your own. Have a nice day.”

  After that call, so he wouldn’t have to think about anything, Jacobus took a nap, awakened only by the smell and sound of Nathaniel frying bacon and eggs for dinner. They had just begun to eat when the third call came. Jacobus quickly handed Trotsky a piece of burned toast—the way they both liked it—to keep him quiet while Nathaniel answered. It was Rosenthal again.

  “So what did you call for this time, to gloat?” asked Jacobus.

  “No, Mr. Jacobus,” said Rosenthal, unusually subdued. “I’m calling to tell you that my client never showed up for his appointment with me today, and he doesn’t answer at his home. I’m calling to tell you … well, to take care of yourself.”

  “You mean you don’t believe any of the bullshit you told me before?”

  “Just … be careful. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Thanks for your concern,” Jacobus said and hung up. He took one bite of his egg, then gave the rest of his dinner to the dog. By the time he said, “Don’t choke on it,” Trotsky was already nuzzling his leg for more. That’s when he had decided to slosh bourbon bottles.

  * * *

  “Well, I better be heading out,” Nathaniel said. “It’s almost three hours back to the city,” he added unnecessarily.

  “Just watch out for the deer on the Taconic. And the cops.”

  He heard Nathaniel lumbering on the creaky wide pine floor toward the door.

  “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” Nathaniel said. “I found out what that aria was that you first heard Peter Lensky singing. Not that it’s important now.”

  “Yeah? ‘Sentimental Journey’ in Italian?”

  “Actually, something like it. From an opera, Sedecia, by Antonio Caldara. It was written for Farinelli. I don’t remember the Italian, but the translation was … hold on, I’ve written it down.”

  Jacobus heard Nathaniel retrieve a piece of paper from his pocket and unfold it.

  “Here goes: ‘Prophecies, of me you proclaimed that in peace I would perish. Tell me in this hour, how can I have peace in such a bitter destiny? What did I say? Death might as well come. Let it bring peace evermore, that moment that guides my days.’ It’s actually quite beautiful. What a wasted talent, Lensky. Well, see you later. Sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  The front door opened and closed, and Jacobus was alone. He poured himself another bourbon. When some of it spilled over the top of the glass onto his hand, he stopped pouring.

  The final call came when the glass was still in his hands but long empty.

  “Mi amigo Yake,” Oro began.

  “Knock it off, Oro,” said Jacobus. “What’s the problem?”

  “Ah, señor, you have missed your calling. You should have been a detective.”

  Unlike his usual ebullient self, Oro somehow too seemed to have been affected by the funereal drizzle that now chafed against Jacobus’s windows.

  “As I said, knock it off. What’s the problem?”

  “At one time you asked me to review the autopsy report. To see if there was something interesting about the victim’s right hand.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “They did find something curious, but we do not know if it is interesting. Can you predict me what that would be?”

  “The right index finger bent to the right, especially above the middle knuckle.”

  “You are absolutely correct! Absolutely. But please tell me, how did you know this, and what does it mean?”

  “It’s nothing any violinist doesn’t know. Over time, the pressure one puts on the bow with the right hand will tend to slightly realign the index finger. In someone who played with Kortovsky’s strength and intensity, that realignment might become pronounced. Especially considering he always wanted everyone to play at the point of the bow, which takes even more pressure from the index finger to produce a big sound, it only figures.”

  “Well, Yake, that would seem to confirm that our victim was Señor Kortovsky…”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound like a problem. It sounds like an answer. So I repeat, what’s the problem?”

  “There seem to have been two recent sightings of Señor Kortovsky.”

  “What do you mean, two sightings?”

  “One near Puno by the Bolivian border, in the mountains not far from Lago Titicaca. A local craftsman who makes the ocarina for tourists reported a climber bearing the resemblance in the photo of Señor Kortovsky. Perhaps he only wanted the reward. Also, the agents of my counterpart in Quito have heard that there might have been a sighting. There was a man, a stranger, with a violin case, of Kortovsky’s general description, though with darker hair and a short beard which, of course, could have been grown in this last month.”

  Jacobus took a few moments to let that information and its implications sink in. Oro let him take all the time he wanted.

  “It’s not definite?”

  “No. Neither. It has not received the corroboration.”

  Jacobus filled Oro in about his earlier discussions with Rosenthal, finishing with the uncomfortable fact that Lensky had vanished.

  “Ah, yes, that is a reason I left so suddenly this morning.”

  “You knew Lensky was going to escape?”

  “No, no. Not that. Only that I watch your informative Perry Mason on television every night—actually very early in the morning—so I understand your legal system is sometimes unpredictable. I know that Lieutenant Malachi, as a fellow policeman, would have some sympathy for my actions last night, but I also know that if Señor Lensky had a good lawyer, and now I see that he has, I could also easily be arrested for assault and many other infractions, such as entering your country with a false visa. This would not be very good for my reputation as the director of law enforcement for my city, would you not say? With this consideration in mind I departed quickly from John F. Kennedy Airport on the first flight to any country in South America, and I now call you while I wait for my connection.

  “So
I am safe once again, but it does give me deep trouble that Señor Lensky is now in large,” Oro continued. “I have a friend with whom I went to the public school,” he said contemplatively, “who teaches the violin at the Conservatorio Nacional.”

  “You’ve got a conservatory in Peru?” asked Jacobus.

  “I am proud to say my country had a conservatorio long before your pilgrims first set foot on Plymouth Rock. The one in Lima is only one block from the Maury, so it was very convenient for me to visit him while I investigated the missing of Kortovsky. I had not seen him for a long time, so we talked about many things. One thing my friend told me is that there is a little piece of wood, a little stick, inside the violin that connects the top of the instrument to the bottom. I never knew this! A little stick, and he says it is important.”

  “Yes, it transmits the vibrations throughout the instrument. Without it, there would be no sound.”

  “So it is glued in, then?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s wedged in, but if it’s too tight or too loose, or a half a millimeter in the wrong place, or the grain of the wood was lined up in the wrong direction, the violin would sound totally different.”

  “And if you removed this stick?”

  “Number one, the violin would have no sound at all, and number two, when you played, the top would cave in because you wouldn’t have any support for all the tension on the strings. Without the sound post you could easily destroy the instrument.”

  “What did you just call this stick, Yake, in English?”

  “The sound post.”

  “Ah, yes! The sound post! In Spanish, we call it la alma. Do you know what la alma means?”

  “Yeah. The sound post.”

  “Ah, you are a fast learner, but in Spanish it means something else also. La alma means ‘the soul.’ What I am saying is that Señor Lensky may have had all the attributions of a fine violin, but I am troubled that he may have no sound post.

  “So you must take the precaution, please,” Oro said somberly after another extended silence. “It is hard to know which is more dangerous, a deranged killer seeking the revenge or a deranged innocent seeking the vindication.”

  “When he’s found, would he be extradited?” Jacobus asked. “To Peru?”

  “I am sorry to shatter your bubble, my friend,” said Oro, “but there would be several impediments to that conclusion.”

  “Such as?”

  “Uno, though you and I still believe in our hearts that the body in Lima is Señor Kortovsky, this is not proved. Dos, though we believe the culprit is Señor Lensky, we have no solid evidence. Tres, extradition is less a police matter than a political matter, so…”

  There was silence on the line that neither party bothered to interrupt.

  “So it seems our mate is stale, mi amigo,” Oro continued.

  “I’d say our mate is check.”

  Again the silence.

  “Oro, I’ve got a question.”

  “Sí, Maestro.”

  “Is it true they eat guinea pigs in Peru?”

  “Cuy!”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “No, you misunderstand. Cuy is the word for guinea pig. It is one of our traditional delicacies, served mostly in the Andes. It is usually roasted, but sometimes fried. I find it very delicious.”

  “Do you think it might taste like squirrel?”

  “I think there is a very fine opportunity that it does. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, that’ll do it.”

  “Then it has been a pleasure working with you, Maestro,” said Oro, finally.

  “Yeah, it’s been dandy.”

  “Abrazos, then. Cuidado. Take care.”

  “Yeah. Hasta la vista,” said Jacobus, hanging up.

  Jacobus began to pour another bourbon, but the bottle was empty, so he lit a cigarette instead. He listened to the rain, now close to inaudible, but the cold and damp had not diminished with it. It was too late to start a fire in the woodstove, and until the weather got colder this would probably only create a back draft, helping the cigarette fill the house with smoke. With nothing better to do, Jacobus decided to go to bed. The stairs creaked under his tired tread as he held on to the banister and pulled himself up, Trotsky loping patiently behind him. Nine, ten, the eleventh and top step not as high as the others. People with sight had tripped on that one. He had never stumbled, he thought smugly.

  The air was dank and musty in Jacobus’s bedroom, as he had left the windows closed when they went to New York. If Indian summer ever arrived, he’d pry open the window to let some fresh air in. That is, if it were possible to reopen windows that decades of repainting and warping had made almost immovable. Jacobus stripped down to his underwear and eased himself onto the mildewed single mattress, unsteadily supported by a rusted Harvard frame. Comfort. He lay on his back, winded from his ascent up the stairs. He heard Trotsky slowly circle seven or eight times like a large recalcitrant turd being flushed down a clogged toilet, finally plopping himself down with a thud on the fraying braided rug next to Jacobus’s bed, in the identical spot he did every night. The dog smacked his jowls a few times and soon was snoring.

  Fatigued as he was, Jacobus was unable to sleep, feeling somehow captive in his own home, captive of his thoughts. Shadows of death had followed him since his youth, but now he was engulfed by them, making existence even darker than his blindness. He pressed hard on his useless eyes to stanch his inner pain but could not extinguish the mental image of Eli. His chest heaved and Jacobus regurgitated, not vomit, but a single word. Why?

  Stifling, he kicked off the sheet, but his efforts brought him no respite. He thought about going downstairs and opening the living room windows but remembered that Nathaniel had barred them before they had left for New York, and he didn’t have the energy to get out of bed, let alone remove the wedged-in pine boards.

  “Fuck it,” he said aloud and turned to his redeemer, Beethoven, for solace. He decided to listen to Beethoven’s “Pastoral” Symphony in his head—specifically George Szell’s interpretation with the Cleveland Orchestra—from beginning to end. Jacobus hoped that the music, which had been a poetic oasis in the composer’s turbulent life, would soothe his own torn soul. By the time the peasants had celebrated autumn in the first movement, meditated by the brook in the second, and enjoyed the fruits of their harvest in the Scherzo, Jacobus was asleep, well before the storm movement.

  There was no way for him to know the time, but he was sure it was still the middle of the night when he awoke, cold and shivering, infected by a sense of dread. He heard a downstairs window rattle. Trotsky uttered a low, lingering growl. Jacobus reached for the sheet and pulled it over him. One window?

  Was it the wind? He strained his ears to hear any fluttering of the browned and dried English ivy that enveloped the walls of his house. Certainly, if it were windy the sound of the leaves should precede a rattling window, but he detected nothing. Yet one by one, each of the windows rattled.

  It could be Lensky. It could be his own brother. It could be a blind beggar. Or it could just be the wind.

  “Go to hell!” shouted Jacobus. There was no response, but after continuing for another few moments the rattling ceased, and with that Trotsky’s growl. Jacobus listened for footsteps in the autumn leaves—had they not been damp and decaying, it would have been easier—but there were none.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  One great thing about writing within your own field of expertise is that you don’t have to do a lot of research. Other than double-checking some dates and spellings, all you need are a pretty decent memory and some interesting colleagues. Though I can’t claim that my powers of recollection are anything above average—to verify this, ask all those people whose names I can’t recall after ten minutes—I can state with confidence that you will find no greater wealth of bizarre, poignant, hysterical, ridiculous, and profound stories than in the world of classical music, with equally engaging personalities to tell them.
So if I can remember just ten percent of those stories, I have enough material for a dozen books, more or less.

  For Death and the Maiden, I have to specifically acknowledge my dear Russian colleagues for providing both stories and personalities, because it is clear to me that Russia—or, more accurately, the former Soviet Union—has produced not only great violinists for the past hundred-plus years but also great storytellers. If I have dressed their tales up a bit differently from the way I was told them, it wasn’t to make them any better (because they can’t be); it’s only so they’ll fit into the bigger story line. So thank you Slava, Aza, Victor, Manny, Manny, Mischa, Mischa, Ashot, Valerie, and Pavel.

  For the spicy Russian toasts and their translations I would like to thank my well-traveled friend Todd Fogelsong for his linguistic expertise. And for helping me with my remedial Spanish syntax, I would like to thank my talented former violin student Shadai Arce Flores from Arequipa, Peru. My frequent travels to Peru have left me with a deep appreciation of that country’s rich culture and heritage, which I have attempted to convey in a small way in Death and the Maiden. For the translations of the Schubert lieder in the book, my thanks go to my multilingual friend, colleague, and cooking companion Sergio Pallottelli, and for the Italian arias, to my darling daughter, Kate.

  My heartfelt thanks to my colleagues in the former Abramyan String Quartet (1993–2003)—Lynnette Stewart, violin; Scott Lewis, viola; and John Eckstein, cello—for ten years of inspiring musicianship, and for their permission to use our memorable live performances of Schubert’s “Death and the Maiden,” Smetana’s string quartet “From My Life,” and Beethoven’s “Razumovsky,” op. 59, no. 3, on my Web site for readers to hear and be thrilled by. The Smetana, in fact, was the last quartet we performed together. And unlike the members of the New Magini String Quartet, we are still all alive and good friends.

  A belated thanks to my former Boston Symphony colleague Harvey Seigel, the true creator of the crafty, though totally fictional, Dr. Krovney, who has made cameo appearances in all my books. Few rehearsals passed when the peerless Dr. Krovney would not be able to provide heretofore unimagined remedies for the most confounding violinistic challenges, many of which would leave us in tears, to the chagrin of the conductors.