by Gerald Elias
“I’ve come here to learn. I don’t think you’re . . . meshuga.”
“Well, okay, then. I think you’re old enough. Sex.”
“Sex?”
“See, I told you.”
“Could you explain more, please?”
“Well, first of all, look at how we’ve named the parts of the violin. And as I describe this, just run your fingers along that Amati you just happen to be cuddling in your lap and then tell me if I’m crazy.
“At the top, what’s usually referred to as the ‘scroll’ is also sometimes called the ‘head.’ People say they can look and feel either masculine or feminine, depends on your inclinations, I suppose. Attaching the head to the body of the violin is what we call the ‘neck.’ When we play we gently slide our left hand back and forth along the neck—that in itself is suggestive—and what do we come to? Those beautifully curved ‘shoulders.’ Along the sides we have ‘ribs,’ which are contoured to have a slender waist in the middle. That contour enables us to play on the outer strings without hitting the instrument, but it gives the violin a very, very attractive waistline.
“Of course, the back of the violin is called the ‘back,’ made of maple, which is hard and strong. The top of the violin people often call the ‘belly’; it’s softer, made from spruce, and it’s got the same kind of curves as the people we sometimes like to . . . ‘think’ about. Not to mention those two sensuous ‘f-holes.’ ”
Yumi reddened and quickly removed her fingers from the f-holes.
“Am I embarrassing you?” asked Goldbloom.
“Go on, please.”
“Well, this is the X-rated part.”
“Go on, please.”
“Okay. Now, what do we do when we play the violin? First, we take the bow—a long hard shaft. Just before we play we tighten it, which makes it even more erect. We then gently embrace the violin, holding it by the neck and drawing it to our body. We lower this erect shaft on the belly of the violin, pressing down and moving it back and forth so that the coarse hairs of the bow make the strings vibrate. Those vibrations go from the string down into the very core of the instrument, making the whole thing vibrate. When you’re playing the violin you actually feel the vibrations enter your body; you feel the instrument responding to your touch, how you’re touching it.”
Yumi felt her chest constricting, her breath shorten. Whether or not he was meshuga, he was a convincing storyteller.
“And not every bow goes with every violin. You have to find the perfect match. Even with great instruments the violin and bow have to complement each other. So, between you, the violin, and the bow, it becomes a threesome.
“Now, here’s the clincher. When you play the violin—when you play Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, for example—these are the most intimate, the most personal thoughts musicians have. That’s our soul. That’s the essence of our being. When we touch the violin the right way, it reciprocates. It responds. If we play angrily, it will sound rough. Some people like that. If we play lovingly, it will love back. It gives us as much as we give it—sometimes more, depending on the violin. With a great violin, the sound is more than just a reflection of our feelings—it almost has a life of its own. It’s almost like the violin is playing us!
“Now, Yumi, tell me I’m crazy.”
Yumi was thinking about Jacobus, about his passion. She realized that it was his passion, even when he was chastising her, that drove him. She couldn’t immediately think of anything to say to Goldbloom but found that she was hugging the Amati. She loosened her grip on the violin and it almost slid off her lap. Goldbloom reacted with catlike quickness, catching it well before any damage would have been done.
“So you do see what I mean,” he said, returning the instrument safely to its hook.
“I have never thought about playing the violin in this way before. Do you really think this is true?”
“Who knows?” Goldbloom laughed. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence that the Italians and French were the best violin and bow makers. Maybe not, but it’s the only theory I could come up with that might explain some pretty meshuga behavior.”
Yumi was glad to hear Goldbloom laugh. His humor broke the spell and her tension. She smiled.
“Yeah,” said Goldbloom. “It’s bad enough when people get obsessed buying and selling and playing violins. But then you read about people stealing and killing for them, and you begin to wonder.”
“Killing?” asked Yumi, no longer smiling.
“Sure,” said Goldbloom. “You reminded me of it.”
“Did I?”
“Uh-huh. The ‘Devil’s Trill’ you just played. You know the story?”
“Yes,” said Yumi, once again relieved. “My teacher told me about it. How the devil played for Tartini in a dream, and how Tartini tried to write down what he had heard—”
“That’s the story that most people know. He told it to a French author, Lalande, who wrote a book about his travels to Italy. Tartini said that the devil’s playing was so much better than what Tartini himself wrote that he would have broken his violin and given up music if only he could’ve duplicated it.”
“Yes,” said Yumi.
“But that’s only a small part of the story I’m talking about. You see, Yumi, Giuseppe Tartini was a wild, rootless kid who tried his hand at everything from fencing to being a priest, but succeeded in nothing. When he was nineteen he had a fling with a young girl named Elisabetta Premazone, who happened to be the niece of Cardinal Giorgio Cornaro, the archbishop of Padua. The two lovers eloped, and guess what? The cardinal charged Tartini with kidnapping. So poor little Giuseppe fled, hiding in a monastery in Assisi for two years. But in those two years Tartini supposedly not only decided to play the violin, he became an overnight virtuoso who played so magnificently that the cardinal, who finally found out where Tartini had gone, forgave him and allowed him to return to Padua and Elisabetta. The rest, as they say, is history, and Tartini became the most renowned violinist of his time.”
“That sounds like a happy ending to me,” said Yumi.
“It does, except for one thing. Do you really think someone—anyone—can become a violin virtuoso in two years? It’s hard enough to play a C-Major scale in tune after two years!”
“You have another theory, Mr. Goldbloom?” asked Yumi.
“Call me Sol. My theory is this. Tartini was pretty old when he told Lalande about his dream about the devil, sometime in the 1740s. He said the dream was in 1713, so he was carrying that dream around him for a lifetime. The year 1713 was right at the beginning of his hiding in Assisi. But just before he fled Padua a curious thing happened. His sweetheart’s older sister, Paola, was married, but she also had a lover. Both Paola and her boyfriend were killed by her husband, the son-in-law of the cardinal’s brother, who was enraged when he found them in a compromising position. The lover was also a violinist, but when they went to find his violin, there was no trace of it! I think Tartini informed on Paola and her boyfriend, not considering the possibility they’d lose their lives. He probably thought the reward for ratting was Elisabetta’s hand, but then when it became apparent he was in hot water, he ditched it out of Padua with the violin. Think about having a dream—in a monastery, of all places—of making a pact with the devil himself. I think Tartini’s devil dream was not only about diabolical music. I think the dream was about the violin. And about guilt.”
“But why couldn’t Tartini have just gotten another violin?” Yumi argued. “After all, Padua is right near Cremona, isn’t it? Isn’t that where that Amati was made, the one you showed me?”
“Well, Yumi, this particular missing violin happened to be an extraspecial one. Maybe the only violin in the world that could have enabled Tartini to become such a great virtuoso in such a short time. That violin was—”
“The Piccolino Stradivarius,” said Jacobus, standing in the doorway.
Yumi, bombarded by three almost instantaneous shocks, closed her eyes and clutched the arm of her chair to keep her
self from falling for the second time in an hour. The first shock was hearing that the Piccolino Strad was yet again the focal point in a murderous tragedy. The second shock was hearing it from the mouth of Jacobus who, like an apparition, had been among them, unseen, for who knew how long? The third shock was . . .
“Jake, you old fart! Look what you’ve done to the poor kid.”
Yumi opened her eyes in time to see Goldbloom embrace Jacobus.
“You know each other?” she asked.
“You know each other?” asked Goldbloom.
Yumi explained that Jacobus was her teacher. Goldbloom explained that he and Jacobus had sat next to each other during the two years that Jacobus had been in the Boston Symphony, after his Dumky Trio had disbanded and before his blindness. It was Goldbloom who had driven Jacobus to his audition for concertmaster despite Goldbloom’s protestations that he should take him to the hospital first. Goldbloom had considered Jacobus’s achievement brash but heroic. Jacobus himself had felt only humiliation.
After Jacobus left the Symphony, the two had remained friends, but because of his bitterness Jacobus vowed never to go to another symphony concert, so he and Goldbloom drifted apart, rarely communicating.
Goldbloom asked Jacobus what he was doing in New York and Jacobus explained his task assisting Nathaniel in the recovery of the missing violin. Goldbloom also knew Nathaniel Williams, whom he felt was meshuga for having given up music to go into the insurance business.
Jacobus invited Goldbloom to meet them at the Carnegie Deli, along with Nathaniel, after his and Yumi’s meeting with Trevor Grim-sley. Goldbloom couldn’t because of his concert at Carnegie Hall that night, where the Boston Symphony was playing Berlioz’s Damnation of Faust, so he invited them to the concert. Jacobus, as expected, declined, but Yumi was eager to go. Goldbloom suggested they all meet after the concert at the deli, which was agreed upon.
The three walked out of Dedubian’s together. Sigmund Gottfried had the elevator door open and welcomed them into his domain, politely expressing his wish that they had had a successful visit with Mr. Dedubian. Goldbloom commented to Yumi on what a fine teacher she had found in Jacobus.
Yumi, preoccupied, asked, “Do you think they can possibly find who took the Piccolino?”
“Nathaniel alone, I don’t think he could do it,” said Goldbloom, as the brass lattice door of the elevator slid closed silently in front of them. “But with Jake, yeah. Of that I have no doubt. Take us down, Ziggy.”
EIGHTEEN
Just before Jacobus and Yumi were greeted by Trevor Grimsley in the dark coolness of his study smelling of oak, books, and expensive cigars, Yumi quietly expressed hope that the comforting environment would provide them relief from the city’s withering summer heat.
“Don’t count your chickens,” Jacobus whispered back.
“Drink?” asked Grimsley. “Looks like you could use one.”
“Single-malt?” asked Jacobus.
“Name your poison.”
“Lagavulin. Sixteen years?”
“Coming right up. Rocks?”
“Straight up.”
“And for you, Miss Shinagawa?”
“Tea, please.”
Grimsley poured the scotch, mixed himself a margarita, and had his housekeeper bring the tea.
“Bottoms up,” he said. “As you know, Grandfather initiated the Competition in 1905. To tell you the truth, I think he did it mainly to impress Grandmother. Just between you and me, he really didn’t have an artistic bone in his body. Just between you and me.”
“Grandmother and Grandfather, huh?” said Jacobus, and took a sip of scotch, thoughtfully letting it sit on his tongue before swallowing. I wonder what Grandmother and Grandfather would think of their sixty-year-old dandy grandson. The taunting laugh of his mugger returned.
“It’s quite a grueling ordeal,” Grimsley continued, “and I’m not quite sure just how those youngsters manage to get through it all. I’ve got to hand it to them”—Jacobus heard Trevor sloshing the crushed ice in his drink—“they really do go at each other’s throats,” he chuckled, “especially in the final round. But I suppose it’s worth it to them. There is the ten-thousand-dollar first prize, of course. But mainly it’s the chance for a career. For stardom. Frankly, I don’t think the children know what it all means. It’s for the parents and, to a lesser extent, I suppose, the teachers. I shouldn’t tell you this next bit, but it’s true. Would you believe that some of the less scrupulous parents even plan for their children to be born not quite thirteen years before upcoming Competitions, so that they’ll be at the maximum qualifying age? What a way to get an edge! Seems a bit perverse, doesn’t it? Well, I suppose that’s what makes the world go round.”
Jacobus nursed his scotch, listening with half an ear. Grimsley was doing a poor job of containing his anxiety with his spouting. At least when you’re blind you don’t have to look interested, Jacobus thought.
“But they all say it’s worth it. And then, of course, there’s the Carnegie Hall recital we provide them. That in itself costs us a bundle. Renting Carnegie, paying for the security—some security!—printing programs, advertising in the Times. You’d be surprised at some of the hidden costs, no doubt. Grand old hall, anyway.
“There are two things, though, that make this Competition unique. Unique! The first is the gala. The winner gets to play a concerto at Carnegie Hall with an orchestra of a hundred musicians who are hand-picked from all the great orchestras of the world. Just between you and me, it costs a fortune, but Grandfather stipulated it in his will, so there you have it. You wouldn’t believe how much it costs to pay these musicians! We have to fly them from all over the world, pay for their food and lodging. The fee for the rehearsal is three hundred dollars per musician and the performance is twice that. I don’t know why they need so much money—they’re only musicians—but thank God I can afford it.”
“Yes, thank God,” murmured Jacobus, lifting his glass.
“Yes, I suppose so,” continued Grimsley. “And of course the jewel in the crown is the Piccolino, one of the greatest and certainly the most beautiful violin ever made. The contestants kill—absolutely kill—to have a chance to play on that violin. It’s as if it plays itself, they tell me. I’m no musician. Like Grandfather, I suppose. But you knew that. They tell me all they have to do is put the bow on the string of that violin, and voilà! ‘I’m a virtuoso!’ Pity it’s missing. Do you believe in magic, Mr. Jacobus? Oh, I suppose not. You’ve seen how much practicing it takes. Fortunately, I’ve never really had to work a day in my life, though I must say that managing this competition is no mean feat. These children practice from sunup to sundown, and beyond, for the chance to play on that violin.”
Jacobus put down his empty glass and stood up.
“Thanks for the scotch, Trevor.”
“What, are you leaving? Already?”
“Doesn’t sound like there’s anything you want to tell me that I don’t already know.”
“Well . . . what about the Piccolino?”
“What about it?”
“I’m quite fond of the Piccolino. If I do say so myself. We desperately do want to get that violin back.”
“We?” asked Jacobus.
“Well, yes, the family,” said Grimsley. “All of us. Why?”
“I understand the family underwent some financial setbacks recently.”
Jacobus sat back down. It was now his turn to do some mudslinging.
“Pardon?”
“Don’t I remember the Times reporting last year that some members of the family lost quite a bit of money on junk bonds and stock options? As I recall, there was also some talk of insider trading.”
“That’s all been cleared up. Eons ago.”
Jacobus heard Grimsley place his glass on a table with a distinct clack. Must have just drained it.
“What’s that got to do with anything, anyway?” asked Grimsley.
“Only that since you’re not allowed to sell the violi
n—because of Grandfather’s will—an eight-million-dollar insurance claim would go a long way to restoring one’s checking account.”
“Are you insinuating . . . ?”
“And to be rid of the fiddle means to be rid of the Competition and its expenses. You yourself were saying just now how exorbitant the costs are. And I would imagine the trust fund that Grandfather initially set up ninety years ago doesn’t come close to covering today’s costs. I would guess a lot of it comes right out of your pocket. Paying someone ten, twenty thousand dollars under the table to abscond with a violin is a small price to pay for an eight-million-dollar return, plus ridding yourself of all those headaches in the bargain.”
“Mr. Jacobus, you’re suggesting that I stole my own violin for my own profit? How dare you! You’re the one who’s supposed to have stolen it. You, not me.”
Trevor Grimsley, Jacobus thought derisively, is trying to bully me?
“I’m merely suggesting that it’s a reasonable angle, Mr. Grimsley. One I’m sure the police would be interested in pursuing if presented in the right way. Maybe last year’s investigation needs a little follow-up.”
“This is preposterous. Absolutely preposterous. I had nothing to do with that theft, and the money business has all been cleared up. You’re trying to blackmail me, Jacobus. You’re threatening to expose me to public ridicule. But for what reason? What would your price be?”
“Terminate the Competition.”
“Terminate? The Competition?”
Jacobus had taken a page from Lilburn’s textbook. “You heard me. Assure me, in writing, that after this year there will be no further Grimsley Violin Competition and I won’t take my suspicions to the authorities.”
Jacobus was almost enjoying himself now.
“But I can’t, can’t, do that. It’s in the will. Impossible!”
“It’s that or the headlines, Trevs. I’m sure you can afford a good lawyer to get out of the will. You’re a very resourceful person.”
“Mr. Jacobus,” said Grimsley.
There was a distinct change in Grimsley’s tone. Ah! thought Jacobus, a new tack?