Devil's Trill

by Gerald Elias

  He had every right to be uncomfortable being in Japan, Jacobus thought, even under the best of circumstances. Jacobus had never met Nathaniel’s parents, nor Nathaniel his, whose lives had ended tragically in the war’s European theater. That common experience had cemented their bond even more, but Jacobus had pushed Nathaniel’s friendship to the breaking point. How much longer he could depend upon Nathaniel’s faith in him was a constant dull ache.

  The cab swung through the narrow, winding streets of Ochanomizu. The agricultural hamlet was deserted except for an occasional pedestrian or cyclist, and only a few dim lights from sidewalk vending machines or late-night taverns presumed themselves on the night. Two-and three-story houses and shops soon gave way to small, square rice paddies, barely distinguishable in the darkness. Nathaniel commented that this was not the image of teeming, neon Japan that he had gathered over the years. The road wound upward into the hillside, passing terraced fields, the moonlight reflecting off the water in the paddies, uniformly sized and right angled, rows of seedlings perfectly parallel.

  Jacobus, who had taken this route when he could still see, rolled down the window to smell the sweet moisture of midnight air, helping him dust off cobwebbed images that had long been stored in the attic corners of his memory.

  Only one life, he had said to Lilburn, but it was almost as if he was gleaning memories from another. Music had been his only concern the last time he was here. This time his life, Yumi’s, and God knew who else’s, were in the balance. Yet he felt that now, especially now, he needed music more than ever. He needed to connect this life to his past one.

  Patterns, thought Jacobus. Rice paddies, for example. A signature of an unchanging human pattern, centuries old, etched into the earth. Patterns of human behavior. Usually so predictable, sometimes so confounding.

  The taxi continued its slow progress, the hills awash in the sound of the crickets. The sluggish aroma of agriculture was replaced by the revitalizing scent of cedar, so Jacobus knew that the fields had disappeared and the cab was entering the forest, where the established patterns of human behavior, for better or worse, gave up trying to impose themselves on the landscape.

  Patterns. Music and business, a double helix. A spiraling alchemy transforming art into avarice. Mozart, penniless genius, at one end; Anthony Strella, street-smart millionaire, at the other; endlessly intertwined, inextricable.

  He had almost forgotten about MAP. Even with the cryptic comment in Lilburn’s story he had little doubt his efforts there had failed. With his flight from the authorities, the focus of attention was no longer on MAP; quite possibly it had never been. He was reasonably certain that he had rattled them, but their day of reckoning would have to wait. With their battalion of accountants and lawyers, no doubt that day would dawn long after his sunset. The shame of it was that the model of their organization was being hailed as the salvation of the arts, and was replicating. A new pattern born, spawned from ambition, devouring the tender talent of youth to feed its unslaking hunger for dollars. He himself had brought Yumi to the edge of the abyss, and to his horror she had almost been sucked into it by Strella and Jablonski. It was a game he would never play again.

  Yumi’s patterns! So different—musically, behaviorally—from his other students. But so consistent. Until Victoria. That’s what troubled Jacobus—the erratic changes in Yumi’s behavior since. It made his own situation that much more precarious because it was only when he could not discern patterns that he truly felt his blindness.

  The cab continued slowly for another fifteen, twenty minutes, winding slowly through the pungent cedar, their arrow-straight trunks like sentinels in the night. Then Jacobus heard the easygoing conversation of the stream that had carved the narrow valley through which the road had been built. They paralleled its path until they came upon a cluster of weather-beaten houses that couldn’t even be called a village.

  “Aka-chochin,” said Jacobus as the taxi slowed almost to a stop, veering sharply to the right as it left the paved road for an even narrower dirt lane hardly wider than the car itself.

  “Ah, Mr. Jacobus,” said Yumi, “you have a very good memory for directions.”

  Since their arrival at the train station Yumi’s behavior had been opposite that of a fleeing fugitive. She had been polite and composed, if not cordial, leaving Jacobus pleased but perplexed. At the least it gave him some hope.

  “Aka-what?” asked Nathaniel. “You’re not talking in code now, are you, Jake?”

  “Aka-chochin,” said Yumi, “are red paper lanterns that little neighborhood taverns traditionally display to show they are still open. Now the taverns themselves are called aka-chochin. Since we usually don’t use street names in Japan, the aka-chochin on the corner here is used as a landmark for this lane that goes to Furukawa-sensei’s house. The driver would have missed it had he not been staring into the night for it, and even then he almost passed it. Mr. Jacobus remembered it from when he worked with Furukawa-sensei.”

  The lane led them higher yet. Finally the driver turned off the lane onto a gravel path and came to a stop in front of Furukawa’s tree-protected house. Diffuse light glowed through shoji screens from all four sides of the one-story unpainted wooden house. Though it was almost three in the morning, Makoto Furukawa was there to greet them at the entrance, standing with arms akimbo on the wear-polished wooden floor built just a few inches above the stone-paved alcove. About the same age as Jacobus, Furukawa radiated a sense of youth and energy, unlike Jacobus, who from youth conveyed a sense of age. Graying hair brushed straight back, smiling with his eyes as well as his mouth, Furukawa greeted them with relaxed but erect posture, bowing low from the waist with his hands on his thighs, displaying obvious comfort and ease wearing his blue-and-white cotton kimono, making his guests feel welcome. This was Makoto Furukawa’s pattern, which Jacobus did not need to see in order to remember.

  The driver pushed a button and the doors of the taxi opened automatically. Jacobus took money out of his wallet to pay the driver, but before he could pay he felt a touch, Yumi’s, on his hand.

  “Furukawa-sensei has already paid,” said Yumi. “It is not necessary.”

  Jacobus listened for the swallows, descendants of the pair that decades ago had built a mud and straw nest above the polished wooden doorway—a traditional Japanese good-luck omen.

  If I hear them, it’s good luck, he thought. If I don’t, then I’m not superstitious.

  The birds, disturbed by the intrusion of strangers in the middle of the night, began to chirp pugnaciously, defending their nest.

  Good luck. I’ll take it, Jacobus concluded.

  Furukawa’s voice. Yumi quickly translated. “Furukawa-sensei says welcome to his home. He hopes you have had a comfortable trip.”

  At this cue, Jacobus bowed, knowing that he was reciprocating the gesture that Furukawa surely just made. Common courtesy.

  Nathaniel didn’t bow.

  Yumi said, “Nathaniel, here in Japan it is an important custom to bow as a way of greeting.”

  Nathaniel replied, “Please tell Mr. Furukawa that with all due respect, my old grandpappy, who was the son of a slave, taught me not to bow to anybody. Not for a concert audience and certainly not in Japan.” He turned to leave.

  Jacobus thought, Jesus Christ, things are off to a great start. Damn swallows.

  Even before Yumi had a chance to translate into Japanese, Furukawa responded.

  Yumi translated Furukawa’s words. “Please tell Jake’s friend that I personally prefer the Western tradition of shaking hands, which shows respect among equals.”

  Nathaniel stopped. “In that case, I’m pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand.

  “Mr. Furukawa says you both must be very tired,” said Yumi. “He will soon have food and drink waiting for you, but in the meantime first please take a bath.”

  “Do I smell that funky, Jake?” asked Nathaniel.

  Yumi intervened, explaining that in Japan a bath is not so much for cleaning
as it is for relaxation and pleasure, and that it’s a custom for a host to invite a guest to bathe.

  “You’ll feel much better if you accept the invitation,” she said.

  Jacobus thought that for the first time since leaving New York he could hear confidence, if not a smile, in Yumi’s voice.

  “Well, what do you think, Jake?” asked Nathaniel.

  “Why not, we could use a little tension relief. I’ll show you the routine. And in response to your previous question, the answer is yes.”

  Yumi suddenly said, “Mr. Williams!”

  “What now?” Nathaniel exploded. “Am I supposed to bow again?”

  “No, no,” said Yumi quickly. “Only that in Japan we always take off our shoes in a house. When you step onto the wooden floor, please wear these slippers; then, when you walk on the tatami mats, please take them off and walk in your bare feet.”

  “There’s a custom I can live with. But next time remind me to wear shoes without laces.”

  “Now let’s see if you can find slippers that’ll actually fit your big hooves,” said Jacobus.

  “Nothing here more than half my size,” said Nathaniel. “I feel like the ugly stepsister.”

  Yumi translated. Furukawa said something. Yumi suppressed a giggle.

  “What did he say?” asked Nathaniel.

  Yumi said she wasn’t sure.

  “Come on, honey, out with it.”

  “Furukawa-sensei said he knows the Cinderella story from the Rossini opera, and that perhaps because it is after midnight is why you have already turned into a pumpkin.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny, Jake?” asked Nathaniel.

  “Better than that, Nathaniel. It means he really likes you. He would never insult anyone he didn’t consider a friend.”

  Furukawa, still laughing, led them down the wood-floored corridor that ran along the perimeter of the house.

  Yumi said, “Mr. Jacobus, Furukawa-sensei wants me to tell you that nothing here has changed. This house that was your home one time is still the same.”

  Aided by the feel of wood polished by decades of stockinged feet and the barely perceptible pungent aroma of incense permeating the air, Jacobus tried to reconstruct his mental picture. He started with the large spaces and tried to fill in the details one by one, but it had been such a long time. He was certain that he was omitting a lot.

  Reaching out, his hand brushed against the glossily smooth tree trunks that served as structural pillars. He recalled the one huge room in the middle of the house that was created when the sliding doors were all open, doors of wood frame and translucent paper that also served as walls. Floors that were finely woven straw tatami mats, smooth and accommodating to one’s feet, each mat about three by six feet. Lacquered furniture that was sparse but elegant, constructed low to the ground. Yes, and in the far corner there was the alcove with the ornate pottery, a striking wall hanging with Japanese calligraphy, a beautiful flower arrangement, and a miniature ancestral shrine with a cracked Satsuma incense burner, the source of the scent that he was passing by right now. Simplicity. Elegance. Comfort. The opposite of his life.

  The door to the bath slid open.

  “O-furo,” Furukawa said, patting Jacobus on his back. He laughed once more and left.

  In the small antechamber leading to the main bathroom was a shelf with two bamboo trays. Each contained a fresh, folded yukata that would be their clothing after the bath.

  “What now?” asked Nathaniel.

  “We take our clothes off. What do you think?” said Jacobus.

  They disrobed, placing the clothes they had been wearing for almost two days on the trays.

  “Now open the door to the bath,” said Jacobus.

  Nathaniel slid open the inner door to the bathroom, the o-furo itself.

  “This definitely ain’t my bathroom in Manhattan,” he said.

  Though of similar dimensions, its design conveyed a feeling of space. The walls and floor were of cut but unpolished gray stone, with moss and hanging plants growing freely on the walls. There was one drain in the middle of the floor. Along one wall, about eigh teen inches off the ground, were faucets. On the floor in front of the faucets were compartmentalized wooden trays containing washcloths, soap, and shampoo. Next to the trays were small wooden buckets and small wooden stools. In one corner was an inconspicuous wooden box, about three feet by four feet, rising just a few inches off the floor.

  “Where’s the bath?” asked Nathaniel.

  “Over in the corner, if I remember correctly. It’ll be covered with a wooden lid to keep the water hot.”

  “Looks kinda shallow to me, brother.”

  “Go take the top off. That should satisfy your curiosity.”

  Nathaniel did so and saw that the tub had been built deeply below floor level. Its sides were forest green tile, giving the impression of being bottomless. The water was level with the rim of the tub and steam was already forming into a small cloud.

  “This is more like it,” said Nathaniel as he began making sounds indicating he was getting into the tub.

  “No!” shouted Jacobus.

  “Say what?” asked Nathaniel. “What’d I do wrong now? The man said take a bath, so I’m takin’ a bath.”

  “You have to wash first. The bath is just for soaking.”

  “Well, I’m lookin’ around and I hope you don’t expect me to sit on one of those stools to wash, because I can’t even fit my left cheek on it!”

  “You’ll just have to do the best you can. Use two stools if you need to—cheek to cheek. Help me over to a stool and I’ll show you.”

  Jacobus, sitting, felt for the faucet and turned it on. He found his tray and began washing. Covered with soap, he grabbed a loofah and scrubbed. Then he felt for the small bucket, filled it with hot water, and poured it over his head.

  “Just do what I do.”

  After a while Nathaniel said, “Hey, this isn’t so bad. When do we get to go into the tub?”

  “When you’re not funky. Since this tub isn’t big enough for both of us, I’ll go in first. By the time I’m finished, the water won’t be too hot for you.”

  “What should I do in the meantime?”

  “Keep washing.”

  Nathaniel helped Jacobus over the now slippery floor to the tub. Jacobus felt his way into it, quickly immersing himself in the water with a satisfied sigh. Within minutes he felt the tension draining. Like the pores of his skin, his mind opened. In the times he had spent in this bath, he had gained more revelatory insight about music than from any concert he had ever heard.

  A fleeting image returned him to his home in the Berkshires, and to the state of near vagrancy of its current dilapidated condition. Maybe it was time to change. Whether he would have the chance was the bigger question.

  “Your turn,” he finally said to Nathaniel as he hauled himself out of the tub.

  “Looks good,” Nathaniel said, testing the water with a toe.

  “Whoa!” he shouted.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jacobus, concerned.

  “I ain’t no lobster.”

  “Don’t worry. After about twenty seconds the pain will wear off.”

  Jacobus heard the plunge. Nathaniel gave a short “Huh!” with the shock of the heat, his bulk creating a minitsunami as waves flowing over the top of the tub noisily gurgled into the floor drain.

  “Quite a performance,” said Jacobus. He began drying himself with a towel, taunting Nathaniel by humming the melody of the “Trout” Quintet by Schubert.

  There was no response from Nathaniel.

  I guess he doesn’t like my joke—or my singing—thought Jacobus.

  After hearing nothing for two or three minutes, Jacobus became concerned.

  “Nathaniel, are you all right?”

  “Ahhhh,” said Nathaniel. “Some of these customs aren’t so bad.”

  “When you’ve been working on something for a thousand years,” said Jacobus, “chances are you’ll get it rig
ht.”

  “Maybe, but seems they didn’t need so long for some things. Look what they’ve done here with classical music in just a few generations. Pretty soon there’ll be more Japanese playing the Mendelssohn Concerto than us folk.”

  Jacobus felt for his yukata, sliding his arms through elbow-length sleeves. He thought again about patterns—the historic pattern of Japanese adaptation of Western ideas and their notable ability to assimilate and transform them into something uniquely Japanese. Trade. Technology. Politics. Music?

  Jacobus considered Yumi. When he first heard Yumi play, there was something about it that was unlike Furukawa’s other students. Something about it that did not fit the pattern. A misty rice paddy with a bright thorny rosebush in the middle. At the time he couldn’t put his finger on it. Two patterns intersecting.

  Furukawa, the known quantity. One way of understanding music. One pattern. But there was another pattern. He now guessed it came from the other teacher, her first teacher.

  “You’re right,” said Jacobus. “Let’s go eat.”

  “Yeah,” said Nathaniel. “I think I’m ready for that food and drink Furukawa was talking about. Is this the plug I pull to let the water out?”

  The question rifled Jacobus’s thoughts back to the present.

  “No!” he shouted.

  “Jesus H. Christ, what did I do now?” asked Nathaniel.

  “Don’t pull the plug. The water stays in for the rest of the night. Guests are always given dibs—I’m sure Furukawa and Yumi will be using it later. That’s why you have to scrub so well before you get in. So just get your heinie out of the tub, put the cover back on, and don your yukata.”

  As Jacobus was about to leave the bathroom, he felt Nathaniel’s mammoth hand on his shoulder, gently stopping him in his tracks.

  “Yeah?” Jacobus said. “Sorry I shouted about the plug.”

  “No, not that,” said Nathaniel. “Jake, ever since we left your house I’ve kept my big mouth shut. Okay, Japan has been a lot nicer than I expected, but you gotta realize I am one troubled black man. Intercontinental Insurance has no idea where I am or what I’m up to, which is the least of my worries, because if someone, like the police, is looking at this situation from the outside in, it sure could look like the two of us are just a pair of escaped felons, and that’s not gonna do me a world of good when it comes to future employment. Now, I know you’ve told me the general idea here is to get the violin back and get you off the hook for Victoria’s death, but you haven’t told me jack about how.”