Devil's Trill

by Gerald Elias

  Yumi translated. Furukawa’s answer came immediately.

  “Furukawa-sensei says that in this area there are many such farmers even though the soil is thin and rocky. Many villages have teachers who begin toddlers on musical instruments. The talented ones are sent to him.”

  “Ask Max if he has gotten many seedlings from your village.”

  “Aren’t you tired?” asked Yumi, a strain of desperation faintly audible.

  “Please ask.”

  Yumi asked.

  She said, “Furukawa-sensei says that many of his best students have come from my village. My mother, Keiko Shinagawa, is a violin teacher there, and Furukawa-sensei says she is one of the best such farmers he has known.”

  Jacobus spoke with renewed energy. Now he’d use his vestigial diplomatic skills.

  “Tell Max that if all of Mrs. Shinagawa’s students are such healthy seedlings, he has had a very easy job.”

  Yumi hesitated. Jacobus said, “Don’t be shy. Remember, it’s me talking. Go ahead.”

  Yumi translated.

  Furukawa laughed. Jacobus knew that he needn’t say more. Furukawa would lead the rest of the way.

  “Furukawa-sensei says that even as we plant our own seeds, someone before us planted seeds for both you and him to grow. You learned from Dr. Krovney, and Krovney in turn studied with the great Romanian violinist Enesco.”

  Jacobus nodded.

  “Furukawa-sensei says you might be interested to know that my mother was also taught by her mother.” Yumi said this politely, without any trace of enthusiasm, like a soldier going through the formalities of surrender.

  Jacobus said, “Please tell Max that you were kind enough to tell me at our second lesson that your grandmother played the violin, but I didn’t realize she actually taught your mother.”

  “Furukawa-sensei says that she is a very special person, and even though she is old, she still occasionally helps my mother sow the good seeds.”

  Jacobus remained silent.

  Furukawa said something. Jacobus thought he heard a name being repeated. Hashimoto. It made him frown.

  Yumi was silent. Furukawa repeated his message to her, scolding her with sudden, forceful vehemence.

  The name Hashimoto again! Who was this new player? He didn’t know what it all meant, but he didn’t need a translator to understand Furukawa’s tone.

  And I thought I could be a real schmuck! Jacobus said to himself.

  The conversation had changed keys, a dissonant undertone, out of tune with the peaceful resonance of the garden, leaving Jacobus troubled and off balance.

  Yumi choked out the message. “Furukawa-sensei says it would be very enlightening for you to meet such a wonderful teacher. It might help you with your own work.”

  “And what did you say to him?” asked Jacobus.

  “I said that as I hadn’t been able to contact my family when we left New York so suddenly, they don’t even know I’m here. They will not be ready to prepare properly for our arrival.”

  “And what did Max say?”

  Yumi paused. Jacobus was certain the translation he’d receive would be far from word-for-word.

  “Furukawa-sensei said he will arrange everything. That my family will be honored by your visit.”

  “Please tell Max that neither he nor your family should go to any trouble.”

  Yumi repeated what Jacobus said and listened to Furukawa’s reply.

  “Furukawa-sensei says it is no trouble. He says, ‘Now go to sleep.’ ”

  In the darkness, in his blindness, Jacobus knew that Makoto Furukawa was not smiling.

  THIRTY

  By the time Jacobus awoke after a few hours of jet-lagged, Suntory-induced sleep, Furukawa had already made the arrangements. Yes, Yumi’s family would be delighted to have her new sensei visit. No, it was no trouble. Yes, he will spend the night there. Would Jacobus-san’s friend, Williams-san, be joining them also? No, Furukawa-san decided to take him fishing. Williams-san’s own protests were futile. He will go fishing. It is all arranged. Jacobus heard the anxiety in Yumi’s voice when she translated.

  Later that morning, Furukawa was in his garden pruning his biwa trees. It was a moist, balmy morning, sunlight filtering through the dappled green foliage. Birds hopped along the ground, picking at the apricot-sized biwa that had fallen. Furukawa was not surprised when Inspector Kengo Taniguchi from the Sendai prefectural police department drove up.

  Taniguchi had received the equivalent of an all points bulletin from his central office, which had received the message from Tokyo that the New York Police Department was searching for a murder suspect who might be in Taneguchi’s vicinity.

  When Roy Miller found Jacobus’s house empty the morning Jacobus had promised to come down for questioning, he immediately phoned Detective Malachi at the NYPD. Malachi slammed Miller with every four-letter name he could think of, but it was only when he called him a yokel that Miller responded, “Now hold on one minute.” Malachi wanted to chew out Miller even longer than he did, but he had to move fast to find Jacobus. He ordered Miller to find out the license plate number of Williams’s red Rabbit and to put out an APB for any car matching its description in case they changed the plates. Then he called all international airports within a three-hour driving radius of the Berkshires and told them who he was looking for. This was no small task in itself, as that area included Albany, Hartford, Boston, JFK, Newark, LaGuardia, and, as an afterthought, Montreal. He also contacted bus and train stations.

  However, Malachi had no idea where Jacobus might be going. He could be hiding somewhere in his basement for all knew. He called each person at MAP and asked if they knew where Jacobus might be, assuming they would like nothing better than to see Jacobus behind bars, but they were no help at all. In fact, to his ear, they sounded confused, almost frightened. He didn’t know what to make of it but put it in his back pocket for future consideration. Finally the call came in from Air Canada that Jacobus had ticketed a JAL flight to Nagoya, Japan, early that morning. He called the people at MAP again and asked whether they had any idea why Jacobus would be going to Japan. Again, they were of little help, but they mentioned the young student who was with him at his interviews. When Malachi asked her name, he received several different versions. He then called JAL and asked for the passenger manifest to ascertain the name. This was not so easy either, as many passengers on the full flight to Nagoya were Japanese. Having gone through the list and whittled her name down to three possibilities, he called the Customs and Immigration office at the Nagoya airport and waited impatiently on the line until an English speaker was found. He received addresses for the names and put in a request that they all be checked out.

  How Malachi came upon Furukawa’s address was a bit of luck. When he called Rachel Lewison and asked why Jacobus might have gone to Japan, she said that although she didn’t know, Jacobus’s friend, Sol Goldbloom, might, and that he had played a concert the night before in New York with the Boston Symphony. So Malachi called the Boston Symphony, found out that the orchestra was staying at the Wellington Hotel, and caught a break when someone pointed out Goldbloom just as he was checking out. Malachi asked Goldbloom if he knew of any contacts Jacobus had in Japan. He wouldn’t explain why when Goldbloom asked the reason but just said it was important, and knowing that the two were old friends, stressed that it was for Jacobus’s own good. Goldbloom told him about Furukawa. He didn’t have the precise address but knew it was on Kyushu. Malachi went back to his notes, to see if one of the three women on his short list had an address on Kyushu. Yumi Shinagawa’s address was a match. That gave him another idea. He called Air Canada again and asked how Jacobus’s and Shinagawa’s tickets had been paid for. He then added a third name to the list—Nathaniel Williams—found out what he did for a living, and made several more calls, including one to Intercontinental Insurance Associates.

  Inspector Taniguchi emerged from his spotless car wearing his spotless khaki police uniform. He bowed low to Furuka
wa, who was one of the most respected citizens of the prefecture. Furukawa invited Taniguchi in for tea. They entered the cool house, the exterior sliding doors open to admit a refreshing breeze. As Furukawa brewed and then poured the green tea, they patiently discussed the beautiful day, the state of Furukawa’s garden, and the mixed blessing of the late arrival of the rainy season.

  Taniguchi mentioned that earlier in the morning he had visited the Hashimoto home, which at a higher elevation than Furukawa’s home was cooler and cloudier, and it looked like it might even rain. Furukawa asked whether he had a pleasant visit with the Hashimotos.

  Taniguchi told him that he had tea there also, and that Mrs. Hashimoto and Mrs. Shinagawa were in good health, but that it had been his unpleasant task to inquire whether they knew the whereabouts of Mrs. Shinagawa’s daughter, Yumi, or of two Americans traveling with her. The women had expressed surprise and concern, but no, they hadn’t seen them nor knew where to find them. They said they would contact the inspector if they learned anything.

  Furukawa shook his head and said he wished he could be helpful, especially as Mr. Jacobus was an old friend and Miss Shinagawa a former student. He regretted that he couldn’t provide any constructive information.

  Taniguchi bowed low, expressing his appreciation, and politely mentioning his admiration for the architecture of Furukawa’s home. Furukawa understood this to be a request to have his house searched and offered to guide Taniguchi around the premises. Furukawa gave him a detailed tour, talking about the materials and craftsmanship of every nook and cranny. Of course he showed Taniguchi the furo, which was drained, dried, and spotless like every other inch of the house. Taniguchi patiently followed Furukawa throughout, frequently commenting with great sincerity about how someday he and his family might have a home even a fraction as beautiful.

  Finally satisfied, Taniguchi bowed deeply to Furukawa, thanking him for his time and hospitality. Furukawa thanked him for having someone with whom to share his morning and told him he would call if he heard anything about Jacobus’s whereabouts. Furukawa, like Mrs. Hashimoto, knew better than to ask the reason for Taniguchi’s inquiry. First of all, to express any curiosity would have suggested they knew more than they were telling. Second, they knew Taniguchi would not have told them, anyway.

  Furukawa waved good-bye as Inspector Taniguchi’s car disappeared into the quiet morning. He then meandered along the garden path to the edge of his yard and knocked on the outside of “Family Tree.” Nathaniel emerged and brushed some flaked-off bark from his shirt. Furukawa was smiling. Nathaniel bowed.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Furukawa had instructed the driver to take Jacobus and Yumi to Nishiyama the back way, which would avoid the main road that Taniguchi, who would be in a hurry, would be driving on to his house. Mrs. Hashimoto had called Furukawa the minute that Taniguchi had left her house.

  Smells like the garbage on Fifty-fifth Street, thought Jacobus, inhaling. Worse. He required no imaginative speculation to appreciate the pungent aroma of cow manure and of sulfurous hot springs escaping from geothermal fissures. The cab continued upward along the winding road. Jacobus heard cattle lowing as they grazed in the moist pasture nestled in the shadow of precipitous, tree-covered mountains, gray in the distance, enshrouded by mist. The sharply curving route, and the car’s complaining engine, indicated the steepness of the mountains. Odors permeated even the sealed environment of the car.

  Smells like Hell, Jacobus thought.

  The slow, rhythmic monotony of windshield wipers indicated a heavy drizzle. Not like the drive to Montreal, he thought. Thank God. Windshield wipers! That’s all the driver needs to be able to see. He took a bitter last drag on his Camel, rolled open the window to flick away the butt, and almost gagged from the stinking fumes. He quickly closed the window.

  He felt for the cassette. It was still in his pocket. He hoped to utilize it as planned but still wondered, Who exactly was this Hashimoto? He was worried she might not be his English English. What if she’s a totally unknown Japanese Japanese? Jacobus was not like a jazz musician who could improvise on the spur of the moment. Not a scat singer, like Ella Fitzgerald. For Jacobus, improvising could be disastrous, whether in performance or in life. If all went well the violin would be returned by the end of the day. If not, the game would be over. He couldn’t afford mistakes.

  They arrived at Yumi’s village of Nishiyama in early afternoon by Jacobus’s reckoning, although with the thirteen-hour difference from New York his sense of time felt as accurate as a navigator on a cloudy night.

  “So your house is between a rice paddy and vegetable garden,” said Jacobus, emerging from the car into the mist.

  “How do you know this?” asked Yumi.

  “Smell of onions, cabbages, definitely compost here,” he said, pointing to the left, “and here,” pointing to the right, “flock of waterbirds. Use the paddies as their personal wetlands. Heard them take off when I closed the car door. The house being adjacent to the rice paddy, I’d also guess it’s separated from the field by stone walls and built on a higher base of land. Traditional style.”

  “Yes, that is correct,” said a new, unexpected voice in clear, if accented, English. “In fact, our house is even more old-fashioned than Furukawa-sensei’s. We have the thatched roof, and the sliding doors along the side are made of wood planks.”

  “Shinagawa-san? Konnichi-wa!” said Jacobus, concealing his surprise.

  Jesus, I hadn’t heard her coming while I was talking to Yumi, he thought. Either I must be getting old, or she’s light on her feet. Or both.

  “Yes, I am Yumi’s mother, Mr. Jacobus.”

  Jacobus felt his hand firmly grasped and shaken. Jacobus was encouraged by the Western greeting. It fit. So far.

  “Oka-san,” Yumi said to her mother, “please meet Jacobus-sensei.”

  “How do you do, sensei?” she said. “Welcome.”

  “Ah, now that I can speak in English,” said Jacobus, “perhaps your daughter, whose translating had been invaluable, will be able to relax a little.”

  Mrs. Shinagawa chuckled politely, but Yumi did not respond.

  “Come, Mr. Jacobus, Mother is waiting for you inside. Dinner is almost ready.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yes, the sun is just now setting. This is when we normally eat. Are you not hungry?”

  “Well, I suppose I am. I guess my stomach is still on New York time,” Jacobus said, covering his blunder.

  Damn, he thought. He had made two mistakes in one minute.

  “Yes,” Keiko Shinagawa said, leading Jacobus into the house, “time is measured much differently here than in New York.”

  Arriving at the entrance, Jacobus could tell the house was indeed in the old farm style. Under his feet he could feel the unevenness of hard packed earth. From his right, where at one time animals had been stabled inside the house, wafted the irrefutable and ineradicable trace of hay and horse smell. There was the burly scent of creosote where once there had been a central fire pit for cooking and heating. With no chimney, it had sent its smoke up to the ceiling, making the beams and rafters hard and blackened over the decades.

  Like me, Jacobus thought, immediately yearning for a cigarette.

  “Mr. Jacobus,” said a new voice, interrupting his analysis. This voice was not only speaking English but was clearly and gracefully English-accented. Mrs. English English?

  Can’t be Hashimoto. Must be Padgett. Or Desmond. All connected, somehow. All in one. It must be.

  The voice came closer.

  “How do you do, Mr. Jacobus? I have the distinct privilege of being Yumi’s grandmother. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, even on such short notice. Yumi has told us so many wonderful things about you. Yumi-chan, why don’t you go and help your mother with dinner so Mr. Jacobus and I may chat for a bit. Then I’d like to hear all about your violin lessons, dear.”

  “Yes, Oba-san,” Yumi said.

  “Mrs. Hashimoto, I presume?” said Jacobus, extendi
ng his hand. His streaming adrenaline made it difficult to prevent his hand from trembling.

  “Please call me Kate,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “They call me Cato here. No one has called me Kate for a long time; we get so few Westerners visiting this region.”

  “In that case, you can call me Jake,” he said, still holding her hand—longer than he should?—feeling in it her age but also confidence and vitality. Strength.

  “Thank you, Jake, I will. We generally are a lot less formal than the folk in these parts. I think we’re considered a bit odd on that account. Nevertheless, as you may know, we have had some success over the years teaching the local children to play the violin.”

  “If you’ve had other students like Yumi, it sounds like you’re pulling that Japanese modesty stuff with me,” said Jacobus as he removed a small wrapped package from his jacket pocket and handed it to Kate.

  “A little something for you and your family,” he said.

  “How thoughtful!” said Kate. “Some Japanese traditions here are worth keeping, aren’t they? A cassette. May I unwrap it?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Hmm . . . not labeled. Lovely! A surprise, and we’ll listen to it right after tea,” she said. “I’ll just slip the cassette into the sleeve of my kimono, like those shady characters do in those hilarious samurai soap operas. Now, please allow me to escort you to our humble dining room.”

  Jacobus felt her arm entwine itself with his and judged from its angle that she was about his height, maybe a little taller. Through the fabric of the kimono he could feel her arm’s musculature. Still firm. No flab hanging off bone. Not bad for an old broad, he thought.

  She led him, at a speed neither too rushed to risk an accident nor too slow to be insulting, into a room that did not have a tatami floor.

  Jacobus heard Yumi and Keiko in the adjacent kitchen, from which the flavorful smells suggested they were finishing preparations for the meal. Their coordinated movements, quiet and wordless, sounded practiced and efficient.