The Prague Sonata

by Bradford Morrow

  “Amazing,” she said, raising her voice over the loud chatter and louder music as she looked around the room.

  Amid the friendly jostle, Gerrit felt an arm drop over his shoulder and turned his head to see Jiří grinning ear to ear. A bottle of beer was dangling from his hand against Gerrit’s chest, and a half-smoked cigarette hung between his fingers.

  “You didn’t say it was going to be a rock concert, Jiří.”

  “Not just any rock,” Meta asserted, with a smile of her own directed toward them both. “Anthrax covering Joe Jackson’s ‘Got the Time.’”

  Jiří looked at her admiringly. “You like thrash metal?”

  “I was really into this album when I was twenty. Persistence of Time. It still kicks.”

  Freeing his arm and offering her an energetic handshake, Jiří said, “So you must be the famous Meta.”

  “Not famous, but happy to meet you. Gerrit tells me you’re best friends.”

  “He worships me. I tolerate him,” Jiří said, straight-faced, taking a swallow of beer. “You both need something to drink. Come.”

  As they threaded a path away from the sound system, Gerrit leaned toward Meta and asked, “Is there any music you don’t like?”

  “Some takes me to the mountaintop, some doesn’t. But I couldn’t live without it.”

  A makeshift bar had been set up in one corner of the room where it was a little quieter, if not much. “I hear that you guys went to the Sternberg to see all those old-fogy masterpieces and now you’ve come to see what real art looks like?”

  “I showed her my family portraits,” said Gerrit.

  Jiří asked Meta, “Did you see the one where he’s on horseback killing a dragon with a lance?”

  “You never mentioned you’d slain a dragon.”

  “Well, I do have those bragging rights.”

  “Here,” Jiří said, opening two sweating bottles of beer and handing one to each of them. “Don’t you Americans have a phrase, Honesty is the best policy? I think it’s very honest of Gerrit here to admit his age by showing you those antique paintings of himself and his relatives.”

  Feeling oddly uplifted, lightened, by this mention of honesty, Meta said, “And yet he doesn’t look a day over a hundred.”

  Jiří drew on the cigarette and exhaled contemplatively. “Well, a hundred and fifty, anyway,” giving his friend an appraising look, deadpan.

  “How kind of you both. Na zdraví.”

  “Na zdraví,” Meta echoed, and Jiří tapped his bottle against theirs, saying, “Cheers.”

  “So, listen, are you going to let us see your paintings or are we here to watch you blow smoke rings?” asked Gerrit.

  Meta could hear that his mood had recovered, as had hers in tandem. “Yes, I’d really like to see your work.”

  Crushing the cigarette against his beer bottle, dropping it in, and leaving it on the bar, Jiří led them from canvas to canvas, pausing to greet others, introducing Meta to painter and musician friends, as well as to his parents, Věra and Pavel, who were leaving but stopped to give Gerrit a hug.

  We’re his Czech family, Věra told her proudly, and she understood without Gerrit’s having to translate. After they left, Meta fondly teased, “You’re a man of many families.”

  Anthrax gave way to Pantera, Pantera to Lamb of God.

  “Beautiful,” Meta said, raising her voice as they stood before a dynamic painting, the largest in Jiří’s exhibit, one she felt might be described as twitchy, restless—impudent forms wanting to jump out of their frame.

  Gerrit placed his free hand on his friend’s back. “Really impressive work, man.”

  “Never enough,” the painter said, taking a cigarette from a woman standing next to them and squinting at the image, a mix of bright multicolored cloudlike abstractions with suggestions of muted figures either in combat, Meta sensed, or having an orgy. Maybe both.

  “What would it take to be enough?” she asked. “What’s missing?”

  “In art, is it ever possible to do enough? Being alive, man, it’s about stretching as far as you can. As many good friends and ideas, as much music—” He gestured around the room, waving the cigarette like a baton. “—As much color.”

  Meta raised her bottle in another toast. “I envy you. Finding your passion and living it. Gerrit told me you didn’t hold back during the revolution either.”

  “I don’t hold back,” Jiří replied, “and maybe you don’t either. I’ve heard some very interesting stuff about this search of yours.”

  For a lightning-quick moment, Gerrit feared that his friend would forget what part of their conversation had been in confidence and what not.

  But Jiří continued, “I was sorry to miss your recital on Sunday. Maybe one day I can hear this music?”

  “I’ll happily play it for you anytime,” Meta said. “But right now we’re here for you. What’s the title of this piece?”

  The open studio went on for another couple of hours. Eventually, the crowd having slowly filtered out, the space finally empty, the three decided to head back to Malá Strana for dinner and a nightcap at Baráčnická rychta, where the wooden booths were private and the lighting was low. The conversation, like Jiří’s paintings, was full of energy, and it brought out a liveliness in Gerrit that was new to Meta. That these two were close friends spoke volumes about him.

  When talk veered briefly to Petr Wittmann, Jiří didn’t hide his deep dislike of the man and his “supernatural abilities” as a con artist.

  “‘Supernatural’ isn’t how I’d put it, Jiří,” said Gerrit. “Brilliantly opportunistic. And smooth as single malt Scotch.”

  “I don’t like scotch any more than I like Wittmann,” Jiří groaned, downing yet another beer and changing the subject.

  Though Meta made a mental note of Jiří’s opinion, she stayed true to the promise she’d made to herself about taking a temporary respite from the sonata manuscript, Tomáš, Wittmann, Kohout, even Mandelbaum.

  Hours later, back at Jánská, lying in Gerrit’s arms as he slept, Meta marveled at how in balance she felt despite the way her mood seemed to swing from elation to gloom to hope to sadness and back again. He had surprised her on their way home from the pub, by asking, “Did you speak with Jonathan this morning?”

  Was it good or a little dangerous that the person you had fallen in love with possessed a sixth sense about you? Did loving, really loving, and being in love mean losing the privacy of hidden worries and reveries? She told Gerrit what had happened.

  “I find that hard to believe. I’m prejudiced, but I can’t imagine anyone leaving you. Listen, Meta, would you rather be alone right now? You must be upset.”

  “Yes, I’m not going to lie. When we were good we were good. But more than anything, it relieves me, if you want to know the truth,” she said. “I hope that doesn’t worry you.”

  “Why on earth would it?”

  “Isn’t it a lot safer to fall in love with somebody who might not be available? You’ve been pretty content here in Prague on your own. Aren’t you worried that with me suddenly free, the life you’ve set up for yourself’s a little in jeopardy?”

  She tried to smile, but her own worry made a mess of it. She opened her mouth to add something but he put his forefinger to her lips.

  “I think there may have been as many as three questions there, but however many there were, the answer to them all is no.”

  A clock in the next room ticked like a distant dripping sink, a liquid metronome, and it gave her curious solace. She shut her eyes and settled closer to Gerrit. It seemed inconceivable that one woman could fall for two such dissimilar men. Looking back, she was able to explain why she’d been attracted to Jonathan. Stability, security, a bedrock dependability that had been the great yawning absence in her youth. He was all the things Kenneth Taverner hadn’t managed to be. But here she lay beside Gerrit, listening to him inhale and exhale. As her own breathing slowed and sleep came over her, she thought, Was her life
meant to be a column of ciphers that added up? Much music was, in its way, pure, measured math. Notes were audible numbers. Add some here, subtract some there. Multiply, divide. It was only when the inspired composer pushed computations and reckonings over the edge that those notes morphed into a song, a symphony, a sonata. Gerrit went far beyond the simple math of adding up. This man had become music for her. How else could she put it?

  THE ROOSTER DIDN’T THINK it was a wise idea. But for Wittmann this whole business had metastasized into a personal cause. The copy Tomáš had provided him was not good enough, neither as an intellectual tool nor as an artifact of value. So when he announced to Karel Kohout that he intended to go back to Šporkova to get the original, it was clear to his partner—for they had by now formed a loose if unstated partnership in the matter—that he had best come along if only to make sure Petr didn’t push things too far too fast.

  “Jenom ho vystrašíš,” Kohout warned. You’re only going to frighten him.

  You’re wrong, my friend, Wittmann assured him when they spoke on the phone. You play the Good Samaritan while I play the prosecutorial public servant. If we persuade him to give us the original it would be best for all involved.

  He’s stubborn, Kohout argued. I don’t see him changing his mind.

  Yes, but he’s also a fellow Czech musician. I have to make our needs clearer, that’s all. Now that we’ve had a chance to look it over a little, certain questions arise. For instance, what if there are errors in the transcription? Things as small as wrong notes or dropped notes could change the meaning of a passage.

  Even at his age he ought to see through that, Kohout retorted.

  See through what? I mean what I’m saying. We must have the original in order to do the necessary work on this manuscript to draw accurate conclusions.

  In other words, the fact that the original has worth beyond mere scholarship is beside the point?

  To Tomáš Lang it ought to be beside the point, Wittmann said with a frown that Kohout could not see, but easily imagined. And if it isn’t, I propose to help him come to the realization that the manuscript is, how shall I put it, bigger than he is. He must relinquish it, and in doing so he can be assured of a nice little footnote in history. Nicer than what he probably deserves.

  A good angle, Wittmann thought. A decent ruse. It shrouded the fact that, as in any enterprise, musical discovery had its commercial side. Scholars who weren’t aware of this were, as far as he was concerned, naïfs who deserved what they got. Or didn’t get. And that included an apostate like Mandelbaum, who’d once benefited from such a philosophy but now forswore it—just as he must have thought Wittmann had done, or else why so self-righteously dangle such temptation as this manuscript in the first place? Maybe he did overstate his doubts about the thing—dismiss it, in fact—during his initial meeting with Meta, but his investigations in the weeks since had brought him closer to the idea that it wasn’t a pastiche. Wasn’t a fluke or forgery.

  Wittmann had never openly spoken with Kohout about negotiating a possible sale of the manuscript either to an institution or, more likely because more quietly, to a private collector. Proper ownership of the document the young American had brought to their attention seemed tenuous, and if a sale, or a donation with tax implications, was to be made, proprietorship would have to be established first. At least, established adequately enough to withstand any questions that might arise. And if the girl would not relinquish it as valueless, she would have to be otherwise convinced to let it go.

  But, again, they had not expressed these concerns in any detail to each other. Such thoughts had silently grown around them like accumulating shadows since Meta Taverner’s arrival in Prague, all wrapped up in the musical significance of her find. Or, that is, not find. But what had fortuitously fallen into her neophyte hands.

  No, as Wittmann saw it, to find something meant to search for it. Everything else was pure chance, an accident, blind luck. Tracking down Johana Langová and, through her, Tomáš Lang—the minor Nazi collaborator fink whom the Communist bosses hadn’t considered of sufficient importance to detain as either a drunken nuisance or a failed proletarian—that was a find. And to persuade the daft old goat to show Wittmann the treasure he’d stashed for decades? Neither accidental nor lucky. Wittmann had already been in touch with trusted colleagues at Freies Deutsches Hochstift in Frankfurt, the Universitätsbibliothek in Mainz, and even the Deutsche Staatsbibliothek in Berlin, with whom he shared various tantalizing measures and asked, in strictest confidence, provocative questions that centered on specific years in the penultimate decade of the 1700s.

  Wittmann and Kohout met in front of the German embassy at half past seven that evening and strolled up Šporkova. Marta answered the door thinking that perhaps one of her guests had forgotten something at the recital. She recognized Wittmann from his earlier visit, but Kohout was a new face.

  “Večírek skončil. Je mi líto, ale všichni už odešli,” she told them, after Wittmann said hello, introduced Kohout, and asked if Tomáš was in. The party’s over. I’m sorry but everybody’s already left.

  Her response was confusing, but Wittmann forged on.

  We won’t take up much of his time. We happened to be in the neighborhood. Met to discuss the manuscript, in fact, and I thought it would be nice for your father to meet my colleague here who is working with me on this project.

  Leery but polite, Marta left them on the stone stoop while she went back inside to see if her father was open to more company after an already busy afternoon. She found him sitting in the parlor beside a window, half-contemplating the day, half-dozing toward the night. When he learned who the two men waiting outside to see him were, he agreed to speak with them. Both Professor Wittmann and Meta Taverner needed to be informed about the decisions he had made regarding his dispensation of the manuscripts, original and copied, so he figured he might as well get some of the unpleasant business of disclosure out of the way. Confession now to Wittmann, and maybe the next day to the American, and his obligations would be fulfilled.

  Marta allowed the men inside, warning them that her father was tired. Whatever it was they wanted to discuss, if they could keep it short and to the point, that would be best. She left them alone in the dwindling light and withdrew from the room to the hallway, where, out of sight, she eavesdropped on their conversation.

  After presenting Kohout, Wittmann said, I hear you’re fatigued. Had a party this afternoon.

  Yes, we did.

  Good, good. I hope you had a pleasant time.

  Very nice, Tomáš said, weighing whether or not simply to use this as his opening.

  But Wittmann continued, I wanted you to meet my brilliant colleague because he agrees with me, after spending considerable time reviewing your copy of the third movement side by side with the second, that we really must insist, with all due respect, that you give us the opportunity of working with the original.

  Otherwise, Kohout added in a more docile tone of voice, it’s like you are sending us on a journey through unknown terrain with a map that’s only approximate.

  Tomáš knew there were no errors. He himself had meticulously transcribed it in the fifties against the possibility that the Communists might confiscate the original.

  I assure you that my copy is exact, Tomáš said, looking back and forth at the two men.

  That may well be true—, Wittmann began.

  But also I think you should know that I have put the original into the hands of the young American scholar, who, it seems, listening to her account, has raised this issue out of obscurity after so many long years, and intends to restore it to its rightful owner.

  Tomáš’s two visitors sat stunned for a moment. Kohout, knowing his colleague’s unruffled demeanor masked a silent diatribe, gathered his own expression back into an uneasy smile and said, That seems reasonable. And who would this rightful owner be?

  Otylie Bartošová, Jakub Bartoš’s wife. It’s a long story. Miss Taverner will tell you. />
  Wittmann said smoothly, That’s fine. We will be sure to consult with her. All we’re asking is that you tell her you want it back once she’s finished looking it over. This way you can provide us with the original, so we can proceed with our own independent analysis.

  That won’t be possible, Tomáš said. You will have to work out something directly with her. My role in this is over now. I’m an old man. I’ve done what I can do.

  Wittmann folded his hands into a tidy bundle on his knees and leaned toward Tomáš, looking into his eyes. Let me get this straight. I want to be sure I understand. Did you give it to her, or lend it to her, or did she take it away of her own volition? Is there a chance she made an unfortunate assumption?

  Well, Tomáš hesitated.

  If she did, Kohout said, I’m sure it was done in all innocence. We’re not here to cause her any trouble.

  Of course not, Wittmann said, and proceeded delicately to make his case about the national interests that must not be overlooked, concluding, Music is the art form above all others that goes beyond borders, but its archival treasures are like archaeological discoveries and must not be looted by tomb raiders, be they innocent or not.

  Tomáš’s heart hammered. Of course he had given it to the girl. He had never asked for this responsibility, had always been ambivalent about it, no matter how hard he’d tried to rise to Jakub’s bequest. Here were two qualified people who urgently wanted it. One promised to fulfill Jakub’s dying wish. The other had located and charmed, or rather cajoled, his sister into believing that such a national treasure should be kept out of any but Czech hands, and should be given only to him—in consideration for an honorarium, the sum of which had yet to be disclosed—for safekeeping, study, and eventual transfer to the republic.

  The republic! he’d loudly scoffed when his sister mentioned this last idea. As if any government had ever done anything other than wreck their lives.