Maestro: 4 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  HE CAME OUT of a deep sleep, dreaming the same nightmare that he would share with nobody for many years—even when it changed and became worse. At first he thought someone was in the room with him and had put on the phonograph. Or that cats were being tortured somewhere nearby. The noise jarred and sounded like a cry for help—which in some ways it was.

  Passau threw on his pants, stuck his feet into soft moccasins, then went out the door. Below him, five hundred yards down on the valley floor, there were people and strange pieces of equipment: large cameras, portable lights, and a generator, and little trailers. Also a fake wooden hut. If that were not enough, there was an awning by one of the trailers’, and under it a quintet: a portable piano, and four elderly men with the strings: two violins, a viola and a cello. At the piano, a large man—“Hunched like a deformed wildebeest, Herb. The truth.”

  The strings and piano had obviously been hired as a job lot, for they could not keep time, and were throttling Franz Schubert’s piece. Even at a distance, Louis Passau’s ears—his whole being—were offended.

  “These so-called musicians had never before played together. This was obvious.” He set off down the steps running and shouting so that the people below stopped what they were doing and stood looking up at him.

  They watched the long-haired, bare-chested, shouting man descending upon them. Later, Stefan Greif, the movie director, would tell people that Louis seemed like some kind of avenging angel. They had not noticed the steps cut in the rockface and the Maestro, sure-footed, came running down them with such agility that some of those below could have sworn that he was floating down the incline.

  “What in hell is going on here?” he asked loudly, and of anyone, when he reached the valley floor, the red sand hard under his feet.

  People were turning to one man—short, stocky, in boots and riding breeches and a crisp white shirt. He looked like a very angry man: his face crimson, and forehead in a deep frown. He came right up close to Louis, as though trying to stare him down. His eyes were black and aggressive—“Bottomless, like dark, unattractive pools, like you could get somehow drowned, or out of your depth in them, Herb. Also there were his eyebrows. Thick and arching, like a V over the eyes.” The man’s nose looked as though it had been stuck on with putty, an afterthought. His hair bristled like porcupine quills, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with a middle-European accent.

  “What the hell you want?” he shouted so that spittle sprayed over Passau’s chest. “We’re trying to make a picture here. A movie. Get off my set. Off-off-off-off!!” Like a barking dog.

  “This land belongs to nobody, so it belongs to everybody.” Passau looked straight into the man’s eyes. There were a lot of people gathered around them and the sun was already hot. “If it belongs to everybody, then this screeching should stop.” Lou gestured towards the now-silent musicians. “Nobody should be allowed to mangle Schubert in a public place like this. Even in the desert it is an insult to the composer.”

  For a moment, he thought the man in the breeches and boots was going to strike him, but he suddenly threw back his head and laughed. “At least you could tell what they were playing.” He flapped his hand and the crowd began to disperse, drifting back to their cameras and the lights. “Stefan Greif,” he thrust a hand forward. “You have heard of me, no doubt.”

  Passau took the hand and said, no, he had not heard of him.

  “Well, good for you. I am known throughout the country. You haven’t got a movie theater here?”

  “There is one in the town, sure. But they hold no interest for me. If you’re making a movie, Mr. Greif, why this insult to music? I hear you have talking pictures, singing pictures, pictures with music in them. But … but this … !”

  Greif dropped his voice. “I agree with you,” he all but muttered. “This … it is a travesty. It also makes my life very difficult.”

  “Well, why?”

  “Because of our star. Because of the great and famous Miss Rita Crest. You’ve heard of her, I presume?”

  “No. I have no interest in movie stars. I know they exist, but they can exist without me. I am a musician. Musicians can get along okay without movie stars. Why, though, is she responsible for this discord?”

  “Ah,” Greif fiddled with the top button of his shirt. “You’re a musician. Could you get these five apes to play the thing properly?”

  “Why let them play at all?”

  Greif sighed, took Louis by the elbow and led him a few paces away, as though the handful of strides would ensure they would not be overheard. “You know nothing about movies, I take it?”

  “Nothing. I know as much about movies as I know about necromancy.”

  “Well, that’s practically the same thing. You see … I don’t know your name. …”

  Louis Passau told him.

  “You see, Mr. Passau, the movie business has taken a great leap forward. A few years ago everything was silent. Just pictures that moved and told a story. Now we have sound. We have music. Sometimes even we have laughter. But Miss Crest … well, she became a big star when everything was still silent. Let me tell you, she is still great. One of the few really talented people in our business, but she has difficulty believing this. She has a kind of stage fright.”

  “Actors get stage fright; she’s only a movie star.”

  Greif did not seem to have heard him. “In the days of shooting a silent movie we employed a small orchestra, or some such, to give the actors and actresses mood. To prepare them. They got used to this, and Rita—well, Rita still wants the mood music. And she is an actress, Mr. Passau. The music thing is in her contract. So we usually have four or five musicians along to get her in the mood. These apes, though, they could only prepare you for murder. So Rita … Rita is in hysterics … in that little trailer there, which is her dressing room. In hysterics because of the terrible music. She wants Franz Schubert, what she’s getting is scrambled Schubert.” He made a gesture signifying hopelessness. Then—

  “I’ve shouted at them. They’ve tried—six times they’ve tried; and six times they’ve produced a caterwauling. You’re a musician, Mr. Passau. Could you do any better?”

  “I might.”

  “How?”

  “First by finding out if these are really musicians. If they are … maybe, yes.”

  “If Rita had real music she would calm down. We could shoot the scene. …”

  “And you would be away from here.”

  “Quite.”

  “Then I’ll try.”

  In the present, Herbie said that it all sounded implausible.

  “Of course it’s fucking implausible, Herb. You ever been near movie people? Still, after all these years, they’re implausible. But this happened. I promise. Movie people, even then in the early days, were good at heart. They had this wonderful dream of making great movies. Of conquering audiences. They lived this dream. …”

  “And people who live dreams …”

  “Are not as other people, yes. But Rita really did require this soothing before shooting a scene. It went on until the end of her life. She needed sounds to calm her and prepare her.”

  “Greif doesn’t tell this story in his book.”

  “You read Stefan’s book?”

  “’Course I read it. Through the Lens. He mentioned you, but he doesn’t tell this story.”

  The old man nodded. “I asked him not to tell it. It put Rita in a bad light and, of course, I wanted Rita’s name. … I wanted her to be seen as a star, without these strange quirks. Stefan wrote about her without the warts.”

  Herbie nodded. “You’re going to tell me you got these people to play the Schubert, and Rita Crest comes out of her trailer and does the scene. Then you go off with her to Hollywood and all lived happy ever after, eh, Lou?”

  “Something like that. Sure.”

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  “How d’you make the monkeys play proper?”

  “Through my knowledge. Throug
h my command. They were my first little orchestra, and they weren’t bad once someone led them.”

  “How?”

  “I talked to them a little. They were all able musicians, but they didn’t know one another. They couldn’t decide who was to lead them, so they were all going off in different ways, different tempi. … They squabbled.”

  “So explain.”

  “What’s to explain?”

  “How you did it.”

  “I told you. I talked with them. Took over the piano. Took about an hour, but finally we played the Trout and you could see the fish leaping through the water, you could hear the water sizzling over the rocks. They were beautiful.”

  “You did it in an hour?”

  “Sure. Look, Herb, it was technical. You want me to go through it note by note? That would waste my time and your time. Herb, you know music. I realize that. But you don’t know from technical. You know from listening. I’d bet you don’t know a crotchet from a quaver. It would muddle you. Worse, it would muddle your bosses when they get to read the transcriptions.”

  “What transcriptions?”

  “Of the tapes you’re making.”

  “Who said I was making tapes?”

  “Nobody, but you’re a fool if you’re not making tapes. Jesus, Herbie, we’ve got a long way to go and I’m not gonna louse up my life story by going into the technique of making music. If you expect me to sit here and say, ‘Next I said to the orchestra, okay we try it from twenty-four, and this time I want …’ whatever. It’s like sex in a thriller. Gets in the way.”

  “Not in the kind of thriller I read.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste. Just believe me. I made these guys play, and yes, Rita came out of her dressing room, and I clapped eyes on her for the first time. So begins another episode in my life.”

  Far off downstairs, Herbie heard the door slam. Pucky was back. He told Passau they would break. “We go on later, Maestro. Let me get food.”

  “Okay, but nothing technical. I’m not going to explain the complexities of the art, because it’s a different language, only understood by musicians. Now, I’ll listen to music.”

  He did. Turned up at full volume. Bartók this time. The third piano concerto. Herbie had never realized Bartók could be so full of melody, though perhaps that was Pucky’s influence.

  (2)

  PUCKY HAD TAKEN OFF THE dark wig and was shaking out her golden hair, standing in what they called the conservatory, well back from the windows.

  “You talk to Art? You speak to him, secure?” Herbie realized that he had been concerned all morning, in the back of his mind, about the contact with London.

  “Three times. All very safe.”

  She had driven from place to place, on the outskirts of town, choosing public telephones located in the open. None of them could be overlooked, or easily targeted by directional mikes. At first, she had dialed the ultrasafe 800 number and alerted Arthur Railton, who was ready when she called again—from a phone outside a general store in Batesville—half an hour later. The first thing he said was, “Only stay on for ten minutes. Then find a new place.”

  “Already doing that, Fred.” He was Fred while she used Heidi. She carried the list in her head. Different cryptos for the days of the week. Monday was Gil and Beryl; Tuesday, Tony and Sue; and so and so, on to Sunday, when it was John and Pam, then start again.

  The conversations were detailed, and between the calls Art Railton had sought further instructions, and cleared other devices which they might use.

  “So, what’s the verdict?” Herbie’s voice had lost the teasing, mangled quality which had persisted while interrogating Passau. Now he was all business, very correct, “Alles in Ordnung,” Pucky thought. No games, no playful dyslexic language.

  She told him exactly what Art had instructed. “Five days. A week tops, then we move out. We go to Florida. …”

  “Wrong time of the year. Out of season. Very wet. Thunder. Hurricanes maybe.”

  “There’s an island off the Gulf Coast. Connecting bridges. Name of Captiva, did I mention it before?” She did not wait for a reply. “There’s a place called the South Seas Plantation. Wonderful apartments: three or four bedrooms. Do your own cooking. I’ve already called them. Said Sunday or Monday, that would mean leaving here on Friday.” She took a brochure from her shoulder bag and passed it to Kruger. Unfolded, it showed an aerial view of palm trees and sand. Connecting roads ran between a series of delightful-looking clapboard buildings, hexagonal, with sun decks jutting from the seaward sides.

  “There are two or three apartments to each house.” She sounded bubbly, like a young girl planning a vacation. “They’re beautifully furnished, with the latest in kitchens and bathrooms. … I saw photographs, and I’ve booked two—one whole building—so that nobody can get near.”

  “They got Jacuzzis?” Herbie grunted. “I become quite fond of Jacuzzis since we been here. I feel like a warlock who’s fallen into his own caldron, but most relaxing.”

  “I don’t know. I expect some have Jacuzzis.”

  “This is very private?”

  “No, but you can make it private. If I can get myself other clothes and another wig, I can keep contact with London, buy the food, see the people who run the place. Nobody need see you and the Maestro. If we arrive late, you can stay in the car and I’ll do the external stuff. Same if we stay in motels on the way down. Unless we drive four on and four off. Do the trip in one long hop.”

  “Maybe. If we get there in one piece, with Passau alive at the end of a trip like that. What then?”

  “You go on sweating him, while Art and his people work out a route back to London. I gather London has this complex on Captiva pretty well sewn up.”

  “Which only means they’ll have a couple of heavies staking us out.”

  “Probably. On no account—he said this six or seven times—on no account are we to turn Passau over to the Agency. That is cast in stone. Fishy, eh?”

  “So? Yes, bloody fishy. Like week-old herrings.” A lifting of the eyebrows, and a cocking of the head as Bartok floated downstairs. “What’s going on, Puck?”

  “I don’t really know. But Art sounded twitchy. When they sent me out, before I left … well, going to the Agency was always a possibility. Now it’s a no-no.”

  “Wonder why? Like you say, fishy.” He turned and looked out of the windows at the long, tapering garden that ran up towards the Blue Ridge. One man could get a clean shot from up there. He stepped back, further into the shadows. “We get lunch for the old reprobate?”

  “Okay.” She wore jeans and a white shirt, the jeans belted tightly. Herbie thought the view from the rear was sensational, and almost said so. His hand hovered, then he coughed. “You ever get insatiable desire to pinch someone’s bum?” He could not believe he had said it.

  “Not really, but I understand.” She looked over her shoulder. Grinned. “Feel free, if it gives you pleasure, Herb.”

  This reduced the urge. “Funny how you can turn me off, Puck. How you going to get fresh disguise?”

  “I’ve thought about that. They’re probably still watching Naldo, and taking trips around the immediate vicinity: keeping their eyes open. So I’ll drive to Richmond. It’s only a couple of hours. I can get two, maybe even three, new wigs and some clothes, without causing alarms and excursions. Chicken noodle soup and scrambled eggs do you?”

  “Do me. Maestro Passau will eat what he’s given. I say so. Richmond sounds good. I got a shopping list also.” He followed her up to the kitchen.

  “Clothes?”

  “Maybe. I think later. Possibly buy them on the way to Florida. You any good with computers, Puck?”

  “Not the industry standard stuff. Not the IBMs. Very good with the Apple Macintosh.”

  “Good. Then you buy one. Use one of the credit cards they gave you. You buy a Mackle Appletosh. You get a modem and some good software. Word processing. Communications—oh, yes, also we should have an IBM emulator:
there’s something called Soft PC, or PC Soft. Something’s soft anyhow.” He gave a big grin to show he was playing the fool. “There’s a nice little portable laser printer you can also buy—don’t grab a portable Mac. We want the real thing. Try an LC, it’s got color which makes it pretty. But we need the communications software. You any good at hacking on the fly?”

  “I get by.”

  He nodded. She was simmering the soup and getting trays ready, briskly slicing a French stick.

  “I think you’re probably very good at it. You do all this tomorrow, and your disguises. Disguise no good for me and Passau. A blind imbecile would pick us out at two miles. This afternoon you catch up on this morning’s take; you can do the rest of today’s before you sleep, after dinner. There are things you’ll need to find out—that’s partly why the computer. Get a package of stuff that’ll take us into CompuServe or any of the other on-line facilities. There are things we have to know. Then, later, I might get you to hack into a couple of places for me. You might even have to make another trip to Washington before we leave. There are a few inconsistencies in the old man’s story. How’s that for English? Inconsistencies?”

  “You’re getting word perfect.”

  “I prefer Microsoft Word 4. Very good WP program, okay? WordPerfect I don’t like so much. Matter of taste.”

  She laughed. “I’ve a feeling you’re not exactly computer illiterate, Herb.”

  “I know my RAM from my ROM. Get plenty RAM, by the way.”

  “Chance would be a fine thing,” she said, and Herbie almost believed her. He thought she looked dazzling standing at the stove, stirring the soup. Very domesticated. Make someone a good wife. Then Martha flitted into his head.

  The Bartók finished as they arrived upstairs with the soup.

  “Rotten performance,” Passau sneered. “The pianist won by a head. We got chicken soup? Smells delicious. You make it, fair damsel?”

  “I opened the tins.” The fair damsel put a tray on his lap.