Death and Transfiguration

by Gerald Elias

  “I don’t get it,” said Devlin Forrester.

  “You know, like in the Mozart Requiem,” said Vickers, jumping to Gardiner’s aid.

  “Oh,” said Forrester.

  Click.

  “We’ve targeted some of the most successful organizations in the symphonic field in order to emulate what has worked the best and in order to avoid what has not.”

  “Which organizations?” asked Imogene Livenstock.

  “Good question! And here’s your answer.”

  Click.

  The screen displayed the names of five orchestras. “The so-called Big Five orchestras: New York Philharmonic, Boston Symphony, Philadelphia Orchestra, Cleveland Orchestra, and Chicago Symphony. We feel we’re in their league artistically—”

  “They are not in our league,” said Herza.

  “I stand corrected,” said Gardiner with a smile. “Let’s put it this way: They were the best we could find.”

  Everyone laughed but Vaclav Herza.

  Click.

  Gardiner proceeded to show a series of graphs and charts with lots of colored lines and shapes that analyzed attendance, and gross and net revenue, from different types of concerts over periods of years, and compared them to the Big Five’s overall budgets and to what were termed fixed costs, meaning, more or less, how much they had to pay the musicians. Click, click, click, click.

  More charts indicated the multimillion-dollar impact those orchestras had on local economies, disproportionately large compared to the number of entertainment dollars that went directly into the organizations themselves. Then there were charts of revenue streams for Harmonium: the percentages that came from the endowment, annual giving, government support, and ticket sales. The board understood the gist after five minutes and was relatively engaged for the first half hour, but after more clicks than they could count, their interest waned.

  In the middle of Gardiner’s presentation about their aggressive marketing campaign—“there’s no such thing as bad publicity”—Brundage said, “I also recall Mr. Dylan saying something about ‘blowing in the wind’” and asked if Gardiner would kindly proceed to his conclusions.

  “I’d like to turn the floor back over to Adrianne for that,” said Gardiner. “DynamiCorp simply collected the data and made the suggestions, but it was up to her subcommittee to make the tough calls. So I thank you for your time. It has truly been an honor working with your fine organization.” Gardiner sat down.

  Without missing a beat, Vickers handed out a thick, handsomely bound report titled “Saving the Symphony: A Global Strategy” to each executive committee member.

  “I am very excited,” she said, “to announce the basics of our four-part vision for the future of Harmonium. All the details are in the report and I hope you’ll take the time to read them at your convenience.

  “Basically, as we move into the future, we see the need to reach out to New York’s unique demographic mix, and we think we’ve come up with a novel, balanced, and, most important, successful strategy.

  “First, we recognize that the core of our existence is classical music and we will continue with a ‘Long Hair’ series devoted to the great classics masterpieces.

  “Second, within three years we will gradually transition into a full-blown pops calendar, called ‘Tops in Pops,’ including ten Christmas shows and eight other pairs of concerts throughout the year. We already have Doc Severinsen, Skitch Henderson, Mitch Miller, and Marvin Hamlisch lined up as headliners.

  “Third, we will immediately begin planning a four-concert family series of light classical and film music called ‘Hip, Hip, Bourrée!’”

  “Could we get John Williams for that?” asked Chynoweth, a question that set the rest of the gathering aflutter.

  “Great idea, Alvin,” said Vickers, having gauged the high level of interest. “If we can pry him from the Boston Pops for an evening, who knows?

  “Finally, in order to develop the audience of the future, we are partnering with targeted New York City public schools to create an education program called ‘Bach to the Future.’ It has been statistically proved that classical music improves test scores, and I’m especially excited that ‘BTTF’ will offer combined programs of classical, popular, and ethnic music. Starting next year—”

  “This is no strategy,” interrupted Herza, who had declined an invitation to participate on the strategic-planning committee. “This is obscenity. All of it! We will play what I say. Only what I say.

  “Concerts for children?” Herza continued, incredulous. “Why? Do you take six-year-olds to see King Lear? Do you read them War and Peace for their bedtime story? For children to listen to Mahler is an absurdity beyond comprehension.”

  “Schools are no longer providing music education, so someone has to step in,” said Vickers. “We need to build young audiences for the future.”

  “Do you suggest we teach them Strauss’s Salome, eh? Let them watch the naked young nymphomaniac slipping her tongue between the lips of John the Baptist as his head sits on a silver platter?”

  “Maestro, surely you see the need to build young audiences,” Loren Gardiner said, jumping to the rescue, “for the future.”

  “Let me tell you something, fool. The audiences that have supported classical music for the past three hundred years have been, are, and always will be predominantly white-haired, affluent Caucasians. White haired because classical music requires years to acquire good taste; affluent because fine concerts, like fine wine, are necessarily expensive; and Caucasian because the music was composed in Europe by whites for whites. If there are other kinds of music for other races, let them play it, but it will not be the symphony orchestra. My symphony orchestra! Do we expect the boogie-woogie man to play Brahms? If the schools want to teach music, let them teach music. If they don’t, that is their problem. We play concerts for adults.”

  “Then how do you suggest we employ the musicians for an entire season?” asked Vickers.

  “I am astounded that someone in your position as managing director of a symphony orchestra would dare ask such a question!” said Herza. “The answer does not take an Einstein, only someone with more than a sixth-grade intelligence. We will have a subscription season of twenty-nine weeks. The summer will be for touring—Lucerne, Edinburgh, Salzburg, where people understand music. You have but to call them and say Herza wishes it, and it will be done. You then find corporate sponsors for the tours. Sony, UBS, American Express—they line up for Herza. The rest of the year will be the vacation weeks that the musicians say they need and are already in their contract. This will give the public their opportunity to go to their more ‘people-friendly’ activities.”

  “And how do you suggest we fill the seats at Harmonium Hall with twenty-nine weeks of programs?”

  “I note to the members of the executive committee, Miss Vickers, that you are asking a question that for six months you have sought to answer with your so-called strategic committee and have failed miserably.

  “Harmonium Hall seats one thousand nine hundred sixteen people. What is your advance subscription sale for this year?”

  “About sixty percent.”

  “Ah, so you do know something. That means that over eleven hundred seats are already sold for each concert, leaving fewer than eight hundred remaining. If you multiply that by twenty-nine weeks, and again by three because we play each concert three times, you need to sell a total of about seventy thousand additional tickets. In a year. In a metropolitan area of twenty million people. I think a chimpanzee could accomplish that. Do you not feel capable of being able to achieve that? Should we hire a chimpanzee to replace you, perhaps?”

  Vickers did not respond.

  “Should we?” Herza pursued. “Answer me.” He pounded the table so violently that the glasses of water threatened to spill. “Should we hire a chimpanzee to replace you?”

  “No.”

  “Then stop this talk of ‘Pops Tops’ and ‘Hip Bourrée’ and children’s concerts. Because
if the talk does not stop immediately, I will resign immediately, right this minute! Now, you will pay the musicians what they ask for and you will find the money to pay them, not the least amount necessary but the most amount possible.”

  “May I interject something here?” asked Alvin Chynoweth. “Just for my own understanding.”

  “Go ahead,” said Brundage. “The floor’s yours.”

  “I’ve taken a look at the musicians’ contract,” he said, “and it appears to me that during any given week, they’re under the baton of the maestro twenty, maybe twenty-five hours tops. Some of them don’t even have to play, like when there’s a Mozart symphony, for example. We know they’re good, but it seems to me they’re getting paid an awful lot for very little work.”

  “At least,” responded Herza, “they are doing something. You receive millions from your stocks and your bonds, from your trust funds and your offshore accounts, yet you do absolutely nothing. You make no contribution to society whatsoever. So who is the parasite here, Mr. Chynoweth?

  “You say the musicians are paid too much. Look at those baseball players,” he continued, “who stand out in a field of grass and run around in a circle for three hours, four times a week, for half a year and get paid millions. What they do is meaningless, but Mr. George Steinbrenner knows that if he pays his men the most they will win. Whatever a Yankee is, they are paid to win, and they win. So maybe Mr. George Steinbrenner should replace you on the board.

  “It is my job to conduct. It is the musicians’ job to play. And it is your job to find the money. Is that understood?”

  “Are you taking the musicians’ side in this?” asked Brundage.

  “Let me tell you clearly,” said Herza. “It is not the responsibility of this organization to provide a livelihood for a gaggle of pampered prima donnas. I don’t care about their personal lives and I don’t care whether they are happy or whether they have liver cancer. If any musicians cannot maintain my standard, they can be replaced by those who can. But I must have the best musicians to make the best music. The only way to get the best is to pay the best.”

  “However,” Vickers said, “in order to pay those musicians, I firmly believe that if we are to move the symphony orchestra successfully into the twenty-first century, number one, orchestra CEOs must work together to realign the market expectations of the musicians; and number two, we absolutely must envision a new paradigm, one in which the organization becomes community based and consumer friendly. People have gotten tired of seeing dinosaurs in a museum.”

  “Dinosaurs in a museum?” asked Herza. “Is that what the CEO of a symphony orchestra thinks of her organization? A concert hall is a temple. It is not a museum and it is not a Sunday school for children. If you want to teach Sunday school, start a different organization. That is not what symphony orchestras do. Symphony orchestras play symphonies. Others can teach, but no one can play symphonies except symphony orchestras. If your so-called new paradigm takes root, it will spread like a disease, because the public, which has no basis for a standard, will accept anything that is given them. I, Vaclav Herza, have the highest standard. You, the lowest. Yes, you will move the organization into the next century. And then, after fifteen, twenty years, after your successful surgery, you and your ilk will have absolutely killed the patient. Madam, if you order shit at a fine French restaurant, no doubt they will serve it on a silver platter. Nevertheless, it is still shit.

  “You and your consultant have wasted this organization’s money on your strategic plan that is neither strategic nor a plan. Here is my strategic plan: I will conduct what I want, when I want, until the day I die. That is my plan. It is your job to pay the musicians more than anyone. More than Chicago. More than Boston. More than the New York Philharmonic. Our ‘competition,’ as you call it. I do not compete. With anybody. I will conduct great music. If anybody wishes to compete with that, that is their decision.

  “Now, I make you a very simple proposition. You, our devoted board of trustees, you decide which vision you wish to see instituted for Harmonium: hers or Herza’s. Whoever you choose will stay. The other will resign. Immediately.”

  After a moment’s shocked silence, Brundage said, “We will take your suggestion under advisement, Maestro, and give it careful consideration, but,” he added, stumbling through, “I don’t think there isn’t a way we shouldn’t be able to work this all out. For now, may we table your proposition and move forward with any other new business? Parsley, anything to report?” he asked in a voice that clearly suggested let’s get the hell out of here.

  Parsley, who had not spoken at the meeting, fumbled momentarily for the glass of water to clear his throat.

  Herza eyed Parsley with interest.

  “I’ll be brief,” Parsley said. “The major news is that yesterday the orchestra selected a new, permanent concertmaster for Harmonium, Yumi Shinagawa, former second violinist of the New Magini String Quartet and a very accomplished musician. We’re very fortunate to have someone of her caliber in such a significant position.”

  Congratulations were offered.

  Forrester said, “That’s great, but other than shake the conductor’s hand and point to the oboe to play the A at the beginning of the concert, is this a big deal?”

  Alvin Chynoweth said, “Wait a second. I’m a little confused. I thought Maestro Herza was the concertmaster.”

  Parsley looked down at his hands that he had placed on his notebook and took a deep breath before replying. “An easy enough mistake to make. Maestro Herza is the music director. He is a conductor. The concertmaster of an orchestra is the first-chair first violinist. Are you a football fan by any chance, Mr. Chynoweth?”

  “Go, Columbia Lions!” he replied with a big smile.

  “Good. See, the music director is like the coach, and the concertmaster is like the quarterback. The concertmaster gets the signals from the music director and communicates them, either by gesture or verbally, to the musicians. It’s also the concertmaster’s responsibility to put all the bowings in the string players’ parts, like calling the plays in the huddle, so that when you see them playing, they’re all moving in the same direction. This of course is not just a visual thing. It affects the way the whole string section plays together. And like the quarterback, the concertmaster is the public face of the whole orchestra.” Parsley quickly amended that. “Except for the music director, of course.”

  “Will this Yumi Shina-whosey-whats begin tomorrow?” asked Devlin Forrester. “It would be perfect for the opening of the hall to have a permanent concertmaster.”

  “We’re currently in negotiations with Ms. Shinagawa regarding her contract, which we may or may not conclude in time. However, we have an able replacement in Lawrence Nowitsky, our backup quarterback, until such time as Ms. Shinagawa is available.”

  “I heard that Sherry O’Brien has disappeared,” said Imogene Livenstock, whose ear was always to the ground, even though the ground for her was far, far below.

  “Disappeared?” said Herza. “I would hardly say disappeared. Pouting is more like it. She did not win the concertmaster audition, and so she is telling us by her petulance that she is unhappy. She is a spoiled child. Life will go on.”

  TWENTY

  THURSDAY

  Jacobus sat alone on a leather-cushioned bench in the middle of the main gallery at the Clark Art Institute in Williamstown. The curator had explained that he was facing Joseph Mallord William Turner’s massively breathtaking oil on canvas seascape The fighting Temeraire tugged to her last Berth to be broken up, painted in 1839. “Turner is without doubt the greatest seascape painter ever,” said the curator to Jacobus, who was hardly listening. “What’s unusual about this one is here we have a royal ship, but instead of being portrayed in customary naval splendor, the Temeraire is little more than a floating hulk on its final voyage to the scrap heap, yet it’s still bathed in that glorious sky, as if God himself were giving thanks for the ship’s dedicated service.” When Jacobus didn’t respond
, the curator wished him a pleasant stay at the museum and then wisely left him alone.

  His hands, no longer trembling, were on his knees. He had removed his dark glasses, indifferent whether onlookers were horrified at his glazed eyes, and had leaned forward in supreme concentration, intent on somehow sensing the painting. Except for his vague recollection of the painting’s swirling power, he could see it no better now than when he had begun staring at it a motionless half hour earlier. If only he could concentrate harder, maybe …

  Turner—rather, Turner versus Gainsborough—had been instructive to him in understanding the difference between playing in an orchestra and playing chamber music. Turner’s monumental vision, the broad swaths of light and color, colliding in breathtaking explosion as they grappled for ascendancy, was like an orchestral score of Ravel or Debussy. The overall composition might have an easily definable program, but any given moment was a whirlwind of pure color.

  Gainsborough, on the other hand, was definition, detail, control, proportion, balance. A richly refined and polished blend that worked perfectly as a string quartet but in an orchestra would be beside the point. Jacobus respected Gainsborough, but he revered Turner. He continued to stare at the masterpiece, seeking guidance, for it wasn’t his current objective to describe to Yumi the difference between orchestral and chamber music playing that had brought him here. It was his visit to Sherry O’Brien.

  * * *

  He had received a phone call first from Tiny Parsley, then Yumi, then one from Moskowitz, and then came the personal visit from his friend, full-time plumber and part-time town police force Roy Miller, wearing his part-time police uniform.