by Gerald Elias
A man in a very expensive suit approached, and the geishas wordlessly departed. Furukawa was surprised, having expected the boss to be another woman, an elder “graduate” of the program.
“I understand you’re interested in this Erutsa,” said the man. Furukawa found this stranger’s informal directness impolite and off-putting.
“Yes. Erutsa-sama highly recommended your club—I assume you’re the boss—and since this is my first time here, I was just wondering if there was anyone, in particular, that he liked.” Furukawa let the innuendo linger.
“I see,” said the boss. “He did have his favorites. Pussy Willow, but Pussy Willow died.”
“Died! And so young?”
“If you’re beaten to death, you can die young. A horrible thing. Then there was Lotus Bud. Yes. I’d say Lotus Bud was his favorite. But that was years ago.”
“Does Lotus Bud still work here?” Furukawa asked. Perhaps she was a link to some of the unsavory behavior Jacobus was seeking proof of.
“Not anymore. They come and they go. Most of them are from the Philippines or Southeast Asia. It’s harder and harder to get them in Japan these days, believe it or not.”
Furukawa didn’t know whether to believe it or not and couldn’t think of a productive way to proceed. He would have offered a bribe for more information, but that might offend such a wealthy-looking man.
“Do you have an address for Lotus Bud? Do you have her phone number?”
“Her?” said the boss, wide-eyed. His face tightened. Then he looked away. His body began to convulse, and, though he attempted mightily to contain it, he started laughing out loud.
Furukawa was highly offended, especially after being treated so royally by this boor’s employees. When he had been a teacher, his usually docile demeanor could change on a dime at the first hint of disrespect, and he would let the student know in no uncertain terms that such behavior was unworthy of anyone he was willing to teach and reflected poorly on the student’s entire family for having been brought up to act so thoughtlessly. He had never encountered such loutish behavior from any student even in private as he was now confronted with in public.
“May I ask what’s so funny?” he asked.
“Don’t you know?” He saw the look on Furukawa’s face, a combination of anger and utter bewilderment that made him laugh even harder. “You don’t know! Lotus Bud is a boy! All these geishas are boys!” His laughter, unrestrainable, burst into a raucous bawl, attracting the attention of all the customers.
Furukawa threw some money down on the table, a lot of money. Racing out, his face burned red, while his erstwhile companions covered their mouths with hands and fans, partly out of politeness to disguise their tittering, but at the same time letting Furukawa know that was precisely what they were concealing.
Furukawa exited the building and glanced in each direction to make sure no one recognized him. He took several deep breaths, wondering what to do next. The limit of his obligation to his friend Daniel Jacobus had been reached, if not exceeded. Was there anything else, within reason, that he could or should do in this wild-goose chase? He looked around him, into the bustling underworld of late-night Tokyo, seeking direction.
THIRTY
Was that a ray of light through the fog of my depression? Lilburn asked himself. For the first time in his career he had missed his deadline, so irrationally obsessed with Jacobus’s narrative that he had lost his own. After throwing a silent, personal tantrum, he came to the cathartic realization that not all was necessarily lost; he now had an additional day to find the anchor to his story that might, in the end, enable him to write with a natural fluidity that was currently forced and artificial.
“Hello, Mr. Nowitsky? This is Martin Lilburn from the New York Times, and before you hang up, I am not writing a story on the contract negotiations.”
“Then I don’t have to decline to comment.”
“I am writing a story on the history of Harmonium to run tomorrow, for the opening of Harmonium Hall. Let’s see, you’ve been associate concertmaster—”
“Twenty-three years.”
Information offered! thought Lilburn. The ice was thawing. “Yes, thank you. And I thought you could give me some perspective on the changes that have taken place.”
“I suppose. Give me a f’rinstance.”
“Well, I understand that since your longtime stand partner, Myron Moskowitz, retired, there had been an ongoing search for a new concertmaster.”
“Yes, and we have found one. Miss Yumi Shinagawa.”
“Can you tell me about the process that resulted in her selection, please?”
“Sorry, I can’t comment on that.”
“Even in a broad perspective?”
“Mr. Lilburn, you must know very well that in order to avoid compromising the fairness of auditions, everything about them has to remain confidential. If it got out how candidates played—and let’s face facts, all but one of them loses—we’d never get anyone to show up. It’s even our policy to not tell the candidates themselves how they played, let alone the media. And if the committee’s opinions were leaked, everyone on it would clam up. So while I respect your desire as a reporter to find things out, I can’t comment any more about that.”
“Even though I’ve heard through the grapevine that Sherry O’Brien’s audition was given short shrift by Maestro Herza? What if that got around to violinists in the orchestral community?”
“The music director has the authority to hire and fire. It’s in our contract. I invite you to read it.”
“And that O’Brien is in the hospital with self-inflicted wounds?”
“Sherry’s a respected colleague and we wish her all the best.”
“How do you get along with Sherry O’Brien?”
“What does this have to do with the history of Harmonium?”
“Human interest. Musicians are people, not just performers. They play tennis, garden, cook Italian food, go to the bathroom, like other humans. Who they really are is something that would be of interest to the reading public.”
“Sherry and I get along very well. She’s a very private person. Not outgoing, which you wouldn’t expect from her playing.”
“Did you meet with her socially, outside the orchestra?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that. I’m a married man. I have grandchildren.”
“My apologies. No innuendo intended. I was just wondering if you spoke of subjects other than music.”
“She opened up to me from time to time.”
“About?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Of course. What’s her current condition?”
“I don’t know, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Have things like this ever happened with members of Harmonium before?”
“Things like what?”
The interview was going backward quickly. Pretty soon he would be out the door again and it would close. Lilburn changed the subject.
“As associate concertmaster, no doubt you’ve been on many audition committees for string players. When I attend concerts, I see there are a growing number of Asian musicians in Harmonium.”
“That’s true of every orchestra these days. Even in Europe.”
“It seems more in Harmonium than elsewhere. How do you account for that?”
“They play very well and their preparation for auditions is unexcelled.”
“Yes, I’m sure, but could Vaclav Herza’s connection with Japan and the Toho School have something to do with it?”
“No doubt.”
Maybe this would lead somewhere. “Could you elaborate?”
“If you were a student at Toho and had Maestro Herza guest-conduct you, wouldn’t it be your dream to become a member of Harmonium?”
“Is there nothing more than that, do you think?”
“Of course there is. We’re the highest-paid orchestra. Who wouldn’t want to come?”
“I was thinking of so
mething rather more personal, perhaps.”
“Then you’d have to ask the Asian musicians themselves.”
“Perhaps I shall, then, at some point,” said Lilburn. “Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Nowitsky. “I look forward to reading your story.”
* * *
Lilburn hung up and then dialed the number for Vaclav Herza he had obtained when he had set up the bungled Tanglewood interview, finagled out of one of Harmonium’s innocent management interns, a soprano who, upon graduating from Wesleyan, suddenly realized she had no career in music. The line was busy. On a hunch, he quickly redialed Nowitsky’s number. That, too, was busy. Lilburn spent a few minutes considering the implications of that unlikely coincidence and what it portended for getting anything more out of Herza. He dialed Herza’s number again.
“Yes?” came the instantly pugnacious voice of Lubomir Butkus.
“This is Martin Lilburn of the New York Times.”
“Maestro has no intention of speaking to you further.”
“Oh, but it’s not Maestro to whom I wish to speak.”
“No? Then whom?”
“You.” Make him come to me, thought Lilburn. Curiosity will get the better of him. And ego. Lilburn stayed mum, against his natural inclination.
“Me? Why?”
“For my story on Harmonium.”
“What could I have to say of any value?”
“You’ve been Maestro’s personal assistant for decades.”
“I have no comment about my work for Maestro.”
“No, and I wouldn’t seek to impose. It just seems to me that without you, Lubomir Butkus, Harmonium could never have existed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, how could it have functioned? I’ve been following the orchestra since its inception, and who else has been there since day one other than Maestro? You. Only you. You have seen to Maestro’s every need. I can give you the list of everyone who has said so.” Lilburn hoped Butkus would not ask for the nonexistent list. “You have been the battery that makes the clock tick. If you hadn’t been there, day in, day out, everything would have stopped. Your story is the perspective I’ve been seeking for mine: Harmonium seen through the eyes of the one person who has seen it all.”
“I never thought of it like that.”
“You have been on all the tours, have witnessed the great triumphs.”
“Yes, I have.”
“When Harmonium hired you, had you ever met Maestro?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let me rephrase: Did you have an idea of your demanding obligations when you first started working for Harmonium?”
“It wasn’t like that at all. You are all wrong.”
“Enlighten me, then.”
“I worked for Maestro long before Harmonium. Many years. I was with him in Prague. Even before. He chose me from the others because he knew I would never betray him.”
“He ‘chose’ you?” Lilburn scolded himself for interrupting a source on a roll, a rookie mistake. Who were “the others,” though?
“Never mind. In those days I did everything for him. Even more than now. I was his secretary, his manager, his valet, his driver.”
“Yet you weren’t with him on the occasion of his car accident.” Lilburn slapped himself on the forehead. What an idiotic comment. How could he expect someone to respond to that other than to say, “Fuck you”? No wonder the Times had put him out to pasture.
“With that whore?”
“DiFiori? His fiancée?”
“She wanted his money, his fame. He was smart to get rid of her.”
“Are you suggesting—”
“Never mind. It was an accident. End of story.”
Lilburn needed to keep the stream flowing. “You no longer drive for Maestro. Why did you stop?”
“He had other needs that only I could attend to. Harmonium found the driver sixteen years ago.”
“Donaghue.”
“Yes.”
“It sounds like you don’t approve of him.”
“I am in no position either to approve or disapprove. Maestro finds him satisfactory. Whatever satisfies Maestro, satisfies me.”
Lilburn had what he wanted but kept the conversation going to be sure Butkus stayed in the dark.
“If I may ask, how do you view the current contract negotiations between Harmonium and the musicians? Do you think it jeopardizes the opening of the new concert hall?”
“Maestro has had many enemies, because they had no vision, and Maestro has always prevailed. This time will be no different. It will be his greatest triumph.”
“May I quote you on that?”
“What if I say no?”
“I still might.”
Butkus hung up.
* * *
An hour later, Lilburn found himself at the last place he wanted to be, a bar, but he was meeting the person he most wanted to speak to. Paddy Donaghue was now walking through the door, so it was worth the trade-off. Shea’s Lounge on Spring Street was one on a list Donaghue had proposed, his familiarity with the place evident from the mumbled greetings he received from patrons and tavernkeeper alike. Though Donaghue was off duty he was always on call, and because his pager might go off at any time with a command to attend to Maestro’s needs, Lilburn had bought Donaghue his pint of Murphy’s in advance. He disregarded the bartender’s smirk when he ordered sparkling water with lime for himself, fondling a Butterfinger in his pocket and congratulating himself for the strength to abstain from stronger libation.
Over the years Lilburn had seen Donaghue a few times, assisting Herza in or out of a limo by the artists’ entrance to Carnegie or Avery Fischer. Now he saw the man out of uniform for the first time. Unlike the stereotypical image of an aging blue-collar Irishman, Donaghue had maintained an athletic build and had well-trimmed short hair and alert, probing eyes, ready to do business. He had already informed Donaghue what the subject of discussion would be when he had phoned him earlier.
“How many years have you driven for Herza?”
“Sixteen.”
“And before that?”
“I was a security guard. You could check it out.”
“That’s okay, I believe you.” Lilburn had already checked it out. “How would you characterize your relationship with Herza?”
“I drive him where he wants to go. Harmonium pays me.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“It sounds to me like there’s no love lost between the two of you.”
“If I may say so, it sounds to me that you’re being a wee bit ungrateful.”
“Ungrateful? How so?”
“He keeps the likes of you stiffs in business, writin’ your reviews and all, and here you are, trying to nail the man to the cross.”
Sitting in this seedy bar with his deadline approaching, Lilburn was losing his patience. He rued the moment he vouched for Daniel Jacobus at the Tanglewood rehearsal. Next time, if there is a next time, he’ll tiptoe surreptitiously around Jacobus and the old curmudgeon will be none the wiser.
“I do what reporters do. Ask questions. I know not where a story leads until I get there. If you want to compare Vaclav Herza to the Messiah, it’s on your conscience, not mine.”
Donaghue laughed. “You’ve got the tongue of the Irish, have you now? My dear mother couldn’t have put me in my place better than that. Okay, I’ll tell you. If you want to be treated like dirt, you’ll have no better employer than Vaclav Herza.”
“The musicians have been saying that for years. There’s nothing new there.”
“Ah, the musicians!” Donaghue shook his head and sucked on his beer for fortification. “For a bunch of poofters and wankers, they’re not a bad lot, those lads.”
“Meaning?”
“All bark and no bite. Most of them, anyway. If they had it in them, they could stand up to the man.”
“But should they? Herza is an insuffe
rable ass. Everyone knows that. It’s hardly an indictable offense.”
Donaghue drained the remainder of his pint.
“Maybe, but someone just tried to kill him for it and almost saved me the trouble.”
This was more than Lilburn had hoped for, or even wanted to know. He was supposed to be writing a story about a symphony orchestra, for Christ’s sake!
Donaghue related the incident of the charging Taurus without sharing who was behind the wheel. Lilburn took down the name of the officer on the scene, but otherwise Donaghue stonewalled. After all, no one was injured, and Harmonium replaced the Lincoln with a newer model.
“Well,” Lilburn reflected, “regardless of his extraordinary level of hubris, this could make Herza out to be a would-be martyr, couldn’t it?”
“And that doesn’t please you. You’ve got your own personal ax to grind with the man and you’re going for the jugular, then, are you?”
Lilburn considered his motives but, as a journalist, did not want to lay them all on the table for public consumption. “Another beer?” Lilburn nodded in the direction of Donaghue’s empty glass.
“No, thank you. One’s enough. I never know when I’ll receive the calling.”
Lilburn smiled in response. “You tell me, then. What’s the elephant in the room I’m not seeing?”
“You see, I’m Herza’s official driver. Butkus is Herza’s unofficial driver. I take him to rehearsals, concerts, meetings, appointments … wherever he needs to go…”
“And Butkus takes him to places where he doesn’t need to go.”
“You catch on fast, laddie.”
“Such as?”
“The sluts. Such as.”
“Prostitutes, you mean?”
“The worst of the lot. They don’t even have pimps. That’s why I call them sluts.”
“Why, do you suppose? He’s got the money for the best.”
“It’s what suits him. He goes for the filth and doesn’t always make nice to them.”
“Have you seen any of these girls?”
“Not just girls.”
“I stand corrected. Have you seen—”
“No. I haven’t seen anything. That’s Butkus’s terrain, as I said. He finds them, sets up the time and the place, and then does the driving. Neither party gives their real name, and it’s never the same lay twice. They clean up well after themselves, those two. I’ll grant them that.”