Death and Transfiguration

by Gerald Elias

  “How do you know all this?”

  “As I said, I’ve been by Maestro’s side for many a day, and before that I was in security. My dear mother taught me to keep my eyes and ears open, and not even Marcel Marceau could keep a secret like that from me for long.”

  “Anyone else in on the little secret?”

  “The boys who work at Herza’s apartment building. They wouldn’t be heartbroken to see the maestro get his comeuppance.”

  “I don’t have time right now for all the gory details,” Lilburn said, sliding an envelope across the table, “but how much of this can be proved?”

  Donaghue didn’t even glance at the envelope. A real pro.

  “Not a word, at least by me. Not a word. I’ve told you what you wanted to know, and it’s Christ’s honest truth, but what you do with it is out of my hands.”

  Donaghue rose, followed by Lilburn. Donaghue slipped the envelope into a pocket and shook Lilburn’s hand.

  “Yes, that was the deal,” said Lilburn. “But what I find baffling is why, for a man of his station, of his renown, Herza would go to such lengths just for sex.”

  “It’s not about the sex, man. Don’t you see that? It’s about the power.”

  * * *

  Back in his office, Lilburn popped the last Godiva into his mouth and decided he had reached an appropriate terminus for his efforts on Jacobus’s behalf. A for effort. A-plus maybe. So what if the results would never stand up in a court of law? He at least had gleaned some nuggets of information he could polish and use for his story, so it wasn’t a total wash, was it? He dropped the empty candy box into the waste bin and began to write, when the phone rang. It was Lieutenant Malachi.

  “Is it about the car accident?” Lilburn asked.

  “Oh, I heard about that accident. Hit-and-run up in Riverdale. That’s penny-ante stuff. Minor damage. No charges filed. What I’ve got for you is the scoop of the century, Lilburn. Are you ready for this?”

  “Hold on.” Lilburn threw his notepad onto the desk and clicked his pen open. “Go ahead.”

  “In 1964, Vaclav Herza was cited for possession of marijuana.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Was he at least convicted?”

  “His lawyer convinced the case officer, one Michael T. Washington, that it was only to relieve the pain resulting from his car accident injuries. It appears from the report that it didn’t take much convincing. Washington didn’t even fine him. You want his phone number?”

  “Never mind. And thank you for trying, anyway.”

  “It was nothing. Literally. And say hi to Jacobus for me.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  The group of drunken businessmen that earlier surrounded the ancient woman’s kiosk had departed and Furukawa was now able to take a closer look at her. Shrunken and hunched over, she needed to look up in order to see straight ahead. She was toothless, and her translucent skin had so many wrinkles they obscured her facial features. With random gossamer strands of white hair doing little to disguise an otherwise bald head, she was the living embodiment of the tiny antique ivory netsuke ornaments that Furukawa had begun collecting when he retired. He caught himself staring and, realizing that the woman was aware of his scrutiny, approached her food stand.

  “I’ll have the scallop, oba-san, please,” he said, though he had no appetite.

  “Hai, dōzo!” said the woman, bowing so low that her nose almost touched her knees. Her bow flowed uninterrupted into a bend toward the cooler, out of which she scooped a live scallop. The mollusk was larger than the left hand in which she held it; with a knife in her right, she deftly pried open the resisting bivalve’s shell. Discarding the top shell into the trash, with a pair of tongs she held the other that contained the still-living scallop over a Bunsen burner. With a small ladle in her free hand, she poured a few drops of homemade broth onto the scallop until the sauce began to bubble. She removed the shell from the fire and handed it to Furukawa along with a pair of chopsticks.

  Furukawa devoured the scallop almost as quickly as it had been prepared. He removed his handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped his lips.

  “This is one of the greatest delicacies I have ever eaten,” he said, almost forgetting his dreadful experience at Cin-Cin, Chéri.

  The old woman bowed and smiled.

  “I have been in this very spot for more than fifty years,” she said, “and have had many customers whose grandchildren now visit here. If I may ask, you are from Kyushu?”

  “Yes. How do you know?”

  “Your accent. My family home is also Kyushu. Near Kagoshima. But I have not seen my home for many years.”

  “I, too, live near Kagoshima! My name is Furukawa. Makoto Furukawa.” He handed her his business card, which she examined with appropriate thoroughness.

  “Ah, Furukawa-san! The violin teacher?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Ah, sensei,” the old woman exclaimed and began bowing deeply and repeatedly. Furukawa responded in kind. “My daughter,” she continued, “Mariko Taniguchi, she studied violin with you many, many years ago! Do you remember her, please?”

  Furukawa had no recollection of the name. He had taught hundreds, perhaps thousands, of students over the years, many of little talent, and concentrate as he might, he could not remember a Mariko Taniguchi.

  He didn’t have the heart to be honest, so he said, “Ah, yes, she played the Beethoven Romance in F Major so beautifully!” Having required almost all his students of even modest ability to study that piece until they could play it reasonably well, he felt he was on pretty firm ground. “What is she doing now?” he asked, to change the subject.

  “She is a grandmother! She has two sons and a daughter. The eldest son…”

  Furukawa listened to the life story of the former student he couldn’t remember with great attentiveness, not once looking at his watch, even though late-night subway service would terminate any moment now and he’d have to spend ten times the subway fare to take a cab to his hotel.

  Finally, after discussing the possible future prospects for her sixth, and youngest, granddaughter, Furukawa said, “I am honored to have heard about your remarkable family,” and acted as if he were preparing to leave.

  “You have been to Cin-Cin, Chéri, I see,” said the old lady.

  “Yes, I have,” said Furukawa, unprepared for such a direct statement, but relieved that it would save twenty more minutes of polite conversation before it would be appropriate to bring up the subject.

  “I was looking for a man, a foreigner with a disfigured face and who walks lopsided.”

  “Ah!” said the old woman. “Erutsa-sama! He went to Cin-Cin, Chéri, every time he came to Tokyo.”

  “And how would you know?” Furukawa asked, immediately regretting the rude tone of his question.

  “Because,” she said, pretending not to notice the affront, “my daughter went to all of his concerts, and he is a hard person not to recognize.”

  “Did he usually go to the club alone, do you remember?”

  “Not alone. Always with his own driver, another gaijin, who waited in his car and blocked traffic and hurt my business. Gaijin can be so impolite. Just because they won the war—”

  “And when Erutsa-sama left the club, was he alone?”

  “No, he always left with a geisha, who he would bundle into his car and drive off. Not once did he buy my scallops.”

  “Was it always the same geisha?”

  “Yes, it was the same. Named Lotus Bud.”

  “Do you know this geisha?”

  “I know them all. Poor things. But Lotus Bud has been gone for many years. Disappeared, I’m told.” She sighed. “Did you know they’re all boys?” she offered.

  “Of course.” He wasn’t lying, he told himself. He had known for almost an hour.

  “And did you know they’re all prostitutes?”

  “Of course. Has Erutsa-sama been back here lately? I would be happy to r
ecommend that he visit your stand.”

  “I am very honored, Furukawa-sensei. But I have not seen him for years, either.”

  “Well, then, that is his loss. Now, how much do I owe you for your delicious meal?”

  “It is my gift.” The ancient woman raised her watery eyes and looked directly at Furukawa. “For remembering my daughter among your countless students.”

  * * *

  But for a few tottering businessmen caroming into the side of a garbage can or a building, the street was still, and most of the neon signs had been switched off, depriving the puddles of their borrowed light. The old lady stored her wares and folded down the sides of her kiosk to be rolled away to … Furukawa had never thought about where the vendors disappeared to during the day, but the moment to ask had passed. It would be something he would probably never know.

  A question occurred to him. Had Lotus Bud disappeared after one of his liaisons with Erutsa-sama? He gazed up at the unlit window of Cin-Cin, Chéri. To avoid the further humiliation of returning there to inquire, he convinced himself that it was closed. He looked one way, then the other down the alley, searching for something to do next, but like the path of his search, the alley was dark, revealing nothing.

  THIRTY-TWO

  It was Lilburn on the phone.

  “What have you got?” asked Jacobus.

  “I’ve got bad news, bad news, and bad news. Which do you want to hear first?”

  “No wonder the Times dumped you. How about starting with the bad news?”

  “I thought you’d ask that. I missed my deadline because of all the checking I did for you on Herza.”

  “So?”

  “So it means the story didn’t run today. It runs tomorrow.”

  “Why’s that bad?”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday, the slowest day of the week, and the hall opening is tomorrow night. The impact of the story will be a mere ripple instead of a tsunami.”

  Jacobus couldn’t have cared less. “What’s the bad news, then?”

  “The bad news is I couldn’t find anything to pin on Herza. Abusive, yes. Shady, yes. I found that out from every source I talked to, and believe me, I talked to everyone. But criminal? No, unless you call paying for sex a crime. I even went to our friend Lieutenant Malachi and persuaded him to back-check police files. Over all these years there was only one formal complaint ever filed against him.”

  That might be enough, thought Jacobus.

  “For what?”

  “Smoking a joint.”

  “Okay,” said Jacobus. “You’re two for two. Now tell me the bad news.”

  “The bad news is that I can’t include any uncorroborated nastiness about Herza in the article, except for one thing.”

  “Go on.”

  “I refer to a high level of stress at Harmonium due to Herza’s heavy-handed insistence on perfection, and its effect upon the musicians. I let the readers connect the dots in the hope they’ll conclude what you and I already feel about him.”

  “That sounds good to me. Why’s that bad?”

  “Because I had to provide concrete evidence. I had to mention Sherry O’Brien’s traumatic experience…”

  Jacobus began to squeeze the receiver as if it were Lilburn’s neck.

  “And,” Lilburn continued, “I made reference to the source of my information. I had no choice.”

  Jacobus lowered the receiver. That was an improvement. In the past, he would have slammed it down.

  * * *

  The cab pulled up to the entrance of the Berkshire Medical Center.

  “That’ll be thirty-one dollars and ninety cents.”

  “What?” asked Jacobus in disbelief. “Last time it was twenty-nine.”

  “It’s after eleven. Night rate’s a ten percent surcharge. Regulations.”

  “You give senior citizen discounts?”

  “No. Just frequent flyer miles.”

  From a wad in his pocket Jacobus counted out thirty-two singles, the only way he knew to make sure he had the correct amount. He counted them a second time—despite the cabbie’s growing irritation—to double-check.

  “Here,” Jacobus said, handing them over to the driver. “Keep the change.”

  “While you’re at a hospital,” said the driver, “get an attitudectomy.”

  “Get a real job,” Jacobus said and slammed the door.

  Cane in hand, gift in pocket, Jacobus circled his way through the revolving entrance of the medical center, determined to elude the clutches of the medical establishment that had barred his way to Scheherazade O’Brien’s bedside. Now that she would be named by Lilburn, there was even greater urgency for him to prepare her for probable media exposure from the Times article. If it were at all possible, he would also make his peace with her. He walked directly toward the front desk, ready to do battle with Waconah.

  “Oh, so it’s you again,” came the voice he was hoping to hear.

  Jacobus attempted to respond, but no sound emerged. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly, like a fish out of water. His legs began to tremble. He flung his cane to the ground and, panting, clutched his throat. He let out a hoarse moan and crumpled to the floor. Twice his right leg kicked spasmodically, then he lay motionless, save for a moment of vestigial twitching of his fingers.

  A security guard was already at his side.

  “He has a pulse,” the guard called in Waconah’s direction. “Get a doctor here fast.”

  Waconah picked up the intercom. “Calling Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine. Come to the front desk, stat!” She repeated the message with greater urgency but keeping her voice level so as not to alarm any patients.

  The two interns rushed into the lobby and had Jacobus, still unresponsive, placed on a gurney and wheeled into the emergency room. A nurse wired him up to monitors. Dr. Howard checked his vital signs, which revealed a weak pulse and reduced breathing capability.

  “Jeez, this guy must’ve done three packs a day for fifty years with lungs like that,” said Dr. Howard, placing an oxygen mask over Jacobus’s nose and mouth. “I’ll be damned that he’s still alive.”

  “No kidding,” said Dr. Fine. “You’d need an auger from Roto-Rooter to unclog his arteries.”

  Dr. Howard removed Jacobus’s glasses, and with thumb and forefinger pried open his eyelids to check for pupillary response.

  “Shit! Look at this! The guy’s blind as a post!”

  “Yichh! What do you suppose? Advanced glaucoma?”

  “No, it’s just a little eye jam.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic. Is he comatose?”

  “I’m not sure. He seems conscious but is totally unresponsive.”

  “Stroke?”

  “Could be. He definitely needs to be kept overnight for observation.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But check first to see if he’s covered.”

  “Good idea.”

  Dr. Fine rummaged through Jacobus’s pockets and found his wallet with his Medicare card in it.

  “Guy’s name is Jacobus or Jacobus or something like that.”

  “Hey, wait a second. Isn’t he that geezer who lives down by Great Barrington?”

  “You mean the violin crackpot who solves murders?”

  “Yeah, that one. I think it’s Jacobus.”

  “Nah, no way this one could be him. This guy’s a definite loser.”

  “Yeah, but we should cover our ass, just in case. I say he’s a keeper.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  They wheeled Jacobus through the hospital to a semiprivate room, where an orderly removed Jacobus’s street clothes and dressed him in a hospital gown. He was then reattached to monitors.

  “What do you give him?” the orderly asked. “Twelve hours?”

  “I’ll lay odds no more than ten, Larry,” said Dr. Howard.

  “I’m not so sure,” said Dr. Fine. “With today’s technology, we can keep a stiff like this alive indefinitely, even if he stays a vegetable. But one way or another, I’d say there’s as much
chance he leaves this hospital alive as his getting his sight back.”

  The others grunted their assent.

  On their way out the door, Dr. Fine asked his colleagues, “Hey, did you hear the one about how Helen Keller burned her hand?”

  THIRTY-THREE

  SATURDAY

  As the night progressed into early morning, the hospital corridors became hauntingly quiet. The good doctors Howard and Fine, having completed their shifts, had long since departed for their new homes in Williamstown and a weekend of golf. It was only when the efficient humming and beeping of Jacobus’s monitors was all there was to be heard that Jacobus, who had lain motionless for as long as he could endure, bolted upright and tore the life-sustaining tubes and wires from his body.

  “Idiots,” he said. He scrambled down from his bed, intent on dressing as quickly as possible and getting to Room 421L. Searching for his clothes, he bumped into a walker and decided it would be better to roam the halls in his drafty hospital gown. After all, hadn’t the fair Waconah admonished him to “be patient”? She just left out the article, and if they have to see my hairy ass as a result, that’s their problem.

  The walker had tubes on it, which he fastened to his arms with strips of tape still sticking to him. As he maneuvered his way out the door, he bumped into a rack upon which his clothes were hanging. He extracted the biography of Matteo Cherubino from his pants pocket and sequestered it under his armpit.

  Jacobus entered the vacant hall and forced himself to move slowly, the recuperating patient taking a midnight stroll. An elevator door opened and shut, and as he headed for it, he was approached by the person who had just emerged from it.

  “How’s it going?” the man asked Jacobus.

  “As my father used to say, I’d rather be rich and healthy than poor and sick.”

  The man laughed. He asked, “You need a hand?”

  “Nah!” replied Jacobus. “Doctor says we need to learn to do this on our own.”