Death and Transfiguration

by Gerald Elias

“Tough love, huh?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to try an apple a day and see if I can get rid of him.”

  “You got the idea. Well, have a good one.”

  Jacobus found the button for the elevator and pressed it. Inside, he felt for the Braille on the panel and pressed 4L. Leaving the elevator, he fingered the numbers on the doors of the first two rooms he came to in order to determine his direction. Miraculously, no one questioned him. No one noticed him. He arrived at 421L, opened the door, and entered. The same snoring patient confirmed Jacobus’s accuracy in locating the correct room. He rolled his walker to Scheherazade O’Brien’s bedside and switched to a chair in order to sit close to her. He found a space on her bedside tray table to put the book, which somehow was no longer important to him. He could hear her breathing and leaned forward. He didn’t want anyone else to hear what he was going to say. It didn’t even matter if she heard him.

  “Sherry,” he said quietly. “You and me, we’re a lot alike. More than you know. We need each other.” He stumbled for a moment. “Actually, I need you more than you need me. You need me like a hole in the head. Once you’re better you’ll see that there’s plenty you can do. Look at me, for example. ‘Blind as a post,’ that stooge of a doctor said. But I’m still here, sawing away. Life in an orchestra ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, anyway.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll make it all up to you. Don’t you worry.”

  Jacobus found Scheherazade O’Brien’s hand. He held it gently because of the wounds. It was bigger than he had remembered, and harder. Swollen, no doubt. Strangely, it wasn’t bandaged. Jacobus’s touch roused the sleeping form.

  “What the fuck?” said the man in the bed.

  “What?” asked Jacobus. “Who are you?”

  “Who the fuck are you, you fucking pervert?” said the man, his hand still in Jacobus’s clutches.

  “Nurse!” the man screamed. “Nurse! Get him the hell away from me!”

  Jacobus was paralyzed with shock. He felt his arms roughly grabbed from behind.

  “What are you doing here?” voices demanded, rousing Jacobus from immobility.

  “Where is she?” he yelled. “Where have you taken her?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “O’Brien! Scheherazade O’Brien! Where is she?”

  “O’Brien?” said a female voice, more calmly. “I’m sorry to say the patient O’Brien died earlier this evening.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Not everyone had Internet service, so the musicians of Harmonium relied upon a traditional phone tree to contact each other in the event of a crisis or a breakthrough in the contract negotiations. Each of the eight members of the orchestra committee called four other musicians, who would in turn call two others. The message the musicians were accustomed to hearing at the eleventh hour was that after long and intensive bargaining, the orchestra committee and management had come to a tentative agreement, and there would be a ratification meeting scheduled imminently. What they were told this time, though, was more shocking than they could have imagined. As a result, the meeting on Saturday morning at 10 o’clock in the unfinished musicians’ lounge of Harmonium Hall was fully attended. Lawrence Nowitsky, acting chair of the committee, made the announcements.

  Number one: Sherry O’Brien was dead. She had not been able to rally from her extensive self-inflicted wounds. An effort was being made to contact the family in order to arrange a memorial service. Those who might want to participate, either to speak or to perform, perhaps the Adagio from the Samuel Barber String Quartet, should let the committee know.

  Number two: Tiny Parsley had refused an order from Vaclav Herza to fire his brother, Junior, so at Herza’s explicit insistence Adrianne Vickers fired them both for insubordination. According to the terms of the orchestra’s CBA, because Junior was fired for cause, he had no recourse to file a grievance. Tiny, as a member of the staff, had no recourse to begin with. Neither was permitted onto the premises, even to remove his belongings.

  Number three: Within an hour after firing the Parsley brothers, in a maneuver undoubtedly engineered by Herza, Vickers was informed by J. Comstock Brundage that, after a vote of no-confidence by the board of directors, her services as CEO of Harmonium were no longer required. She was offered the choice of being fired or resigning; if she chose the latter she would receive a generous severance package and a positive reference in her future job applications. She chose the latter. Once the ink was dry, Vickers was permitted to remove her personal belongings but not her files.

  Even the Mega-Herzas were outraged by this stunning turn of events. Having lost their committee leader, personnel manager, and CEO in a single Stalinist purge, the equilibrium of the entire organization was shaken to its foundations. Everyone’s career was now in jeopardy, and as they discussed the ramifications of all that had transpired from the moment their music director had imperiously pronounced the winner of the concertmaster audition, their rage coalesced onto the one man in whose hands all power now resided: Vaclav Herza.

  From out of confused, impassioned dialogue, two basic issues arose: one, what to do about the contract negotiations; two, what to do at the opening concert that night to signal the musicians’ discontent and disapproval.

  The union’s attorney, Cy Rosenthal, suggested that with the loss of bargaining leadership on both sides of the table, the musicians propose to the board that they and the symphony society mutually agree to freeze all provisions of the contract until such time that constructive negotiations could resume. If nothing else, that would at least provide chairman of the board J. Comstock Brundage an opportunity to learn something about symphony orchestras while the trustees searched for a new CEO. Rosenthal felt confident that the board would agree to such a proposal.

  Discussion then turned to Herza’s treatment of Sherry O’Brien and the need to convey a unified message of the musicians’ outrage. One possible protest that gained traction was for the musicians to sit on the stage of the new hall on opening night and, in front of the full house, refuse to play as a demonstration of solidarity for Sherry O’Brien and the Parsley brothers, and maybe even for Adrianne Vickers.

  Rosenthal cautioned the musicians that such an action would be a violation of their CBA, which prohibits a work stoppage during the term of the contract, and they could all be legitimately threatened with termination for following through with that plan. He added that, especially after proposing to extend the contract, to violate its very provisions would seem hypocritical.

  There was nothing to prevent individual musicians, however, from calling in sick, Rosenthal suggested. Certainly, everyone felt heartsick over the events. Maybe enough empty chairs would send the same message. Maybe the concert couldn’t go on if enough musicians called in.

  “That’s chicken shit!” shouted Cappy. “I say it’s time we looked Herza in the eye as a group! I say we sit there. If some of you can’t take it, go ahead and play. But I say we show we’ve got balls and let the audience decide who’s got the moral high ground.”

  Cappy’s speech was greeted with cheering and applause, including Beanie’s unprecedented agreement. Nowitsky asked Cappy if he would like to reword the the statement in the form of a motion. Rosenthal suggested that, as the action was to be based upon each individual’s conscience, no motion or vote was required. In fact, he warned against one. The union should not and would not dictate to the musicians as a bargaining unit a means of violating a legally binding contract. Each musician was on his own, followed by the dictates of his conscience. Nowitsky, as a personal gesture, said he would refuse to sit in the first chair, that it should remain vacant to honor the memory of Scheherazade O’Brien. Again the musicians applauded. Nowitsky called for a motion to adjourn, which was made and seconded, voted upon, and passed unanimously.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Nathaniel, unaware of the death of Scheherazade O’Brien, continued his investigation. He had less trouble finding Victor Geitz than he had Petru Mih
aescu. After awakening in a hastily booked bed-and-breakfast not far off the square, Nathaniel called Jan Hus. When Hus professed to have no idea how to find Geitz—“What do you think I am, a…”—Nathaniel asked for the address where the old clarinetist’s pension checks were sent.

  Later that morning he arrived at the Prague City Home for Convalescents, an unprepossessing late-nineteenth-century brick edifice that, before being converted into its present incarnation with fire escapes as prominent as flying buttresses, might once have had some charm.

  Nathaniel stopped at the unattended reception counter and tapped the little service bell. After a few minutes, a very broad, austere woman—the word “matron” immediately entered Nathaniel’s mind—wearing a white uniform and an old-fashioned nurse’s cap approached the counter from the other side. She gazed at him from head to foot, sizing him up.

  “Good morning,” she said in English. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Victor Geitz,” Nathaniel said. “I’d like to talk to him.”

  When she looked at him questioningly, he added, “Only a few minutes.”

  “That is not the problem,” said the woman. “You obviously do not know him. Mr. Geitz does not understand English.”

  “Oh. How thoughtless of me not to have assumed that,” Nathaniel apologized.

  “Perhaps I can help you,” said the woman. “Please tell me the nature of your visitation.”

  Nathaniel explained that he was writing a book about Vaclav Herza and wanted to get a firsthand account from someone who’d actually played with Herza before he left the country.

  “I will accompany you,” said the woman. “Visitors are required to have supervision in any case. I am Martina. Follow me.” Nathaniel caught himself from saluting and saying, “Aye, aye, sir.” She pressed a buzzer and lifted up a hinged section of the counter to grant Nathaniel access.

  He followed Martina up a wide, sweeping staircase to the second floor, which she called the first floor, then up another, this one narrow and rickety, to the top floor. They entered a large sunlit room occupied by a dozen or so pajamaed elderly men and women, some engaged in quiet activities, others by their own unfathomable thoughts. A few sat in cushioned love seats or in wheelchairs, reading newspapers or magazines. Others maneuvered in walkers with oxygen tanks attached. Two men sat at a table with a pachisi board on it, though neither contestant was moving. No one seemed to take note of Nathaniel’s arrival.

  Martina pointed to a skinny man lost in baggy striped pajamas, sitting in a plain wooden chair and gazing through one of the large sealed windows upon the inaccessible outside world. Nathaniel could see only the back of the old man’s head, his thin white hair combed as well as could be hoped for over a multitude of age spots.

  “Victor,” Martina said with quiet authority, then continued in Czech.

  Geitz responded by tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair.

  “I told him he has a guest,” said Martina. “He will see you, but he tires easily, so try not to exhaust him. Five minutes.”

  They arranged their chairs in front of the window so that Geitz could see them. “V. Geitz” was embroidered on the old man’s pajama pocket. Martina took his hand in hers and explained to him the unlikely presence of the big, black American who was here to visit him.

  Geitz immediately became highly animated, talking in a rush, and clutched at Nathaniel’s hand. Nathaniel feared the man was babbling.

  Martina smiled. “Victor is excited. He says this is the first time in twenty years someone has asked him about his music. He says that Vaclav Herza was the greatest of all conductors, that the years he played with him, music was raised to the highest level. He was very sad when Herza left the country. He says he felt abandoned—as if someone had taken a part of his soul.”

  Nathaniel said, “Please ask if he knows why Herza left.”

  “To flee the Communists—he means the Russians,” Martina said. Nathaniel could tell from Geitz’s tone, if not the words, that he assumed this to be common knowledge.

  “I heard rumors that Herza was a collaborator,” said Nathaniel.

  Martina relayed the statement to Geitz, hoping that Martina translated with the subtlety he intended.

  At first Geitz played possum, pretending to contemplate his navel, but Martina gave his hand a squeeze and repeated the question.

  Geitz’s response was dismissive.

  “Victor says everyone was like that. It all depended on which way the wind was blowing, and the wind was blowing in all directions at the same time. If there was someone you didn’t like, he was a collaborator. If you liked the Soviets, he was a hero. The only ones who didn’t blow with the wind were Dubček in ’68 and Václav Havel.”

  “How did Herza treat the musicians?” asked Nathaniel.

  When he heard the question in Czech, Geitz began to laugh with a wheeze that reminded Nathaniel of Jacobus, except it was about two octaves higher, like air squeezed out of a balloon.

  “Victor says Herza was a real tyrant, especially for such a young man. The orchestra was much more frightened of him than of the Russians. Herza believed that if you wilted under his reign of terror then you were no real musician.”

  “How did he treat the women in the orchestra?”

  Geitz looked confused.

  “What women?” Martina translated.

  “Does Mr. Geitz remember a colleague, a trumpet player, named Klaus Jürgens?”

  Geitz spoke for some time, interjecting a light cackle here and there.

  “Victor says that Jürgens was one of the great trumpeters of Central Europe, but then he began to drink a lot—Victor says like all brass players—and his playing descended. Jürgens was given special treatment by Herza—and by this I think Victor means harsh treatment—but not only did Jürgens maintain his individuality as a musician, he made much effort to organize the musicians into a union, and that was not tolerated by Herza.”

  Nathaniel noticed that Geitz had begun to slump, and the grip on Martina’s hand had slackened.

  Martina said, “It is time we go now. Victor is tired.”

  “Just one more question please. Please ask Mr. Geitz if he knows where I can find Klaus Jürgens. Did Herza fire him, or did he retire, or go to another orchestra after Sinfonia Prague?”

  Martina had to whisper into Geitz’s ear. The response was sluggish. Martina repeated the question. Was his nod an affirmation, or was he falling asleep?

  “Victor says, you can find Klaus Jürgens at the bottom of the Moldau. He fell over the Charles Bridge two weeks before Vaclav Herza left Prague.”

  * * *

  Nathaniel, panting, tried to maintain the pace set by Elena Garnisova’s bun of white hair as they ascended the steep slope.

  After his meeting with Geitz, Nathaniel had returned to Pravo, not to research more news articles about Herza but to find the obituary of Klaus Jürgens. Garnisova translated it for him. For someone who had been an important musician, it was surprisingly curt. A single paragraph recounted Jürgens’s career, culminating in his long tenure as principal trumpeter of Sinfonia Prague. It also briefly touched on his efforts, during the era that Czechoslovakia was a Soviet puppet, to attain “dignity for working musicians and security for their families.” With academic dryness wanting in detail, the obituary referred to his death only as a tragic accident that occurred late at night as Jürgens returned home from an evening of labor organizing.

  Listed were his survivors: his wife and daughter, Eliska and Katerina, respectively, along with their address. Elena looked in the phone book for both, but there was nothing. After all, forty years had passed. This was not unexpected.

  Closing the phone book, Garnisova said, “So, we go to the address and see what we will see.”

  Nathaniel said she needn’t go to the trouble.

  “Trouble?” she responded. “Am I not a newspaper reporter? This is my job. And would you know how to get to this address on your own? And if you are lucky eno
ugh to find it, then what will you say?” She wrapped a maroon shawl around the shoulders of her gray shin-length dress and said, “Let’s go.”

  So now they were on the outskirts of the city, in a neighborhood—if it could be called that—of eight-story soulless concrete apartment blocks that looked like it had been thrown together by the Soviets in one week in the 1930s. If the central square of Prague exuded humanity’s artistic soul, then this charmless appendage of the city, only a few miles distant, expressed how that soul could be thoroughly withered. An oppressive vortex seemed to have sapped light from the sky; the only color in sight was the laundry, hung limply on lines between buildings. Not a tree stood, at least not a living one. There was no apparent reason for the small balconies outside some of the apartments—the only feature of the buildings that was not exclusively utilitarian—except to provide a view of other apartments.

  By the time Nathaniel lumbered up to the front door, Garnisova had already entered and examined the directory. There was no one named Jürgens in the building, but Garnisova pressed the buzzer of the apartment number listed in the obituary anyway. There followed a brief exchange. It didn’t require a knowledge of Czech for Nathaniel to understand the female tenant’s tetchy response to being disturbed.

  “It seems,” Garnisova said, “that the current inhabitant has never heard of anyone named Jürgens. I propose we return to the office and examine census data. We shall also research later obituaries for the wife and daughter.”

  Nathaniel could not think of a better alternative. They turned their back on the building and had taken only a few steps when a brick landed at their feet.

  Turning around, Nathaniel saw an old, barrel-chested man with suspenders and a white wife-beater T-shirt shouting at them from his second-floor balcony. He was red-faced with a heavy, Stalin mustache and a bushy ring of gray hair encircling the top of a shiny bald head, like an egg in a nest. And he was aiming another brick at them.

  Garnisova scolded him harshly. Whatever it was she said, he held his fire. A momentary truce.