by Gerald Elias
“What did you say?” asked Nathaniel.
“That he was fortunate you don’t understand Czech because you are a former boxing champion and don’t take kindly to racial slurs.”
“Whatever works.”
She began conversing with the old-timer in a stern but less confrontational tone.
“Let’s go up,” she said to Nathaniel. “He wants some company.”
There was a small pot of tea and a large bottle of Becherovka waiting for them. The pot was full, the bottle not nearly so.
The man introduced himself as Jaroslav Svoboda. His domicile was small, tastelessly decorated, dingy, and unkempt but, to Nathaniel, hospitable in an unassuming way. The only art was a severe portrait of the Virgin Mary by the entrance and a calendar over the kitchen table with an action photo of a soccer player on his knees celebrating a goal. Even before he and Garnisova had time to settle into the seats they had been offered, Svoboda was already asking questions.
“He wants to know if you ever fought Muhammad Ali,” said Garnisova.
“You can tell him I used to spar with Joe Frazier, but I broke my hand on Frazier’s jaw and had to retire,” said Nathaniel. He extended a large fist and hoped that Svoboda’s imagination, enhanced by the volume of Becherovka missing from the bottle, would illuminate the nonexistent scars in his dark skin. Svoboda examined Nathaniel’s hand as if it were a church icon and nodded reverently.
Friends now, Garnisova explained why they were there. Though Nathaniel couldn’t understand a word, it sounded similar to what Martina had said to Victor Geitz at the convalescent home.
Svoboda spoke at length, keeping his lips wet with tea and alcohol.
“Eliska Jürgens died years ago,” Svoboda related through Garnisova. “He doesn’t know what happened to Katerina, the daughter. She left right after the mother died. For what it’s worth, he says the daughter was a dog.”
“Can you ask him if he knows anything about the accident surrounding Jürgens’s death?”
Upon hearing the question in his own language, Svoboda’s body began to jiggle. Then his face became even redder and his eyes began to tear. Finally, unable to help himself, he put his head in his hands and, convulsed, emitted loud, unintelligible sounds.
“Is he laughing or crying?” Nathaniel asked Garnisova.
“I don’t know. Let me find out.”
When the shuddering abated, she asked.
“He says if you think it was an accident, then Joe Frazier must have broken your head, too. He says that it was suicide. That everyone knew it was suicide. I will ask him why he’s so sure.”
Several minutes later, after Svoboda spoke in an uninterrupted stream, replete with hand gestures and chest beating, she continued.
“He says that devil, Vaclav Herza—and I’m quoting him here, this is not my personal opinion, necessarily—drove him to it. He knows this because he heard Jürgens and his wife argue about it every night for years. He says look at the dents in his ceiling where he pounded his broom to get them to shut up. Eliska wanted her husband to quit, to go elsewhere, anywhere. She told him Herza was turning him into an alcoholic, into a depressive. Jürgens told his wife he couldn’t live with himself if he gave in, not only for his own pride but for all his colleagues he would be letting down. He said he would die before he would give Herza the satisfaction of seeing him surrender.
“The wife told him she would leave him if he didn’t turn his life around. That every night he would come home from some café drunk—”
“Sonja’s?” asked Nathaniel, recalling Mihaescu’s story.
She asked Svoboda.
“Ja. Sonja,” he said, nodding with a knowing smile.
Garnisova continued. “One night, he didn’t come home. The next morning they found his body floating in the river, a little downstream from the Charles Bridge. He had to cross the bridge to get the bus to go home. It’s a wide bridge. No one could fall off it accidentally. I asked Svoboda if Jürgens might have been drunk. Svoboda said of course he was drunk, but he was always drunk and never fell off the bridge before. The next morning, the wife said to the daughter that she knew he would do it sooner or later.”
“Was there any note?” asked Nathaniel.
Garnisova relayed the question to Svoboda.
Svoboda was indignant in his reply.
“What do you think I am, a busybody?” Garnisova translated.
* * *
The rest of the day proved unproductive. There were no more stories in the archives surrounding the life and death of Klaus Jürgens. If there ever had been a Sonja’s Bar, there wasn’t one now, nor any trace of it in any of the records Garnisova so diligently explored. That night, after all the merchants on the Charles Bridge had closed up their stands and the tourists had left for other diversions, Nathaniel stood alone alongside the railing, looking down into the unfathomable depths of the Moldau. In it, he saw dark reflections of the statues of the saints, a phalanx of holy guardians lining the bridge from one end to the other, who had failed to protect the life of a broken trumpet player.
THIRTY-SIX
Furukawa, scratching his head with indecision in the deserted alley, was startled when someone cleared his throat behind him. He wheeled around to find a rather bland-looking young man with closely cropped hair, wearing a light sport jacket and narrow tie, and standing no farther than an arm’s length from him.
“Who are you?” Furukawa asked, embarrassed at being caught off guard by this unimposing person who could be mistaken for a schoolboy if he carried a knapsack.
“Don’t you recognize me?” asked the young man, trying to hide a smile.
“If I did, I wouldn’t ask you, would I?” said Furukawa, already bruised by a night of impudent behavior.
“I meant no offense,” the young man said, bowing. “My name is Soichi Ono, and I was the geisha in the blue kimono, the one who—”
“You?” Furukawa peered closely at Ono’s face. “Yes, now I recognize you. What do you want, now that you’ve shamed me? Have you come to rob me? Stay away from me, you perverted—”
“I can tell you about Erutsa-sama,” Ono said.
“So, is that it, you want money for information? How do I know you will tell the truth when your entire life is a falsehood?”
“I don’t want any money,” said Ono, his face taut, tears forming in his eyes.
“Then what do you want?” asked Furukawa, repelled by this sniveling hybrid.
“Revenge.”
Furukawa did not know how to respond. What was he getting himself into? What was the extent of his obligation to Jacobus? His feet did not know which direction to take him.
Ono, sensing Furukawa’s ambivalence, continued. “There’s an izakaya that’s still open around the corner. They have good food there. Come with me. You can hear my story. Then you decide.”
Furukawa made a noncommittal grunt and, with their footsteps echoing in the night, followed Ono down the dark street, having no idea where it would lead.
If not for the lit red lantern in front, they would have passed the izakaya had they blinked. They had to lower their heads in order to pass through the tavern entrance made of strings of colored beads. Inside, Furukawa saw two clearly delineated groups who had managed to form an invisible boundary even in the tiny space: on one side, young men who all looked like Ono; grim, heavy-faced street cleaners in their overall uniforms on the other.
“Where would you like to sit?” asked Ono.
Furukawa looked first to his left, then to his right.
“Let’s sit at the counter.”
As far as Furukawa could tell, the squat woman behind the counter, adorned with thick eyeglasses and silver front teeth, was the only employee. She chatted animatedly to herself; Furukawa would have thought her oblivious of their presence had she not tossed hot hand towels and a bowl of pickled vegetables in their general direction.
Ono asked, “What would you like to drink, Furukawa-sensei?”
“I
f you can interrupt her monologue, ask if they have good shochu.”
Ono ordered hot sake for himself and the shochu for Furukawa. Without asking, he also ordered the chicken liver yakitori and agedashi tofu, explaining that they were the specialties of the house. Furukawa grunted in assent. He wasn’t hungry, but it would be good to have something in his stomach with the potent shochu.
The street cleaners at a table to Furukawa’s left, emboldened by bottles of cheap whiskey, had no compunction expressing their opinions of the young men to his right, who seemed accustomed to the verbal abuse and spoke in hushed tones.
“Are those like you?” asked Furukawa, nodding to his right.
“Would you rather I be a street cleaner?” Ono asked.
Their food arrived, served family style in the traditional manner.
“Are you willing to eat out of the same plate,” Ono asked, “or do you find that too distasteful?”
Furukawa looked at the food. “You’re right. The chicken liver looks good. Why not?”
Ono poured the sake from the carafe into a small cup and lifted it.
“Kanpai!”
Furukawa ignored the toast. “What is it you have to say to me?”
Ono quickly drained the cup and a second one before responding.
“Lotus Bud was a friend of mine. His name was Tadamichi Inoue.”
“And a friend of Erutsa-sama, I understand.”
“No, we’re never friends of our clients, even though we make them think so. Erutsa-sama thought Tadamichi loved him.”
“Did Erutsa-sama know that Lotus Bud was a man?”
“Of course.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Tadamichi was an innocent, but he also liked possessions and made the mistake of trying to make money after hours. Whenever Erutsa-sama came to Japan, Tadamichi had visions of new clothes, new jewelry, maybe even a vacation at an onsen on the coast.”
Furukawa sliced a chunk of fried tofu with one of his chopsticks, swirled it in its savory sauce, and looked at it contemplatively before popping it into his mouth. It was better than what he made at home.
“If you were in my business,” Ono continued, “you’d know that people usually aren’t who they seem to be on the outside. Erutsa-sama was no exception. For such a small, weak man, who would guess that he would be such a sumo fan?”
Furukawa let the tofu slide down his throat. “A lot of people are sumo fans. Even women.”
“More than a fan, then. Erutsa-sama’s idea of a date was to take Tadamichi to an abandoned warehouse near the Tsukiji fish market for mock sumo matches.”
“Who were the wrestlers?” Furukawa asked, his interest waxing.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t clear. Erutsa-sama and Tadamichi wrestled each other. Naked, except for their mawashi loincloths, like in real matches. They went through all the motions—throwing the salt, slapping their chests, bowing. There was a regulation circle drawn on the wooden floor. And even though Tadamichi was three hundred pounds lighter than a real sumo wrestler, he was certainly much stronger than Erutsa-sama, who was an even more vile sight without his clothing.”
“So Erutsa-sama was a glutton for punishment? Is that the way it was?”
“No, Tadamichi was told he must never win! He must pretend to try to win, and they must grapple at close quarters, but in the end he must always allow Erutsa-sama to throw him down.
“One night they had had five or six bouts, always with the same result. The warehouse was hot and smelling more than usual of old fish guts. Erutsa-sama was panting for breath but insisted on one more. When the bout began, Erutsa-sama charged with his head down and Tadamichi leaned back to make it easier for Erutsa-sama to push him over, but Erutsa-sama tripped over his own feet and tumbled out of the circle and went sprawling. It was an automatic defeat. It would have been a funny sight if it wasn’t so hideous.
“Tadamichi instantly helped him up and apologized profusely, but Erutsa-sama would have none of it. He slapped Tadamichi across the face over and over again. He drew blood. His own face looked red enough to explode, and he yelled incoherently at Tadamichi as he continued to slap him. Finally he stopped. Maybe he was exhausted. Tadamichi was crying and Erutsa-sama told his assistant to take Tadamichi away. That was the last time anyone ever saw him.”
Furukawa swallowed the last of his shochu and felt its heat flow down his throat. He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief.
“An interesting story,” he said. “But if that’s the last anyone ever heard of your friend, how do you know this happened?”
“Because,” said Ono, “I was the referee.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
If the present was the surface of a Turner sea, Jacobus felt like a diver emerging from the depths of the past. By trying to rise too quickly, the bends had almost killed him, but he had survived and was now bobbing on lightly undulating waves, his head still sinking underwater from time to time. If the sea was his past and the sky his future, he was now able to grasp the continuity between the two that was his life. His sense of disembodiment slowly ebbing, he managed to answer the phone halfway through the second ring.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me, Yumi.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’ve been waiting for a few calls.”
“That’s not like you, waiting by the phone. They must be important. Are you receiving a Good Samaritan award?”
Jacobus smiled. “No, I’m actually hoping for a phone call from Nathaniel, and … some others.”
“Well, I was going to invite you to go to K&J’s. I hear they have a good weekend brunch. All you can eat. Lots of smoked fish. And they serve till noon.”
Jacobus was mildly tempted. Though he couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten, he had little hunger.
“Do I sense an ulterior motive here?” he asked.
“You’re right, as usual. They’ve been pressuring me to take the Harmonium job. They’re offering me lots of money. Four times more than what I made my last year with the quartet. Plus vacation, pension, health, and a concerto with the orchestra every year.”
“Don’t take it.”
“That was easy! Why not?”
“Because if you felt good about it you wouldn’t be asking my opinion. You’re troubled by what happened to Sherry O’Brien, as you should be, though it wasn’t your fault in any way, shape, or form. You feel you’d be a traitor, taking a position away from her that by all rights should have been hers, and for which she’s paid with her own life. You feel that by working for Vaclav Herza, you’d be rewarding him for her death. You think that the musicians will hold you accountable for having cheated your way into the position, which also gutted their limited authority to choose their own concertmaster. Finally, you think if Herza could do something like that to O’Brien, there’s no reason he couldn’t ultimately do it again, to you.”
Jacobus finished his spiel and expected Yumi to respond, but all he heard was silence. Had he said something to offend her? Again?
“You still there?” he asked.
“Jake, you make me cry.”
“Then take the damn job,” he said angrily.
“No, you make me cry because you’ve thought so much about me. I went to that Turner exhibit. What it taught me is that there are forces—forces of nature, spiritual forces—that are so much bigger than us, so much more powerful and magnificent, swirling around us. Those skies and those seas! Humans seem so insignificant and our actions so petty. In the end, the best we can do is act ethically, with honesty and integrity. Is that what you wanted me to see, Jake?”
He had intended for her to see the difference between chamber music and orchestral playing.
“Exactly,” he said.
“And you’re so right. I could never take that job. Thank you. I don’t know if I could ever pay you back.”
“Actually, you could.”
“How?”
“Bring me a bagel an
d lox from K&J’s.”
* * *
The first call he had been waiting for came a little after noon. He let this one ring a few times, hoping not to jinx it.
“It’s Kate,” came the one voice he would have wanted half a world closer.
“Kate. It must be the middle of the night in Japan.”
“You pick these things up so quickly, Jake.”
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I have news from Max.”
“Go ahead.”
Kate related what Max Furukawa had told her about his Tokyo investigation. He had made progress but ultimately came to a dead end.
“He even went to the police,” she said, “but in Japan there must be overwhelming proof for the authorities to arrest someone, let alone convict, and unless there is no other way, they will do anything to avoid an international scandal. Who would they rather protect, an adored, world-famous conductor, or a missing transvestite?”
Geisha boys, thought Jacobus. Naked sumo wrestling. But like everything else, no proof. All hearsay.
“Max should have guessed from the beginning,” Kate said.
“What do you mean? Guessed what?”
“Do you know what cin-cin means, Jake?” she asked.
“It’s Italian. A toast, like ‘cheers.’ That’s the reason for the name of the club, right?”
“That’s just half of it. The name of the club is actually a pun. Do you know what it means in Japanese?”
“Naked sumo wrestling?”
“Not quite. It’s colloquial. Cin-cin means penis, and in a vulgar way, no less. Max thought it referred to the clientele. He never expected it referred to the employees.”
“Shit, he was probably humiliated as hell. There goes another friend.”
“He was concerned you would think that and wanted me to reassure you not to worry. He said he will always be your friend, but…”
“But what?”
“He wants you to know that he has retired from the detective business.”
* * *
The next call came a couple of hours later. Roy Miller skipped the chatty preamble and got right to the matter.