Death and the Maiden Read online

  “I know! I know, Jake. But it’s in our contract. It’s opening our season and we’re getting a lot of positive media attention, which, with the lawsuit coming to a head, has been in short supply lately. We have to do it. Plus, Sheila managed to get us a very generous fee. Anyway, it’s time to catch the train.”

  Jacobus felt Yumi entwine her arm in his, remove Trotsky’s leash from his hand, and hustle him toward the station. These days Jacobus walked with a cane, the result not so much of his blindness but of the arthritis that had encroached upon his left hip and, to his dismay, was starting to spread to his hands. Their plodding progress was a boon to Trotsky, who, unaccustomed to the olfactory allure of the big city, took advantage of the leisurely pace to drag Yumi to every signpost, fire hydrant, and sidewalk-encircled tree for a thoughtfully considered inhalation and unerringly aimed whiz.

  The trio’s serpentine path into the station resulted in some unsympathetic jostling from impatient commuters, exacerbating Jacobus’s darkening mood. He had hoped that he had taught Yumi not only how to play the violin but also to put musical considerations above all others, especially money. Her ability to navigate around her professional obstacles seemed as tortuous as the route they had just taken to the ticket counter, where she purchased two round-trips to Uniondale.

  About to lecture her in no uncertain terms, he heard a whimper at his feet. He took the cue and dropped the remainder of his hot dog to the ground, whereupon the whimpering instantly became a squeal, then a slurp as Trotsky swallowed it whole.

  Jacobus decided to drop the money issue. Yumi was stuck in a difficult situation with her quartet being sued and Kortovsky AWOL. None of it was of her doing and besides, he thought charitably, if Short won his lawsuit she might desperately need the cash.

  Yumi guided Jacobus down a short flight of concrete steps. He heard the change in acoustics and the idling of engines as they approached the tracks.

  “Here we are at the track,” Yumi said. Jacobus started to move but Yumi pulled him back. “The train’s not loading yet.

  “Sheila says not to tell anybody that we don’t know where Aaron is. Just to say he’s not available. We’ve done the Schubert so many times. We could rehearse, the three of us, until Aaron shows up, because with the dancers and technicians it’s mainly logistics. They really don’t need the whole music. Better yet, we could get a sub in the meantime. Just temporarily. Sheila said she’d try to find someone.”

  “Who’s both available and good enough? Good luck.”

  The doors of the train opened, only five minutes late. Jacobus found the handrail into the car and began to drag Trotsky, who for some reason sensed the three steps up into the train were the entrance to doggy Inferno and began to pull Jacobus in the opposite direction. Even being choked to death by the collar tightening around his neck did not seem to be adequate incentive to persuade Trotsky to change his mind.

  “That a pet you’ve got, sir?” came the authoritative voice of a female conductor.

  “No, it’s my Great Aunt Lola,” said Jacobus. “We’re going out to the Island for her sister’s funeral.”

  “No pets allowed on the LIRR, sir,” said the conductor.

  Jacobus heard Yumi grunt and suddenly felt Trotsky’s center of gravity surge forward toward his barrel chest. She must have slid her arms under Trotsky’s belly and with all her strength lifted his hind legs. Jacobus yanked and the two of them were able to haul him into the train.

  “Seeing Eye,” Yumi said to the conductor in as pitying a voice as she could muster.

  “A bulldog?” asked the conductor in disbelief.

  “They gave me a bulldog?” wailed Jacobus. He flailed aimlessly with his free hand. “Blind as a bat I am, ma’am.”

  “Well, welcome aboard, then,” said the conductor, though Jacobus was fairly certain he heard a note of suspicion in her voice.

  “I think Trotsky’s cute,” said Yumi once they had found a seat, “in a bizarre, surreal kind of way, maybe. Why was he named Trotsky? After the Russian revolutionary?”

  “Nah,” said Jacobus who, like his dog, was still panting. “He was named Trotsky because he can’t runsky.”

  * * *

  The train pulled out of the station in fits and starts, as did Jacobus’s heart. He would never admit to Yumi that their just concluded exertion came close to killing him. Echoes of “Death and the Maiden” from yesterday’s lesson rekindled thoughts of mortality that he seemed less and less able to extinguish no matter how thoroughly he tried to douse them. He felt an increasingly urgent need to transfer his knowledge, his very identity, to the future, to Yumi, so that the past, everything from Schubert to life’s most trivial details—his “legacy,” he would call it if his existence had been of any significance—would not disappear. It was under the latter category, the trivial details, that the night before, after they had all retired, he had prepared a little “gift” for Yumi.

  “Got something for you,” he said, removing a petite unwrapped white box, slightly larger than a jewel box for a ring, from his coat pocket.

  “Jake!” exclaimed Yumi. “It’s so unlike you to give me a present.”

  Jacobus grunted.

  “I mean,” she said, putting her connotation in a more positive light, as she had intended, “what have I done to deserve a gift?”

  “Well, didn’t you bring me the wind-up sushi toy from Japan, and the Suntory whiskey from Max Furukawa, and the irises from your grandmother? You Japanese, you’ve got a thing about exchanging gifts. So I got this from Dedubian for you.” Amid the swaying and joggling of the train car, he cupped the box protectively in both hands as if sheltering a baby bird fallen from its nest. “He doesn’t just sell violins, you know. He also trades in musical reliquaries, shall we say.”

  “Reliquaries?”

  “Well, maybe ‘relics’ is the better word. Like the little chopped-up pieces of saints they keep in churches. Except Boris does musicians.”

  “So what’s in the box, then?”

  Jacobus gleefully detected growing unease in Yumi’s voice, and it wasn’t the result of the bumpy train.

  Jacobus leaned in, so no one else in the train would be privy to his treasure. “Paganini’s finger!” he whispered. “Dedubian guaranteed its authenticity. Gave me a great deal. You have any idea how much these things are worth?”

  “No!” said Yumi. “Jake, you’re teasing me.”

  “Open the box if you don’t believe me,” said Jacobus, sounding offended. “Or don’t you want it?” He held both hands out to Yumi, bestowing his priceless treasure upon her. Gingerly, she removed the lid from the box and found herself peering at a wizened finger nestled in a bed of cotton discolored by reddish-brown disinfectant. She recoiled in horror.

  “Oh, my God!” she shouted. “It’s a finger!”

  “Shh! Shh!” whispered Jacobus, loud enough for anyone in the train to hear. “Of course it’s a finger. I told you. Paganini’s finger. Now touch it. It’ll bring you good luck. The lawsuit will go away. Kortovsky will show up. That’s what these things are for. Go ahead. Touch it!”

  “You must be kidding me,” said Yumi.

  “And I thought you were a brave one.”

  He knew Yumi would never retreat before a direct challenge. He heard her breathe deeply. Several times. He continued to proffer the box, cradled in his hands, arms extended to her in supplication. Finally, she said, “Okay, Jake. I’m ready. You’re sure it’s all right, then?”

  “What do you think, it’s going to jump up and poke you in the schnoz?”

  With great reluctance, Yumi extended her right index finger to touch its counterpart in the box. Upon making contact, Paganini’s finger jumped to life and began wriggling and writhing. Yumi screamed, Trotsky barked, and Jacobus cackled in delight, pulling his finger out from the hole in the bottom of the box. Tears streamed down both of their faces, but for different reasons.

  “Jake, how could you?” Yumi punched him in the shoulder. “I hate you!�
��

  Jacobus’s laughter turned to wheezing, and it was only after several minutes that he finally was able to mouth an apology.

  “Had to do it. It was a trick”—wheeze—“my brother Eli pulled on me when I was a kid. All my life I’ve been waiting to do it to someone else. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but it’s a good one, don’t you think?”

  “I think you’re a doddering, nasty old man,” said Yumi. “But, yes, I suppose it’s a good one.”

  “I agree with both of your opinions,” said Jacobus. He spent the rest of the train ride teaching Yumi his boyhood songs, doing his best to make sure Yumi would never again say “I hate you” to him, even in jest.

  FIVE

  In the previous year, Cy Rosenthal’s burgeoning law firm, Palmese, Leibowitz, and O’Neil, or PLO, as their adversaries called it, had moved from the increasingly dilapidated center of town to the ground floor of a shiny new three-story office complex in a trendy new minimall off Hempstead Turnpike. Inspired by their eminent neighbor, the stores bookending the law office—a deli on the left and an art supply store on the right—named themselves Cut the Baloney and I Been Framed, respectively. The firm maintained friendly reciprocal business arrangements with the two stores, hanging cut-rate but tastefully framed reprints of Chagall and Monet on its walls. And it was a tongue and Swiss (thinly sliced) on pumpernickel with a sour pickle on the side from Cut the Baloney that now lay on a sheet of waxed paper on Jacobus’s lap as he sat in the corner listening to the ongoing discussion. That he was permitted to attend the meeting was in itself the outcome of arduous negotiation.

  Cy Rosenthal was only slightly less surprised and disappointed by Jacobus’s presence than he was by Kortovsky’s absence. The alliance between Rosenthal and Jacobus had been an uneasy one in the Allard murder case—at one point the two geriatrics had engaged in an ineffectual fistfight that left both of them winded if unharmed—and in the present situation Rosenthal expressed the opinion that having Jacobus around would prove to be a distraction and a nuisance. But Yumi had threatened that if he was not permitted to attend the meeting, Rosenthal might as well cancel it because she wouldn’t remain there another minute without him. Rosenthal counterproposed that Jacobus could stay as long as he kept his mouth shut. Jacobus made a last and best offer, arguing that if Rosenthal didn’t want him to talk, he would have to be provided with something to prevent him from doing so. Thus the tongue sandwich, to be paid for by the law firm, to which Rosenthal acceded.

  “I wish I could trade you for Kortovsky,” Rosenthal said to Jacobus after dispatching the office gofer, “because I don’t know how we can come to a resolution with this lawsuit either without his presence, or with yours.” Then, addressing the three members of the New Magini String Quartet who were seated around the circular conference table, he added, “That being said, time is of the essence, and we need to proceed to the extent possible and then interface with Aaron as soon as we can contact him. Are there any objections to moving ahead?”

  “Whatever,” said Annika Haagen. “This is so typical of Aaron. He’ll just have to accept whatever we agree to. After all, it would be three to one.”

  “So tell me, vhat is this deal?” said cellist Pravda Lenskaya. After—how many?—ten years in the U.S., thought Jacobus, she still sounds like she just got off the boat.

  “Let me first summarize for you Short’s stated position, as communicated to me by his lawyer, Lew Carino,” said Rosenthal.

  “Why? Has it changed in last four years?” snorted Lenskaya.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Rosenthal. “I only bring it up to make the comparison with his new proposal. This we’ve known: Short claims that he was unfairly and illegally fired from his position in the Magini String Quartet, which, he claims, used spurious and trumped-up reasons of musical incompatibility in order to dismiss him. Carino further contends the stated incompatibility was actually a subterfuge for the true motivation, a calculated strategy to enhance the marketability of the group by replacing him with a younger, more attractive female.”

  “This is redeekooloos!” said Lenskaya. “I may be woman, and maybe once I was young, but attractive? Ha!”

  Jacobus noted that neither Haagen nor Yumi commented. Was it because there was some truth to Carino’s statement about the quartet’s motives, or awkward politeness at Lenskaya’s self-deprecation? He squirmed in his chair, resisting his natural inclination to speak out. Instead he dropped a few morsels of his tongue sandwich on the floor to keep Trotsky quiet. Rosenthal apparently had witnessed both actions.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Jacobus?” asked Rosenthal. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet. Dog get your tongue?”

  “There’s a fine line between being a good comic and a good lawyer, Rosenthal,” said Jacobus. “Sad to say you’re not close to the line from either direction. Why don’t you just stick to business?”

  “I’ll take that as a no,” said Rosenthal, clearing his throat. “Carino qualified his comments,” he continued, “by stating that his client has no intention of impugning Ms. Shinagawa’s artistry, which, though he believes is of the highest caliber, is irrelevant to his complaint of the unjust and unwarranted action against him. To back up his claim,” Rosenthal went on, “Carino cites a market study done by the quartet’s manager, Sheila Rathman, undertaken at the behest of Aaron and Annika, which concluded that the New Magini String Quartet was lagging in audience appeal to affluent males in the twenty-five-to-thirty-four-year age bracket, and was losing market share for both live performances and recordings, especially live performances, to visually attractive all-female groups like the duo pianists Katia and Marielle Labèque, or the Eroica Trio. And, Carino adds, it is his client’s conviction that the covert long-term plan was to replace Pravda as well with someone more compatible with their marketing objectives.”

  “‘Objectives’?” asked Lenskaya. “I never heard this ‘objectives.’ Vhat is this market study?”

  “It was nothing, Pravda,” said Haagen. “Honestly. It was simply that Crispin became intolerable. He was like a cancer for us. He was always complaining that his ideas about how things should go weren’t being considered. But they were. We just didn’t often agree with him.”

  Jacobus was considering putting Haagen’s comments in the “protest too much” category when Rosenthal interrupted her words and his thoughts.

  “That’s easy to say but more difficult to prove. The question is, are you willing to risk going to court to make your case?”

  “Why wasn’t I told about this market study?” Yumi quietly interrupted.

  “Because you weren’t a member of the quartet when it was done,” said Haagen. Her brusque tone suggested to Jacobus that either she was getting tired of being badgered on the issue or had more of a personal bone to pick with Yumi.

  Haagen caught herself and continued less cattily. “Besides, we didn’t want you to think that you had been selected to replace Crispin for any reason other than that you were the best choice.”

  When Yumi didn’t respond, Rosenthal continued.

  “Let me refresh your memories as to what is on the table right now and then convey to you what Carino says his client is willing to do.

  “Crispin Short is suing for wrongful termination, breach of contract, deprivation of livelihood, slander, emotional distress, punitive damages, and legal fees, of course. If his suit is successful, the quartet would be liable for approximately seven point five million dollars. Since the quartet is a 503(c)(3) nonprofit organization and the four of you act as officers of the board of trustees controlling all of its assets, that money would essentially have to come out of your pockets.”

  “We’ve known this,” said Haagen. “We would lose our homes. Our instruments. Everything.”

  “Reedeekooloos!” echoed Lenskaya. “And vorse than money, we lose reputation. And when we lose reputation, we lose future, then no more money.”

  “What is the proposal?” Yumi asked quietly.

  �
�I’ll skip the legalese,” said Rosenthal, “but essentially Short will drop the suit entirely, excluding legal fees, if he is promptly reinstated.”

  Jacobus heard Yumi’s quick intake of breath.

  “Yumi would lose her job,” said Haagen.

  “That’s for all of you to decide,” said Rosenthal. “I’m just the messenger.”

  “Excuse me, Counselor,” said Jacobus, swallowing the last bite of his sandwich. “Mind if I say something before all of you devour each other?”

  “We had a deal, Jacobus,” said Rosenthal. “You butt out.”

  “Has my presence been a distraction or a nuisance?”

  “No.”

  “Have I kept my mouth shut?”

  “For the most part, yes.”

  “So I’ve kept my end of the bargain, and now it’s my turn. There’s one little item you’re forgetting about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Kortovsky. Even if all three of you charming young ladies decide on a response to Carino’s proposal, without Kortovsky—who I assume is not only the first violinist but the president of the board as well—it can’t be legally binding. If Carino’s a good lawyer, he would never go along with it unless it was airtight. And if Yumi were so greedy as to insist on keeping her well-earned job, then the vote would be two to two. Am I right, Counselor?”

  “So what is it you’re suggesting, Jacobus?”

  “How prompt is ‘prompt’? When does Carino need to know?”

  “By Thursday, the day of the Schubert performance.”

  “Thursday!” exclaimed Lenskaya. “Three days? That’s all?”

  “That’s the offer,” said Rosenthal. “The quartet must agree to reinstate Short so he can play that engagement. It apparently is important to him. I can’t tell you all of my negotiations with Carino, but that was the one item he said Short wouldn’t budge on.”

  “So I would say it behooves you,” responded Jacobus, “to find Mr. Kortovsky. Put the word out. Call the cops. Whatever. But you better do it toot sweet.”