death and transfiguration; a daniel jacobus novel

7/31/2019 Death and Transfiguration; A Daniel Jacobus Novel

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events

portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination orare used fictitiously.

death and transfiguration.Copyright 2012 by Gerald Elias. All rights

reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address

St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

ww w.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Elias, Gerald.

Death and transfiguration : a Daniel Jacobus novel / Gerald Elias. 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-312-67835-7 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-250-01480-1 (e-book)

1. Violin teachersFiction. 2. Conductors (Music)Fiction. I. Title.

PS3605.L389D44 2012

813'.6dc23

2012005488

First Edition: June 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1


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one

thursda y

It even felt like a Thursday. Days of the week, mused Jacobus, are

like keys in music, each possessing a distinct personality. Thursday.

Thursday, he considered, that would be B-flat major. Not brilliant

like A major, not friendly like G major, not even the nestled warmth

of F major. Certainly not morbid, like G minor, the key of the Devils

Trill Sonata, Danse Macabre,and the slow movement of Death and the Maiden.

What day would G minor be? Not Thursday. Thursday didnt feel

like death, at least not any more than usual. Jacobus didnt know it

for a fact, but he would have bet the Spanish Inquisition did not start

on a Thursday. Thursday. Just . . . B-flat. It didnt matter whetherthe summer heat was melting the tar on Route 41 or you were freezing

your ass off going outside for firewood on a frigid February night, you

can always tell when its a Thursday. Todays steamy, mildew-inducing

drizzle had been no exception. At least until the phone call.

The summer morning had started out the same as the others

for the past week. Jacobus, sweat dripping down his back, twiddled

the pawn between his thumb and fingers. It was the one piece on

the board that hadnt started to gather dust, because every day since

Nathaniel had left for Europe, Jacobus had been twiddling that


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8 Gerald Elias

insignificant chunk of wood as if that action alone might somehow

divulge how it was he had managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of

victory.

To be brought down by a lowly pawn! Once again Jacobus felt its

pedestrian curves and grooves, no different from any other pawn. To

have allowed Nathaniel to queen a pawn, exposing his own king,

rendering it helpless and defenseless! In a breathtaking turn of

events he had resigned in ignominy. Yeah, he thought, I could have

taken the pawn with my queen, but then she would have been capturedby his knight, and the game would be over in three more moves. Four

at the most. It wasnt that Jacobus minded losingactually, he did

mind, terriblyit was the humiliation of so precipitous a demise

that Nathaniel had even refrained from gloatingat least verbally,

but who knew if he was silently smirking?no easy task for someone

who had oft been the object of Jacobuss unrestrained victory celebra-

tions.

Jacobus refused to use his blindness as an excuse for not seeing

the impending disaster. Though they used black and white pieces for

Nathaniels benefit, they used pieces from separate sets of different

size so that Jacobus could always tell which were his when feeling the

board. They never bothered with the chess players rarefied vocabu-

lary, black Q4 to white K5, or whatever terminology it was they used.Rather, Nathaniel would say, Just moved my bishop three spaces toward

the kitchen, which was a lot easier for Jacobus to remember. Neverthe-

less, Nathaniels minuscule white pawn had leveled his oversized black

king. An ironic twist here, thought Jacobus, considering their respec-

tive skin colors and sizes.

Jacobus mentally reenacted each move, trying to ascertain what he

could have done differently. Every one had seemed so well reasoned,

so well calculated, taking into account his overall strategy amid the

local skirmishes, the majority of which he had won. Yet somehow,


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Death and Transfiguration 9

unbelievably, Nathaniel had managed to navigate his pawn all the way

through to his end of the board. Though consumed with self-loathing

for his failure, Jacobus mused upon the miraculous metamorphosis of

the pawn: A dispensable, almost worthless foot soldier, finding itself

in the right spot at the right time, becomes, by some mysterious alchemy,

a queen, the ultimate power broker. It made no sense. What anonymous

medieval chess master had come up with that rule? It was stupid, Jacobus

concluded, because it simply never happens in reality. GIs dont become

Jackie Kennedy, and she wasnt even a real queen. It was the only rule inchess he could think of, in fact, that didnt have its reflection in the real

world.

The brittle ring of Jacobuss ancient black rotary phone shocked

him out of his petulant reflections. He hadnt gotten a call in days, and

that last one was a wrong number asking for the Williamsville Inn.

When Nathaniel left for Europe, Jacobus pulled the plug on the an-

swering machine that his friend had imposed upon him. He had told

Nathaniel that an answering machine was worthless because even if

he received any messages he wouldnt answer them, but just to humor

him he let Nathaniel install it. Now it was uninstalled.

Jacobus reached for the phone. Yeah? he said, annoyed at being

disturbed in the middle of self-flagellation.

Dr. Jacobus?Theres no Dr. Jacobus here, he said and hung up.

Bored with flogging himself over the pawn-cum-queen, with his

right foot he located his cane on the floor beside his chair, retrieved

it, and poked his way into the kitchen. The path was so familiar from

the pattern of grudging creaks in the worn pine floorboards that he

could easily have navigated with his ears alone. Jacobus needed the

cane, however, for other purposes.

Sitting on the kitchen counter next to his empty mug, the twenty-

four-ounce one with the Caffi ends logo that Yumi had given him,


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10 Gerald Elias

was a single-burner electric hot plate. He turned the dial, listening

for the click to know it was on, until he could feel the little pointer

positioned at two oclock. If he turned it to three oclock it would boil

the water faster, but it would short out his antediluvian fuse in the

basement, and that was a pain in the ass to replace. Next he turned

on the faucet and filled the mug, sticking his finger in it to know

when the water had reached the top. Then he poured the water into a

teakettle that he had owned longer than he could remember, and set

it on the hot plate. He opened the cupboard above the counter, andusing the point of his cane, felt for the two-pound can of Folgers

instant coffee among the other cans, all of which he could identify by

their shape and/or size. He would have preferred to keep the cans on

the counter so he wouldnt have to reach for them, but they attracted

mice, even with their lids on. The mice scared his gargantuan bull-

dog, Trotsky, which Jacobus couldnt care less about, but he did care

that they would shit all over his kitchen. He used to keep peanut

butterbaited traps on the floor, but the dog had found the treat

irresistible, and with a brain capacity inversely proportional to his

stomachs, was unable to make the cause-and-effect connection between

licking the peanut butter and the intense pain on his tongue that inevi-

tably followed immediately thereafter. So now Jacobus kept the cans

in the cupboards.He maneuvered the can with his cane, and when it was an inch

over the edge of the shelf, deftly flicked it off and caught it in his left

hand. He did the same exercise with a plastic jar of sugar. By the time

he had emptied three teaspoons of coffee and one of sugar in his mug

with the spoon he kept in the can, the water was boiling, which he

could tell from the foghornlike moan the kettle gave off. He touched

the spout of the kettle to the lip of the mug so it wouldnt spill, and

poured.


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While the coffee cooled enough so he wouldnt burn his tongue off,

he yanked open the recalcitrant door of the refrigeratorperhaps

the last of its species, which needed defrosting, though he never

botheredand inhaled deeply. The sound of the door opening was

followed by the predictable clattering of Trotskys claws as he skidded

around the corner into the kitchen.

Slim pickings. Jacobus fondled a half-empty bag of Litl Smokies

smoked sausages and put that back. He felt an onion whose soft spot

had grown alarmingly since yesterday, and backed away from anopen can of sardines. He took one sniff of a prehistoric chunk of

liverwurst and with heavy ambivalence let it drop from his hand,

assured that before it hit the ground Trotsky would catch it in his

gaping maw, swallow it, and beg for more. All that remained were

condiments of an undefined nature and an open bottle of Rolling

Rock. Unbidden came Jacobuss recollection of the few days he had

spent at the home of Yumis grandmother, Cato Hashimoto, aka Kate

Padgett, in her mountain home in Japan, and of the profusion of

delicacies that had been assembled before him, one after another, for

his alimentary consideration.

Jacobus brusquely banished that thought from his mind, and, sup-

planting it with serious consideration of the Rolling Rock, calculated

whether it was the appropriate time of day for a beer.The phone rang again. He pulled his handkerchief out of his back

pocket and wiped the sweat off his head. After the fifteenth ring he

decided that his sanity was worth more than his privacy.

Yeah?

MisterJacobus?

Yeah.

This is Sherry OBrien.

So?


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12 Gerald Elias

Im the acting concertmaster of Harmonium.

As opposed to the juggling concertmaster?

I was wondering if I could come play for you.

Why?

Im auditioning for the permanent concertmaster position in a

few days, and youve come highly recommended. The orchestras here

at Tanglewood for the week and since youre nearby I thought, well, I

thought Id give you a try. Im happy to pay whatever your fee is.

Jacobus considered his schedule. In the afternoon, his former stu-dent and surrogate daughter, Yumi Shinagawa, was going to play for

him in preparation for the same audition. When was the last time he

had seen Yumi? He couldnt remember. Almost a year? Tomorrow he

had nothing. The day after that he had nothing. The day after that . . .

Actually, his calendar was clear for the rest of his life, however long or

short that would last.

Im very busy, he said.

Im sure you are, she pursued, but I was really hoping . . .

He didnt hang up but let the silence linger.

Maybe tomorrow afternoon? she continued, picking up her own

thread.

When? he asked.

Today and tomorrow we have morning rehearsals at ten. Wouldone oclock be okay?

You know how to get here?

Ive got GPS.

Then maybe you should have that treated first.

And your fee?

Incalculable.

Jacobus hung up.

From what OBrien said, Jacobus figured it must now be about

9:30 a.m.He removed the Rolling Rock from the fridge, chugged it,


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and took his coffee to the rusty iron lawn chair that had once been

painted green that sat in front of his house, wondering along the way

why the acting concertmaster of the worlds most famous orchestra

would ask for a lesson from a total stranger three days before an audi-

tion. And why Thursday suddenly felt like G minor.

t wo

He met Yumi in front of his house.

I brought you a care package from the city, she announced, emerging

from her car. Carnegie Deli pastrami, corned beef, chopped liver

Beware of grease-bearing gifts, he said, unable to quell his sense

of foreboding from OBriens call.

Jake, I think youre getting overly suspicious in your old age,

Yumi said, pretending to sound hurt. Maybe youve been involved in

one too many murders.

Then what gives, may I ask?

Its been almost a year since I saw you in New York, and I figured

you might be getting a little tired of the local organic kale you love

so much here in the Berkshires. I also brought some tongue, Swisscheese, and mustard, and rye bread, and half-sour and sour pickles,

and pickled tomatoes.

Have I ever told you you were the best student I ever had?

No.

Good. You shouldnt have a swelled head.

Ill just put it all in the fridge. Is it still running?

Hobbling is more like it. Ol Bessie is a designated Superfund site.

Jacobus hollered in the direction of Yumis footsteps. And dont let

Trotsky eat any of it!


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14 Gerald Elias

Worry not. I brought him a doggy treat from Bone Apptit.

It struck Jacobus that Yumis Japanese accent and manner of speak-

ing, tinged with her English grandmothers inflection and grammar,

had over the years become almost thoroughly Americanized. A re-

flection of her responsive ear, no doubt. But he also observed that

whatever she might be losing of her childhood speech patterns was

being replenished with Grannys maturity, becoming more like her by

the day. Her talent, her perceptiveness, kindness, tenacity. Her sense

of humor. Her general brilliance. Yet Jacobus had shunned Katewhen the promise of a happy future presented itself. Why had he

done that? he asked himself, and though he knew the answer, he de-

nied knowing it. He would prefer living and dying miserable and

unloved than admit the source of his pain.

Jacobus followed Yumi back into the house. He jerked at the door

a few times to try closing it behind him, its hinges bent askew by

Trotskys joyfully misguided efforts to greet visitors by running

through the screen. A few miles down the road, the Condos at Elk

Meadow had been built for summer hordes of New Yorkers. That it

was neither a meadow nor had there been an elk spotted in the area

since before Cotton Mather preached to the Puritans hadnt dimin-

ished the demand for the homes, which had resulted in a property

tax increase on Jacobuss humble cottage, magically now worth sub-stantially more than the sum of its mildewed parts. The town tax as-

sessor had summarily dismissed his reasoned argument that naming

his house the Hovel at Slug Haven should result in a tax reduction.

By lifting the handle and leaning against the screen door, Jacobus

closed it as well as he could, hoping to keep the flies and mosquitoes

out. While Yumi was in the kitchen, voicing expressions of revulsion

in both English and Japanese as she exhumed the malodorous contents

of his shuddering refrigerator, he took his seat in the dilapidated

Naugahyde swivel chair in the living room that also served as his


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teaching studio. The room had changed little in aspect over the years,

except that the dust, which had settled over a surreal landscape of

music, books, and recordings strewn in disheveled piles on the floor

and every other horizontal surface, had grown into uniform three-

dimensional fuzz.

So youre sure you want to play in an orchestra? Jacobus asked

Yumi after she had finished unpacking the food and then her violin.

You know, you wont have any artistic autonomy. You play a lot of

crap by de-composers that would have been better unwritten, andhave no choice in the matter. Youve got a bunch of bored colleagues

sitting behind you waiting to stab you in the back. Its an endless

grind that never pays as much as its worth. Everyone ends up with

aches and pains, if not chronic injuries, from overplaying. You have

to deal with managements that are usually trying to screw the musi-

cians out of this or that in their contract. And last but not least,

youve got guys like Vaclav Herza who can be bastards even if theyre

geniuses, which theyre usually not.

Thanks for painting such a sunny picture, Jake, said Yumi,

tuning her violin. Youve really given me motivation.

Hey, look before you leap, honey. Buyer beware. Say you win the job

and then hate it. I dont want you to come crying that I hadnt told you so.

Well, I have to admit that if I still had a steady job I wouldnt bedoing this, but since the nightmare with my quartet last year its been

tough trying to cobble together enough freelancing and teaching and

also afford my apartment, so the idea of a guaranteed paycheck, with

paid vacation, pension, and health care, sounds pretty appealing at the

momenteven though the rest of it might not be so alluring. Ive never

played in an orchestraat least not since I was in public school in

Japanso this is kind of challenging. And exciting.

Whats on the repertoire list for the audition? Jacobus asked. He

pulled a pack of Camels out of his flannel shirt pocket, congratulating


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16 Gerald Elias

himself that he had refrained from smoking until noonwell, almost

noon.

They want one Romantic concerto and one Mozart, so Im doing

Brahms and Mozart Five. Then therere Mozart symphonies Thirty-

nine and Forty-one, Schubert Two, Beethoven Three and Nine,

Brahms Four, the Mendelssohn Scherzo from Midsummer Nights Dream,the

Scherzo from Schumann Two, Berlioz Symphonie Fantastique, Prokofiev

Five, and the solos from Bachs St. Matthew Passion,Brahms One, Rimsky-

Korsakovs Scheherazade,Strausss Ein Heldenleben,Mahler Four, and Shosta-kovich Five. I think thats it. I might have left out a couple things.

How longs the audition? A week? Jacobus asked, lighting up.

Ten to fifteen minutes for the semifinals is my guess. Theyre let-

ting me skip the preliminariesmy performing experience with the

Magini Quartet must have looked good on the rsum. The finalsif

I make it that farI guess will be longer.

How many in the preliminaries?

About eighty applied is what I heard.

Eighty, mulled Jacobus, blowing what he hoped would look like

smoke rings. Why so few?

I think because its a concertmaster audition they tried to sepa-

rate the wheat from the chaff and discouraged a lot of less experi-

enced people from attending. Still, the audition committee will belistening to preliminaries at least all day Monday.

Will Herza be there for all of that?

Just for the finals is what I was told.

Thats par for the course. In the old days the conductor could hire

anyone he wanted, especially concertmaster, because hes his right-

hand man. Now youre lucky they show up at all, but Herzas reputation

is that he wants the best, and over the years hes gotten what he wants.

Im getting nervous just talking about it. Maybe I should do some

playing before I get cold feet.


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death and transfiguration; a daniel jacobus novel

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