Concerto in dead flat, p.15
Concerto in Dead Flat, page 15
I headed up the aisle instead of down to avoid interfering with people’s line-of-sight and to make myself less visible, not more.
Strategically, I would have preferred the ground floor in order to lessen the chance of Shultz’s escape. But staying high in the dome I afforded myself the advantage of the patrons’ attention being trained downward and away from me. In the uppermost tier, I was able to move freely. Few, if any, would notice me. And I was working under the confidence of experience. For the years of my musical life I had practically lived in such places. Just as he had. I was comfortable with the physical restrictions imposed upon me by such a place, and perhaps even a little more familiar with this side of the stage than even a veteran like Stephan Shultz. Furthermore, I had the warmth of the champagne to thank for an unqualified sense of relaxation and contentment. I was moving smoothly and quietly. I felt suddenly bulletproof.
Buoyed by the knowledge that with a face as familiar as his, he could not escape being recognized without dealing with the public, I felt confident that he would avoid sitting amid the audience. Amid the peons. His recognition factor demanded he find a place to himself or wear a disguise, and his sizeable ego suggested the former. Stephan Shultz’s vanity would not tolerate disguise. He would demand exclusivity. Isolation. A hushed whisper into the ear of the matron at the gate, a small but firm handshake of appreciation, and the hall was his. I focused my attention on the upper reaches to my right, an area blocked off because of the staging of the performance.
Moving quietly through the dark in a building that is over three hundred years old was not, as I discovered, a skill I had yet attained. The Sheldonian was built for, among other things, theater in the round. The upper balcony seating continued fully around the structure, bisected on the far wall by an enormous pipe organ that for the performance served as a backdrop. Seats behind and to the side of the orchestra had been roped off with a braided red cord that ended in gold tassels. I ducked under this meager, and unattended, barrier and slipped quietly into the dark and unoccupied area.
The centuries-old plank flooring creaked beneath me.
It was here in these darkened upper reaches that I expected to find Shultz. The audience to my back and below me, I moved cautiously, exploring each footfall tentatively for complaint. The thought had occurred to me that Stephan Shultz might have brought along his knee-breakers as a precaution. I had no desire to allow a couple of thugs the jump on me. I had met two of them in Paris. I still carried a few bruises.
I edged my way smoothly and silently along, hugging the back wall where I was the least likely to be noticed and where one side of me was protected. With the harmonies of Dvorák wafting into the upper rafters, I moved in a cryptic dance, consumed by melody. The wall curved around the internal perimeter, leading me away from the occupied seats.
Expectation beat strongly in my chest, defying and contracting the musical score. I could not claim any clairvoyance or prescience as my own. If anything, I was naturally inclined toward distrusting any such flashes. And yet on this occasion I knew. Shultz was here. I would find him. If anything was predictable, if anything was familiar to me, it was the behavior of a middle-aged man hopelessly in love.
I spotted a man below me. He was sitting alone, tucked into the darkness, arms raised, a pair of opera glasses trained down. I saw only the shape of him, and yet I knew it was Stephan Shultz. I froze, careful now, like a hunter. I assessed my surroundings, absorbing every nuance, every motion, every sound, alert and alive. I lived for such moments. My senses heightened, the music suddenly louder in my ears, my heart heavy in my chest. I took one tentative step forward, alert and aware of my immediate surroundings. I cocked my head slightly and listened. Again, I paused.
My biggest advantage came from the restrictions enforced upon Shultz’s peripheral vision by his use of the opera glasses, the small black rubber eyepieces cupping his eyes like a horse’s blinders. His focus was also many yards in front of, and below, him, not above and behind. I was too big to come off as an autograph-seeking fan. If he saw me, he was likely to run, or, worse, summon his henchmen, who, if anywhere near, were most likely on the other side of the doorway that led to the stairway and the lower level exit.
I debated waiting him out, using the cover of the audience’s applause to approach, but I feared that with his knowledge of the piece, he might choose to exit a few dozen bars from the finale, forcing me to rush him. An open field tackle in the upper balcony of the Sheldonian, my target one of the most revered conductors in the world, seemed one hell of a bad way to make an introduction. Jail seemed more likely. A fit of panic seized my chest: what the hell was the plan? So close and yet so far.
Stephan Shultz, in the flesh ten yards away, voyeuristically enjoying sight of the lovely Allison Star. And there I was, the Incredible Bulk, lurking in the shadows, ready with a small fortune in royalty money littered between the lines of the weighty documents I needed him to sign—documents that remained under lock and key in my quarters at Wadham. The frustration, the uncertainly, the angst, the anxiety built to a fevered pitch, echoing the music below.
Had I not been so focused on him, I might have listened more closely and realized this was the conclusion to the opening piece. The final crescendo and climax threw the audience into an explosion of applause. I took several strides toward Maestro Shultz, grateful for the cover. But in my excitement I rushed it.
As he lowered the binoculars, he swung his head, sensing my approach. His response was immediate. He sprang like a cat out of his seat. No middle-aged, lethargic man, he. Vaulting the last three rows of fixed benches like a hurdler, he darted through the open doorway toward the stairs. He caught me with my feet planted. I had not expected him to be anywhere near so quick or sure-footed.
A beat late, I sprang into action, motivated more by competitiveness than a desire to do my job. I would not be so easily beaten by a fifty-plus baton twirler. I would chase the bastard and overtake him. I would win. I too hurdled the benches—a little more quickly than he had, I convinced myself. Raced through the exit door, descending the stairs three at a time.
Intermission. Was it possible? Already? Had my surveillance allowed time to pass so quickly? Or were these people at the bottom of the stairs late arrivals? Either way, Stephan Shultz and I were immediately engulfed in a mob of well-dressed people. He pushed rudely through them, making for the final door to the outside. I heard his name called out in discovery as he turned victim to his celebrity. One man was bold enough to grab hold of him. Wielding my outstretched forearm like a sword, I hacked my way into the throng.
Murmurs of, “It’s him…” “Shultz…” “It is!” bounced off the lobby’s stone walls.
His admirers quickly closed in around him, defeating my purpose, blocking me out. Accustomed to such assaults, Shultz arrogantly charged ahead. I encountered an increasingly impenetrable wall between us. He glanced but once over his shoulder to confirm my pursuit; his expression gave away nothing of the concern he surely felt. Instead, upon seeing me, he seemed energized by his discovery. With one last surge, he broke through the doorway and out into the evening.
“Stand aside,” I said, in my best imitation of a British accent, which accomplished all of nothing. I finally resorted to relying on my size and strength and created an exit for myself.
People panicked as I challenged from behind. There is nothing so contagious as panic. It spread, electrifying the air and triggering a mass exodus. Pushing. Shoving. Cries for help. Protesting voices rising increasingly louder. Everyone straining for the exit. A young woman tripped and fell immediately to my right. She grabbed for a man’s leg and was denied purchase as he instinctively kicked her off. I elbowed open a small hole, stooped, and offered an arm to the fallen woman. I knew something that no one else here did: there was nothing to panic about.
I pulled her to her feet and she clung to me desperately. “Hold on,” I advised, abandoning my phony accent. I turned my back to the door and leaned into the crowd, driving the stopper out of the neck of the bottle. Once outside, I stumbled on a stone step, lost my balance, and went down hard. The woman fell atop me. My vision inverted an upside down Stephan Shultz making for the street. In order to pursue him, I would have had to jettison this woman onto the gravel courtyard. Instead, I helped her up as several others offered us both a hand.
Shultz escaped. I spent fifteen minutes looking for him, but to no avail. When I returned to the Sheldonian, Nicole had saved me my seat although she seemed upset by my desertion. Allison Star stayed to the program’s conclusion. Nicole and I followed her back to her dorm. At no point did Shultz make contact. Nicole’s hotel was more private than Wadham. We had a late drink in the bar, and a long wonderful night in her room.
Chapter 29
Human memory is a funny thing. Perhaps some day all the doctors and researchers will figure out why one day we can’t think of what it is, and yet the next day it—whatever it was—comes pouring out as if a dam has burst.
Somewhere between being told by Tim Binyon that Randall Bradshaw had no known interest in music of any sort and Nicole’s innocent use of a blank page at the back of a Barbara Kingsolver paperback, upon which she jotted down a note, I recalled a piece of my High Table conversation with Bradshaw.
That at the time I was once again attending High Table, on this occasion with Lyel in tow, might have had something to do with it as well, at least in terms of my enormous consumption of wine while trying to keep up with my fellow Fellows. Perhaps the wine disgorged some impediment to thought, some “writers block” of the imagination. At this level of intoxication anything was possible. The Fellows drank like there was no tomorrow. High Table after High Table, in an endless string of News Year’s Eves, little boys let loose in the cellar. The volume of consumption amazed even Lyel, who could drink most under the table. On this night, Lyel reached there first—eyes glassy, an awkward smile pasted on shiny lips. These dons had livers destined for research labs.
I did not, and by my fifth glass of claret, and the sight of Randall Bradshaw across the table—staying well away from me—I finally remembered a snippet of our earlier conversation that proved most enlightening. Bradshaw’s voice returned to my drunken ear: “You can’t make paper,” he had said, “…the materials aren’t available…. So you take the paper, sheet by sheet from existing volumes—blank end papers, that sort of thing…” from existing volumes, my mind repeated several times.
Nicole, writing on a blank end paper in the Kingsolver novel…
The feel of the Haydn in my hands… The yellowed parchment!
“Chris?” Lyel inquired. “You don’t have a bone stuck or something?”
“Oh my God, Lyel. I said it right to his face without ever knowing. No wonder he came unglued—no pun intended.” I hissed into his huge ear. “No wonder they had that meeting up there in the Old Common Room. Hagg or Tilbert heard him explain it to me! Heard us right across the table as Bradshaw handed me everything I needed—only I was too drunk to catch on.”
“You’re not exactly sober now,” he cautioned. “Nor are you making much sense.”
“I made some off-handed comment about how a diplomat could judge the authenticity of a scroll. That was when Bradshaw started hammering the vino.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Lyel whispered back at me.
I cupped my hand to his ear. “Forgeries,” I said, at which point Lyel dropped his fork to his plate and won the attention of all twenty-three dons seated at the massive table.
Chapter 30
For fifty pence I was allowed to climb an endless set of rickety wooden stairs ascending to the Sheldonian’s cupola. I arrived a few minutes early and enjoyed the view. From there, the City of Dreaming Spires became an all-encompassing three hundred and sixty degree panorama of slate rooftops and gray stone fingers pointing to God. Across the intersection, I could see into my own windows at Wadham, could see the desk at which I worked. Directly across the street: the New Bodleian, where I intended to go immediately following this meeting.
The slate roofs looked like reptile skin. Red chimneys, some emitting a black coal smoke, provided the only color. Churches. Colleges. And in the far distance the lush rolling hills of farm ground, framed by fences and stone walls. I spotted several head of cattle and a few lazy horses grazing on the heavy grass; they looked like toys in the muted, shifting sunlight that battled with the ubiquitous clouds.
Her footsteps announced her. She was energetic by the sound of those footfalls—not in keeping with the statelier paces of the other Wadham dons. She was light and lithe. She was about my age. She had dark hair to her shoulders, a narrow, thoughtful face with a pronounced nose and chin, thin lips and delicate eyebrows. She had a full figure and wore simple clothes. Very little make-up. She was careful with her pronunciation of my name, as if I might have trouble understanding her accent.
“Mr. Klick?”
“Dr. Abernathy?”
“I prefer Julia, if you don’t mind.”
“Chris,” I countered.
“We’re lucky to be alone,” she said, crossing to me, tugging on her coat nervously. “We should speak, whilst we retain our privacy.” She used the soft “i” on privacy, which reminded me what a gentle language this could be.
“Lovely view, this. What?” she asked.
“Terrific.”
“Yes. I thought you would enjoy it. Better than a common room. What?”
“You’re a diplomat—scrolls, right?” I asked. “Tim Binyon speaks very highly of you.” He had also said Julia Abernathy could be trusted to never say a word about our discussion.
“Tim’s an old friend.” She stared out at the spires, clearly as enthralled with the view as a first-time tourist.
I asked her, “If you needed a sheet of parchment from the late eighteenth century—hypothetically speaking… something for a forgery perhaps…” This turned her head. “Would the New Bodleian make sense?” I asked, looking over at the building. “Hypothetically,” I repeated. “As a possible source?”
She glanced around carefully. I felt heat spike up my spine.
She swept her hand across the horizon like a stage actress, as if about to explain something about the town. Then her hand fell and her eyes bore into me hotly, speaking with excitement. “We use the term ‘paper’ quite loosely, Mr. Klick,” she said, ignoring my request to be called Chris. “The composition of parchment was, and is, a science. An exact science. Oxidation, fiber content. You offer our university laboratory a particular piece of parchment, a particular diploma or scroll, and if they are any good at’t’all, they can come back to you not only with the approximate date of its creation, but the country, the province, even the city where it was made. Made, not manufactured. It was, and is, an art, you see—an art—the making of such parchment by hand.”
“Water stamps?” I asked. “That sort of thing?”
“Much, much later than the period you mentioned. No, not at all. Water marks? Nineteenth century perhaps—letter writing stationery, that sort of thing. But eighteenth century? No. I believe you have missed my point, actually.” She waited. I said nothing. Clearly, I had missed her point. When she spoke quickly it was hard to understand her. “You see, there is precious little blank paper remaining from the eighteenth century. Ah! There! I saw a flicker of something in your eyes, didn’t I? Yes! Splendid! You do see where I’m headed, don’t you?” I felt like a student who raised his hand too quickly before being able to fully articulate the answer. She looked over at the New Bodleian herself and quizzed, “Where do you turn if you need a quality piece of parchment from a given era?” she asked.
“The New Bodleian,” I answered, hazarding a guess.
“To the archives, of course.” Her hand was pointing now down at the moss covered, gray shingle roof of the Bodleian Library. “Blank pages fall at the end of the early bound manuscripts, same as they do today. It must be cut exceptionally cleanly. Easily missed if you are careful enough.”
“But it is done?” I asked.
“Allow me tell you how it is accomplished, this surgery. It is not easy, you see, for there is almost always a librarian in the room somewhere nosing around his or her business. Around your business. And this is not something to be taken too lightly, this surgery. No, it is not. You are defacing a work of art, and any historian, any academic engaged in such an activity, is well aware of this fact, believe me. It is not something to be taken lightly. Not only is it larceny, it is certain to result in one being made redundant by university.” Her excitement was contagious. My heart beat more quickly. She spoke so softly, I could barely make out her words. “You carry the razor somewhere easily accessible, for when you’re given your chance, you must act quickly and surely. If you push too hard,” she said, indicating a spreading motion with her hand, “you will crack the spine and the book will fall open to your crime each and every time. Most importantly, it will fall open there the next time, and that is something you hope to prevent most of all, for your name is the most recent in the records.”
“Or you accidentally cut the page behind it,” I spit out.
She nodded, though acted as if she hadn’t heard me. “You calculate the pressure required to cut through this single sheet, yes, careful not to score the sheet that follows. There are so many mistakes to be made, and you have reviewed each and every one a dozen times. Perhaps, in the privacy,” there was that pronunciation again, “of your flat, you have even practiced this.
“You make your cut cleanly and quickly,” she continued. “One chance is all you have to do this correctly. No trimming. No time to repair any mistakes. You cut; you remove your trophy and you quickly sequester it where it will, and does, accompany you from the library. To be caught with it in your possession is the end of your academic career.”
