The Memorist (13 page)

Vienna, Austria
Monday, April 28
^th
—10:15 a.m.

O
utside the Dorotheum auction house the next morning, the armed uniformed guards controlled the snaking line of potential bidders and curiosity seekers waiting to see the “Beethoven Gaming Box,” as the press had dubbed it. Meer gave her name to one of the guards and was allowed to bypass the line and go right inside, which was a relief because not having slept well for the second night in a row, she was overtired and didn’t feel well. Didn’t feel like herself. When she’d been getting dressed and glimpsed herself in the mirror it had been like staring at a stranger. She wasn’t connected to the woman who looked back at her with pained, haunted eyes. Except Meer knew it wasn’t possible for her to be feeling the desperation and sorrow of a woman who’d lived over two hundred years before.

The lobby was crowded and Meer had to wade through the mass of people. “Your name will be with the guards outside and I’ll be waiting for you in the main viewing
room,” her father had told her the night before when he’d called from Switzerland. He’d stayed on later than he’d expected because sadly, Dr. Smettering had died. Now there were two murders being investigated.

Meer walked among chairs, couches, armoires and tables covered with small objets d’art, and strained to find her father’s head over the crowd. As a little girl, his towering height reassured her she could never get lost. Or at least any more lost than she already was.

When she finally spotted him, he was gesticulating toward a display case with a graceful sweep of his hand and lecturing to a circle of people who appeared absorbed by his words. His hair looked grayer than she remembered and there were inky shadows under his eyes. How old was he? She had to think. Sixty-six? No, a year older. She felt a throb of anxiety deep in the pit of her stomach. Her mother died before she turned sixty. But her father was healthy. Of course he’d look worn out…the last forty-eight hours had been filled with trauma.

She leaned against the wall, not wanting to approach him with the group there or see the gaming box for the first time with a dozen strangers looking on. Or was it for the first time?

Einstein once said he believed it was possible to occupy two spaces at the same time but in different dimensions. Her father had tried to use the quote to counter Meer’s arguments against reincarnation. At the time she hadn’t been swayed even though the scientist, who had loved music and studied violin and been so sensitive to the wonders of the universe, was one of her heroes.

Now, she rethought the concept. Since she’d wiped her feet on a doormat that wasn’t there but that she had seen as clearly as her own feet, Meer’s concept about her false
memories had developed its first crack. Nothing in all her learning about memory and reality could explain that one small action.

Did Einstein’s theory also mean there could be a transfer of consciousness from one material form to another? From a human in one time zone to another human in a different time zone?

“Hello.” Sebastian sidled up to her and tilted his head toward where her father was still holding court. “Have you seen it yet?”

“I didn’t know you were coming today,” Meer said, feeling a curious mixture of pleasure and anxiety.

“I don’t have a rehearsal till this afternoon and I didn’t want to miss a chance to view a true Beethoven relic.”

“It appears you weren’t alone.” She gestured toward the crowd.

“This is a major discovery. Everyone’s curiosity is aroused. Especially because of Antonie Brentano. It’s not just music, it’s love.” He offered a warm smile that shouldn’t have disturbed her but did.

“Before I forget,” Sebastian said, and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small white envelope, “these are my house seats for a private concert being given on Thursday night. I’d like you and your father to come. While you’re here you should see Vienna all dressed up at least once. She’s quite amazing.”

“Thank you. What’s the event?”

“A gala performance for an international association of top-level security firms with dignitaries and government officials coming from all over the world.”

Taking the envelope from him, she slipped it into her bag.

“You and your father will need to stop by the hall in advance and have your pictures taken and your passports
scanned to activate the tickets. The security for the event is staggering.”

“What will you be performing?”

“The
Eroica
.”

“So you’ll have a solo in the third movement?”

He nodded.

“My father loves that symphony, he’ll be thrilled.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

She was about to say that she wanted to see the box without a crowd around her but didn’t. First, thinking he wouldn’t understand, then afraid he’d understand too well and that disturbed her more. Meer heard her name.

“Meer, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Her father took her in his arms. She felt the familiar rub of his cashmere jacket on her cheek and smelled the ever-present verbena cologne. With him holding her a beat too long, she wondered if he was offering solace or taking it.

Turning to Sebastian, her father shook his hand. “It was a real comfort to know you were taking such care of my daughter. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I’m sorry about both your friend and your housekeeper.”

“Two useless deaths.” Jeremy shook his head. “The funeral for Ruth is this afternoon. Karl will be cremated.” Checking his watch, he frowned. “Has been cremated. Both gone, and for what?” Jeremy was quiet for a few seconds, despite the cacophony all around them. Meer wondered if her father was praying. Like her mother, Meer was always astonished when she glimpsed the depth of his spirituality. It never seemed to fit the brave adventurer who traveled to faraway places, tunneled behind the Iron Curtain when it still existed, was shot at and recovered treasures. But today he seemed ordinary and almost frail. Someone who needed his faith.

“I’d like to go to Ruth’s funeral with you,” Meer said.

Jeremy smiled sadly. “Thank you, sweetheart, but it’s not necessary.”

“I have a rehearsal this afternoon or I would—”

Jeremy interrupted. “No need to explain, Sebastian. You’ve done enough.” Straightening up, he threw back his shoulders as if he was shaking off the melancholy, and the powerful man Meer remembered reemerged. “Now,” he said, looking at his daughter. “Are you ready to see your box?”

As Jeremy ushered them through the crowd he explained this was supposed to have been a minor auction, but between finding the Beethoven letter and the robbery it had turned into a media circus.

“I’ve arranged for tighter security and am moving the auction itself to a larger venue on Wednesday. We should have moved the viewing to another room, too.” Finding a group congregated in front of the exhibition case, Jeremy subtly made room for Meer and Sebastian to step up to the plinth.

In the showcase, the gleaming wooden box was open, revealing the velvet-lined compartments holding various gaming pieces and decks of cards. A mirror allowed the viewer to also see the box’s elaborate top. Meer fixated on what she saw in that mirror: a silver oval with fancy etched scrollwork, flowers, birds, the initial
B
.

Yes, she’d seen all this in Malachai’s office in the catalog photo but that had been a facsimile, not the three-dimensional manifestation of her imagination. She stared at it hoping the real box would help her remember when she’d seen it before. Not in some past life, as her father and Malachai suggested, but at some prior point in her own life.

But nothing came to mind. Her only reaction was to notice that the decks of cards were similar to a pack in
Malachai’s collection. When she was a child she always asked for that deck as soon as she arrived and played with it during her sessions. There was even a game that she’d made up with those cards. What was it?

Using a key on a very full ring, Jeremy unlocked the cabinet. “Let’s take this to a private viewing room so you can have some time alone with it.”

As he began removing the box, Meer stepped up and, almost in a trance, reached out for a deck of cards and then started searching through it. Unaware of the room around her, she was only conscious of the stiff cards in her fingers as she counted the hearts in the deck, checking they were all there and that there were no duplicates. This was the same game she played with Malachai’s cards.

“Meer, wait till we get into a private viewing room,” Jeremy insisted.

A loud, intimidating ringing ripped the moment apart.

“Was ist das?”
she asked her father, frightened by the noise, not even realizing she’d asked in a language she didn’t speak.

“The fire alarm,” Jeremy shouted over the noise. “Probably a glitch. It happens—”

The smoke came quickly; billowing clouds rising upward and outward, reaching out for her. For all of them. The alarm continued shrieking. Jeremy was coughing. Meer’s eyes stung. Then she was coughing too. Unexpectedly, tears came to her eyes and spilled over. People were screaming and the alarm bells continued shrieking. In the chaos, someone ran past and pushed her. Losing her balance, Meer put out her hands, trying to feel for support, but there was nothing to hold on to and she went down, hitting her shoulder on the edge of the showcase. A crack of pain shot through her and its intensity, mixed with the voluminous acrid smoke, made her gag.

She knew she might be hurt but couldn’t worry about that now…had to save the box…needed to get up and find it and protect it from the fire. Groping blindly she found the edge of the pedestal and grasped it, prepared to feel it burning hot but it was cool. How could that be if there was a fire?

That’s when she realized there was no heat and no smell of a fire either. She didn’t have time to try to understand. All that mattered was keeping the box safe because she was certain it held the clues to where the memory flute was and she needed it to save her husband. Somewhere, sick and alone, Caspar counted on her. Thrusting her hands down into the case she felt for the box. Right. Then left. The case wasn’t that big. There was nothing in it.

The wind and the rain were so loud but she could hear a man was calling out to her, shouting at her to stop. Except she couldn’t. Her horse responded to the pull of the reins and took off, galloping. The woods were deep here and he’d have trouble following her. He was a brilliant horseman but she had the advantage; even in the rainstorm she knew these woods, he didn’t. Then the sound of a gunshot rang out.

No, it was not a gun, only the fire alarm. What was going on? The smoke was clearing but her eyes were still tearing and it was hard for her to see clearly. Then the outlines and shapes started to turn into people and furniture. Furniture? People? Where were the woods? She’d been riding in the woods trying to get away from terrible, imminent danger, trying to save the box.

“Are you all right?” It was her father helping her up, his face wet with tears.

“Do you have the box?” she shouted over the noise.

Before he could answer, one of the guards rushed over, yelling loudly. The man’s face was flushed and his cheeks
were wet with tears, too. Every second more smoke cleared, revealing other guards helping people who’d fallen and ushering them out of the room. Everywhere pieces of furniture were overturned and objets d’art lay broken on the floor.

“What are they saying?” Meer shouted. Even in her own ears, her voice sounded hysterical.

“There was no fire, it was tear gas,” her father said. “This…all of this…must have been a staged distraction.”

Meer grabbed his arm. “What happened to the gaming box?”

“It’s gone.”

Polanka, Czech Republic
Monday, April 28
^th
—11:14 a.m.

A
t frequent intervals on the tree-lined road David drove by shrines to Christ or the Virgin or other saints that he didn’t recognize. If only the painted plaster effigies really could protect from danger or assuage pain the way so many believed. He’d been something of an observant Jew before, but now all he believed in was the presence of evil.

Arriving at his destination four hours after leaving Vienna, he parked the rental car, got out, stretched his long legs and looked around. It was dreary under the gray sky. The lush countryside had given way to spindly trees, footprints of long-dead gardens and a looming chateau that appeared to be in desperate need of restoration. This place must have been impressive at one time but now yellow paint flaked off the outside of the building and dozens of the sienna roof tiles were missing.

Hidden in the middle of the southern Moravian countryside, an hour’s drive from the closest town, Moravsky
Krumlov was an unlikely museum for the most valuable artwork in all of the Republic and an even less likely place to meet with a liaison from an underground terrorist cell.

Inside the entryway, where it was even damper than outside, the walls and floor were in worse shape than the building’s exterior. After buying a 50 Kc ticket, David followed the signs to a staircase that creaked as he climbed it. Before he was allowed to enter the first gallery, a woman wearing a red kerchief handed him two dark brown felt bags. Without speaking, she demonstrated that he should put them over his shoes, which he did. They made walking slippery. Inside the first gallery a group of children all in stocking feet sat cross-legged, listening to a young woman who lectured to them in Czech. Surprisingly, they didn’t fidget or whisper as they stared at the heroic canvas that took up the whole wall. His eight-year-old, Ben, wouldn’t have been able to sit there so still, with his socks on, he would have been impelled to go floor skating across these wide wooden planks.

Opening the English version of the flyer he’d picked up at the ticket booth, David read about the painting the children were engrossed in.

In the center of the canvas, under a starry sky, the figures of Adam and Eve cowered and hid from ghostlike, fearsome figures atop horses, spears at the ready, galloping toward them. Deep in the background a village burned, the orangered flames glowing like sunrise. According to the pamphlet, there were twenty of these heroic paintings on display, all created by the Art Nouveau painter Alphonse Mucha.

As instructed by his contact, David walked through the galleries, examining each of the paintings as if they indeed interested him. He was not to approach anyone. At the right time, they’d find him. He’d reached the second to last room without anyone making contact and was about to walk out when the lights flickered off. Then, just as quickly, flickered back on.

David entered the last exhibition room where, dwarfed by its size, he regarded the only remaining mural: a triumphant ensemble piece, full of victory. His older son Isaac would have wanted to dissect the symbolism, discuss the ways in which the artist had created the sense of hope with specific colors and explore every inch of the painting with his father. Ben would still be off, sliding across the room.

David wanted to put his fist through the canvas as if it were the painting’s fault he was thinking of his children. This was just a romanticized picture of war, and peace, of death and triumphant life.

Behind him he sensed someone had entered the gallery and turned to see a young man walking toward him holding a black nylon knapsack.

“I think you left this in the other room.” His accent was thick but the words were clear enough.

“How stupid of me,” David said out loud. It might very well have been any man’s reaction to leaving his pack behind. “The lights…?” he offered by way of explanation but it came out as a question.

“Yes, the lights.” The other man was about twenty with acne on both cheeks and stringy black hair hanging to his shoulders. His jeans were ripped, his gray sweatshirt rumpled but his trainers were clean. “It was just a fuse, they said. You must have been worried to have left this.”

“Yes.” Reaching out David took the proffered knapsack.
It was light. He knew from his research how potent Semtex was and how little he needed. All it took to blow up Pan Am Flight 103 was 200 grams. At least in the paintings here at the castle the enemy was painted in dark tones and came at you with brandished swords so you had a clue who was who. David shifted the backpack to his right shoulder. Everything that was wrong in the world weighed less than a pound and was in this backpack.

“You should be more careful,” the messenger warned.

Was there subtext to this? A message? David couldn’t translate the inscrutable expression on the young man’s face. He was waiting, his eyes challenging David, his smirk admonishing him.
Naive amateur
, the look said. The transaction, David realized, wasn’t completed yet.

“I want to give you a reward. For finding my bag.”

“I won’t say no.” The man smiled sincerely as if this was all very normal.

David had prepared the bills the way he’d been instructed; four one-hundred-euro notes enclosed in ten-euro notes. There were no cameras but in case anyone happened to be watching they’d only notice a ten. So little money to destroy so much. “Please accept this as a thank-you.”

While the young man stuffed the money in his pocket in front of Mucha’s last heroic mural, David walked out of the gallery thinking how the painting’s gargantuan shadow cast the messenger in darkness, and that he could use that image in the article he was writing about this saga. He even knew where it would appear: at the beginning of the end.

It was drizzling outside and David dreaded the long drive ahead of him on unfamiliar roads in the rain in a rental car that should have been retired ten thousand kilometers ago. Opening the door, he slid in behind the
steering wheel and gingerly put the knapsack on the passenger seat. This wasn’t the time to look inside the pack in case he was being followed, but he couldn’t hold back.

David didn’t know what he’d expected. Brown wrapping paper? A manila envelope? Anything but navy foil imprinted with frosted cakes with white candles. The irony wasn’t lost on him. It was a birthday party that had started this journey, and explosives wrapped up like a birthday present that would end it.