The Memorist (14 page)

Vienna, Austria
Monday, April 28
^th
—12:48 p.m.

T
he Memorist Society had only been open for fifteen minutes when Dr. Erika Alderman arrived to have lunch with Fremont Brecht and found him already in the clubroom and glued to the television. “You need to see this. The gaming box was just stolen,” he said without bothering to greet her.

On the screen Jeremy Logan stood outside of the Dorotheum auction house, being interviewed by a reporter explaining that a smoke bomb had apparently been used as a distraction while the thieves got away with the antique. Behind him police cars and fire engines continued pulling up to the scene with lights flashing and sirens shrieking. Meer stood off to her father’s side; her chin-length dark hair was tousled and her wide eyes looked haunted. There was dirt on the collar of her white shirt and a black button was hanging by a thread from her blazer.

“Damn it, Fremont,” Erika said. “How many close calls
must we have before you do something about what’s going on here? Someone is spying on what we are saying.”

“You’re forgetting about the article in the newspaper. The Beethoven connection made both the letter and the box worth stealing.”

“But three robbery attempts in three days and two people dead over Beethoven relics? I don’t think so. Someone out there is very ruthless and determined, and I think it’s because they know something.”

“We will just have to be more ruthless and more determined,” he said. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of anyone owning the gaming box but us. I’ve said that from the beginning.”

“How can we get it if it’s no longer for sale?” Erika was confused.

“We find out who stole it,” Fremont said matter-of-factly. “And then we’ll steal it back.”

Monday, April 28
^th
—12:54 p.m.

A
t Global’s temporary offices on the second floor of Vienna’s main concert hall, Bill Vine watched a red circle slowly moving across a section of Moravia, Czech Republic, on one of six computer screens. On a second screen, there was another red circle holding on the western tip of Serbia. On a third, the dot was stalled in central Slovakia.

“No, we don’t have any info yet on what kind of explosives were purchased in any of these transactions. I should have that information for you later this afternoon,” Vine said, reporting to Tom Paxton, who reacted impatiently.

“But we’re seeing all the purchasers?”

“Yes. And following them, without any problem.”

“What do you make of the fact that there’s been no activity for six days and suddenly three transactions occurred almost simultaneously?” Paxton asked.

“It suggests a shipment came in as much as anything else. Or it could just be a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither do I,” said Vine. “Except when they are coincidences.”

“How soon will you be able to get people in the field to start following these bad boys on the ground too?”

“They’re on their way and we should have everyone covered within two hours, three at the latest.”

“Too long.”

Vine didn’t react to the criticism. “We don’t get the addresses of the drops, Tom.”

“For what they’re getting paid, all these suppliers should be giving us that too.”

“Requires too much communication with us. Don’t underestimate the coup you’ve pulled off here. Bribing the enemy’s no small feat. Even if we don’t know yet if any of these purchases are headed our way, it’s one helluva insurance policy.”

“You’re sure there won’t be more than a three-hour wait? I want
people
on their tails, not just machines.”

“I’m sure.”

“Is there anything else we need to worry about before we move on?” Paxton asked.

“Nope, nothing,” Vine said, without any indication that he’d heard the question a thousand times before.

Monday, April 28
^th
—1:16 p.m.

J
eremy took Meer to his doctor, whose office was only a short car ride from the auction house. While they sat in the waiting room, she perused a magazine, unaware of what she looked at. Her mind was filled with too many kaleidoscopic images for any new ones to make an impression. The last forty-eight hours had been filled with shocks and memories that couldn’t be her own, but felt just like her own. She knew that was why false memories were so insidious; they masqueraded as authentic recollections.

Once the doctor saw her, the examination was brief. He assured her—and then afterward in the waiting room assured Jeremy—that the bruises blossoming on her left arm and thigh weren’t serious.

“Now, why don’t you let me give you a quick exam, Jeremy,” Dr. Kreishold suggested.

“You’re far too conscientious. I’m fine.”

“Jeremy, let me just look you over—” the doctor insisted.

“If anything starts to hurt, I’ll be back for a bandage, I promise,” Jeremy interrupted.

“Come on, Dad, you should be examined too,” Meer said.

Jeremy kissed her on the forehead. “I’m fine—don’t worry about me, sweetheart. They examined me in the hospital in Switzerland after the attack. I’m all right.”

As they walked out of the office and into the dark hallway, Jeremy told Meer that while she’d been in with the doctor, Malachai’s secretary had called. “She booked him into your hotel. If you’re not too tired, he’ll meet you in the lobby at six and the two of you can come to my house for a quiet dinner. So you should get some rest now,” he added.

“Aren’t we going to Ruth’s funeral now?” She ignored the fatherly concern.

“I told you—it’s not necessary for you to come.”

“I want to, for your sake.” She paused. “Ruth died because of me, didn’t she?”

Jeremy stabbed the elevator button again, once, then twice. “No, of course not, why would you—”

“If I didn’t have a connection to that gaming box, would you have been so interested in it? You find old Torahs, menorahs, Haggadahs and Kiddush wine cups. What kind of Jewish artifact is a gaming box from 1814?”

The elevator arrived with a groan and the door opened slowly.

“This is much bigger than you know, sweetheart.”

“And I can’t know if you don’t tell me.”

Her father nodded and looked away. “You’re right.”

While they walked toward his car, Jeremy started at the beginning and told her about the call from Helen Hoffman. Despite Meer’s irritation, her father’s raconteur style, full
of details and curious asides, was as compelling as ever and she had a sudden memory of him sitting by the side of her bed at night and telling her about his most recent adventure. His voice filled the silence when she was a child—the silence she feared and hated because it was in those quiet spaces between words that memories and music she couldn’t quite catch hold of or make sense of scared her with their insistence.

Meer knew how emotional these finds were for her father. People who did what her father did weren’t just on a treasure hunt to find and preserve objects, they were reclaiming their heritage. “We owe it to the memory of those who came before us to discover what they left for us to find,” he’d once told her, and she’d heard the pride in his voice. She always loved her father, but she liked him the best when he talked about his work.

Jeremy eased the car out of the parking spot and at the next corner turned into the traffic. As they crept ahead Meer watched yet another section of the city reveal itself while she listened to her father describe seeing the gaming box for the first time.

“It was a shock. I’m sure you can imagine just how bizarre it would be to walk into a stranger’s house to examine a holy relic and see something that had so much significance to me and to you. There are no accidents of fate,” he said. “Every act has a reaction through lives, through time. Déjà vu and coincidence are God tapping you on the shoulder, telling you to pay attention, showing you that you are walking in the footprint of your own reincarnation.”

“You’ve always been so sure…”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“Faith.”

She shook her head; for her it wasn’t a sufficient answer.

“And now, just like Malachai, you’re convinced the music—my music—has some connection to the flute that Beethoven wrote about in the letter?”

Jeremy looked surprised. “How do you know what was mentioned in the letter?” Then, realizing, he shook his head. “Malachai told you, didn’t he? I’m sorry. When I told him, I should have asked him not to tell you about it. I wanted to show it to you myself when you got here.”

Meer let that explanation stand. “What, exactly, does the letter say?”

“That the box holds the clues to where the flute was hidden.” His voice sounded resigned as if this was a conversation he wished he could avoid.

Meer shuddered. The image of Beethoven holding the flute was impossibly clear and the burden of finding it weighed on her shoulders. Except it wasn’t
her
burden. Her husband wasn’t lost and sick. Her rising panic and urgency to find him was a manufactured emotion. And then Meer realized something tangible that really was urgent. “Do you believe the person who stole the letter from you and Dr. Smettering also stole the box and now is looking for the instrument?”

“Yes. A story broke here in the newspaper on Friday about a Beethoven letter being found in the gaming box, which is reason enough for someone to steal both of those objects. But I think they’re after the flute.”

“Did the article go into those details?”

“No. And I didn’t discuss them with anyone other than my fellow board members and Malachai.”

“But then how…?”

“There are hundreds of reincarnation scholars, musi
cologists and archaeologists around the world, not to mention members of the Society here who know about the memory tools and the history of Beethoven’s connection to an alleged memory flute.” Jeremy’s fingers clenched around the steering wheel. “Either whoever was responsible for stealing the letter also stole the gaming box, or the contents of the letter reached someone else who organized this morning’s theft.”

They’d stopped at a light. To the right was a stone church with spires reaching high into a cloudless blue sky. As they waited the bells began to chime, the ringing reverberating inside Meer’s body. “Why did you send the catalog and the drawing to me through Malachai? Why didn’t you call me and tell me what you were involved in and warn me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Did you call Malachai after I left his office to find out how I’d reacted?”

“Of course, because I wanted to make sure that you were all right. I knew it was going to be a shock.”

“I don’t want to be your guinea pig.”

“You’re my daughter. All I’ve ever wanted to do was help you and protect you. That’s all Malachai wants too.”

“And in the process use me to prove your theories.”

“Reincarnation is not my theory or his.”

“You act as if it is.”

“It’s part of my belief system.”

“A part of your belief system that you want to prove.”

This was as blunt a conversation as Meer had ever had with her father on this or any subject. The last forty-eight hours had provoked it.

“Meer, sweetheart, you’ve always had it backward. Before you started hearing the music, I was never very religious. Yes, I searched out lost pieces of Judaica but I was
an antique dealer. I went to temple on the high holy days but out of routine and respect to my heritage. I’d never studied Kabbalah. I didn’t even know how important the concept of reincarnation was to the Jewish faith. I learned about all of this after you started to have problems.”

“So you did it all for me?” she said more sarcastically than she’d intended.

“To understand, so I could help.”

“I’m sure you think that.”

“Did you ever see a movie called
Total Recall
with Arnold Schwarzenegger?”

Meer looked at her father with surprise. “No.”

“The character Arnold plays can’t trust his memories—can’t tell what’s real or false. When he’s asked what he wants, he says, ‘to remember,’ and when he’s asked why he wants to remember he says, ‘to be myself again.’ That’s all I want for you. To remember, so you can be all your selves again.”

They sat in silence for the next few minutes until Jeremy reached the Praterstrasse and Meer noticed the familiar Hebraic signage on some of the buildings. This was where she’d wandered on Saturday night. “Where are we?”

“The old Jewish ghetto. Most of it has been restored by Jews who’ve moved back to Vienna,” he said as he turned off the main street and drove down a narrow lane. Glancing over at her, he asked: “Why, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

Jeremy pulled into a parking spot. Without waiting for him, Meer got out of the car, turned right and started walking down the block.

“You don’t know where—” He broke off to hurry and catch up to her just as she stopped in front of the nondescript building at 122 Engerthstrasse. “How did you know this was where we were going?”

Monday, April 28
^th
—
1:25 p.m.

“T
his is where the Memorists have been meeting since they formed in late 1809,” Jeremy said as the intercom buzzed and he opened the heavy door. Holding it, he waited for her to precede him but she didn’t make any move to go inside. Shivering, tasting metal, she was aware the buildings on either side of her were becoming translucent.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” She tried to make her voice sound as normal as she could as she fought back the dreads.

“What’s wrong?”

With a burst of effort, Meer stepped over the doorstep and into the anteroom. Behind her, the door closed and the loud click echoed in the antechamber. Her legs felt as if
they were weighted down and each step was a terrible effort but she followed her father across the black-and-white marble-tiled floor, through the doorway under the middle arch and into the Society’s main room.

Last night, while she’d been standing on the street, she’d imagined all of this: the elaborate ceiling with its tiny mirrors that appeared to be twinkling, the extravagant decorations, the stone Buddhas.

Despite a lifetime of trying to remember, despite being hypnotized dozens of times and learning different meditation techniques, she couldn’t grasp how she’d apparently seen across the years to the inside of this building and a time long gone.

An imposing silver-haired man who walked with a slight limp approached and Jeremy introduced Meer and Fremont Brecht to each other.

“I’m so sorry for the trouble you’ve had since arriving in Vienna,” Fremont apologized in a cultured, slightly accented voice. Regardless of his girth, he was extremely well groomed and dignified. He indicated a grouping of cordovan leather club chairs and they sat down. “Did you have any time to examine the gaming box before it was taken?” he asked her, not bothering with any small talk.

“A few minutes.”

“Was there anything that struck you as unusual in its appearance?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you have a reaction of any kind to it?”

How many people had her father told about her affinity for the box? Who else besides Sebastian and Fremont? Had they all sat around playing a guessing game about whether or not it would trigger past life memories for her? She
looked over at Jeremy but either he couldn’t read the accusation in her eyes or chose not to.

“Everything happened too quickly,” she said to Fremont.

He asked her something else but she wasn’t listening. The longer she sat there the worse she felt. Meer couldn’t get enough air in her lungs and she was so cold. Noting her discomfort, he stopped midsentence and apologized. “What’s wrong with me, this has been a trying morning for you, and here I am putting you on the stand and demanding you give me your testimony. Would you like some lunch?”

“No, thank you—”

“Coffee or tea?”

“Tea, yes,” she said. Maybe having something hot to drink would help her stay centered.

“And for you too, yes, Jeremy?” Fremont asked.

“You look very troubled,” Jeremy said to Meer after Fremont left for the kitchen.

Meer laughed sourly. “As if there’s no reason to be troubled? Please stop taking my emotional temperature, Dad.”

Being here was so disturbing…the room was familiar but at the same time so many things were wrong. Like in Beethoven’s apartment, the lighting here was far too bright. And she couldn’t smell the paraffin or Cassia incense. Worst of all was the sadness and an ineffable longing that overwhelmed her. This was Caspar’s world.

“Meer, tell me what’s happening.”

She didn’t know how to explain, so she said nothing.

“Forget the tea, you need some water right now.”

Meer put her hand out, about to ask her father not to leave her alone, except she knew that would open her up to more questions and she didn’t have any answers. She let it flutter
back into her lap. Whatever was happening, Malachai had taught her how to deal with it. Moving her fingers on an invisible keyboard in her lap she tried to play a complicated section of Rachmaninoff’s “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini” that had no emotional memory for her. Usually this exercise required so much concentration it broke any anxiety surge. But not this afternoon. Meer couldn’t stay with it because the other music demanded her attention and exacerbated her sadness. Old music…familiar music…and just when it seemed as if she might capture it finally…it flitted away, remaining just out of reach.

“Here’s your tea,” Fremont said, offering her a steaming mug.