The dealers
assembled in different places every week, sometimes in an old
warehouse, sometimes in a hotel suite, sometimes out of doors, but
usually within a two hundred mile radius of Salzburg. It was up
to the counterparties (as the buyers called themselves) to find
them. The secrecy of the informal network was a means of
self-vetting that ensured only the most serious buyers and sellers
participated. And, of course, all transactions were strictly cash
and carry. The Bazaar had conducted its operations face-to-face
in this manner since its formal organization in a private meeting room
at the closing session of the Treaty of Versailles. For centuries
before that, principals had rarely met; they conducted transactions
from afar using intermediaries, but its participants had always known
it as the Bazaar.
It was at the Bazaar
that ancient alchemists had traded their arcane
elements and potions. There, too, kings and princes could retain
a dealer or a counterparty to dispose of or acquire royal
treasures. And if the Premier of France wanted to learn one of
the Italian Foreign Minister's secrets, he would send an emissary to
the Bazaar who would purchase it for him -- at an exorbitant fee.
The items bought and sold might be mundane or mystical, precious or
pedestrian, but always they were objects of desire.
Falsch was the most
respected counterparty in the Bazaar; at least he
aspired to be. He was discriminating. He was
demanding. He was decisive. But deep down, he knew that the
dealers respected only money.
The dealer Grimalkin
claimed to have come from Macedonia, but Falsch
didn't believe him. His accent was feigned, and he looked more
oriental than European.
Falsch examined the
items on Grimalkin's display table. He
selected a decorative wooden box and held it up. "What's this?"
Grimalkin bowed his
head slightly, turning his eyes toward the
floor. He said, "It is an étui, Monsieur Falsch – carved
by a Maltese shepherd and hand-painted by a nun from the Convent of the
Blessed Virgin in Lija."
Falsch turned it
over in his hands. There, on the bottom, he saw
black handwriting. "What's this?" he asked, pointing at the
scrawl.
"It is the signature
of the artist."
"How much?"
Grimalkin raised his
head and looked at Falsch's chin, avoiding his
eyes. Perhaps he's afraid that I'll recognize his duplicity,
Falsch thought.
"For you, Monsieur
Falsch, only thirty thousand pounds. A bargain
at twice the price."
Falsch put it back
on the table. He wouldn't have paid thirty
thousand pounds for a wooden box even if the pope had painted it.
"An outlandish price
for such a thing, Mr. Grimalkin."
"Perhaps for the box
itself, Monsieur, but not for what's inside."
Falsch
understood. This was not a consignment item. The
étui was meant for someone else -- someone who already knew what
was inside and who would not question the price.
"What else have you
got?"
Grimalkin hesitated,
appearing to ponder the question, deciding which
of his objets d'art he would show. At last, he made a decision
and reached down behind the table. After some rustling of papers
and the sound of boxes scraping against the parquet floor, he produced
a small package wrapped in gold foil.
"It is a special
piece, Monsieur Falsch. I would not offer it to
someone who could not appreciate its worth."
Falsch knew a set-up
when he heard one, but he reached for the package
anyway.
Grimalkin abruptly
withdrew his hand. "It is expensive," he said,
looking Falsch in the eyes for the first time. "Are you willing
to pay dearly for something like this?"
Falsch
frowned. He said, "How can I tell until I've seen
it?" He offered his outstretched palm again.
Grimalkin gently
peeled back the foil and produced a polished black
sphere, about the size of a Chinese plum. Falsch held it in his
hand. It was heavy and smooth, but no more remarkable than a
large ball bearing.
"I don't
understand," Falsch said. "What is it?"
Grimalkin smiled
inscrutably. "It is a Magister Stone -- more
ancient than the Essenes -- taken from a burial chamber at the Temple
Mount in Jerusalem by the Ottoman Turks. Don't even ask how I
came to possess it."
Falsch rolled it
around in his hand and then held it up to examine it
more closely. The overhead lamplight enhanced its ebony luster.
"Is it some kind of
precious gem?"
Grimalkin shook his
head. "It is far more valuable than that,
Monsieur Falsch. Men have died to possess it."
"But what is
it?" Falsch asked. He was losing patience.
"I have already told
you. It is a Magister Stone, formed by
nature into a perfect sphere. Legend says that only six were
extracted from a mine in the Carpathian Mountains; Alexander the Great
gave one to each of his lieutenants. After Alexander died, they
were lost. Over the centuries, only two others have been
recovered."
Falsch handed the
stone back to him. He had no use for such
nonsense. He surveyed the other items on the table and, seeing
nothing of interest, he prepared to leave. But Grimalkin stepped
aside, revealing an antique spinet behind him. Its cabinet was
ornately carved and covered in gold leaf. Something about it drew
him closer.
"That's an unusual
piano," Falsch said. "Where did you get it?"
"Ah! I thought
you would appreciate it. It belonged to the
Hungarian prodigy, Österháziy. It was discovered only
recently by a collector in Solymàr. It hasn't been seen
since Österháziy's death more than a hundred years ago."
Falsch's jaw
dropped. He stepped around the table and took a
closer look. "Is this the piano he used to compose 'Irina' and
the four numbered sonatas?"
"The very same."
"Can you prove it?"
Grimalkin removed a
folded paper from his breast pocket and handed it
to Falsch. "Here is the statement from Ausberg & Sons, the
manufacturer. Their experts have examined it, and it conforms to
the company's record of the spinet they built in 1802 to
Österháziy's specifications. There are contemporary
paintings of Österháziy with the piano, as well as his
farewell letter -- his suicide note -- that describes it in detail and
which asserts his desire that no one else ever play it again."
Grimalkin lifted the keyboard cover. "If you look here, you will
see the signature of Auguste Ausberg; more important, there is the
unique eighty-ninth key."
"Eighty-ninth key?"
A full step above
high C was an additional natural key -- a D with no C
sharp in between but, unlike the yellowing ivory of the naturals or the
ebony of the sharps and flats, the extra key was polished walnut.
Falsch reached out and tapped it. There was no sound.
"The hammer for the
eighty-ninth key has been tied back," Grimalkin
said.
Falsch was
fascinated. This was the most legendary musical
instrument in Europe. André Österháziy was a
preternatural genius whose compositions eclipsed the intricacies of
Mozart and the depth of Beethoven. While not nearly as prolific
as Bach, his four numbered sonatas and his musical ode "Irina" were
regarded as five of the greatest pieces of piano music ever
written. Then Österháziy killed himself in 1828,
leaving the enigmatic letter insisting that his piano never be played
again. The piano itself subsequently disappeared, engendering an
enigma about the composer and his magnificent instrument.
"How much?" Falsch
asked.
Grimalkin
smiled. "Come back next Sunday, and I will quote you a
price."
Falsch
blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"I will name my
price next week, and there will be no
negotiation. You may accept or decline; it is entirely at your
discretion."
"But--"
"Next Sunday,
Monsieur Falsch."
********
Falsch waited
impatiently for his runner to bring him the telegram
disclosing the location of the forthcoming Bazaar. On Thursday
afternoon, it came -- three o'clock Sunday in suite 800 at the Hotel
Rinaldo in Vienna. He was relieved. He wouldn't have to
travel by train; his driver could take him in the Bentley on Sunday
morning.
All week long, he
had plumbed every source he knew for anything about
the Österháziy spinet, but the results were scanty at best
-- a word here, a rumor there -- all alluding to its priceless value
and mysterious disappearance. With each new bit of information,
Falsch's desire grew. Armand Dietrich in Istanbul sent a wire
confirming that Sultan Mahmud II had once tried to acquire the
instrument from Österháziy in 1817. Dietrich's
contact at the Topkapi museum said that the curators kept the
Österháziy correspondence under lock and key.
Vyaslav Chernenko
reported that the Hermitage's agents in Leningrad had
tried to track down the piano as recently as 1930 without result.
The Bolsheviks officially denied knowledge of the attempt, but
Chernenko's sources reached all the way into the Politburo, and he was
certain the report was true.
From Brussels,
Pierre Landrieu sent word that the piano had been
destroyed prior to Österháziy's death. Only fools
believed it still existed, he said. But Falsch knew Landrieu's
philosophy; Landrieu saw conspiracies everywhere and believed all
authorities were liars.
Other rumors came
from Emil van Horn in The Hague. He had heard
that Franz Joseph of Austria had acquired the Österháziy
spinet and hidden it away at Schönbrunn Palace. Yet another
held that Bismarck himself carried it back from France after the
Franco-Prussian War, but it had disappeared from Berlin around the turn
of the century. According to van Horn, some believed that
possession of the instrument conveyed mystical power.
Count Isak Amalie, a
distant relative of the Danish King, wired Falsch
a warning that the Österháziy spinet was possessed by the
devil himself, and that any man who acquired it would come to
grief. Falsch laughed at the absurdity of the logic.
Certainly Österháziy had come to grief, but not before
giving the world musical works that bordered on the divine.
Grimalkin would have
no difficulty selling such a prize. He was a
dealer, an intermediary. To him, the piano's value lay solely in
the money it could command. But Falsch was a music lover who
could appreciate its intrinsic worth as well as its value in the
marketplace. Grimalkin was offering the piano for an undisclosed
sum, and, if Falsch came to the Bazaar with sufficient funds to buy it,
he could, if he chose, sell it at a healthy profit to any number of
wealthy men who shared an appreciation for Österháziy's
legacy. Already, inquiries had arrived from Rome, Munich and
Paris.
If Grimalkin
understood the piano's true value, which was likely, the
price would be astronomical. Falsch would have to assemble a
consortium to garner sufficient funds, and he had only two days in
which to do so. He would have to meet Grimalkin's price on the
spot or he wouldn't likely get another opportunity to bid.
Falsch sent coded
telegrams to his financial contacts in Zurich, London
and Amsterdam. From each one, he received a return wire
confirming letters of credit on the Bank of Vienna. By Friday
afternoon, he had arranged for an irrevocable cash demand note executed
in blank and good for any amount up to a million pounds sterling.
If that wasn't enough to buy the spinet, Falsch might need the help of
Croesus himself.
On Sunday at ten
minutes after three o'clock, Falsch knocked twice on
the door to suite 800 at the Hotel Rinaldo. Rieffer, the Bazaar's
major-domo, opened the door, bowed his head and silently waved him
inside. There were only a dozen dealers present in the spacious
parlor, each one seated at a small table, and five
counterparties. Falsch knew everyone in the room. Those not
engaged in negotiations nodded their greetings to him. It was
customary for the counterparties not to speak directly to each other
while the Bazaar was in session; one spoke only to the dealers.
Falsch approached
Grimalkin who sat at a table by a heavily draperied
window at the far end of the room. The piano itself wasn't
there. With a buyer in hand, Grimalkin would not have gone to the
trouble of having it hauled up to the eighth floor of a Vienna hotel.
With no word of
greeting, the dealer said, "Two million pounds
sterling."
Falsch smiled to
himself. This was a good sign. Grimalkin's
opening offer was only twice what he had at his command. He
responded, "Not a penny more than one million, and that's generous."
Grimalkin looked him
steadily in the eye and said, "As I told you last
Sunday, Monsieur Falsch, my price is not negotiable. You may
accept or decline; it is entirely at your discretion."
Falsch balked -- a
mistake. To show weakness or hesitation was
unacceptable at the Bazaar. He should have either nodded once to
accept the terms or simply shook his head and walked away. He had
to think fast if he hoped to save his reputation. He could
telephone the banker Loewenschild; he was the closest thing to Croesus
and only person Falsch knew in Vienna who could guarantee a million
pounds on such short notice. But if Falsch accepted Grimalkin's
terms now and failed to get the additional funds from Loewenschild, he
would be ruined.
Grimalkin said, "I
must have your answer now, Monsieur Falsch.
Another counterparty is prepared to meet my price."
Falsch
grimaced. He looked around; the other counterparties were
engaged in negotiations with dealers -- all except Kaspar von Pabst who
was fidgeting in a corner and looking nervously at Grimalkin. Von
Pabst was a parvenu who wore his eagerness as proudly as he did his
regimental tie. Falsch turned back to Grimalkin and said, "Von
Pabst? Where would he get two million pounds?"
"That is not my
business, Monsieur. Besides, you know that all
counterparty transactions are confidential. Your answer?"
Falsch decided to
take the gamble. "Yes," he said. He
reached into his breast pocket and produced the irrevocable cash demand
note. "I have a million here. I'll need an hour to arrange
the rest."
It was Grimalkin's
turn to grimace. "You know the rules.
Cash. No exceptions."
Falsch glared and
said, "How dare you? This is an irrevocable
demand note drawn on the Bank of Vienna. It's as good as
cash. If you question this, you'll never set foot in the Bazaar
again."
Grimalkin was
unmoved. "I was speaking of the other million,
Monsieur. You do not have it."
"I'll get it within
the hour. You have my word."
The dealer
considered the proposition. At last he said, "One
hour. Not a minute more. But I will hold the demand note
for good faith."
Falsch was
horrified. "Do you mean--"
Grimalkin dismissed
Falsch's fears with a wave of his hand. He
said, "Not to worry, Monsieur. If you are unsuccessful, I will
return the note, less a one percent option fee of course."
It was a risk Falsch
was willing to take. The ten thousand pound
fee would come out of his end if necessary.
********
Falsch telephoned
the banker from the lobby of the hotel.
Fortunately, Loewenschild was at home and, after a hurried explanation
by Falsch, he agreed to open his bank on a Sunday to accommodate one of
his best clients. Of course, there would be a substantial
transaction fee for the inconvenience, but Falsch was willing to pay.
Loewenschild met him
at the bank alone. He was an old man -- more
than eighty, Falsch surmised -- and he prepared the papers by
himself. A clerk could have done the job faster, and the
resulting delay kept Falsch from the Hotel Rinaldo for more than the
hour he had agreed to with Grimalkin. He urged his driver to make
all haste, but he didn't reach the hotel until four-thirty.
Impatiently, he waited for the single elevator to reach the
lobby. When it did, he stood back from the doors while the
passengers departed, and then he waited yet again while the elevator
operator held the car as an elderly couple entered.
"Four, please," the
old man said.
The elevator
operator said, "Yes, sir," and then looked at Falsch.
"Eight, please,"
Falsch said.
The car slowly
ascended while Falsch fought to maintain his
composure. It stopped at four, and the elevator man opened the
cage for the elderly couple to alight. "Watch your step," he said.
The elevator man
closed the gate and released the brake. The car
ascended faster now, Falsch watching the floors flash by until it
reached the eighth floor. Without waiting for the door to open
completely, Falsch dashed out into the corridor and walked rapidly
toward suite 800, composing himself on the way.
He reached the large
oak double doors and knocked twice. When
Rieffer didn't answer immediately, he knocked again. Still,
Rieffer didn't come, so Falsch tried the doorknob, but it was
locked. He banged yet again, but the only answer was an
echo. Frantic now, Falsch raced back down the corridor and rang
for the elevator, knowing even as he ran that he was too late.
When he arrived back
in the lobby, he went immediately to the front
desk and demanded to know what had happened to the occupants of suite
800.
The front desk clerk
gave him an obsequious smile and said, "I'm sorry,
sir, but suite 800 is unoccupied."
"But it was occupied
not more than an hour ago. I was there
myself."
"You must be
mistaken, sir. Suite 800 has been unoccupied for at
least two weeks."
It was a sham and
Falsch knew it. One of Rieffer's jobs as
major-domo was to ensure privacy. He would have paid generously
to ensure that all records of the Bazaar's meeting were erased.
He gave his name to
the clerk and asked if anyone had left a message
for him. The clerk checked the in-box and found a vellum envelope
sealed with red wax addressed to Falsch. Falsch grabbed it
eagerly and broke the seal. It read:
As
you predicted, Monsieur Falsch, Herr von Pabst did not have the
requisite funds. As the Bank of Vienna does not open until
tomorrow, I must wait to redeem the option fee on your demand
note. If you are still interested in acquiring the spinet, I will
wait in the bar until five o'clock. If I don't see you, the
balance of your demand note will be left with the managing director of
the bank.
Grimalkin
Falsch was relieved but astonished. This was the first time he
could recall a dealer giving anyone a second chance. He walked
across the lobby to the bar entrance, all the while trying to remain
calm. He had no choice but to follow through with the deal now;
if he failed to do so, he would lose more than the ten thousand pounds
option money. He would lose face and, very likely, his place at
the Bazaar.
As Falsch entered
the dimly lit room, he immediately spotted Grimalkin
in a corner booth by himself. He walked over and sat down.
"Well, Monsieur
Falsch, do you have the money?"
Falsch handed the
dealer another demand note for a million pounds and
asked, "When and how can I take delivery?"
"I'll deposit the
demand notes tomorrow. The piano will be
delivered to any address you specify on Tuesday."
Falsch wrote his
address on a slip of paper. He passed it across
the table without saying anything else; then he turned and left the bar.
********
The piano arrived at
noon on Tuesday. The movers treated it with
all the care due such a rare and delicate artifact, and Falsch marveled
once again at its beauty. Its gilt-covered Queen Anne legs
tapered to ornately carved eagle-talon claws that clutched ebony balls
at its feet. Falsch ran his hand along its gold surface,
appreciating the craftsmanship; the cabinetry was as much a work of art
as the music it had produced. The spinet was more than a mere
investment; it was a source of rapture. He had paid twice what he
had expected, but he was confident that any one of his European buyers
would give him enough to yield a handsome profit if he chose to part
with the instrument.
A piano tuner
arrived at 1:00 and he, too, was awestruck by the
instrument. He set to work, but was puzzled by the eighty-ninth
key. "It serves no purpose," he said. "I'll untie the
hammer, of course, and tune the string, but no pianist would use the
note. I don't understand why it's here."
An hour later, the
piano tuner finished. He accepted his fee and
said, "It's a magnificent instrument. I've never heard a richer
tone, even on the finest concert grands. It's almost as if it
were enchanted."
After the tuner
left, Falsch sat at the keyboard. He opened the
sheet music for "Irina" and began to play. He was an accomplished
pianist but not a master. Although he dearly wanted to hear a
virtuoso use the Österháziy spinet, his own meager efforts
would have to suffice for the time being.
At first, he fumbled
amateurishly with Österháziy's complex
composition, failing to do it justice, but the notes he played pleased
him nonetheless. He struggled through the first movement and then
stopped. He looked at the walnut key at the high end of the scale
and depressed it lightly. There was no immediate sound, and he
thought that the piano tuner had failed to untie the hammer. But
he pressed the key again and again until a soft high D reverberated in
the room, filling the air with a sound that was both long and haunting.
Falsch let the note
fade. He sat there, staring at the sheet
music with new appreciation for Österháziy's genius.
For the first time, he saw a notation in small print at the bottom of
the cover page. He strained his eyes to read it, but the writing
was too tiny for him to make out without assistance. He retrieved
a magnifying glass from his desk. With the benefit of having
Österháziy's own piano, Falsch understood the notation
immediately, but he realized that it must have been a mystery to anyone
else. It read:
In
the text of André Österháziy's original
composition, he indicated that the thirteenth note of the seventh bar
in each movement should be played as d'''; however, as no such natural
note occurs on the piano keyboard, the publishers have rendered it an
octave lower, as d''. Whenever "Irina" has been performed
publicly since Österháziy's death, it has generally been
played in this manner; however, some pianists prefer to play high c'''
instead.
Falsch knew, of
course that the notation d''' referred to the
eighty-ninth key. He replayed the first movement of "Irina" using
the original keystroke Österháziy had intended for the
thirteenth note of the seventh bar. As soon as he struck the key
the first time, the room filled with the sound of its soft high tone,
and the following notes were all but lost in its quiet echo. He
stopped and began again, this time with more confidence. His
fingers skipped across the keys with a skill he didn't know he
possessed, and each time the high D sounded, he felt a flush surging
through his body. When he finished playing, he pulled his hands
away from the keyboard, his energy drained as though he had been at
hard labor rather than playing a sonata.
Falsch was short of
breath and perspiring heavily. He felt
used-up, both physically and emotionally. He looked around the
room and out the window, and was startled to realize it was already
dark outside. The clock on the mantel indicated ten-thirty.
He'd been playing for hours without knowing it. It was almost too
much for his mind to grasp. He looked at the piano differently
now. The act of playing it had hypnotized him; he had lost
control of his mind and body, surrendering them to
Österháziy's spinet the moment his fingers had touched the
keys.
What had Grimalkin
sold him? Falsch slammed the cover down on the
keys and backed away from the piano. It was dark and cold in the
room, but moonlight streamed in through the window, casting an
otherworldly glow across the gilt covered instrument. He made up
his mind. In the morning, he would cable his contacts in Paris
and sell the spinet at once.
Falsch turned on a
light in the parlor and poured himself a snifter of
Armagnac. He set about building a fire in the hearth and, once it
was lit, he sat on the chesterfield and settled back, refreshing his
spirits. He hadn't eaten since before noon, but exhaustion
overcame hunger and he dozed off.
Falsch had failed to
wind the mantel clock, and the hands had frozen in
place at eleven. Thus, it might have been a minute, an hour or
even two that he slept in a semi-reclined position on the sofa.
His slumber was dreamless at first, but soon distorted images seeped
into his brain. Vivid impressions connected randomly, each one
more disturbing than the last, until his mind rebelled and roused him
to wakefulness. The moonlight had vanished, leaving the room
dimly illuminated by the single lamp he had lit earlier. He
rubbed the sleep from his eyes and, as he struggled to keep them open,
he gradually became aware of soft music. It was
Österháziy's "Irina," the very composition Falsch had been
playing before he fell asleep.
He gazed across the
room at the piano. It was in shadow, but he
discerned a gray, indistinct shape crouched in front of the
keyboard. Suddenly, the music ceased and the crouching figure
straightened up and turned around. The shape became more defined
as that of a man, but not enough to be recognizable.
Falsch let out a
gasp. The intruder rose from the piano bench and
moved slowly toward him. In a panic now, Falsch lunged for his
desk seeking the Nagant pistol he kept in his top drawer. He
retrieved it and unlocked the safety, pointing it at the man who
lumbered wordlessly toward him.
"Stand back," Falsch
shouted, "or I'll shoot."
The intruder ignored
him and kept walking.
Falsch cocked the
hammer and fired, but with no effect. The man
didn't even flinch. Falsch fired again and again, but the man
kept coming. When the Nagant was empty, Falsch flung it at
him. The pistol appeared to strike the man's head, but it
continued right through his body and landed at the foot of the
piano. At the sight of this astonishing phenomenon, Falsch let
out a guttural cry and fainted to the floor.
When he regained
consciousness, it was morning. The fire had died
down and the apartment was cold. Falsch looked around the room,
not knowing if his frightening encounter with the intruder had been
nothing more than a dream or a hallucination. But a glance at the
piano told him that it had been all too real.
The
Österháziy spinet had been upended and broken
apart: its Queen Anne legs were ripped from the body; the
sounding board was split out of the frame; the base-plate was shattered
by six holes, a result of the bullets Falsch had fired at -- and
through -- the apparition.
********
Falsch told no one
of the incident. When pressed by his Paris
contacts who wanted to bid for the piano, he responded that it had been
destroyed in transport. Unfortunately, there hadn't been time to
have it insured, a mistake that cost him dearly. During the
ensuing days, he scrambled to make good his debt to Loewenschild and
his other financial backers, liquidating investments and calling in
debt he had extended to other counterparties. In the end, when he
tallied up his assets, he found that he was still solvent, but only
barely so. Fortunately, by meeting his obligations so quickly,
his credit standing remained impeccable.
On Sunday, he made
his way to a school auditorium in Linz where the
Bazaar was convening. Grimalkin was there, waiting for him.
"I heard of the
unfortunate accident with the Österháziy
spinet," Grimalkin said. "I understand the piano movers dropped
it down the stairs."
"Is that what you
think?"
Grimalkin looked
down at the priceless and near priceless objects on
his display table. He absently stroked the frame of a tiny oil
painting and then looked back up at Falsch. He said, "No. I
think you ignored Österháziy's warning and played his
piano. He wouldn't have liked that."
- THE END -
© 2003 David Evans Katz
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