The Memorist

Chapter 100

Thursday, May 1^st-8:23 p.m.

An obese man in a tuxedo was coming at Meer and was going to mow her down if she didn’t get out of his way. But there was nowhere to go. The crowd had her hemmed in. He shoved her as he ran by; she fell, smashing her leg on the side of a seat. The pain hit as the next note of the ancient flute split the air. It was glorious and horrible in a way that had nothing to do with ordinary music; the note seemed to shatter into a million sparks of light that pulled her back into Margaux’s storm.

There was sorrow in Archer Wells’s eyes as he aimed the pistol at Margaux’s chest and his voice sounded sincere. “I’m sorry but this whole scheme has taken on ramifications far beyond what you imagined. The British government can’t take the chance of this becoming an international incident. Don’t you see? If you refuse to steal the flute from Beethoven and sell it to the Tsar now he could become belligerent and leave the conference. The same could happen if you do sell it to him and it doesn’t work. I have to take charge of this. If only you had kept to our bargain. When I negotiated with you I made you an honest offer-”

“Based on a lie! You told me my husband was still alive.”

Archer ignored her taunt. “Now we run the risk of this becoming a political inferno and I intend to stop that from happening. I must have everything connected to the damned flute and the music. And that includes that box. Give it to me.”

“No!” Beethoven had asked her to do this for him and she didn’t intend on letting him down.

As she watched Archer’s finger move on the trigger, Margaux fired her pistol at him and simultaneously kicked her horse. Pythagoras rose up-partly from the noise of the gunshot and partly from her boot in his ribs-and took off. Margaux let him ride full out, galloping toward the estate. She didn’t look back at Archer and had no idea if her bullet had hit its mark or not. She didn’t care as long as she got away, as long as she made it to the mansion and handed Beethoven’s gift to his friend, Antonie Brentano.

Margaux couldn’t see Archer lift his gun in his right arm, despite the throbbing pain in his left shoulder, and take aim at her retreating form.

When she heard the bullet she thought the sound was more thunder. When it hit her and burrowed deep into her side she thought someone had set her on fire. She was aware of only two things-the pain and the thought that before she collapsed she had to reach the main house and deliver the gaming box to protect the secret that Caspar had died for. They’d know how to help her at the house, how to relieve the pain. She just had to make it that far.

A bird sang in a tree behind her. Amazing. To hear birdsong now while she galloped through the storm-drenched forest. She thought about the bird and then about Beethoven. About the flute. About its secret. About her husband. His hand holding hers.

Sebastian took a breath before starting the song over again, and in the beat of silence Meer’s mind came back to the present and she found herself sitting on the carpet, sheltered by the chairs. She had to get up and get to the stage and stop him. Around her, the chaos had intensified as people’s memories sparked more suffering. Pulling herself up, Meer checked the aisle. The crowd still surged, but she had no choice. She was too dizzy to move but she had to. Margaux was dying and Meer wasn’t sure she could go through her death. Didn’t know if she would survive feeling the pain of it.

Margaux could no longer sit up on her horse and lay slumped over, holding on to Pythagoras’s neck with both hands but she barely had any strength left. The pain was so powerful that she didn’t want to stay conscious, except a small part of her mind knew that if she gave in she might not be able to hold on and then what would happen? Would Archer overtake the horse, or worse, shoot him to get to the box?

Gritting her teeth, she clamped her jaw and tried to think about what she would say when she reached the house-the fewest words to explain what was happening-but it wasn’t about words, it was about the music that Beethoven didn’t want anyone to hear. That was what she needed to warn them about…to make sure they didn’t let anyone steal the secret of the music.

Meer fought her way down the aisle, through the crowd, finally reaching the stage where she climbed up onto the proscenium and maneuvered through the throng of the orchestra members, who, like the audience, were in extreme discomfort and duress.

One musician lay on the floor rolling back and forth and shrieking as if he were on fire and trying to put out the flames. Another cowered under his chair, his hands in front of his face, trying to protect himself from an invisible enemy, shouting the same phrase over and over in a language she didn’t recognize. Some of the performers were in physical discomfort, others in mental distress. The very few who were unaffected tried to help those who were in worse shape.

Ignoring them all, Meer kept advancing toward Sebastian who, immune to the havoc he created, played on. His eyes were closed and so he didn’t see her approach, didn’t see her reach out…until he felt the pressure of her hand as she tried to pull the flute away from him.

He opened his eyes, and when she looked into them all she saw was desperation as he held tight and blew the next note. Meer fought to stay present, focused with all her energy on staying present, the pain in her back intensifying with every breath.

“You’re done. You can’t keep playing it over, Sebastian. You’ve done as much as you could. Give it to me now.”

In her peripheral vision Meer could see a half-dozen police officers making their way onto the stage. Sebastian saw them too, and for one second his fingers loosened on the smooth bone and she was able to pry it from him and slip her hand under her jacket, hiding it. Stepping back she made room for the uniformed men who’d jumped up on the stage and surrounded Sebastian. None of them seemed to notice her. Had they even seen her take the flute? Did they understand that the instrument Sebastian had been using wasn’t the silver-and-black oboe on his music stand? She didn’t think so. She’d told Fiske but she doubted there had been time for him to alert everyone. Either way she wasn’t going to wait and find out.

Putting more distance between herself and Sebastian and the police, she started backing away. None of the policemen followed her: three remained with Sebastian; the rest walked among the psychically wounded, offering help.

Meer was heartbroken. Her father was gone. And it was Sebastian’s fault. He’d done a terrible thing to her and her father and to the people in this hall, but he’d also unlocked the secret she’d been looking for all of her life. This-what she held in her hand-was all that was left of Devadas. Was what Caspar had died for. Was what her father had put himself in danger for. No one was going to take it away from her again. She was bewildered about everything except this: in time, over lifetimes, she had been responsible for this object, and now she was its guardian once again. No matter what happened or what it took, she would do the right thing with the memory flute. That was her karma. It had been before. It was again.