The Memorist

Chapter 63

Wednesday, April 30^th-11:35 a.m.

Like a flock of birds descending, the rooms suddenly filled with dozens of small noises that all together created a great flurry. Glancing at the door, Meer watched a harried female teacher trying to corral a bevy of kids. The same college student who’d been sitting at the front desk selling tickets followed them in, beginning a guided tour.

“Bad timing,” Sebastian muttered under his breath as the three of them watched the group gather in front of the piano. As the guide spoke, she gestured to a painting on the wall. “Except I think we can make this work in our favor. Stay here.” Leaving Meer and Malachai by the oboe cabinet, Sebastian went up to the guide. She appeared fascinated by what he was saying, nodded twice, and then gestured for him to follow her. Together they approached the cabinet and, using a ring she took out of her jeans pocket, the young woman tried first one and then a second key. Pulling the hasp lock apart, she opened the lid, reached inside, gingerly extracted the silver oboe and handed it to Sebastian, as if she were making an offering. He examined it with an expression of reverence on his face; one that Meer was sure was sincere. He was holding an instrument owned by one of the greatest composers of all time, the instrument he himself played in the Vienna Philharmonic.

Behind them and beside them, the children milled around and when one started chasing another, the ticket taker excused herself. Calling out, she gestured for them to gather around her in front of another case in the far corner of the room.

“How did you get her to give you the oboe?” Meer asked incredulously.

“I told her who I am and showed her my ID from the Philharmonic,” Sebastian whispered as he set about carefully examining the instrument.

Meer glanced over her shoulder at the children, who were all riveted to the Beethoven death mask, which she’d examined herself three days before. As the young woman explained what it was and how it was made, a hush fell over the room. It was a haunting object, not so much because of what it looked like but rather because it had been made within hours of the maestro’s death. Even a photograph would not seem as real as the bronze sculptural sepulcher of his soul. Meer’s heart ached and she felt a stab of grief.

“Look at this.” Sebastian’s voice was low but insistent. They closed ranks around him and each peered down.

On the underside of the oboe was a group of silver hallmarks. Meer knew a fair amount about them from working in her mother’s antique store on weekends and summers. Handling so many silver objects she’d memorized many of the most popular but she’d never seen this particular grouping before. Then she noticed something she never had seen before on a maker’s mark: a small hole. Cleverly hidden in the midst of the engraving was a pin-thin opening. Her fingers went to the chain around her neck.

“Yes, we have to try it,” Sebastian urged, figuring it out at the same time.

“Now? Here?”

“Yes,” Malachai’s voice insisted.

She glanced up first at the children who were moving on to the next room with the ticket taker and then she checked the young woman’s counterpart at the front desk who typed away at his computer.

“Now, quickly,” Malachai persisted.

Fingers shaking, Meer lifted the chain out from under her shirt, leaned over and slipped the tiny silver key into the keyhole. She’d wondered since she’d first seen what she’d pulled from beneath the mummified heart what lock could be this small. Now she knew.

The mechanism gave as softly as a butterfly sighing and she let the chain and the key fall back as she tried to open the oboe. How many years had it been since this hinge had been exercised? Gently, she pried the two halves open, forcing the instrument to give up its prize. Gazing down at the contents of the slim silver tomb, Meer recognized what was nestled there from a place deep, deep inside her soul.

It was so delicate and brittle-looking she was afraid to even touch it. Very gently she lifted it out of its hiding place.

“Quickly, give it to me,” Sebastian said.

She was confused. Which instrument? Before she figured it out, he reached out, took Beethoven’s silver oboe from her and snapped it shut.

“Put that in your bag, quickly, Meer,” Malachai said, nodding at the bone flute.

Meanwhile Sebastian had taken several steps away from both of them and put the silver cylinder up to his lips. Not Beethoven, but Pachelbel’s Canon filled the room. It seemed appropriate to Meer; this was music that Beethoven would have heard, Pachelbel having been a composer who’d also moved from Germany to Vienna almost a hundred years before Beethoven did. The children, their teacher, the ticket taker guide and the young man at the computer all focused their attention on Sebastian and the sweet and sacred sound that he brought forth from the oboe.

Hands trembling, Meer opened her bag and slipped the bone flute inside.

Sebastian finished the piece, accepted an enthusiastic round of applause and with a flourish returned the oboe to the ticket taker, who replaced it in its repository without showing any undue curiosity. Wasn’t it lighter without the flute inside? Or hadn’t she paid attention to its heft in the first place?

Done, the woman locked the cabinet and thanked Sebastian who in turn thanked her for the honor of letting him play the instrument. Then, nodding at Malachai, he put his arm around Meer’s shoulder and gently led her out of the room and out of Beethoven’s house.