Chapter 10 THE TOLSTOI QUARTET’S STORY
As Herbert opened the door and stepped out into the early New York morning again, the air came up and bit him with cold. It had a keen animal sharpness, the wind. Herbert pulled his ragged coat about him and hunched directly into it, heading toward the Automat and his appointments there.
Although it was early in the morning, the windows of the Automat were already rimmed in steam. Herbert hurried through the almost deserted streets of New York, barely registering the dim gloom of dawn that uncurled itself around his body, until the animal itself startled awake with bright eyes and a glittering edge of sun topped the buildings that rimmed the East River. The shaft of sun reached down and coaxed him to look up and even to feel cheerful.
“I must do something for the children,” he reminded himself. But he had errands to do that did not concern his grandchildren.
As the shaft of sun reached down through the tall, oppressive buildings, the glittering towers of New York began to sing in chorus, a metallic shimmer of sound that reached into Herbert’s ears, even though his ears were muffled by a long, grimy scarf and a squashed hat. New York sang in a whine of strained sound that merged with the increasing humming of cars, taxicabs, and even, far away, the sighs of trains and great boats shunting themselves along the river. Herbert hurried and the gloomy streets lightened in front of him. He was a man going quickly toward the vanishing point, that point where perspective meets horizon.
Eighth Avenue was punctuated by small bent figures, hunched against the wind, hurrying somewhere. Herbert stopped at the door of the Automat and then entered its warm odor.
“Morning, sir,” the waitress greeted him. As Herbert paused in the steam of the cafeteria, she went back to cleaning. The Automat had opened two hours ago, and already there were puddles of water and mud on the floor, the grime melting from early-morning customers. With a shrug, Helen indicated a back table. “They’ve been waiting for you,” she said.
“Thank you, my good woman,” replied Herbert, pulling off his gloves and removing his hat. He struggled to untangle the large scarf from his neck.
“Back there,” she said. “I suppose you want your coffee?” Not for him to stand in line. Or lift a tray.
“That would be so kind,” answered Herbert somewhat absently in his accent, automatically charming. He took a moment to overlook the situation — the dim restaurant with its few dark tables, and the already-gleaming cases of self-service items: Danish pastries, red Jell-O, whipped-cream hats.
The four men who formed the world-famous Tolstoi Quartet were waiting for him in the back of the restaurant. Two tables had been pushed together in readiness. Herbert quickly took in the dark bulk of musical instrument cases that sat expectantly next to each man. Two violins, a viola, a violoncello; the cases were dark and covered with stickers from travel — travel all over the world.
The Tolstoi String Quartet had a certain European reputation. Named for the writer they considered the most universal, the Tolstoi Quartet sought in its music to overcome barriers of nationalism. But Herbert had never quite forgiven the Quartet for not calling itself the Arthur Schnitzler Quartet instead.
Herbert had often heard them — in the concert hall in Vienna and, even more pleasantly, in his own home. Adeline had delighted in these soirees. Adeline! He saw her at the piano, for in private rehearsal she had played the piano for the Schubert Quintet with these courteous, sonorous men. Herbert did not need to close his eyes to see again the Tolstoi Quartet in his home, the elegance of the men and women, the beauty of their playing, the tears that rose to his eyes even then as he watched his dark-haired wife.
Now, as Herbert walked toward the seated Quartet, a tremor crossed the dank air of the restaurant, metallic with the stale odors of wet wool and ashen coffee. Herbert coughed, clearing his throat discreetly. Four chairs scraped and four heads turned to look. “Ah,” cried one. And at that, all four men sprang to their feet and looked sharply in Herbert’s direction. Herbert advanced toward them. “Please be seated,” he said. “Be seated, my dear gentlemen.”
The four men looked quickly at one another. In a rush, their faces contorted with fear and longing, they swooned to the ground. They fell on Herbert as he stood, his threadbare overcoat too large around his body. “Herr Professor, Herr Doktor,” they murmured. Each man attempted to clutch the hem of Herbert’s coat, and they prostrated themselves further, embracing his ankles and his overshoes.
“Please, gentlemen,” Herbert crooned, trying to take a step backward.
“Beloved Herr Professor,” the men murmured.
“Please, gentlemen, I implore you,” admonished Herbert. Gently, he reached down and placed his hands on the shoulders of the two men who encircled his feet. “Please.”
The men seized his hands and began kissing them fervently. “Our beloved Herr Doktor. We thought we would never see you alive,” they said, kissing his ring. “The ring. Your promise.”
Tears rimmed the eyes of all four men, and Herbert, too, felt his own tears rise, welcome balm to the wandering soul. He grasped their hands. “My friends, it is I who should embrace you.” Herbert’s voice was like warm honey.
The Quartet started to sob aloud, and Herbert let the sadness pour out of him, too. “Please, gentlemen, please,” he crooned, trying to encircle them all with his hands. His hands were warm now; he let the radiance flow through him into their bent, shaking backs. So frail. They all were….“Gentlemen, please.” He cleared his throat.
The men pushed themselves to their feet and stood, looking expectantly at Herbert. “It is time to begin.” Herbert lowered himself into a chair. He indicated the other chairs. “Be seated, I beg of you.” The Quartet sat down instantly.
“Coffee,” said Helen as she put the cups on the table in front of Herbert.
“Thank you, dear lady,” he said. He turned his kind, illuminated gaze to the men, looking at each one in turn, their lined faces, their troubled eyes. “Now,” he commanded softly, “tell me.”
There was sudden silence in the cafeteria. Herbert could hear the clanging of the morning sunlight outside, above the narrow streets, scraping against the sooty buildings with sharp, harsh sounds. He heard early-morning traffic, laboring. But all this was far away. “Tell me,” he said again, even more softly. “Tell me.” He whispered, as to a child or a lover. His lips were papery against each other.
Without a word, each man, as if offering a gift, placed his left hand, outstretched, upon the table. These hands — the ones used for fingering — lay on the table, palms up, vulnerable. They gleamed like newly netted fish.
“Look, Herr Doktor,” whispered the first violinist. “Observe.”
The hands, which had a life of their own, lay mute under Herbert’s examination, unprotesting. They quivered a little. They were gnarled and muscled and sinewy from years of pressing themselves against strings. Herbert looked. In an instant, as when a puzzle is completed, he understood. On each hand outstretched in front of him, the final joint of the smallest finger was missing. The hands, ashamed, lay in front of him. They trembled with the effort of trying not to hide their disfigurement. The stumps of the little fingers, which wanted only to creep away under the others, now, obedient to their masters, allowed him to see their painful embarrassment. They twitched but lay still.
“But what?” Herbert questioned incredulously. He looked into the eyes of the first violinist, then at each of the men.
Their leader answered for them all. “Yes. They took our fingers. We can no longer play.” The hands, the mutilated fingering hands of the Quartet, lay suspended on the table. “And so the Tolstoi String Quartet is silent.”