Beethoven's Tenth Page 13

  “Whoa, there, Mr. Saulnier,” Harry piped up. “What’s this about a national treasure? And even if this manuscript turns out to be the legitimate work of Beethoven—whether it’s good or bad Beethoven—how would that possibly qualify it as a Swiss national treasure?”

  Gordy raised a cautionary hand to quiet his boss. “We need to let Mr. Saulnier speak his piece, so we can find out where he’s headed and what he expects us to do about it.”

  “Sorry, champ.”

  “Thank you,” said the attaché. “Our position is simply that this manuscript and the related materials should be returned for safekeeping by the Swiss government while these various matters can be sorted out and resolved. If Mr. Hassler emerges as the legal titleholder to the work and Swiss laws do not intercede, he would then—but only then—be free to contract with your firm to auction the manuscript.”

  Whittaker shook his head emphatically. “That’s a nonstarter,” he said. “Mr. Hassler acted well within his rights as executor and sole heir of his grandfather’s estate—and then only after having learned from his grandfather’s Swiss attorney that there was no competing will known to exist and no other valid claim against the estate except the neighbors’ lien on the house itself and its furnishings. The lien provides that my client may remove and keep the Hassler family’s personal papers and records, among which this manuscript was found. End of story.”

  Saulnier retained his staid demeanor even as the exchange grew more pointed. “The Erpf family—the neighbors—argue otherwise. They ask how Jacob Hassler can claim that his grandfather had legal title to what may be the original manuscript of a Beethoven symphony—and they contest that it can be included among the Hasslers’ ‘family papers’ since it never passed into their hands as its legal owners—unless there is documentation to that effect. Is there any?”

  Whittaker was caught off guard by the argument. “None that I know of,” he said, “but I don’t see how that affects—”

  “Ah, but it does,” said Saulnier.

  Whittaker turned to Gordy for support but won only a shrug in return. “Our understanding from the Erpfs’ son Ansel,” the attaché followed up, “is that, according to the surviving letter of a Hassler ancestor, she chose to keep the manuscript in defiance of her instructions from the composer to destroy it after he left the family’s premises. Whether or not that constituted a criminal act on her part is no doubt a moot question at this late date, but surely it did not establish the family’s legal title to the property.”

  Neither Whittaker nor Gordy offered an immediate rebuttal, prompting Mitch to join the fray. “But even if the manuscript did not, strictly speaking, belong to the Hassler family,” he asked, “how did the neighbors’ lien give them the right to claim title to the manuscript?” Mitch turned to Whittaker for confirmation as he added, “The Erpfs hold a lien, as I understand it, only against the house and its furnishings—not the Hassler family papers, among which the purported Beethoven manuscript was found.”

  “But its being there,” Saulnier parried, “does not mean it belonged there or that it was a legal family possession, allowing Jacob Hassler just to walk out of Switzerland with it under his arm, so to speak.”

  “Even granting that, which Mr. Whittaker plainly does not,” Mitch answered, “how does that put the Erpf family into play as legitimate claimants to the manuscript? Frankly, they sound pretty greedy—almost as if they regret the generosity they had long extended to old Mr. Hassler and are trying now to extract the last ounce of payback from his grandson.”

  “Yes!” Harry barked and at once subsided.

  Saulnier was nonplussed. “The Erpfs feel it would not be unreasonable for them to be rewarded to that extent—given that first, the manuscript had no business being held captive in Mr. Hassler’s attic for all that time—”

  “But the manuscript wouldn’t exist today,” Mitch shot back, “if Nina Hassler hadn’t disobeyed the composer’s instruction to dispose of it. Or so we’ve been led to believe.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Saulnier, “it was one of the Erpf family members—a highly accomplished musician accompanying Jacob Hassler at the time—who rescued the manuscript a second time from being consigned to the rubbish. Mr. Hassler, who knows neither music nor the German language, couldn’t have recognized the manuscript for what it is—or may be.”

  “That sounds to me,” Gordy inserted, “as if both families may have a legitimate claim to ownership.” He looked down toward Harry. “Maybe we ought to let these two families work out some sort of joint title to the symphony and then call upon our services to get it authenticated and sold at auction if they so choose.”

  “What about that, Mr. Whittaker?” Gordy asked.

  “I don’t think that’s what the Erpfs have in mind. From what Herr Schacht, Jake’s Zurich lawyer, tells me, the Erpfs may have struck a deal with the Swiss government to seek its intervention on their behalf—which would explain Mr. Saulnier’s getting into the act here.”

  “Is that right?” Gordy asked the attaché.

  Saulnier sat back and gathered his thoughts for a moment. “Well,” he said in careful acknowledgment, “it’s safe to say that my government has an overriding interest in the fate of this work of art if it proves to be genuine. Bear in mind its subject and theme—they are nothing less than a celebration of the spirit of liberty and independence of our people. Surely Americans ought to be sensitive to these values. The work, moreover, was allegedly written within our national borders. And, as I mentioned, we have rather rigid rules against the unlicensed removal from Switzerland of artistic or other works and artifacts that, in the view of our Cultural Ministry, constitute part of our people’s proud heritage—and may therefore be justly classified as national treasures. This symphony may very well qualify as such an item.”

  “But it had not been so designated,” Whittaker pointed out, “at the time Mr. Hassler brought it home, believing it to be his rightful possession. So how can Mr. Hassler possibly be accused of acting in disregard, knowingly or not, of the Swiss laws?”

  “His premeditation is beside the point,” Saulnier replied. “The point is he wasn’t entitled to remove the manuscript until these various issues are settled—and therefore it should promptly be returned to Switzerland.”

  The suggestion provoked Whittaker to slap his open palm down on the tabletop. “That would certainly facilitate whatever deal the Erpfs have proposed to Mr. Saulnier’s government—and screw Jake Hassler royally.”

  “Do tell us about your arrangement with these people,” Harry urged the diplomat.

  The Erpf family, far from being grasping people, were well regarded in Zurich for their civic-mindedness and generous support of the arts, Saulnier related. The Erpfs had expressed a patriotic interest in the Beethoven work—should it prove authentic—and offered to donate their claim to it to the Swiss nation. “Title to it would be held in trust by our Cultural Ministry until completion of the authentication process,” the attaché revealed, after which a fund would be established to receive all revenues from performance rights, recording royalties, and any other forms of licensed commercial use. He looked up from his papers. “For the first twenty-five years, half of these revenues would be used to subsidize the Swiss National Philharmonic—which, incidentally, would be granted the right to give the world premiere performance of the Tell Symphony—and the Zurich Conservatory of Music among others of our financially pressed cultural institutions, and thereafter all of the revenues would be so used.”

  “And what would become of the other half of the Tell revenues for those first twenty-five years?” Gordy pressed him.

  “Well, that would depend largely on what the Swiss courts decided about whether Jacob Hassler or the Erpf family had the better claim to ownership of the manuscript. Or perhaps, as Mr. Roth has suggested, the parties might agree upon an equitable division of the income—or the court could
order another form of compromise.”

  Harry stirred elaborately at the far end of the table. “Could your government in all honesty, Mr. Saulnier,” he asked in his flattest, most nasal tone, “assure Mr. Hassler that he would be best served by surrendering what he feels is his rightful possession to the aggressive claims of a family you paint as paragons of Swiss patriotism—and to Swiss authorities who are likely to be predisposed against an American citizen in this matter?”

  “I think, Mr. Cubbage,” Saulnier replied, “that you are asking the wrong question. Your interests and Mr. Jacob Hassler’s interests do not necessarily coincide. Your firm should not be placed in a position to embarrass itself. Instead, I would respectfully suggest that you need to ask yourselves if there is any point in proceeding with plans for the auction of a work whose legal title is being contested—indeed, everything about this discovery is open to question. And once Mr. Hassler recognizes he has hold of what I believe the criminal element calls a ‘hot property’ and cannot readily dispose of it for a great fortune, he may well want to avail himself of the legitimizing procedures of Swiss justice.”

  “And if Mr. Hassler prefers to proceed in what he believes is good faith,” Harry asked, “and we choose to investigate the authenticity of the property?”

  The Swiss lawyer’s pouchy face took on the woeful mien of a basset hound. “Then I suspect the Erpf family and my government would have no recourse except to challenge his claim of ownership within our legal system. Perhaps Mr. Whittaker and your firm will be good enough to review the informal memorandum I’ve prepared, stating my government’s concerns, rather than risk involvement in lengthy and costly litigation—with an unpromising outcome. Mr. Hassler would likely wind up being branded as a rogue owner of the manuscript and your firm’s ability to auction it for a sizable price would be fatally compromised.”

  That sounded confrontational to the American participants. “Fine,” Whittaker said matter-of-factly, “you’re free to litigate to your hearts’ content. But you’ll have to bring your action here—in the American courts. I think you’ll discover ours is not a venue friendly to foreigners seeking to deprive US citizens of their property rights.”

  After the meddlesome Swiss official had taken his leave, Harry hung a leg over the arm of his leather swivel chair. “I believe,” he said after everyone had deferred to him in silence, “our emissary from Yodeland was sending up what is playfully referred to as a trial balloon.”

  “Without a doubt,” said Gordy.

  Harry looked down at Mitch.

  “And what do you say we do about it, pal?”

  The question surprised him—was it another of Harry’s tests to see what he was made of? No, he had evidently been invited to the meeting to help formulate company policy in the matter. But he would try lighthearted modesty first to be sure of his ground. “Me? I’m just the bottle-washer around here.”

  “We can arrange for that if you’d like,” said Harry. “Out with it, Mitchell.”

  “Okay. I say we let the trial balloon float away and get on with our business.”

  “Me, too,” said Gordy. “They’ll never go to court here—and if they do, they’ll lose.”

  Harry nodded and gestured toward Owen Whittaker.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said.

  {6}

  Pleasantly surprised to find that Lolly had already arrived and controlled a sweeping view of the Bemelmans Bar from a corner table, Clara smiled a greeting and hurried over.

  “You’re two minutes and eighteen seconds late, darling,” Lolly bubbled after brushing a kiss past her cheek, “but I forgive you—you’re still on DPT, aren’t you, angel?”

  DPT? Daylight—um—what? Pacific Time? No, not nasty enough. Trying to translate Lolly’s latest cryptic slur was always a challenge. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Dutch People’s Time. It’s a variation on a well-known racist term.”

  “How delightful,” Clara said. “I’m only half Dutch, though, remember.”

  “That’s all you need. I’ll bet you that nobody in Holland knows or cares what time it is.”

  “They have other virtues. Now hush and tell me what that dreadful thing is you’re gulping down? Looks like lemonade or something.”

  “Exactly—very seasonal—very refreshing.”

  “Since when are you into wholesome?”

  “If you must know, it’s half vodka—and it packs a nice little wallop. I’ve named it a Lollypalooza. Here, let me order you one—lots of Vitamin C.”

  “White wine spritzer,” Clara told the waiter, “light on the ice.” She donned a pert look and called Lolly’s attention to the scarlet linen bolero from a boutique on London’s Sloane Street she had put on just to avoid yet another volley of scorn about her funereal “weekday uniform.” “Is this pizazzy enough for you?”

  “Truly fetching,” Lolly approved. “Now we need to deal with your hair. I have this—”

  Clara’s cell phone went off just then, muffled by her handbag. She shrugged it off at first. But Lolly gestured for her to answer it.

  “I won’t—it’s rude. I carry it only for emergencies.”

  “Answer it—maybe God’s calling.”

  Clara frowned but did as directed, catching her caller on the fourth ring. It was Mitch, duly apologetic for intruding on a social occasion. “Can you drop by here after lunch, sweetie? We’re having a strategy huddle on the Tell situation, and we all think your input would be very useful. Sorry about the short notice.”

  “That’s very flattering, but I’ve got to go up to the Columbia library to prep for a seminar tomorrow afternoon—it could affect whether I get the instructor’s job in the fall.”

  “We don’t need you for more than an hour.”

  “I doubt you really need me at all. There are top-flight academics available who can—”

  “We know—and that’s partly what the session is about, and why we want you in on this. Harry thinks you speak our language quite beautifully. And I need you there, Clara.”

  “Oh, Lord,” she said. “Okay—I’ll shoot for three o’clock.”

  “No problem, I hope,” Lolly said, watching her put the phone away.

  “No, just a bit of bother. Mitch needs me at the office when we’re done here to check on something—to do with music.”

  “Ah, good, you’re being artfully deceptive—but I’ll bet I know what it’s about.”

  Clara had no idea how much or little Harry confided in his wife when it came to professional matters. All she knew was that, for the time being, the Beethoven business was classified as strictly hush-hush. “Then you’re miles ahead of me,” Clara lied artlessly.

  “Come off it, darling,” Lolly said. “Harry’s let me in on this little Swiss development—but cautioned me, of course, not to breathe a word of it to another living soul. He also said that you’ve been quite helpful in the matter, so I assume he was leaving you off my verboten list.”

  “I see,” Clara said, still mindful of her nondisclosure pledge to C&W.

  “As a matter of fact,” Lolly barreled ahead, “this quite thrilling development has given me a brainstorm I wanted to bring up with you—and only you.”

  Clara hunched her shoulders as if to register discomfort. “If you must talk about it,” she cautioned, “I think we both need to lower our dulcet voices a few hundred decibels.”

  Lolly took the mild reprimand with good grace and leaned forward so her grating whisper would be audible. “Just imagine, we gather—you and I, I mean—a healthy task force of donors to raise enough money, strictly behind-the-scenes, to make a knockout bid to buy this…this unmentionable but immensely significant musical work at the C&W auction. Then we immediately donate it to the Lincoln Center endowment. The philharmonic, of course, gets to deliver the world premiere performance as the centerpiece of a spectacular benef
it program—I’ll bet you could sell tickets for ten thousand a pop—and then think of all the bucks that would come rolling in from performance rights and recordings—you know the classical music business inside out—I mean, wouldn’t this be huge? We could sell millions and millions of CDs and downloads of this hot little number all around the world, and the Center would get a lovely rake-off on each and every one. And as the guiding force behind the drive, you’d be the golden girl at the place. I’d modestly settle for honorary chairperson of the board—or something else not overly taxing.” She eased herself back, beaming in triumph. “There, I’ve said it, and if you’ll stop to think about it instead of giving me that pained, knee-jerk-negative look of yours, you’d see that it’s not all that nutty. Really—how often can philanthropic organizations get in on the ground floor of something as thrilling as this? I say we’d attract a whole lot of givers who don’t ordinarily deliver—and of course we’d need our elite corps of donors to dig down deep, or we couldn’t be serious players at Harry’s big auction.”

  Clara had to work at stifling a laugh.

  “Assuming I know what you’re talking about,” she began, “I don’t see how you or I could become involved in any such effort—I mean, given our husbands’ connection to—”

  “Why not? Money’s money—this would be entirely aboveboard, out in the open—our group would be bidding against everyone else. Why should C&W care where the money comes from? It’s not as if Lincoln Center would be getting the thing for an inside price, thanks to us.”

  “Still—somehow it smacks of—well, I think you’d have to ask Harry if he had any objection, or there were any professional rules against such a thing.”

  “I will not ask Harry ahead of time—the whole point of the thing for me would be to floor him—and I don’t see how it could in any way embarrass the firm.”