Devil or No Devil, madmilt [libby ebook reader .TXT] 📗

DEVIL OR NO DEVIL
by madmilt

Leave it to the city authorities to find ways to waste taxpayers' money just to be official. A retired piano virtuoso had shot himself through the head in a "faculty-only" portion of the campus. My immediate phone call to the police stated as much, including the obvious fact that he was dead. Campus Security's report to the police stated as much. Yet four police cars arrived, followed by an ambulance with paramedics who hauled the body away, undoubtedly to the City Hospital, where first an intern, then a more senior doctor, would pronounce him dead. By that time the body would be completely stiff.

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I think back two weeks. The music hall auditorium seats four hundred, and Dean Addington expected it to be about half full for Jason's recital, but this evening it contained only six, and we were all on stage.
"I don't envy you, Joe," declared the dean in slow, polished Oxford tones. "Parenting is no easy task for anyone, but at least I never had to rear a child prodigy."
"It is demanding, hectic, and sometimes nerve-wracking," I conceded in plain Middle American, "But the potential rewards are huge, and the assignment is interesting beyond belief! Even his instructor is baffled – insists that much of Jason's training could not possibly have come from him, and certainly it didn't come from me or my wife, but then where do child prodigies get their training?"
"I have been speculating on that myself for years," stated the dean, "Ever since his instructor's first recital here at the University. Now the question is even more baffling. Already Jason is doing, at age six, what Art did at age ten," and the dean turned toward a lean man in his early twenties with horn-rimmed glasses. "Art, I hope you don't mind our saying this in front of you."
"Why should I mind?" Art shrugged, "It's true. In any event we can get down to business now. Your secretary seems quite capable of keeping Jason occupied while we make final plans for his recital, and here comes Laura."
Laura is my wife. Still in nurse's uniform, she pulled up a chair and sat down. "Sorry," she said, "I didn't have time to change. With both of us working and Jason's recital coming up, we are kept very busy."
The dean was very quick on the uptake. "So let's start right in. The audience will consist of the entire Music 108 class; some curious students from other music classes; about 40% of the music faculty; several persons from the education department; inevitably some from the psyche department; several retired professors; and," the dean paused, "Three or more reporters."
It was Art who responded. "That means we'll all have our hands full. Jason must have safe space. He must not be interviewed or even questioned, so the rest of us will be interviewed that much harder, and we dare not leave any major questions unanswered. My main concern is the very question that Joe and the dean were discussing a minute ago. When those reporters ask where Jason got his training, I'll tell them that I'm the only instructor he ever has known. Those reporters will probe for details. They'll want to know exactly how it was done. I'm anticipating whatever I possibly can, and keeping the answers simple. That's one reason he won't be playing that piece you just heard. It hasn't been heard on this campus for seven years, and Jason is only six.
"I too have speculated on where Jason got his training, and I have a very definite idea, but one that I don't dare state publicly, if at all. He's been around about as long as Vladimir hasn't

. Whenever he gets near a piano, he takes on Vladimir's carriage and gestures, even his temper – and that has me fearing for his future. Vladimir struck several of his pupils. He struck me four times, and the last time, just a day before he left, he knocked me right off the piano bench."
At this I was skeptical. "An old man like Vladimir did that?"
"Yes. He was old, even arthritic, but his arms and hands were still good, and he was big. I, on the other hand, wasn't even grown up, but put that aside for now. We have to plan for every day between now and the recital. Joe, Laura, I want you to use the next two days to get Jason everything he needs for the recital – a new outfit or whatever it takes – and to make sure that he gets all major distractions out of his system. From then on you make sure you know what happens to him at school. Be sure to spot and handle any upsets early. We'll hold his lessons here instead of at home, and I want one of you here with him each time."
Art's demands were very severe, but Laura and I both understood. Jason tended to get interested in everything around him. Though a prodigy, he still did not have an adult's attention span. He would be unpredictable and so would such a diverse audience. I turned to Laura. "I'll take Jason out to the dig site tomorrow and show him what his dad does for a living."
Laura nodded. "Good, that will leave me the following day to get him some clothes. At the very least he'll need a crisp white shirt."

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The next day was quite productive. We unearthed another hut – this time with three skeletons and some pottery. Between the routine work and Jason's endless questions, I came home quite exhausted, but I consider myself lucky. Not once had he gotten out of hand.
Jason reached the door ahead of me, and before I reached the shower, I heard him telling Laura all about his adventure. "They were digging up bones, and washing them off, and putting them together with wire! Putting tags on everything! Daddy says those bones are all that's left of people who once lived there. . . ."
I fully expected to collapse right after my shower. Meanwhile Laura would have to clean up Jason; get him supper; and turn him over to Art and the piano. Tomorrow night would be Laura's turn to collapse.

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The following day Laura took Jason shopping, and I came home just in time to see the results. On the dining table was a white shirt with fancy collar and fancy cuffs like something out of old Vienna. "Laura," I asked, "How much did that shirt cost?"
Laura shook her head slowly before answering. "I know. I splurged. But when Jason saw it, he couldn't look at anything else. He put it on, strode impatiently to the nearest chair, sat down, rolled up his sleeves, shook out his arms and hands, loosened his collar with an emphatic gesture, and gave curt looks to everyone around, just like a quick-tempered virtuoso about to start a concert. He didn't act like a child at all – more as though he owned the place."
"That's nothing new," I answered. "He acts that way whenever he gets near a piano."
"Yes, but this time more so, and he didn't stop there. He mussed up his hair as though it were in his way. He tried to crack his knuckles. That shirt seemed to be an essential item that had been missing. In any event, he has been told firmly that the shirt must be all clean and crisp for the recital. He knows he won't be wearing it before then."

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Right after supper Jason and I left home for the music building. We lived right next to the campus, so the music building was well within walking distance. On our way we passed an excavation site, with a crew still working a jackhammer and bulldozer despite the hour. "Daddy," Jason said, wide-eyed, "They're digging up bones." This kid's imagination!
I couldn't help chuckling. "No, Son, that was the old music building. They've been tearing it down. I don't know what they'll build there, but apparently they're digging to put in a basement, maybe even two basements."
But Jason was not to be dissuaded. "They're going to find bones there, just the way your friends at work did."
"We'll see," I conceded. I was not about to push that issue any farther.
Between there and the new music center, I couldn't help but wonder. Where did

Jason get his training? I knew that he could not have been Vladimir in a previous life. Vladimir had been alive at Jason's birth and might well be still alive. I had all but dismissed the possibility of any connection at all when we entered the music center hallway, and I saw the portraits lining the walls. One of them was Vladimir's, and yes, Jason's new shirt was almost exactly the same style!
Art greeted us at the stage door. "Hi Joe. Have a seat up here on the stage. Jason and I had best get right down to business. Jason, what is the first rule of all performers?"
Art always had asked Jason a question related to performance at the beginning of every lesson. More than half the time it was this same question, so Jason had no trouble answering. "The show must go on."
Art smiled. "Good. So if you start a performance, what do you have to do?"
Now Jason was smiling too. "Finish it before you start anything else, and finish it right. Don't leave anything out, and don't try to hurry through it."
Art nodded. "You've got the idea. Now show us how you're going to play this piece for the audience."
Jason looked toward the lectern on the far side of the piano. He already knew that the dean would be saying a few words of introduction. Jason waited about three seconds, then he got up and actually strode, not ran, to the piano; went through all the preliminary motions including an attempt to crack his knuckles; and began – the third movement of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata", no less.

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By the end of the evening we had worked out the full stage arrangement except that the stage included one oversized chair, which had remained vacant throughout. Art and I had been seated together. The dean's secretary and Jason had just walked up to us. The secretary was thin, bespectacled, and graying. I half expected to see a pencil behind her ear. "Your son acts possessed," she said in soft tones, "Like a grown man in a child's body."
"Oh?," I asked, "Possessed by whom pray tell? Hot temper or no, he certainly does not display any evil character."
It was Art who sought to answer. "True Joe, and neither did Vladimir. He used to be totally appalled whenever he himself had done anything violent or harsh. Which reminds me, I have the dubious honor of bringing him in from the nursing home for the recital." Presumably that would explain the vacant chair.
"Sorry," said the secretary, "I never intended to state any radical conclusion. I said only that he acted that way, but I'm needed across the room now. Bye." And she scurried away.
"I never knew for sure that he was still alive," I said.
"Alive yes, but in apathy for most of the past six years and now confined to a wheelchair. He left campus under scandalous circumstances."
Jason tugged at my arm. "Daddy," he said with excitement befitting his years.
"One minute, Son. Let Art finish what he was saying."
And Art obliged. "The very last day I saw him, one of his pupils disappeared, never to be