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 seen again. We don't know whether Vladimir had anything to do with it, but he couldn't take the questioning and publicity. He retired to the nursing home almost at once. Hasn't been back here since."
Jason again tugged at my arm. "Daddy, did you like my performance?"
"You bet I did. We all did. Let's go home and I'll tell Mommy how well you performed."
Art gently clasped Jason's hand. "Goodbye Jason – and Joe. Remember I'm counting on you and Laura to spot and handle anything that might interfere with Jason's recital. Between Vladimir and the faculty I'll have my own hands full, and I also intend to do all I can to handle the reporters myself"
"Depend on us. Goodbye for now."
On the way home the mystery began to nag at me. Had Jason lived a previous life? Since he hadn't been Vladimir, could he have been someone close to Vladimir, perhaps Vladimir's own instructor? Is he possessed? Who says that only evil entities ever possess? I kept speculating all the way home. Most of my speculations I threw out as too wild, but I was convinced of one thing: The answer was not unknowable.

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One look at Laura, and I knew that I would have to be the one to take Jason to the music center this evening. "What happened?" I asked.
"Right after school Jason got beaten up by those little ruffians again. I've been patching him up."
I shook my head sadly. "No serious injuries I trust."
"Not physically," Laura answered, "But I'm sure we're in for another round of his trying to look and act just like the ruffians with their old, torn jeans and shirts, and he'll be pestering us again for pointed toe boots. I won't have his feet misshapen."
I knew very well Jason's tendency to copy the ways of those who had overpowered him. Last time he even had copied their tough-sounding language and their faulty grammar. "Laura," I said, "We'll have to divert some of his energy to his own self-defense, and soon."
"But not until after the recital," Laura stated firmly.
I nodded agreement. Sometimes I wonder if this savage society wants any artists at all. That grade-school faculty is more than loath to handle that bullying, even as close as the school is to the University. "For now maybe we can dig up some big friends for him at school. Meanwhile, don't let those ruffians catch him in his performance shirt."
Laura glared at me. "Joe, you take me for a fool. In any event tomorrow will be another rough day for me. I'll have to work the psychiatric department."
By now my face must have been dead serious. "Yes, that would be rough. Those patients could use some big friends too. Hon, you get some sleep tonight. I'll handle everything."

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The walk to the music center proved uneventful, and the lesson went quite smoothly. On the way home Jason spotted one of the ruffians who had beaten him up, but he wasn't close enough to be caught. "Why can't I have boots with sharp toes like his?" Jason asked.
"So that you won't grow up with deformed feet! That would hurt, and it would keep right on hurting."
Jason responded with fear in his raised voice. "Will they let me grow up at all if I ain't got sharp toes?" Clearly I would have to show Jason some prizefighters with good grammar.

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The lunch wagon arrived with its cellular phone already ringing. That phone was our only communication link to the outside world. The driver answered and handed the phone to me.
It was Laura, and already, with half the day still ahead of her, she sounded a bit upset. "Thank heaven I could get free at lunchtime!"
I tried to sound encouraging. "How are you holding out Hon?"
"I hate this psyche department!" she almost screamed. "You must know the hopelessness I see here. We have two Julius Caesars and three Napoleons."
Clearly for the third evening in a row I would be the one to escort Jason.

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I did not speculate further on where Jason got his training until that evening when I again saw him at the piano. Jason certainly had taken on the attributes of winners who had gone before him. He also tended to copy the ways of those who had overpowered him physically. Maybe we all do this. I myself certainly had tried to copy those who bullied me when I was his age. How many thousands had Caesar and Napoleon overpowered? Possibly enough to fill all the asylums in the world.

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The recital was only three hours away. Laura had prepared a home-cooked lunch for the family and Art. Art had been showing Vladimir around the campus and was very happy to turn Vladimir over to some senior members of the music department. Now it was Art who needed a break and a chance to talk.
"Yes, it did Vladimir good to get back to the campus. I saw him smile, probably for the first time in six years. But he's scared of something, and he doesn't want anyone to know it. He uses anger to cover up his fear, but he turned positively pale when he saw that the old music building had been torn down. At least he brightened up a bit when he saw the new music center and his old colleagues.
"We're very well prepared for the recital. The main thing I need from you folks is alertness. Keep Jason's space safe. Watch for upsets; handle them promptly but gently; but don't make

any upsets, and don't imagine any. Most likely there won't be any. Plan to arrive about fifteen minutes early – no more."
"Thank you Art," said Laura, "Thank you for all you've done. We have everything well in hand, and we'll see you at the music center."

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"Daddy, why is there a police car at the old music building?" I did not know why, but there was also a man taking notes, probably a reporter. I was a bit too concerned myself, and Laura had to be the one to answer.
"We don't know, Jason, but we can't stop now. Your recital is only twenty minutes away. This is your big day." That got us moving again.
We arrived in plenty of time, but when the lights came up to reveal the stage fully set, I noticed that Jason and Vladimir looked apprehensive the moment their eyes met. Art and Laura also looked apprehensive. Apparently they noticed the same thing.
The dean stepped to the lectern and intoned, "Ladies and gentlemen. Tonight we are most fortunate to present the most extraordinary young musical talent this campus has ever known. Let's welcome Jason Blount!"
Applause erupted. The dean went to the empty chair near the lectern but remained standing and looked at Jason.
Laura supplied the necessary prompting. "It's your show, Jason."
Jason strode to the piano but stopped momentarily. Then he rolled up his sleeves; tried to crack his knuckles; shook out his arms and hands; ran his fingers once through his hair; looked regally at the audience and began. He was scared, but not too

scared.
If there was a flaw in Jason's playing, I couldn't hear it. He brought the crowd to its feet; then made a pleasant bow; said, "Thank you, thank you, all of you;" and strode back to his seat between Laura and me.
The lights dimmed. By the time they brightened again, most of the crowd was preparing to leave. Art was doing an exceptional job of intercepting reporters. Laura noticed where Jason's attention was directed. "That's Vladimir in the wheelchair Son. He won't hurt you. In fact he looks more scared than you." And indeed he did. My next move was to take Jason, Laura, Art, Vladimir, and the dean all out to dinner, but the dean declined. There was no telling how many immediate duties this recital generated for him.
The five of us headed for the faculty lounge at the end of campus. The food always was very good, and, for honored guests and their entourage, so was the service. At the entrance I stopped to pick up a newspaper, even though I knew Laura would consider it a gross action, and she didn't hesitate to chide me.
"Sorry Hon, this headline caught my eye. Battered Body Pulled from Campus Excavation. Jason you were right! Those men did find bones at the old music building."
"Excuse me," announced Vladimir, and he steered his wheelchair toward the men's room.
Laura poked me. "Maybe you'd better help him."
But Vladimir responded hostilely, "No, I don't need any help in the men's room. I'm not that crippled." And we watched the door close behind him.
I turned to the hostess and said, "Table for five please: four adults and one star performer."
But just then the sound of a shot reverberated from the men's room. Art made a dash for the room, followed by me and then two unknown customers.

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I phoned the police and campus security. A single campus guard arrived first, followed by the city's conspicuous waste of taxpayers' funds, then the first wave of reporters with cameras, etc. Additional waves followed over the next few days – such things as in-depth interviews and human-interest writers. As of today everything has calmed down from that event except my own speculations.
Did Vladimir destroy a body that once had belonged to Jason?
If so, would Vladimir not have seemed a winner to Jason? – a winner that must be emulated if one is to survive?
What if we all should live again? Then, devil or no devil, not even death would relieve us of responsibility for our own actions. Our world would be just the mess we had left behind. The Vladimirs among us would have to gain control of their tempers or face an endless hell right here on Earth.
The end.

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.10.2010

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