The soloist Page 9

Or did he really undergo some sort of drastic transformation as a result of all the concentration and riddles?

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  ^^fe, I once saw a documentary about India that focused

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  briefly on mystics. One man was shown standing barefoot on a frigid, snowy mountaintop, wearing only a thin muslin cloth. He stood there, stock-still, all day, every day. He hadn't spoken for over ten years. At night local villagers would bring him rice and vegetables to eat. What could he be thinking about, staring straight ahead like that all day? It does seem that a human being would have to possess a substantially different way of looking at things to be able to endure such a discipline.

  The documentary also discussed another man whose guru had died and who vowed to stand in prayer at his teacher's gravesite until the guru gave him a sign that it was all right to stop praying. The local villagers helped build the man a sling from a tree so that he could even sleep standing up. At the time the documentary was shot he had been standing for three years. Two questions came to my mind: you would think that after only a few days, exhaustion and sheer boredom would have caused this fellow to imagine that the teacher was giving him signs. I know that I would interpret every tweet of a bird, every barking dog or police siren as a

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  sign to go home and lie down. My other question was Why did the local people seem so willing to go along with this? In fact, they were largely responsible for making it possible, both for the bereaved student and the stoic old man in the muslin drape. They fed these mystics and seemed to worship them. Why did they find this sort of behavior inspiring and holy, whereas we ... I tried to imagine a man wearing only a bedsheet planting himself in the center divider on the Santa Monica Freeway, staring straight into the smog and not speaking and being fed by pious locals. He would have been carted away in a matter of hours.

  I've never had any interest in mysticism, of either the Eastern or Western variety. Maybe it's just because I don't know much about it, but it all seems half-baked to me. Maybe if you starve yourself and don't talk or move for a long time you do go into some kind of trance, but what would the point of that be.> Sleeping is an even better trance because you disappear completely for a few hours. We all do that every night, so why try so hard to do it in the daytime.^ Is it enjoyable for those people? Then there's the fact that we all die anway; no matter what we do, we're all going to experience the ultimate trance, so what's the rush to imitate it? It seems so unnecessary; you don't see animals forcing themselves into unnatural postures and then trying not to move for hours. The closest parallel might be a flamingo standing on one leg without moving, but a flamingo is built to do that. Human beings are primates, and primates weren't designed to tie themselves up into knots and hold still.

  Someone once told me that I should trv^ meditation— that I would be good at it because of my abilitv' to concentrate for hours a day practicing the cello. I read a book on the subject and even tried it a few times, but couldn't find

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  any similarity at all. When you are playing music, you have a clear goal: to organize and produce sounds in such a way that they express shades of emotion. By practicing, you struggle throughout your life to make your communications more direct and concise, so that a person hearing you play receives emotional impressions in as pure a form as possible. Meditation, on the other hand, seems to be a kind of free-floating concentration, where you ftx your mind on either nothing at all or on a repetitious chant or irrational puzzle—concentration for the sake of concentration. What do you do with it.> How would you measure your progress, and how could you be sure you weren't fooling yourself about your abilities.^ I couldn't see any purpose to it, so I gave up after a few attempts.

  I take after my father in this regard; he treated Judaism as a form of culture rather than as a religion. He believed that by observing the holidays, learning Jewish history and studying the Talmud, one gained an intellectual understanding of the tradition that helped give one a good starting point, but not an end point, for the development of personal morality. He felt that people had to adapt to changing times, and that strict religious dogma was unnatural. He and my mother argued over this frequently; my mother would accuse him of just telling himself what he wanted to hear, and my father would respond by saying, ''Ja, and so.> The rabbi says what he wants to hear, and you want to listen! What makes your judgment so good.>"

  Von Kempen was a deeply religious man, but not in the sense of contemplation of the supernatural or the promise of an afterlife; he simply couldn't get over his sense of awe and wonder that something as magnificent and beautiftil as music

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  could be channeled through such flawed creatures as human beings. Every time he encountered music he opened his mind to it with the humilit)' and gratitude of someone receiving a gift he could not possibly deserve. Toward the end of his life that attitude grew to embrace such ordinary phenomena as the changing light of the seasons, the sounds of migrating birds or the taste of fine tobacco. The only thing I could see that he felt no particular sense of gratitude for was politics. He had the newspaper delivered to his home every day, but would not even glance at it until Frau Schmidt, his housekeeper, had first thrown away all of it except for the art, science and food sections.

  Judge Davis had a huge head. At first I hadn't realized it because the rest of him was so big as well, but when either of the lawyers approached the bench you could compare more easily. His head looked like one of those heroic Roman busts of Caligula or Nero or Brutus that at first look life-sized, but gradually you see as you get closer that they are really about half again as big. During lulls in the trial, I enjoyed picturing him with a little crown of olive leaves on top of his head, presiding over events at a marble coliseum. After we'd brought in the guilty verdict, he swiveled his massive chair around to face us, taking a quick moment, I noticed, to arrange his robes so that they spread out evenly on either side of him. He resembled an already large bird puffing out its feathers to look even more impressive.

  The judge reminded us that since we had brought in a verdict of guilty during this first part of the trial, we would now move on to what was known as the "sanity phase." He explained in his deep but monotonous voice that in the part

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  we had just completed the burden of proof was on the state. Now, he said, everything was reversed: the defense had the burden of proof

  "From this point on," he droned, "there is no question of whether or not the defendant committed the act of murder. You are only to consider evidence relating to the question of whether or not he was sane at the time he killed the victim. The defendant claims," he continued, and from the way the corners of his mouth suddenly drooped you got the impression that he did not put much stock in the claim, "that at the time of the crime he suffered from a mental disorder, and as the result of his disorder did not form an intent to kill. He and his attorney, Ms. Doppelt, are seeking an acquittal by reason of insanity. The burden of proof rests with them now; the defense must clearly demonstrate evidence of this mental disorder, and prove by a preponderance of evidence that Mr. Weber was insane at the time of the crime—that he did not understand what he was doing when he killed Mr. Okakura. The state, represented by Mr. Graham, does not need to prove anything this time around. If, by the end of the trial, there is any doubt in your mind that Mr. Weber was insane, you are compelled by law to bring in a verdict of guilty."

  Ms. Doppelt brushed her hair behind her ear again and sighed angrily; I gathered that she felt the judge's instructions showed bias against her client. Certainly I got the impression that Judge Davis would have been pleased to finish the trial right there with a conviction and dispense with the sanity phase altogether.

  That day I had brought a book with me to court; I planned to read it during our breaks in the hope that it might discourage Gary, the tiresome meter reader, from

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  cornering me and talking about himself. He seemed genuinely uncomfort
able with silence; during the trial he was fine because someone was always talking, and if someone else was talking during the breaks he would happily listen without interrupting. But if a lull in conversation appeared for more than a few seconds, he would fidget, look around and make an irritating sound by sucking air between his teeth, and if anyone looked up and made eye contact with him, he would start talking to that person. But if no one looked up, he would start talking to me.

  The book I had brought was a new work about the interpretation of early music, and began with a question: Do you do greater justice to the old composers by striving for an authentic re-creation of the way their music was performed when it was written or by incorporating modern sensibilities and musical tastes in order to give an honest contemporary performance.^ With all the recent developments in ''authentic" or "period" instruments and musical scholarship in the last few decades, the issue has inspired a lively, ongoing debate. On the one hand, you have people who feel that playing early music with modern instruments, phrasing and tone color is like taking Rembrandt's paintings and painting over them with the bright palette of Matisse, an obscene distortion. On the other hand, you have people who insist that modem instruments, phrasing and tone color represent advances over the earlier versions, and to withhold them would be like practicing dentistry with turn-of-the-century drills, a waste of hard-won knowledge.

  During the break just before the second phase of the trial began I saw Gary beginning to fidget and heard him making sucking sounds through his teeth, so I took this as my cue, opened the book and started to read. It worked; Garv^ hov-

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  ered near me for a bit, coughed a few times, then caught Roy, the retired plant manager, on his way out of the men's room and started asking him about worker's-compensation lawsuits. Maria-Teresa was out having a cigarette while all the other women were clustered on the far side of the room, looking at pictures of Jesusita's first grandchild. Just as I started to relax and concentrate on the book, Mrs. Friedman wandered away from the ladies' group, sat down next to me, tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that ever since the prosecutor mentioned one of my records she'd been looking for it.

  "It wasn't easy to find, you know," she said. "You ought to talk to your record company about that. I had to go all over town. You know how much it costs now.>"

  "No, how much.>"

  "Seventeen dollars to order it!" She looked at me as if she expected a response. "But it was worth it!" she said at last. "You're terrific, really. My brother is an oboist with the Boston Symphony, so I hear a lot of music."

  I thanked her and asked about her brother, since I know so many of the musicians in that orchestra, but the name didn't sound familiar. It turned out that her brother had studied with Hans Barreiss, about whom I had heard quite a bit fi-om von Kempen. They had played together many times before the war. When I mentioned the connection, though, Mrs. Friedman visibly stiffened. "Johannes von Kempen was your teacher?" she asked coolly.

  "Yes," I answered, immediately regretting that I'd brought it up. I tried to pretend not to notice her change in attitude, hoping that we could move gracefially on to another subject, but she sighed and shook her head sadly. "Your name . . . That's a Jewish name, isn't it.>"

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  "Yes."

  *'You were born here, though? Not in Europe?"

  ''Right. I was born in Poughkeepsie."

  "But what about your parents? They must be from over there to give you that first name, no?"

  "Yes, they're both from Germany."

  "So how could they let you study with him?"

  "They knew that von Kempen had nothing against Jews. The treatment he received after the war was a terrible mistake."

  "Did your parents live in Europe during the war?" she asked me.

  "No, they left before that."

  "Then they don't know and you don't know what's a terrible mistake. Let me tell you, Herrigel, von Karajan, your teacher—all of them . . . Ever' concert they gave those years was a mistake. Ever^ note they played hurt us. I know, I lived there."

  There wasn't any point in debating with her. I suggested that since they were all dead now, she and I needn't spoil our acquaintance by arguing over questions that no one can answer with certaint'.

  "I'm not arguing with you, I'm just saying, that's all. It wasn't right what they did, and it isn't right to forget. That's all I'm saying." I was afraid she might go on, but thankftilly she seemed satisfied at having made her point. I worried, however, about having to deal with the tension between us for the duration of the trial.

  All that morning I had wanted to ask Maria-Teresa how she liked the Saint-Saens recording I'd lent her on Friday, but by the time she returned from having her cigarette I didn't

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  feel like discussing music anymore. I couldn't concentrate on my book, either, so I found a window in the hallway and watched some construction workers laying asphalt across the street. Sure enough, Gary found me there and started talking. The Dodgers had lost two more games over the weekend and he was inconsolable. I tried to seem interested, but failed. I was still upset from my exchange with Mrs. Friedman, and cut him off in mid-sentence to excuse myself for a trip to the men's room. I said I had a headache and needed to take some aspirin. He asked if I had ever tried ibuprofen; he had some in his truck, he said, and would have been happy to run down and get it for me except that it was parked in the far lot. "I could probably find a pharmacy outside, though, if you want some.> I'm telling you, if you try it, you won't waste your time with aspirin anymore." I thanked him but said that aspirin had always worked adequately for me.

  At last we were called back in, and the new trial got under way. Sounding irritable. Judge Davis ordered the defense to make its opening statement. Ms. Doppelt practically leaped out of her chair, as if she had been held prisoner for some time and had at last been released.

  She began by saying we all must have wondered what kind of defense lawyer she was to have done so litde for her client during his trial for murder. She reminded us that the odd bifiarcated trial system now used for the insanity defense put her and her client in an impossible bind; for the first part of the trial it had been impossible for her to defend her client because the very reason for his innocence—his insanity— could not be mentioned as evidence at all. "But so be it," she said, looking hard at each of us, "I'm counting on you to put the first part of the trial behind you and hear the new evidence with open minds."

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  She took a sharp breath and walked over to the defense table. She touched her client gently on the shoulder and the pale young man smiled up at her calmly. Several of the Japanese people in the galler' rustled in their seats disapprovingly. The defendant looked utterly content, in spite of having recently been declared guilt' of murder. It was an unsettling sight; if he was insane I suppose he should have been pitied, but my reaaion to his obliious demeanor was to feel disgusted. Ms. Doppelt appeared to sense that the human-touch approach was backfiring, and briskly returning to her spot right in front of us, she began telling us about her client's life before his fateful decision to study Zen Buddhism. Philip Weber's mother was first hospitalized for what proved to be chronic mental illness when Philip was only three years old. His father's business required extensive travel, so the boy was raised mostly by nannies and had to change schools every other year because of job relocations. He had lived in San Jose, Riverside, San Diego, Sacramento, Los Angeles and Daxis before he finished high school and left: home for college.

  Philip's grades and IQ tests from elementary school indicated that he was an exceptionally bright child, and the teachers' comments on his report cards from this time suggested that, considering his disruptive home life, he was a well-adjusted boy. But he started having trouble in school beginning in the eighth grade; his marks went from being extremely high to near failing by the eleventh grade, and reports from his teachers indicated that he was becoming withdrawn and apathetic.

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nbsp; 'This situation," Ms. Doppelt suggested, ''might have been dealt with more properly if he had stayed in one place for any length of time, but since his father withdrew him from

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  school to move so often, Philip's problems went ignored. None of his teachers developed enough of a relationship with him to see how quickly he was deteriorating, so none of them recommended that he see a social worker or doctor. Moreover, Philip's relationship with his father became so tense and distant that the elder Mr. Weber also did not think to send his son to someone for counseling. He thought his son was just going through 'a rebellious phase.'

  "In spite of his poor grades and miserable home life, Philip tested very high on the SAT exams and was accepted at the University of California at Santa Cruz. He went there for only one semester, failed all of his courses and dropped out. He came home, but could not get along with his father at all. In fact, his father was so disgusted by his son's performance at college that he kicked him out of the house.

  "After that Philip lived and worked in the Santa Cruz area for a year. He developed an interest in religion, and joined a Unitarian church in Santa Cruz. He was enthusiastic at first, but became disillusioned quickly. He was searching to find himself, but the church members, as he put it in a letter to his mother, 'just sit around and and organize bake sales— there's nothing spiritual about it at an, and they beat around the bush on everything. You might as well be an atheist.' He took up with the Church of Scientology for a while, and even traveled to Los Angeles to work at the Scientology headquarters building here, but apparently had a falling out with other members of that group and left after only a few weeks. He moved into an apartment and found a job, then began visiting the Los Angeles Zen Foundation. Zen Buddhism appealed to him because of its promise of absolute spiritual enlightenment, so he attended morning and evening meditation sessions there for six months. After that period he moved