Opus 133

By John Best

Join our reluctant hero, Lester Worthy on a mystery/treasure search for an unknown version of a controversial late work by composer, Ludwig van Beethoven, Opus 133, the "Great Fugue". Could he have written a second version? An Opus 133A? Why are people being killed off over a legend about a 200 year old piece of music?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781631921834

Book preview

9781631921834

PROLOGUE

My story concerns one Lester Worthy. Who? You might ask. You first met our hero in the book, In The Out Door. Who? What book? You didn’t? Oh, well....a pity. You really should check it out. Les Worthy, he prefers Lester. The shortened, Les Worthy, doesn’t sit well with him, so Lester it will be.

You will meet Lester two years after retiring as a public school music teacher. It’s been both a great and an unsettlled time. On one hand, the peace and quiet has been a wonderful relief from the insanity of teaching adolescents.

On the other hand, however, it has been a peaceful and quiet time which has not sat comfortably with Lester. Even though he and his wife, Betti, run a successful Craft business keeping them both busy and although Lester is a working musician, his life seems to be..... missing something.

Call it a certain craziness. Maybe life has become to....regular and predictable. Whatever it is, Lester has been looking over his shoulder for something....anything...to jog his every day existance.

Lester will never admit to this. He may not even realize it but there it is; a lurking desire for some action other than working hard and listening to his arteries harden.

Lester, old buddy, be careful. Something is hiding out there that may rear up and bite you in your....well, you understand.

Our story begins in an unlikely place, in an unlikely time with a very famous person who could care less about someone named Lester Worthy.

Let me begin our story.

CHAPTER

1

Huh?

He walked alone down the narrow street; not the nicest street or even the best neighborhood but that was where his friend lived these days.

Friend, he thought. Yes, Anton mused, a friend, definitely and one of his last. My friend, my torturer, enemy....fiend from Hell. The Maestro was all of these and more but yes, friend. I can forgive him all the rest because of what he is and who he is.

The Maestro, Ludwig Von Beethoven. My friend. All but forgotten until a few years ago due to his unpredictable behavior, his health and reclusiveness caused by his deafness. The last few years though, were something special. The Eighth Symphony. The Ninth! The Missa. Oh! The Missa Solemnis...and the string quartets. The Maestro had expected so much from this latest body of work. They were going to bring him from near poverty back into the limelight of Vienese music.

He sighed. Well, he was causing quite a stir again, that was for certain....but those last concerts. He sighed again. His friend had expected so much money to come from them. What a loss. What a waste. The Maestro went rapidly downhill since then and here I am....going to see him, looking as he now does. Wasting away, sickly, lying in bed and writing, writing,writing.... (another sigh).

Well, here I am, he said out loud as he faced the door. Time to face the demon in his lair.

Anton Schlindler took off his coat and hat and was escorted by the newest in a long line of harried, abused housekeepers to the Maestor’s bed chamber. I wonder how long this one will last....she already has that hunted look .

At first, Ludwig Von Beethoven refused to ac-knowlege his presence or maybe he was so deeply and frantically writing across the music paper, he simply didn’t notice. Eventually he looked up and spied Anton. Slamming down his quill he bellowed, Schindler! You villain! You donkey!! You horses ASS! What are you doing here? Come to plague me, again?

Anton said nothing. That would be worthless. Where was that damned notebook? While he looked around he thought, Villain? Donkey? Horses ass? Yes....and friend,too.

Finding the notebook, he wrote: Well, anatomically speaking, I can’t be both a donkey AND a horses ass, so choose which!

The maestro, glaring, grabbed the notebook impatiently and read. Suddenly, his face broke into a smile and laughing, he bellowed.

Anton! THAT is why you are so dear to me! You can still make me laugh! My good friend. My good ASS! Speak, ASS! Why have you come to distract me from my work?

Anton Schindler knew quite well why he came today and he didn’t envy the explanation to come or the result to be expected. He wrote:

It’s about your Opus 133 as they call it. The Great Fugue.

Ludwig snatched back the pad, read and went into a fury.

"My Fugue? The Great Fugue? In that last concert....the one that should have made me MONEY? I blame YOU and those other money-grabbing...." Off he ranted for a bit.

You remember that night? THEY called for the 8th. to be encored. The 9th., too! The new quartets! All of them! Everything!! Then his face got even more contorted. But NOT the Great Fugue!

He threw the pad back at Anton. Repellant, they called it! Incomprehensible! A confusion of BABEL! Those FOOLS! What do they know!

Anton began to write, furiously. THAT is why I’m here! I heard what you're up to and I think you are wrong! VERY wrong! Do...NOT...DO...THIS!

Anton had heard rumors that the Maestro was so angry with the response to this one, particular work, the Great Fugue that he intended to replace it with another, more acceptable version. He would try to talk his friend out of this folly. Write a new Great Fugue? Destroy the original? NEVER! The Fugue was everything the public said about it but, in his mind, they were wrong! Granted, Anton Schindler was, as the Maestro put it so many times, a second rate musician with a tin ear, but he sensed greatness when he heard it. No, he didn’t understand the piece at all, though he felt deeply in his heart that there was something unexplainable there....maybe not to be understood now but for the Ages.

He could NOT let his friend commit this wanton, vindictive act. Destroy the original? Create a new version? RUBBISH! So this is exactly what he wrote.

The Maestro read and went into a towering rage, throwing Schindler from the house , telling him NEVER to return. Which, he didn’t. There wasn’t time as Ludwig Von Beethoven, the Maestro, would soon be dead.

Schindler stood quietly through the tirade. he had been through many over the years. The threats. The curses. The insults. And yet, here he was, Anton Schindler, Beethoven’s faithful dog.

He thought back to all the great years, of a younger Beethoven, the famous pianist, improvisor and composer. What a journey they had been on. Now, it was all about the money and the embarrassing poverty.

There were so many pressures on the Maestro and all wore heavily, although not as heavily as his deafness and failing health. How things had gone so wrong after he was forced to stop performing....

Then, the failed love affairs, the inevitable confrontations with almost everyone who might have helped him. Then, those wasted years caring for his nephew Karl; trying to create another Beethoven in his image. Not what Karl wanted, ever. The endless battle almost destroyed Ludwig.

The constant burden of impending poverty certainly was the main driving force. Beethoven was never very good managing his money and many times allowed his brother, Johanne to manage his estate,such as it was. To be blunt, his brother was a crook who dipped into Beethovens funds whenever any existed. He and his money-grubbing wife always wanted more and Ludwig still had some trust in his family.

To make matters worse, on many occasions when severely strapped for funds, Ludwig took out loans from Johanne, who was more than happy to do so at reasonable rates.

Then, again, it came back to Karl.When his brother Karl died, Ludwig fought to take custody of his nephew, Karl. Lawsuit after lawsuit followed as Ludwig tried to wrench Karl from his mother and take personal control of his upbringing. The money flowed and flowed. Karl was not overly grateful for his uncle’s ministrations as guardian, especially since Ludwig was trying to make Karl something he wasn’t; a progidy on the piano. No love was lost. There was a failed suicide attempt and Karl faded from Ludwigs life. Schindler had trouble putting those tragic years from his mind. Wasted years. Dormant years. Stagnant. Karl, Karl, Karl.

And the money kept flowing away. Being a famous composer rarely made anyone rich. What made all the money? Being a performer. Up until his hearing failed, Ludwig van Beethoven was the rock star piano soloist of his time. When that phase of his life was over, so was the money.

Yes, Beethoven , in his failing years was seriously counting on the money rolling in especially after his return to the public eye and ear. The 8th.Symphony. The towering 9th. The Missa. The final string Quartets and the sorely misunderstood Great Fugue.

It was no wonder that the maestoro was in a worse mood than usual, but, Schindler thought, there was a driven finality in the way the man kept working; writing and writing as his health failed.

Anton didn’t want to see his friend rewrite the fugue. No, he didn’t understand the piece, himself. It was way beyond him but he felt the maestro was reaching into the future. Some day, the world might find the piece wonderful.

In the past, Beethoven had written pieces that were fluff or complete wastes of his time, simply to make money. Anton remembered that damned panharmonium, mechanical orchestra fiasco. Beethoven wrote the Wellington’s Battle Symphony, that was to be played by the horrible thing. Oh, he thought the money would come rolling in. Another pipe dream, sadly, among so many.

Anton sadly put on his hat and coat. Leaving, he thought, "well, at least I can save the original from his plans and when he’s done with this....this abomination, I’ll destroy that!"

Then, the Maestro died and Antons' words came back to plague him.

Prophetic words! Anton Schindler accomplished the former....for a grateful posterity. The latter? well, he thought he had destroyed it. Little did he know..

At the same time, in an area not far away, lived another composer. Famous, yes, in his own way but not so famous as he would be after his death. Sad, how that happens.

He both idolized and hated the Maestro. Why? The man was a musical genius; a revolutionary whose music was the most powerful he had ever heard. Beethoven’s influence on his own work could not be denied.

That the man was also the most impossible man he had ever met also could not be denied and he had tried to get along with him....at one time. Impossible!

He hated the man because of the power and shadow he cast upon the music world and his own musical career.

For years, it was always Beethoven, Beethoven, Beethoven. Then he dropped from the performance stage, which was a relief and finally he dropped from sight. More relief but for years, the rumors and the music still overshadowed his own work.

Finally, when he thought he was free from the legend and could stand in the light of fame himself, the Maestro had to reemerge after years.

Yes, he had aged horribly and looked to be in failing health. There were more rumors but then, there was that last desperate explosion of music. And such music! Would he ever be out from under the man’s genius?

Then he was dead....but the music continued....and more rumors. Well, the music was undeniable. The rumors concerning other music? That issue he would address. Some day.

It was many, many years later. The world had changed many times since then.

Another time. Another place. An unlikely hero. An unknowing hero.

CHAPTER

2

And So,

It Begins

He awoke with his head pounding. Where was he? WHO was he? He could remember nothing. Am I blind? I can’t see. I CAN’t SEE! He then realized he could actually see. He saw stars above in the pitch black. Oh! It was night. He thought. yes. he remembered the word,night. He then realized, "yes. I’m on my back....looking up at the stars..Oh, my God! My aching back! Where the hell am I? Im cold! My back is killing me. My head! What the....... He had no memory of anything. His name, who he was, how he got there....even where, here was. He did know he was cold, in pain and looking up at stars. Yeah, it was night alright.....and the what he was stretched out on? He groaned, rolled over and fell on the hard ground.

Wha? Laying there he fished in his pockets and did find a lighter and a pocket knife, so fumbling, he flicked the lighter to life and began to see his surroundings.

"The top of a.....mountain?" He thought as he turned around in a circle to the dim light of the flame.

"I was stretched out on....stone lawn furniture? Where am I?"

He could see a circle of odd-looking chairs , a table and fire pit, formed in a big circle at the top of...a mountain? "What am I doing here?" He thought as he looked around in the dim light. There were all sort of animal grunts ,growls, snurfling and crashing in the woods.

I may not know who I am or where I am ....or even why....but....I’m getting out of here. He began to grope his way around until he found a path leading down. Down! I know down. Down is good. He made his slow, confused way down the mountian.

He had no idea where he was or where he was going or even why. Something was driving him to keep moving. Everything was veiled in the dark and his foggy brain.

After a half hour of stumbling, he reached enough of civilization to realize the trail came to a paved road. He stopped short of it. Les....my name is Les...Lester? Crap! Why Lester? And he stepped out into the road. Without thunking he turned to the left and began walking.

It was soooo dark. He thought, didn’t they believe in street lights around here? He just stood there confused, not wanting to move. Behind him, the dark forest and all the animal noises....big sounding ones. No, there was no way he was going back.

His head was still pounding but he was beginning to come out of his fog, ever so slightly. Speaking out loud,

"Where am I? How come there are no lights, no cars, no....anything. Is this a dream? A really bad dream?"

He bravely took a step out into the road.

Well, here I go. Hope it’s all a bad dream.

He began walking and walking.....and walking. Nothing. Not a car. Not a light. No houses he could see, just a road winding one way, then the other and heading downhill into....where?

He heard noises off to the left and from the echo of the grunts and snarls, Lester realized he had a major cliff on that side. Well, I’d better not go over there.

He stopped to think. Going this way was getting him nowhere fast. It figured. Given