“Mr. Vincent. Thanks for coming. Please,” he said as he stood aside and gestured me in. His house was immaculate and smelled like fresh lemons. He led me through a small entry hall into a sparsely decorated living room. A large Navajo carpet covered the hardwood floor. An unused fireplace rounded off one corner of the room and provided a focal point for matching sofa and chairs—low and sleek with dark teak accents and gray upholstery. A restrained but interesting collection of original art hung in groupings throughout the space. Some of the pieces were framed promotional posters from films but a few were original prints or paintings—all abstract and not by artists I recognized. I liked his taste. Taking up one whole corner of the room was a baby grand piano, sunlight from an open patio door spilling across its lacquered surfaces. Beyond the open door lay a tidy yard with heavily laden citrus trees near the back fence.
“Would you like something to drink? I have coffee made. Or I could make tea?”
“Coffee would be great,” I answered. I’d only had one cup of weak coffee at the hotel. Wolhardt left the room and I heard a cupboard open, a cup clink on a counter. I wandered over to the mantel. Standing there, proud and gold, was an Emmy award. It had Wolhardt’s name on it and was for the musical score from a mid-eighties TV drama. Next to it, mixed in amongst a few decorative objects, was a photo of a younger Julian Wolhardt with another man. Like a washed out memory, time and sunlight had faded the photo until nearly all detail was gone but it was clear they were a couple. The other man was handsome with short, dark hair and a moustache. Wolhardt had a moustache in the photo too.
“My partner, Jim,” Wolhardt said. He stood next to me, a coffee cup in his hand. “He’s been gone for over thirty years now. The eighties were a hard time.”
“Sorry,” I said, accepting the cup and pointing to the Emmy, not wanting to linger on a painful subject. “You compose for television too?”
“Yes. Mostly retired now although I take on a small project now and then. I’ve written for films, television, commercials, a few commissions for small ensembles here and there. Nothing very interesting or famous,” he said, waving a hand. “Your friend Valerie’s father was a fan though. When he was the U.S. ambassador in Norway he heard one of my pieces played by the Oslo Sinfonietta and tracked me down. That was how we met.” Wolhardt paused, looking inward for a moment. “But let’s talk about what you came here for,” he continued, the shifting of internal gears clear in his voice. He gestured toward the sofa and chairs. We both seated ourselves and Wolhardt heaved a sigh. “How to begin? Do you know the Enigma Variations? Edward Elgar?”
“Elgar? Yeah. I know his cello concerto. It’s one of my favorite pieces of music. I can’t say I know any of his other music very well.” The mention of Edward Elgar made me think of my old fence Domenico. I hadn’t spoken to him in a while. I had asked Domenico and another acquaintance for help finding the thief who stole Valerie’s painting. I still didn’t know which one of them had come through for me. I would have to find out and pay that favor back eventually. Domenico was a classical music aficionado and it was he who had introduced me to Elgar’s cello concerto.
“I want to play something for you, then,” Wolhardt said, standing and walking to the piano. He sat, flipped his sheet music to the beginning, then began playing. It was the same music I had heard from outside the front door. The piece began very slowly and quietly but built up until the melody swelled outward, grabbing me, dragging me into its melancholic embrace, and then assaulting me with waves of sad harmony. The music slowed back down, became quieter, and ended on a sustained chord. We were both quiet for a moment, then Wolhardt stood and sat back down across from me. “That was the ninth of the variations arranged for piano. There are fourteen altogether. It’s called the Nimrod variation. It’s probably the best known. It’s a kind of play on words. It’s named for Elgar’s friend August Jaeger. Nimrod was a biblical character who was known as a great hunter. Jaeger is the German word for hunter. Jaeger was a good friend and encouraged Elgar to keep writing music when he wanted to give up. Elgar wrote the piece for him. It was played at Princess Diana’s funeral.”
“It’s beautiful but I’m not sure I understand what it has to do with the reason for my visit.”
“Of course. Allow me a moment to explain,” Wolhardt replied, holding his hands up. “It’s not simple. Sir Edward Elgar wrote the Enigma Variations between eighteen ninety-eight to ninety-nine. They were debuted in London in eighteen ninety-nine. In the playbill, Elgar wrote the following.” He closed his eyes, paused a moment, then recited from memory. “The Enigma I will not explain—its dark saying must be left unguessed, and I warn you that the connection between the variations and the theme is often of the slightest texture; further, through and over the whole set another and larger theme goes, but is not played. So the principal theme never appears, even as in some late dramas the chief character is never on the stage.” Wolhardt opened his eyes and looked at me pensively.
“So, there’s a theme that unifies the variations?” I asked.
“Yes,” Wolhardt answered. “Of course there’s the opening theme in G minor that we hear and know to be the theme that all the variations derive from but in his text Elgar alludes to another theme that
