Death and the Maiden (15 page)

She had asked him if there had been anybody else. Her father had posed the same question. On both occasions, Liebermann had answered
no
– and in a sense this was true. He had not begun an affair, only a friendship.

Amelia Lydgate, from their very first encounter, had fascinated him. Whereas Clara had wanted to talk about social events and famous people, Amelia had spoken with impressive fluency about science, speculative fiction and diseases of the blood. And although it shamed him, Liebermann had to admit that he had always found the Englishwoman desirable, even when she had been a patient in his care: the shadowy curves of her slight body beneath a diaphanous hospital gown, the russet cascade of her untied hair – and such eyes – sky reflected in mercury – glacial, metallic, forensic intelligence.

Had he intended to begin a relationship with Amelia Lydgate? Or had she simply made him realise that Clara was, at that time at any rate, too superficial a person to be his lifelong companion? The latter, he hoped. But even if he was being disingenuous with himself and his intentions had always been suspect, those same intentions had never –
could
never – proceed towards consummation.

In addition to the peculiarity of the Englishwoman’s manner, her frosty reserve, there was also her past to contend with. Liebermann had treated her for hysterical symptoms that had arisen from a sexual trauma: unwelcome advances from a person she had trusted, a guardian. How could he, Liebermann, make romantic overtures? To do so would be to put her at risk. And this had always been at the back of his mind: replication of the conditions that had caused her illness might easily precipitate a relapse.

Since ending with Clara, he had lived, for the most part, an unsatisfactory, unfulfilling bachelor’s existence …

Liebermann got up and left the bedroom. He crossed the hallway and, passing through open double doors, fixed his gaze on the piano. Standing by the Bösendorfer, he let his right hand caress the keys. He picked out one of Brosius’s themes. Without the left-hand accompaniment the melody sounded stark and simple. In its exposed state, lifted clear of a dense harmonic context, he saw a feature of its construction that had previously escaped his notice. It filled him with a sense of wonder. The composer, dead for so many years, was speaking to him.

T
HE PRIVATE DINING ROOM
was rather shabby and situated in one of the less fashionable suburbs. It contained a round table, a cracked leather sofa and an old piano. Mounted on the wall was an inefficient gas jet that coughed and gasped like an asthmatic vagrant. Arianne Amsel had dressed modestly for the occasion in a subdued ensemble of muted colours; however, the impression of unassuming diffidence that she hoped to create was undermined by the diamond brooch attached to the lapel of her jacket. She had wanted to appear like the other women who frequented the dining rooms, mistresses of older men, but she was obviously not a shop girl. Amsel was an operatic diva and, inevitably, ordinariness did not come easily to her. Her companion was a short, dapper man in his late sixties, somewhat wrinkled and with liver-spotted hands. He possessed unremarkable features, a face easily lost in a crowd and just as easily forgotten. Receding hairline, steel-rimmed spectacles, neatly trimmed beard, he might have been a retired civil servant, university professor or bank manager. If he hadn’t become the leader of the claque, Hanno Vranitzky would have made an excellent spy.

They had finished eating and the remains of their
palatschinken
– paper-thin golden-brown pancakes – floated on a half-consumed lake of vanilla sauce and apricot conserve. Although the private dining
room was mouldering and dilapidated, the management always seemed to provide good food and wine, a necessary requirement, Amsel supposed, for the well-heeled gentlemen on whose patronage the establishment depended for its survival.

Herr Vranitzky was making notes as Amsel referred to key moments in specific arias:
top C, the coloratura passage, a sudden modulation to the relative minor
. The claqueur was so conversant with operatic highlights that he never once asked for clarification. On completing her instructions Amsel said, ‘That is all.’

‘Very good,’ Vranitzky replied, inclining his head and pocketing his notebook. He lit a cigar and sat back in his chair.

The sound of raucous laughter followed by a playful screech penetrated the walls. Neither of them reacted.

‘Mahler!’ exclaimed Amsel. ‘He’s driving us all mad with his pedantry. Rehearsals have become a nightmare. Endless repetitions, obsessive attention to detail, a refusal to consider any opinion other than his own – it’s all too much. Even the orchestra have had enough. Did you see that article in the
Deutsche Zeitung?
The one about the Jewish regime?’

‘Yes,’ said Vranitzky. ‘I did. Herr Mahler goes out of his way to offend people. Do you know who wrote it?’

Amsel shook her head, barely acknowledging Vranitzky’s question before continuing. ‘It’s impossible to sing without applause. A cold house kills the voice.’ She craned her neck and stroked her throat with the tips of her fingers. ‘Mahler should know this. A director who forbids the claque knows nothing about singers – their temperament, their psychology.’

‘Very true,’ said Vranitzky, puffing at his cigar. ‘Herr Mahler doesn’t know what’s necessary in the theatre. Sometimes I wonder whether he has ever stopped to consider its purpose. Audiences go because they want to be delighted, diverted, and above all, entertained.
We
know this.’ Vranitzky’s finger included Amsel in a swift oscillation. ‘Our two professions have enjoyed a mutually beneficial relationship for over three hundred years, working to achieve a single aim: the public’s pleasure. We create atmosphere, excitement, a sense of occasion. Who could possibly leave a theatre unhappy with the sound of applause still thundering in his or her ears? Mahler is a man who abhors joy.’

Amsel produced a bulging envelope from her bag and passed it across the table.

‘In full settlement for services rendered so far this season.’

‘Thank you,’ said Vranitzky. He took the envelope and slipped it into his pocket. The claqueur tapped the ash from his cigar and shifted in his chair. ‘This Mahler business: it has
implications
, you know.’

‘Implications?’

Vranitzky sighed and changed position again. ‘I trust that you will agree that I have been a loyal servant.’

‘You have been more than loyal.’

‘I would not forgive myself if you were to think that I harboured doubts concerning your …’ He paused and his hands juggled as he searched for a suitably diplomatic term. ‘Standing.’ He was satisfied with his choice and said it again for good measure. ‘Yes, standing.’

‘Do you have something on your mind, Herr Vranitzky?’

The claqueur ground his cigar stub into a metal ashtray.

‘You must have heard me struggling, last night? It seemed like an eternity before the audience followed my example. They are taking longer and longer to rouse. And a lone admirer is very visible.’ Vranitzky took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps I flatter myself, but I have reason to believe that you value my judgement. Therefore, I say to you – more as your friend than your humble servant – that perhaps the time has come for you to reconsider your position. You have done all that can be done, and …’

‘I’m sorry?’

Vranitzky reached across the table and placed his palm on the singer’s hand. He was like a doctor or a priest and when he spoke he did so in soft, consoling tones.

‘The Viennese no longer appreciate your gift.’

Amsel pulled her hand back, shaking her head.

‘But Rosenkrantz hasn’t even been buried yet! Give them a little more time. They’ll soon transfer their affections back to me.’

Vranitzky was silent. His expression collapsed into compassionate folds and creases, tacitly sustaining the pressure of his unwelcome sympathy.

‘What is it?’ said Amsel, a hint of despair finding weaknesses in her voice. ‘Is it more money you want?’

Vranitzky appeared hurt.

‘I am a man of honour.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just …’ Amsel’s voice rose in frustration. ‘This isn’t like you. To be so faint-hearted!’

The claqueur refilled the singer’s glass and then his own.

‘I have heard a rumour. This demon Mahler …’ Vranitzky swirled the wine and took a sip. ‘They say he is hiring private detectives now. He intends to root us out.
All
of us.’

‘Oh, he is quite mad.’

‘Mad but determined. You will appreciate, I hope, that the future of the claque is my responsibility. I have willingly taken risks for you in the past but, at present, to expose myself or my troops would be foolhardy in the extreme. The entire institution of the claque is in jeopardy.’

‘Come now,’ said Amsel. ‘It’s only a rumour. Who told you this?’

‘A reliable source. One of the electricians. He overheard the director talking to someone about it on the telephone.’

‘I’m sure the director says all sorts of things. Come now, old friend,’
said Amsel, smiling through eyes that had begun to glaze with tears. ‘We have come so far together. Don’t desert me now.’

She revoked her earlier rejection and gave her hand back to Vranitzky. He accepted it, raising her fingers to his moistened lips.

‘My dear lady … please don’t cry.’

The plea was genuine. He hated to see this tall, proud woman humiliated.

‘Just until Christmas,’ Amsel sobbed. ‘Support me until Christmas. Please, that’s not much to ask. Rosenkrantz is dead! Things will change for the better. I know they will.’

C
OMMISSIONER
M
ANFRED
B
RÜGEL WAS
studying Rheinhardt’s report. His brow furrowed and his lower jaw jutted out. There was something about the simian perplexity of his expression that reminded Rheinhardt of an orang-utan he had once seen at the zoo. Brügel lifted his large head and began to shake it from side to side.

‘No,’ he growled. ‘No, no, no!’ Rheinhardt did not know how he should respond to four consecutive negatives delivered without preamble and with such devastating relish. ‘A vagrant,’ Brügel continued with sardonic glee, ‘walking through fog thicker than potato soup …’

‘Herr Geisler is a gardener, sir,’ Rheinhardt interjected. ‘Not a vagrant.’

Brügel swatted the air and pressed on. ‘Claims to have seen the mayor visiting Ida Rosenkrantz the night before her apparent suicide, and you expect me to take his word as gospel?’

‘It would have been remiss of me not to draw the incident—’

‘Alleged incident!’

‘—To your attention, sir.’

‘Indeed it would.’ Brügel snorted like a farm animal. ‘However, you have done so now and that is where we shall let the matter rest.’

‘But, sir,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘With respect, I think we should at least—’

‘The answer is
no
, Rheinhardt! Think, inspector.’ The commissioner jabbed his own temple with a rigid finger. ‘Show some judgement. Did you really expect me to endorse your proposal? Good God, man! Have you taken leave of your senses?’

‘If Lueger wasn’t the mayor of Vienna we would almost certainly question him.’

‘But, Rheinardt, he
is
the mayor of Vienna. That is the rather obvious and substantial fact you seem peculiarly unwilling to appreciate.’

‘I am perfectly aware—’

Before Rheinhardt could finish his sentence Brügel exploded again. ‘You think you can just stroll into the town hall and implicate the mayor in a murder inquiry, on the basis of
this
?’ The commissioner flicked Rheinhardt’s report with disdain, tearing the paper. ‘The testimony of a ne’er-do-well who rents a pallet bed and dines in a soup kitchen?’

‘He is not a ne’er-do-well,’ said Rheinhardt patiently. ‘He has never been in trouble with the police and has simply fallen on hard times. I don’t think we can simply ignore his statement.’

‘Ah, but we can, Rheinhardt. And very easily.’

Rheinhardt glanced up at the portrait of the emperor. It hung on the wall behind Brügel’s desk. Franz-Josef, the old soldier, dressed in his white general’s uniform and red sash – on the table beside him, a field marshal’s hat sprouting green feathers. Brügel sported the very same oversized mutton-chop whiskers. It was common knowledge that the commissioner was an ardent royalist.

‘The mayor and Ida Rosenkrantz were acquainted,’ said Rheinhardt.

Brügel tensed. ‘What?’

‘Rosenkrantz’s dresser, Herr Schneider, said that the diva was invited by the mayor to sing at his birthday celebrations.’

‘Many others have had that honour.’

‘Yes, sir, but the mayor also went out of his way to greet Rosenkrantz when he saw her in the Imperial.’

The commissioner rolled his eyes.

‘Lueger likes being seen in public with popular people – singers, actors, the rich and famous. He’s a politician.’ Brügel leaned forward, ‘Listen to me, Rheinhardt, and listen well. They don’t call him the Lord God of Vienna for nothing. There would be consequences, grave consequences, for all of us.’

‘He is not above the law.’