Death and the Maiden (27 page)

‘Where did you get those?’

‘They were my grandmother’s. She taught me how to read them. She had the gift, and so did
her
grandmother.’

Salak’s hands played over the bones, her fingers trembling above the arrangement. Rheinhardt felt peculiarly vulnerable. The sun had set and the room was now filled with shadows. His eyes were playing tricks on him. In certain places the darkness seemed peculiarly unstable.

‘Three women,’ said the old woman, her words expectorated rather than spoken. ‘They bring you such happiness. Ah, you are a lucky man to have three women in your life.’

‘What about them?’

‘Who are you?
That
is the question: the policeman or the man with three women in his life.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What are you? A policeman? Or a father and husband? The time is approaching, very soon, when you must ask yourself such questions. Be true. Otherwise …’

‘Otherwise what?’

Orsola Salak scooped the bones back into her hand and the grinding started up again.

‘Be true,’ she repeated.

The temperature in the room had dropped and Rheinhardt’s rapid breathing was leaving a faint trace of vapour in the air. The shadows, particularly those gathered in the corners of the room, seemed even more restless. Rheinhardt shook his head to free himself of the illusion – but the impression of movement persisted.

‘I must go,’ he said firmly.

‘Yes, I think you should now.’

Rheinhardt placed another krone on the table and marched towards the door with undignified haste.

A
LTHOUGH
F
RAU
Z
OLLINGER HAD
agreed to see Liebermann, her tight-lipped suspicious expression did not betoken recognition. She was sitting in a chintz armchair and her features were even more severe than Liebermann had remembered: hooked nose, sharp chin – brittle lacquered hair. She picked up her walking stick and waved

it towards a chaise longue.

‘Sit down, Herr Doctor. Do you know anything about bunions?’

‘A bunion is an enlargement of bone or tissue around the joint of the big toe.’

‘What do you do with them?’

‘You mean, how are they treated?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am a psychiatrist. It would be better to follow the advice of your specialist.’

‘He wants me to sit with my feet in a bucket of ice.’

‘Then that is what you should do.’

‘A woman of my age? I’d get a cold.’

‘I cannot suggest an alternative.’

At least Frau Zollinger knew who he was.

Liebermann sat down, glancing around the room. It was filled with ornaments and
objets d’art
. The walls were covered with oil paintings – one of which looked like an allegorical work by Hans Makart – and a rosewood grand piano occupied the far corner.

‘Do you play, Frau Zollinger?’

‘No. My husband did, but very badly. He was good at making money but not much else. He would sit for hours at that piano, murdering Chopin.’ She shook her head. ‘When he developed arthritis he had to stop. He was devastated but I was relieved. I used to get such headaches.’

Liebermann had written to Frau Zollinger, explaining that he had developed an interest in Brosius’s music since hearing the Wind Serenade at the concert where they had met. He had requested an interview in order to discover more about the composer and his circle. The request had been granted in spindly handwriting on paper that smelled of violets.

Frau Zollinger did not take much prompting. She spoke readily about her soirées, recalling the artists and poets whom she and her husband had entertained. Many of them were no longer famous, but Liebermann permitted himself the humane dishonesty of pretending to know of their reputations. Frau Zollinger had obviously over-estimated the significance of her salon, and Liebermann did not want to disabuse her of this harmless delusion. In due course she spoke of musicians, and once again linked the names of Brahms and Brosius together.

‘They were friends,’ said Frau Zollinger, ‘but it was only a matter of time before they argued. Brahms argued with almost everyone in the end, even with his closest associates. He had a colossal temper. And Brosius was just the same. It was remarkable that the friendship lasted as long as it did.’

‘What was the cause of the argument?’

‘I don’t know. Something to do with Bruckner, I think.’ She paused and added, ‘I have a recording of him somewhere.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Brahms. You know – a wax cylinder? My husband was much
impressed by Edison’s machine and brought one back from America. He recorded Brahms playing one of the Hungarian Dances.’

‘Where is it?’

‘In a box with all the others. My husband made many recordings – mostly of himself, unfortunately. Everyone thought the phonograph was a miracle, but I found its scratchy sound rather irritating.’

‘Do you have any recordings of Brosius or Freimark?’

‘No. They died long before my husband visited America. He didn’t talk to me very much.’

‘Your husband?’

‘Brahms. He exhibited a peculiar attitude with respect to women. If they did not appeal to him, he was incredibly awkward and ungracious; if they were pretty, he had an unpleasant way of leaning back in his chair, pouting, stroking his moustache, and staring at them as a greedy boy stares at cakes. He never gave me that greedy stare.’ The old woman paused and added without sentimentality and with a modicum of pride: ‘Few did.’

‘I expect he must have given Angelika Brosius that look.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Frau Zollinger. ‘Of course.’

Her lips twitched but failed to sustain a smile.

Liebermann crossed his legs and leaned forward.

‘Did you know that Angelika Brosius has a niece? Frau Abend?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

Liebermann explained how he had learned of Frau Abend’s existence. When he had finished telling the story of Freimark’s grave he added, ‘She agreed to see me last Sunday. I was hoping to find some of Brosius’s manuscripts. But they’ve all been given to the conservatoire.’

The old woman seemed to withdraw and her eyes became glassy.

‘I was there – at Freimark’s funeral.’

‘Were you?’

‘Yes. A modest affair.’

‘Was Brosius there also?’

‘Yes. And Angelika.’

Liebermann tried to make his next statement sound innocuous.

‘Frau Abend said something very intriguing. She said that Angelika Brosius and David Freimark were … lovers.’ The old woman nodded. ‘You knew this?’

‘It was suspected.’

‘Did Brosius know of his wife’s infidelity?’

‘He couldn’t leave her. She was his inspiration.’

‘Frau Zollinger,’said Liebermann, ‘the accident on the Schneeberg …’

‘Yes?’

‘Was it an accident?’

‘Men are maddened by beauty. I was never beautiful, which is just as well. Who wants to be surrounded by madmen?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Apart from psychiatrists.’

‘Frau Zollinger,’ said Liebermann, a hint of urgency hardening his voice. ‘Is it possible that Brosius killed David Freimark?’

The old woman examined her walking stick. She wasn’t disturbed, merely preoccupied. Eventually she changed position and said, ‘I asked the very same question myself – at the time.’

‘Did you speak to anyone?’

‘Yes. My husband.’

‘How did he respond?’

‘He became angry. He told me I was being ridiculous. He told me I should keep thoughts like that to myself. It was shameful, he said, to doubt the integrity of Brosius, a man whom we counted among our friends. I know why he was so agitated.’

‘Why?’

‘It had crossed his mind too.’

D
IRECTOR
M
AHLER HAD PROVIDED
Liebermann with two tickets to see
Così fan Tutte
, a comic opera by Mozart. There was never any doubt about who Liebermann would take as his guest. Once again, the pretext of Amelia Lydgate’s continuing musical education served his ulterior purpose. Within hours of issuing the invitation he was holding her reply in his hands. She had found the prospect of a night at the opera
most agreeable
.

The box they occupied was well positioned and exclusive.

‘Do you know
Così fan Tutte
?’ Amelia asked.

‘I am familiar with some of the arias,’ said Liebermann, ‘but have never attended a complete performance. It isn’t produced very often.’

‘Why is that?’

‘One must assume that previous directors have not been persuaded of its merits. Director Mahler, however, is a great champion of Mozart’s operas, particularly those that are less well known. Last year he programmed the first-ever performance of
Zaide
on the emperor’s name day.’

‘First-ever?’

‘Yes. It was never performed in Mozart’s lifetime.’

‘Remarkable, that an opera by Mozart should be neglected until the early years of the twentieth century.’

‘Indeed. There are still some who question his genius. They find him too … light. But they miss the point. That is his gift. Only Mozart
can make sadness so sweet. Even when a libretto demands that he represent something horrible, he does so with charm and natural grace.’

Amelia craned over the edge of the box in order to study the audience. She was wearing a skirted décolleté green velvet gown. Liebermann had seen her wearing it on a previous occasion, at a ball, and he was reminded of the time they had danced together – the warmth of her body, accidental brushes, her pale shoulders exposed and unbearably close. The hem of her gown rose up, revealing a pair of black boots. Her feet were slim and the soft leather emphasised the contours of her shapely ankles. Liebermann recalled what Frau Zollinger had said about Brahms, and wondered if he too was now exhibiting that ‘greedy boy’ look. Embarrassed, he lowered his head and flicked through the programme. He noticed that Arianne Amsel was singing the part of Fiordiligi.

Arpeggios and fragments of melody signalled the arrival of musicians in the pit. In due course, the leader of the orchestra played an ‘A’ and all the instruments converged on this single note. The house lights dimmed and Director Mahler appeared. He marched to the podium, barely acknowledging the applause, and raised his baton. The chords that he summoned from his players were congenial, sympathetic, winsome and irresistible. Eight stately bars preceded the arrival of a playful tune that chased across the orchestra. The scurrying motif evoked the tropes of comedy with miraculous precision: characters donning disguises, confused identities, secret assignations and hasty concealments. Mozart had deftly informed the audience that they were about to be amused and a wave of infectious anticipation swept through the stalls.

The curtain rose on a café scene where two young men, Ferrando and Guglielmo, were praising their fiancées, Dorabella and Fiordiligi; however, their companion, an older man, Don Alfonso, was scornful. He accused them of naivety and was soon proposing a wager of one
hundred guineas. He would prove that Dorabella and Fiordiligi – like all women – were inconstant. The conventions of farce were assiduously observed, yet, as the drama progressed, the music expressed much more than wit and humour. It exposed a poignant fragility at the heart of human affairs and, beyond that, the hopeless absurdity of life itself. Liebermann was forced to consider the sad comedy of his own predicament, his desire for the woman seated next to him and his mounting frustration.

Undulating strings introduced a trio for two sopranos and bass. It was absolutely exquisite, a prayer for the safety of departed friends and lovers crossing a distant sea. The female voices floated in celestial suspension over the gentle lapping of the orchestral accompaniment. Liebermann did not believe in heaven. But if there was such a thing, then it was easy to imagine such music welcoming weary souls as they passed through its gates.

When the trio came to its sublime conclusion the audience burst into spontaneous applause. Amelia turned and looked directly at Liebermann. He struggled to understand the meaning of her expression, which was unusually open. She looked helpless and a little bemused, as if the music had been the cause of her undoing. He leaned forward and said: ‘Is something the matter?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘It was just …’ she hesitated and her chest rose and fell. ‘Beautiful.’

Later in the first act, Ferrando sang an aria about love. Once again, Mozart transcended the limits of
opera buffa
, producing music of great poignancy. Ferrando’s tenor was full of tenderness: ‘
The heart that is nourished by hope and by love has no need of better food
.’ Love was essential, and a life without love could only ever be a pale imitation of what life is supposed to be. Liebermann found himself thinking of Mozart’s grave. He remembered the truncated marble column and the stricken cherub. Life was so woefully short. Emotion tightened his throat.