Death and the Maiden (7 page)

The awful vision had left him with a sense of foreboding, a portentous dread that sent shivers of unease down his spine.

It was still dark.

After reaching out for some matches, the emperor lit a candle. The
clock face showed that it was three-thirty. Franz-Josef doubted that he would be able to get to sleep again. And anyway, there was little to be gained by trying because he rose every morning, without fail, at four, and was never at his desk later than five. It was a custom that he broke with only under exceptional circumstances, and nightmares could no longer be classified as exceptional.

Throwing the eiderdown off, he swung his legs out of bed and his feet made contact with the cold parquet. The bed itself was low and made of iron, a simple truckle bed and an absurdly modest piece of furniture in so large a room. Taking a deep breath, the emperor stood up and pulled the bell cord.

Within moments, a team of servants arrived carrying a rubber bath, which was subsequently filled with lukewarm water. The emperor was relieved of his nightshirt and one of the retainers, an ancient gentleman with a pronounced tremor, remained to perform such essential functions as passing the soap and scrubbing the emperor’s back. When His Majesty’s ablutions were finished, Ketterl, the
valet de chambre
, emerged silently from the shadows, ready to dress Franz-Josef, as he did every morning, in a military uniform. As soon as the emperor was fully accoutred, Ketterl withdrew, walking backwards through the double doors, leaving his monarch alone to say his prayers.

Franz-Josef knelt, made the sign of the cross, joined his hands, and prayed for the late Empress Elisabeth, his immediate family, his ‘friend’ – the actress Katharina Schratt – his ministers, and the peoples of his vast empire, united, by a miracle as magnificent as the transubstantiation of the eucharist, in the flesh of his own person.

Rising from his prayer stool, he expanded his chest and, defying the aches and pains of age, marched with a spring in his step to the study. Sitting at his desk, he lit an oil lamp and paused to consider the oval portrait of the late empress. Electric lighting gave him headaches.

The emperor’s study was hung with red silk damask decorated with a stylised pineapple motif, and the ceiling was embellished with raised gold tracery. For a royal and imperial apartment, however, the room was unimposing. The rosewood and walnut furniture, sober and practical, might have graced the home of a successful businessman.

There was a knock on the door.

‘Come in, Ketterl.’

The
valet de chambre
entered, carrying a tray of coffee, rolls and butter.

‘Your Majesty.’

‘Thank you.’

Ketterl placed the tray on the emperor’s desk, bowed, and backed away through the doors which were shut by unseen hands as soon as he was beyond the threshold. The emperor ate his simple breakfast and watched the sky brighten as he smoked a trabuco.

Resting on a chair adjacent to his desk was a large leather portfolio. He opened it up and took out a wad of documents requiring his signature. Getting through them all would take several hours and like the punishment of Sisyphus his labours were never concluded. Every morning the contents of the portfolio were refreshed. Yet Emperor Franz-Josef refused to deputise. This work was his sacred duty, solemnly performed in his capacity as the
first official
(his wife had mischievously called him the
first bureaucrat
) of the empire. Even so, after only a short period of time the monotony of the work caused his concentration to falter. An image from the nightmare came back to him: fire, broken glass, angry voices.

The emperor circled his fingertips against his temples.

So many peoples, united by my person – as ordained by God …

He was a devout man. But over the course of the last fourteen years fate had dealt him blows that might have tested the faith of any saint.

It could all unravel, so very easily
.

No, one can no longer trust in divine ordinance alone …

The emperor put his pen down, lit another trabuco and, looking out of the window, allowed the violet lucidity of the dawn to cleanse his mind.

R
RHEINHARDT AND
L
IEBERMANN WERE
greeted at the opera house by a severe-looking gentleman with large protruding ears and an impressive moustache.

‘Alois Przistaupinsky,’ said the man, lowering his head but maintaining eye contact. ‘Secretary to Director Mahler. You must be Inspector Rheinhardt?’

‘I am indeed,’ said the detective. ‘And this is my colleague Herr Doctor Max Liebermann.’

Przistaupinsky smiled briefly and said, ‘Gentlemen: welcome to the court opera. The director will receive you in his private office. This way, please.’

Their route was complicated and passed through a maze of corridors reverberating with the repetitive beat of hammer blows. The air carried the fragrance of sawdust. At one point they had to make room for three men in overalls carrying what appeared to be a large scaly wing. The secretary took this opportunity to inform them that he was employing a short cut and that they would shortly be arriving at their destination. They subsequently ascended two flights of stairs, whereupon Przistaupinsky halted, adjusted his necktie, and declared, ‘You may find the director a little aggravated this morning. Unfortunately, a
situation
has arisen.’

‘A situation?’ repeated Rheinhardt.

‘Yes,’ said the secretary, evidently reluctant to elaborate.

Przistaupinsky invited them to ascend a third flight of stairs and, as they neared the top, a curious breathy susurration became clearer, acquiring the limping rhythms of someone weeping.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ The wiry figure of Director Mahler came into view. He was standing next to a half-open door, addressing a stout younger man whose plump boyish cheeks were wet and shiny. ‘You
must
sing. I absolutely insist!’ The director stamped his foot and repeated, ‘I absolutely insist!’

As Liebermann approached, he recognised the recipient of the director’s wrath. It was the famous tenor Erik Schmedes.

‘I can’t,’ Schmedes replied. ‘I am not well enough!’

He emphasised his infirmity by coughing and resting a hand on the wall for support.

‘You
have
to sing!’ Mahler commanded. ‘And if you don’t …’ The director raised a finger as if he were about to draw down retributive lightning from the heavens.

‘But it is out of the question,’ sobbed Schmedes. ‘I am simply incapable of performing. Have mercy on me, Herr Director! I am ill.’

Przistaupinsky moved forward, ‘Herr Director?’ Mahler acknowledged his secretary, but his expression was blank and distracted. ‘Detective Inspector Rheinhardt,’ Przistaupinsky pressed, ‘and his colleague Doctor Max Liebermann. From the
security office.’
He pronounced the final words with particular emphasis, to ensure that they registered.

The director blinked, sighed and focused on the new arrivals.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. You will, I trust, make allowances for my discourteous behaviour. Unfortunately, I have something of a crisis on my hands.’ He looked back at the lachrymose tenor. ‘Schmedes. Wait here. Przistaupinsky, you wait with him, and make sure he doesn’t go anywhere!’ The director opened the door wider and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Please, Inspector, Herr Doctor, do come in.’

Rheinhardt and Liebermann both stole glances at the unfortunate Schmedes as they crossed the threshold. The singer was still pressing the wall with his palm and breathing heavily. He looked pitiful.

It was widely rumoured that Mahler ruled the opera house with an iron fist. Indeed, his detractors accused him of bullying. Liebermann had always questioned the accuracy of such reports, believing them to be either exaggerations or malicious gossip. He found it difficult to believe that someone capable of composing the heavenly alto solo from the Second Symphony could possibly be dictatorial or brutish. But now, looking at Schmedes, wretched and broken, he wasn’t so sure.

The director’s office was large and illuminated by a soft grey light that filtered through high windows. An upright piano stood against one wall, piled high with musical scores.

‘Please,’ said Mahler. ‘Do sit down.’

He offered Liebermann and Rheinhardt two chairs in front of his desk and sat on his own somewhat larger chair behind it.

Gustav Mahler was a small man, but his large head and strong features compensated for his diminutive stature. His long sloping forehead and oval spectacles gave him the appearance of an intellectual. Yet his face had none of the analytic frigidity of a habitual thinker. It was softened by a mane of dark hair, brushed backwards in the style of a romantic poet. Liebermann saw something of his own face reflected in the director’s, a certain physiognomic correspondence, a shared intensity of expression. Unusually, both he and the director were clean-shaven.

‘I could not believe it when I heard she was dead,’ said Mahler, toying with a pen for a moment before casting it aside. ‘Ida Rosenkrantz was a rare talent. Her voice was praised by the critics for its power, but she was also capable of performances of great subtlety. The softness of her attack was unique, the way she shaped every note, allowing
each pitch to grow into existence, to blossom. Her use of legato was always well judged, and in pianissimo passages her control was second to none. It will be impossible to find another singer to take her place. No one else could do justice to such a wide variety of roles:
Louise, Senta, Violetta
– she could sing them all. Her loss will be felt keenly, not only here in Vienna but wherever great music is loved and appreciated.’

‘Were you well acquainted with Fräulein Rosenkrantz?’ asked Rheinhardt. ‘Were you close?’

The director paused and brought his fingers together, the tips forming the apex of a steeple.

‘Inspector, I do not think I am in possession of any facts that will clarify the principal point of issue, which, as I understand it from my reading of the newspapers, relates to whether poor Ida committed suicide or died through mischance. You understand, I trust, that our relationship was strictly professional. We did not socialise. Be that as it may, I can promise you my full cooperation. I am very happy to grant you access to all areas of the opera house and to answer, within reason, any questions you may wish to ask me. However,’ Mahler grimaced, ‘I cannot give you my full cooperation today. Unforeseen circumstances have created a crisis that requires my immediate attention. If the crisis is not resolved, then this evening’s production of
Rienzi
will have to be cancelled and we are expecting the German ambassador to attend. And if the ambassador is disappointed …’ His sentence trailed off and he produced a nervous little shudder. ‘Would you be willing, inspector, to postpone this interview? Could we meet again – tomorrow morning, perhaps? I would consider myself indebted.’

‘May I inquire as to the nature of this crisis?’ asked Rheinhardt.

The director’s foot began to tap on the floor. An irregular burst of rhythms that he terminated with a single loud stamp.

‘Really, Inspector, the detail need not concern you.’

‘With respect,’ Rheinhardt responded, ‘I would appreciate an explanation.’

‘Very well.’ Mahler glanced up at the wall clock. ‘But I must be brief.’ He pointed towards the door. ‘The unhappy gentleman waiting outside is Erik Schmedes.’

‘We had the pleasure,’ Rheinhardt indicated he was referring to both himself and his companion, ‘of seeing Herr Schmedes sing
Tristan
earlier this year under your direction. It was an exceptional performance. The love duet was a revelation.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mahler. ‘And Schmedes
is
a very great tenor. Indeed, I had chosen him to sing the title role in tonight’s new production of
Rienzi
. Hermann Winkelmann was to sing the role tomorrow night.’ Liebermann noticed that the director had a small defect of speech: he could not
roll
the letter ‘r’ correctly. ‘As you know, court opera singers attract fanatical devotees, and my choice of Schmedes to sing
Rienzi
in tonight’s performance angered the
Hermann-Bündler
– the Winkelmann fans. They said they would demonstrate if their hero was not given the premiere and Schmedes received an unpleasant threatening letter. After much deliberation, Schmedes and I decided that it was probably best to let Winkelmann have the honour of singing the first night. I very much doubt that the threat was genuine, but Schmedes is a sensitive fellow and he was disinclined to take any risks.’

‘What was the nature of the threat?’ Asked Rheinhardt.

‘The author of the letter indicated his intention to follow Schmedes until an opportunity arose to give him a beating.’

‘Why did you not call the police?’

‘Herr Schmedes assumed that he could not expect the police to protect him indefinitely. Was he wrong?’

Rheinhardt shifted uncomfortably.

‘No … he was not wrong.’

Mahler nodded and continued: ‘Winkelmann was to sing
Rienzi
tonight, Schmedes tomorrow night. Everything was settled. However, about an hour ago I was informed that Winkelmann has been taken ill and that he is now unable to sing. I promptly dispatched several men to search for Schmedes, one of whom found him in a Turkish bath. He was brought here immediately. When I told him what had happened and that consequently he would now be singing in the premiere, he turned pale and started talking a lot of gibberish about having caught a cold on account of leaving the steam room too quickly. He’s not really ill, of course, he’s just frightened that Winkelmann’s followers will carry out their threat if he sings tonight.’