Death and the Maiden (8 page)

‘But if Winkelmann is indisposed …’ ventured Rheinhardt.

‘Exactly,’ said Mahler. ‘The
Hermann-Bündler
can no longer argue that Winkelmann has been slighted. The danger has passed. But Schmedes will not see reason and instead insists that he has caught a cold and cannot sing. Now, I hope that is enough explanation for you, inspector. May we conclude our business for today and resume again tomorrow?’

Before Rheinhardt could respond, Liebermann interjected, ‘Herr Director, what are you going to do with Herr Schmedes?’

‘I will urge him, in the strongest possible terms, to reconsider his position.’

‘Will that involve more shouting?’

‘I imagine so.’

‘It didn’t appear to be working.’

The director bristled. ‘May I ask, Herr Doctor, if you have had any experience of managing the internal affairs of an opera house?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Or if you have ever been responsible for ensuring that visiting dignitaries are not disappointed when they come to see new, eagerly awaited productions?’

‘No. I have never been burdened with such responsibilities.’

‘As I suspected,’ said the director, raising his voice. ‘So you will appreciate why it is that I consider your critical remark somewhat inappropriate.’

Rheinhardt threw a distraught glance at Liebermann and then tried to appease Mahler. ‘Herr Director, I do apologise for—’ He was unable to finish.

‘In this particular instance,’ Liebermann interrupted, ‘I do not believe shouting will achieve very much.’

‘But I have no alternative,’ said Mahler, thumping the desk. ‘And I have found shouting to be the most effective means of communicating with opera singers. Moreover, the
Hermann-Bündler
are not the only ones who can issue threats. I have a few of my own which may encourage Schmedes to be more reasonable.’ The director clapped his hands together. ‘Until tomorrow, then, gentlemen?’

‘Herr Director,’ said Liebermann, ‘I think I can be of assistance. You see, I am a psychiatrist and frequently called upon to treat patients suffering from anxiety. It may be possible to treat Herr Schmedes’s stage fright using similar methods.’

‘Herr Doctor,’ said Mahler icily, ‘thank you for your kind offer, but I fear we do not have the time.’

‘What I have in mind would take no longer than twenty or thirty minutes.’

‘What are you proposing?’

‘Hypnosis. Let us attempt to remove Herr Schmedes’s anxiety by hypnosis.’

Liebermann took the metronome from the top of the director’s piano, wound the key to its limit, and placed the device on the desktop. He set the rod in motion and the room filled with a ponderous ticking like the inner workings of an enormous grandfather clock.

Erik Schmedes sat in front of the desk, closely observing the weight as it swung from side to side. Liebermann was seated beside him, while Mahler, Rheinhardt and Przistaupinsky stood by the door, beyond Schmedes’s line of vision.

‘Keep your eyes focused on the metronome,’ said Liebermann in a soft monotone. ‘Empty your mind – forget your worries – and watch the weight as it traces an arc – this way – then that – this way – then that. As you watch the weight you may find that your eyes are becoming tired, your eyelids heavier. If this happens, do not resist. Just accept and surrender. Listen. How pleasing the regularity of the beat, the gentle rhythm, like the rocking of a cradle – this way – then that. Watch the metronome and allow your mind to become a still surface, calm and untroubled.’

Almost immediately, Schmedes’s eyelids began to flicker. The muscles of his face became slack and his lips parted. Liebermann continued speaking in his gentle monotone, occasionally introducing commands instead of suggestions.

‘You are feeling sleepy … your eyelids are heavy … you are struggling to keep your eyes open.’

A few minutes later, Schmedes’s breathing had become slow and stertorous.

His head slumped forward.

‘On the count of three,’ said Liebermann, ‘you will close your eyes and sleep. A special sleep, in which you will be able to hear and understand every word I say. One – you are so tired – two – so very tired – three.’ Liebermann reached forward and silenced the metronome.

‘You are now asleep.’

Liebermann looked at his audience. Rheinhardt was smiling proudly and Mahler’s face was rigid with concentration, his hands clasped tensely in front of his mouth. Przistaupinsky was watchful, even distrustful, perhaps.

Liebermann continued. ‘Can you hear me, Herr Schmedes?’

The tenor’s head rocked backwards and forwards.

‘Very good,’ said Liebermann. ‘Now, I want you to listen to me very carefully. You have nothing to fear. Nothing, do you understand? As I speak, your fear will melt away, like ice in sunlight. And when the fear is gone, you will feel strong and confident. If you sing the role of
Rienzi
tonight, no one will follow you after the performance, no one will attack you. The supporters of Hermann Winkelmann did not want you to sing this evening, but Herr Winkelmann is ill, and now the
Hermann-Bündler
cannot possibly object to you taking his place. None will argue that Herr Winkelmann has been treated disrespectfully. You will sing the role of Rienzi, tonight, because there is no-one else who can do so. It is perfectly safe for you to sing. Repeat after me:
it is perfectly safe for me to sing.’

‘It is perfectly safe for me to sing,’ mumbled Schmedes.

‘
I have nothing to fear.’

‘Nothing to fear.’

‘Excellent.’ Liebermann gripped the singer’s shoulder. ‘Do not worry about the
Hermann-Bündler
, Herr Schmedes. They are not important. Only
your
admirers are important. You must not let them down. You are Erik Schmedes – the
great
Schmedes – giant of the north. Your Tristan was a triumph! How the critics praised your sensitivity and intelligence! How they marvelled at the phrasing and expression of your
cantilena
. And how they will praise you again, after you give them an unforgettable Rienzi tonight! You will be the toast of Vienna.’

‘The toast of Vienna,’ echoed Schmedes, before adding, rather unexpectedly: ‘Giant of the north.’

Shaking Schmedes’s shoulder in the spirit of manly brotherhood, Liebermann continued, ‘You are feeling full of vigour, fit and healthy, strong as an ox, eager to take to the stage.’

The young doctor paused and watched with satisfaction as Schmedes’s chest expanded and his expression set in an attitude of stoic rigidity.

‘Listen carefully, Herr Schmedes. Very soon you will awaken from this sleep, fully restored. But you will remember nothing of our conversation. Do you understand?

‘I understand.’

‘Good. Now, on the count of three, you must open your eyes. One,
waking
, two,
waking
, three!
You are awake!’

Liebermann removed his hand from the tenor’s shoulder.

Schmedes blinked a few times and then turned to face Liebermann. ‘Ah, the metronome has stopped. What a shame, I thought I was drifting off just then. The slow beat was certainly helping. Never mind, perhaps we can conduct this experiment another time. I am afraid I must hurry home. You see, I have an opera to perform this evening.’ Schmedes stood up, straightened his jacket and addressed Mahler. ‘This has been very interesting, Herr Director, but I really must be going.’

The director stepped aside and allowed Schmedes to open the door.

‘Schmedes?’ said the director.

‘Yes?’

‘You were worried about that letter.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Schmedes. ‘How stupid of me. Yes, I was being foolish – you were quite right. It’s perfectly safe for me to sing. I have nothing to fear. And I have my public to consider. They will be expecting another
Tristan
and I do not intend to disappoint them! Goodbye, Herr Director.’

And with that the singer departed, slamming the door behind him. The company listened to him running down the stairs, singing the overture to
Lohengrin
.

‘Well,’ said Mahler. ‘That was quite remarkable. I am most
impressed, Herr Doctor. Please forgive me for the impatience I displayed earlier.’

Liebermann stood up and inclined his head.

‘Now that Doctor Liebermann has dealt with your crisis,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘could we resume our interview?’

‘With pleasure,’ said Mahler, laughing out loud. ‘With great pleasure.’

‘D
O YOU REALISE HOW
many people work here, Inspector?’ said the director. ‘There are the principal performers, several choruses, choirmasters and répétiteurs, the members of the orchestra, guest instrumentalists, piano accompanists and the prompt. The stage machinery alone requires fifty permanent operators and a dozen electricians, and another thirty-five stage-hands are employed for large productions. There are the administrators, the costume designers, seamstresses, tailors, painters, carpenters, light engineers, porters, ushers, dressers, cloakroom attendants, and box-office staff. We even have our own opera physician. I could go on. The court opera is like a small principality. You wish to conduct an investigation – but where, exactly, do you propose to start?’

Rheinhardt took a slim box of trabucos from his coat pocket and offered one to the director.

Mahler waved his hand in the air.

‘No, have one of mine. I owe you two gentlemen this small courtesy, at least.’ He opened a desk drawer and removed a canister packed with fat cigars wrapped in silver paper. As he distributed them he added, ‘A gift from an archduke who fancies himself a composer. These cigars arrived with an opera score and a request for me to consider it for inclusion in next year’s programme. Regrettably, the music was entirely without merit and I had to refuse him. The lord chamberlain wasn’t very happy, but what was I supposed to do?’

Rheinhardt struck a match and lit the director’s and Liebermann’s cigars before lighting his own. The tobacco was of a very high quality and tasted like caramel.

‘Very good,’ said Rheinhardt, exhaling a yellow cloud that expanded into a haze of pungent sweetness. Crossing his legs, he returned to the original topic of conversation. ‘I take your point, Herr Director: many people work at the opera house. But I only want to consult a few of Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s associates, preferably
close
associates, and was hoping that you would be able to identify who such persons might be.’

‘As I have already stated,’ said the director, ‘my relationship with Fräulein Rosenkrantz was strictly professional. I did not know her very well and therefore cannot speak with much authority.’ He rested his forehead against the knuckles of his closed fist. After a brief pause, he added, ‘It was rumoured that she was having some form of dalliance with Winkelmann last year, but I’m sure that it wasn’t very much more than a little harmless flirtation. You must understand, inspector, there is always a great deal of gossip at the opera house, and most of it is highly fanciful.’ Mahler drew on his cigar and the creases on his brow deepened. ‘However, I think I am correct in saying that Fräulein Rosenkrantz had a particular fondness for Herr Schneider.’

Rheinhardt took out his notebook. ‘Who?’

‘Felix Schneider. Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s dresser, although in reality he was more like a factotum. She brought him with her when she came here from Prague.’

‘Where can we find him?’

‘He will be at home.’ Mahler addressed his secretary, ‘Przistaupinsky, can you find Herr Schneider’s address for the inspector?’

The secretary bowed and left the room.

Rheinhardt wrote the name
Felix Schneider
in his notebook and tapped the pencil against the page.

‘I understand that Fräulein Rosenkrantz wasn’t very happy at the opera house.’

The director responded, ‘How do you mean?’

‘She found you …’ Rheinhardt faltered. ‘I apologise, Herr Director, but I must be blunt. I was informed that she found you demanding.’

The corners of Mahler’s mouth curled to produce a humourless smile.

‘They
all
find me demanding, Inspector. I am perfectly aware of what people say behind my back. I am a tyrant, a monster! But when the singers are getting their standing ovations and the audience are calling for more and stamping their feet, all is forgiven. Under my direction they give the performances of their lives. That is why they stay.’

‘I have been told that there is bad feeling between some of the singers.’

‘Opera singers are a vainglorious breed. They surround themselves with sycophants and panderers whose foolish talk frequently excites envy. They covet each others’ roles and begrudge each others’ successes. This business with Schmedes and Winkelmann is typical.’ Mahler shook his head, becoming eloquent with despair. ‘There are so many factions and divisions in this opera house, the atmosphere is so heavy with rancour and hostility, that if I were transported backwards in time to the court of the Borgias it would seem a model society by comparison.’

Rheinhardt smiled but his gaze remained steady and serious.

‘Did Fräulein Rosenkrantz have many enemies?’