Last Act (22 page)

“As well they may be,” said Hilde Bernz. “Have you seen the rehearsal room?”

“No?”

“It's a disaster area. They won't have it ready for the opening, however they try.”

“No,” Stern agreed. “A pity about the conducted tours, but think how much worse if it had been the opera house itself.”

“Which was doubtless what was intended,” said Hilde Bernz darkly. “How do we know that there will not be another flood, during the performance, and this time on to us? I've always said that stage was a death trap. If we had any sense, we would throw up our parts
en masse.
”

“You don't mean it,” said Anne.

“No.” Shrugging. “I suppose I don't.” She looked at her watch. “Time for rehearsal, God help us.”

The opera house smelled strongly of damp and paint, since water had seeped down around the huge skylight that lay between the helicopter launching pad and the cliff, and workmen had been busy all night repairing the damage. Carl Meyer, waiting on the stage, made a short, vigorous speech. There had been an attempt at sabotage, he told them. The stream had been deliberately blocked. “Someone does not wish our opera to succeed. I promise you, my friends, that every precaution has been taken. Herr Winkler has asked for reinforcements from our friends the Italians. His police and their assistants will be on duty above and around the whole complex from now until when the season is safely over. There is not the slightest danger to anyone, except that of losing our nerve. My friends, this has made me very angry, and I hope it has you, too. It is not just the threat to Beethoven's great opera. Think, for a moment, I beg you, of what a failure here would do to the peace conference. You are all young; you do not remember war, but there are those of us here who do. Is it asking too much to ask that you, the young ones, who have the chance to help, will throw your hearts into making this opera something the world will remember, with blessings? Now, no more talk. We begin.”

“My God,” said Anne to Hilde Bernz later that afternoon. “It's working … it's coming.”

“At last,” said Hilde. “With—what is that English phrase of yours?—with blood, and sweat, and tears. Well.” She shrugged. “The eyes of the world are upon us now. I'm worried about young Gertrud, though.”

“Yes.” Gertrud had inexplicably burst into tears over a slight rebuke from Falinieri. “She's singing marvellously, but there's something wrong, just the same,” Anne went on. “It's curious how one can feel it, in a small cast like this. I wish you'd try and find out what's the matter, Hilde. She doesn't seem to like me much anymore.”

“Jealous,” said Hilde. “She's seen Prince Rudolf's press release, too. Pity, really. Are you looking forward to being the great new star, Anne?”

“Don't,” said Anne. “For God's sake don't. We're jinxed enough as it is.”

”
Bitte?
”

For once, Hilde's English failed her, but they were interrupted by Carl, announcing that their brief rest was over. “We will now take the last scene, ladies and gentlemen, and you will imagine your audience reaching for its pocket-handkerchief.”

Thursday's Rehearsal Went even better, and at the end of Friday's Falinieri thanked them with tears in his eyes. “It will do, I think.” He held out a hand to Carl.

“I think so too.” Carl looked both exhausted and jubilant as he turned to face the cast, still grouped onstage in their final positions. “I thank you all, from my heart. This has been a day to remember. Tomorrow: the dress rehearsal. And today—I should warn you—while you have been at work here, the world has come to Lissenberg. We are news, my friends, which is good or bad as you make it. I do beg you to be careful what you do or say from now on. Imagine that everyone you meet is a journalist, and you won't be far wrong. We want a real success, not a scandalous one.”

Since a light lunch had been provided in the greenroom, the cast had not been out in the cloisters all day. The difference, now, was extraordinary. Down to the left, lights blazed from the hotel—fully open at last, with conference delegates and journalists pouring in. Cars were drawing up outside it all the time, letting down their passengers, then swinging round, past the steps of the opera house and so down by the hostel and away.

Hilde and Anne paused for a moment, looking down the valley. “They were right to turn it into a one-way system,” said Hilde. “I thought it was crazy, but just look …”

Adolf Stern joined them to stare gloomily at the crowded road. “We aren't going to get a lot of sleep tonight. Those of us whose rooms look out this way.” This with a reproachful glance
for Anne, whose bedroom faced away from the valley.

“Sleep?” Dark circles had carved themselves deep under Gertrud's eyes. “What's that?”

Reaching the hostel, Anne paused at the desk. “Josef.”

“Yes?” He turned to her with a harassed backwards glance at the switchboard where lights flickered angrily.

“I wish you'd ask Dr Hirsch to come over. No, not for me, though I'd be glad to see him. But—” she looked quickly over her shoulder, but no one was within earshot—“I think he ought to see Fräulein Stock. Maybe a kind of check-up on the cast? We've been at it pretty hard these last few days.”

“Who hasn't! But, yes, I'll see if I can fix something. I'll say it's for you, if you don't mind.” He turned away to the switchboard, leaving her both disappointed and puzzled. She had hoped for a chance at a casual question about Michael, from whom she had heard nothing since the night of the flood. It was horrible to have the cloud of suspicion still heavy between them—but, looking back, she could not tell herself that he had said anything to clear it. All very well to ask her to trust him. She longed to, if he would only help her, explain, come to see her …

“I'm glad you sent for me,” Dr Hirsch told her as he went through the familiar routine of pulse, blood pressure, temperature. “I've given Fräulein Stock something to help her sleep. She should have asked for it sooner. This has been a hard time for everyone, but I'm glad to say you seem to be thriving on it. How's the pain?”

“Do you know, I seem to have been too busy to notice it. It scares me a bit. Once or twice before, it has happened like this—disappeared for a while, then back worse than ever. Suppose that were to happen tomorrow? Or on the first night?”

“Why should it? Don't expect it; don't think of it. And, if it should come, you've got the pills I gave you. Take two if necessary, but not more. They're a new blend of mine. I'm not too sure about side effects.”

“Side effects?”

“Very unlikely. And nothing that would affect your singing.” A shadow crossed the stiff face. “Of course there is a risk that they might be habit-forming.”

She was actually laughing. “Dear Dr Hirsch, how many habits can one form in six months? All I ask is that I get through the next two weeks without disaster. After that, who cares?” And yet, was that true now? In London it certainly had been. Looking back, there was nothing about that life that could not have been left, with—what was the phrase?—
a gay goodnight and swiftly turn away.
But now—now everything was different. She was amazed, and ashamed, to find her eyes full of tears. “Dr Hirsch, I don't want to die.”

“I should think not indeed. Frankly, that's the most encouraging thing you've said to me yet. You didn't much care, did you, when you got here? That's why you were—tempted, the other night.”

“That's just it.” As always, his quick understanding warmed her heart.

“Good.” He was repacking his bag. “Do you sleep?”

“Mostly. I'm so
tired.
I don't think I've ever been so tired in my life. And, besides, the air here's so delicious.”

“Long may it remain so.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you thought what would happen if Lissenberg went bankrupt and young Frensham took over? I don't know whether he'd have all these buildings down, or just dig his mine under them, or what—but of one thing I'm sure—he'd have that szilenite out and up for sale. Oh, he's been keeping quiet, while the excitement of the opera and the conference lasts, but afterwards, when it's all over … that's going to be another story. I just hope
Regulus
has the resounding success it deserves— otherwise … Well, old Frensham came here to foreclose, you know. Of course, it will take some time to settle his estate, but once that's done, I can see his son turning Lissenberg into one big industrial site. A rural slum, with all its sounds and smells.”

“Horrible. This entrancing valley, these kind people. Tell me it won't happen.”

“Sing like an angel at the dress rehearsal tomorrow—not to mention the first night— and maybe it won't. It will be harder for young Frensham with the world's eyes focussed on Lissenberg. Did you know the dress rehearsal had turned into a kind of
preview?”

“Gracious, no. Why?”

“Because of all the publicity. You could say Prince Rudolf has been too successful. Twice as many journalists have come as were expected—gossip columnists as well as critics—and most of the foreign delegates are bringing extra staff members. Naturally, they all expect seats for the opera. So—chaos at the box office.”

“I thought it was sold out already. The first night.”

“So it was. They began by going through the lists, asking locals to give way to visitors. It's caused quite a bit of hard feeling. And wasn't nearly enough anyway. So—be prepared for a crowded theatre tomorrow.”

“Full?”

“Packed. Well, you wouldn't want it half full, would you?”

“No. Do the others know?”

“Carl Meyer made an announcement over dinner. And asked them all to stay home tonight. Relieved to do it, I think. The hotel's a madhouse, with the conference delegates arriving and all the extra guests. They've had to reopen a couple of hotels in the town that had closed because of the new one. They've put the orchestra down there. So—chaos there too. You can't get a table in a restaurant without bribery and corruption, and tempers are rising all over. Lissenberg's just not equipped to cope, and people don't like it.”

“People?”

“The old guard. The natives who liked Lissenberg the way it was.” He sighed and rose to his feet. “Frankly, dear child, I hardly know what to wish for. It begins to look as if the Lissenberg I love was doomed either way. If the opera succeeds, we're going to drown in tourism and Prince Rudolf's plastic gimcrackery; if it fails, we'll be one giant factory, and a threat to the world as well.”

“Then it had better succeed.” Anne had a sudden, vivid sense of the plastics workshop with all its sounds and smells.

“You're right. So—no worrying, sleep well; good luck for tomorrow. I shall be there, by the way, both tomorrow and Monday, in my professional capacity.”

“I'm glad. But I hope you won't be needed.”

“So do I.” He smiled his painful smile. “You're feeling better.”

“Yes. I don't think this is a time to be feeling anything else.”

“Then to bed with you. A good book and an early night. I'll tell Josef not to let them put calls through, shall I?”

“Yes, please. Unless it's urgent. Or—” Angrily, she felt herself blush. “Or Michael,” she longed to say, but could not—would not let herself.

Next morning's note was short and to the point. “Costume call, eleven a.m.,” it read. “The dress rehearsal at five is now a preview. Good luck to us all.” Anne smiled to herself and poured coffee. Dr Hirsch had done her good. Despite the gnawing misery of her misunderstanding with Michael, she had slept soundly and felt, amazingly, well this morning—ready for anything. I shall enjoy my two weeks of hard work and glory, she thought. Make the most of them while they last. After all, what else mattered?

A tap at the door announced Lisel, with her arms full of flowers and a reproachful shake of her head over the chain that Anne had not replaced.

Anne smiled at her. “Goodness, what beautiful flowers.” Lisel was depositing them, carefully, spray after spray, on the bed.

“
Schön
” Lisel nodded. “I come back with”—her hands sketched the shape of a vase. “And, Herr Josef say”—she wrinkled her brow, trying to remember the message—” stay here,
bitte?
” She broke into Liss and was obviously describing a state of confusion downstairs. Much, much
Menschen,
she concluded. And then with a wry face, “
Journalisten. Tchah.
” Bringing the vase a few minutes later, she indicated firmly that Anne should chain the door after her.

The flowers were an orgy. An immense, ornate florist's extravagance with Prince Rudolf's card, “To our prima donna,” and the bold signature “Rudolf, P.” A rival bouquet from James Frensham; red roses from Alix, white from Carl, and, finally, hidden by the others, a tiny nosegay of sweet-scented violets, which she knew at once were from Michael. She would have known his handwriting anywhere. And that was odd, as she had
never seen it. And all it said, was “Anne.” The least he could do?

At five to eleven the telephone rang. “Good morning.” Josef sounded harassed, as well he might. “The cast are assembling now, to go up to the opera house together. If you would join them downstairs?”

“At once.” Anne swung on her fur jacket, tucked the violets in its buttonhole and hurried downstairs, meeting Adolf Stern on the way.

He looked angry. “One might as well be back at boarding school. Do you know they actually refused to let me go out last night? That Josef! I'm going to make a complaint about him today. Anyone would think he was a hereditary prince himself. Or a twopenny-halfpenny local Führer.”

“Your English is very good,” said Anne.