Requiem in Vienna (6 page)

Exactly Werthen’s thoughts; he smiled at his wife, then turned to Blauer and the stagehand once again, waiting politely for their discussion to finish before making introductions. Leitner, in his haste, had neglected even that common civility.

Blauer was a compact man with spectacles, listening patiently to the stagehand, a large, florid sort with muttonchops. No one in Vienna, save the emperor, still wore such whiskers. By the sound of the large man’s accent, he was a denizen of Ottakring, a working-class district known for its beer and impenetrable dialect. The perfect sort, Werthen thought, for the mulelike work of hoisting scenery flats with rope.

As the conversation finished, Werthen and Berthe approached the two.

“Herr Blauer,” Werthen said.

“Yes.”

Werthen stopped in his tracks when he realized it was the large man who responded.

“How may I help you?” Blauer nodded for the smaller man to be about his business.

Suddenly the man’s accent was diminished, assuming more of a neutral Viennese tone, still singsong, but not as harsh or guttural as before.

“Herr Regierungsrath Leitner suggested I, we, speak with you.” Werthen made quick introductions. The mention of his professional association with Mahler made the man noticeably stiffen.

“Yes?”

“It is about the unfortunate accident with the podium. I wonder if it would be possible to take a look at it.”

Blauer looked from Werthen to Berthe and back to the lawyer, folded his massive arms over his barrel chest, and slowly shook his head.

“Afraid not,” he said.

“You refuse to allow an inspection?” Werthen said.

Another brusque shake of the man’s head. “No, not like that at all. But it’s impossible, you see. We tossed the podium yesterday. It’ll be wood chips by now in our set factory. We’re constructing a new one.”

“Unfortunate,” Werthen muttered.

“How’s that?” Blauer cupped his ear toward Werthen; the commotion all around them had made his comment unintelligible.

“Nothing,” Werthen said. “Simply that it would have been advantageous to examine the old podium for design flaws.”

“Well, we did that, didn’t we? Nothing we could see but the usual wear and tear. I think Herr Mahler slipped off, becoming rather agitated during rehearsals.”

Not so far off the mark of Berthe’s earlier sarcastic remark.

“If that’ll be all?” Blauer said, his body already in motion. “Lots to see to this afternoon.”

“There was an earlier accident, as well,” Werthen said, ignoring the man’s question.

Blauer sighed. “Fräulein Kaspar, you mean?”

“Yes,” Werthen responded. “Fräulein Kaspar and the fire curtain. Herr Mahler came close to injury in that matter, did he not?”

“The young singer fared rather worse, I should think.” Blauer inadvertently strayed into his Ottakring accent as he said this.

“Nonetheless, two such accidents should raise concern.”

“We got rid of the stagehand responsible for that,” Blauer explained. “I was forever telling the man not to saddle a dead horse, but would he listen?”

“By that, I assume you mean one should not clamp the nonload-bearing end of a rope?”

Blauer looked impressed. “Exactly so. Have you worked as a stagehand?”

Werthen felt himself redden at the question. He caught Berthe hiding a smile behind her hand.

“No,” he curtly answered. “I am merely well read.”

Blauer ignored this. “Redl was his name. He could never get the basic concepts in his head. After the incident with the fire curtain, I let him go.”

“You’re saying that this Herr Redl was responsible for the fire curtain falling.”

“He denied it, of course. But I took a look at the cables afterward. Clamped all wrong. The man was a fool.”

“And where might one contact Herr Redl?”

Blauer blew his lips in disgust. “Nowhere near here, that is for sure. Couldn’t find a job anywhere in the empire after that. Stage gossip is the fellow made off for America where they won’t know about his work record. Worse luck for them.”

The day was still fine, so they decided to walk to Mahler’s apartment. First, however, was the matter of food. This morning’s kip-ferl was now just a distant memory, and he was feeling and hearing a distinct rumbling that demanded attention.

“You must be hungry, darling,” he said as they departed the Court Opera.

She cocked her head at him, smiling. “Which means you must be.”

“Yes, well, one tries to be a gentleman about such things.”

“About hunger? I did not realize the rules of decorum pertained.”

“What we both need is a snug little booth, a plate of schnitzel, and a chilled glass of Vetliner. Agreed?”

She nodded vigorously, taking his arm. “Lead on, hungry one.”

And he did, taking them to the Opera Café where they indeed found a snug little booth out of the foot traffic, and were soon treated to plates upon which generous slices of breaded veal overlapped the edges. This was accompanied by a cabbage salad with cumin seeds and tart vinegar dressing. The Vetliner was of a coolness as if the bottle had been stored in an alpine brook.

They ate in silence for a time, both of them hungry and giving their sensations over to tastes and aromas for the time being.

“What did you think of him?” Werthen finally asked.

“Him? Leitner or Blauer?”

“Leitner is a self-server.” Werthen waved his fork at the idea. “Blauer is the trickier one.”

“A modern man,” Berthe pronounced.

“Blauer? With those muttonchops?”

She nodded, placing fork and knife on her plate for the moment.

“A self-made man, obviously. Connections did not win him a job as stage manager at the Royal Court Opera. Most likely the product of night school, hard work, and ambition. You heard how he could modulate his accent.”

“But is he honest?”

“That, my dear, is harder to discern.”

“No podium to examine, no stagehand to question about the earlier accident. A bit too convenient, I would say.”

“For whom?”

“For whoever is trying to kill Mahler.”

If she had been wearing reading glasses, she would have looked over the rims at him doubtingly.

“So now you are taking Fräulein Schindler’s story at face value?”

“No,” he answered. “I’m taking the facts at face value.”

They arrived at Mahler’s apartment in the afternoon, as arranged. The composer’s sister obviously did not feel compelled to answer the door herself this time. Instead, the maid, a wiry little woman in a freshly starched blue uniform and apron, opened the door. He had not seen the woman on his previous visit, but clearly she had been notified of his imminent arrival. Just as clearly, no one had apprised her of the fact that he might be arriving in company. She looked from Werthen to Berthe and allowed a tiny gasp from her birdlike mouth.

“Herr Werthen and his wife to see Herr Mahler,” he announced loudly enough, he hoped, for his voice to carry to the inner rooms thereby allaying any further surprise caused by Berthe. It had been Werthen’s experience that a household run by a sister was generally one where other females were not welcome. Justine Mahler had given the impression upon first meeting of a most protective and territorial sort of woman. In part, that is why he insisted Berthe accompany him to Mahler’s this afternoon; he wanted the sister discomfited, put off her guard. If there were deeper truths to be gotten at, then comfortable was not how Werthen wanted the sister, or brother for that matter.

His volume did the trick, for the maid was quickly relieved of her duties by Justine Mahler, who arrived in a swoosh of heavy skirt and a clacking of heels. She wore—was it the same one?—a broad dove-gray tie with her blouse as before, tucked into the waist of her white belted skirt.

“Herr Werthen.” She pronounced it as if it were a question.

“Fräulein Mahler.” He nodded. “May I present my wife, Berthe Meisner.”

Justine Mahler quickly appraised Berthe, measuring her as if for a coffin, then slowly outstretched her hand.

“A pleasure, Frau Werthen.”

Berthe shook the proffered hand. “Frau Meisner, actually. I have kept my family name for professional reasons.”

Justine Mahler squinted her eyes at Berthe. This information was obviously as little welcome as another woman in the apartment was.

“But forgive me,” the composer’s sister finally said. “I am so little accustomed to society caring for the needs of my brother. I forget the amenities. Please do come in, and welcome, both of you.”

Once again Werthen followed the sister into the cavernous flat, crossing the outer hall to the inner rooms. A violin sounded; something by Bach, Werthen thought, and the tone quality was quite good. He and Berthe were led to the same sitting room where he had earlier met with Mahler. As before, the composer was installed in a daybed, but now his left arm was in a sling. The violin was being played by a tall, one might say statuesque, woman in a long white gown that draped in folds about her feet. She played without the benefit of music and now Werthen placed the selection: the chaconne for violin from the
Solo Violin Partita 2.
He had first heard the piece as a young boy at his family’s estate when, for a dinner party, a young Viennese violinist, a protégé not much older than Werthen himself still in knee pants, was brought in to entertain the guests. Werthen well remembered the heat of embarrassment he felt as the guests seated at dinner paid the young musician little heed, instead laughing and drinking and clinking their silverware as they continued to consume the dinner of wild boar and red currant sauce. But for Werthen, seated at the far end of the table from his parents and from their strained joviality, the music hit a profound chord. He lost himself in it as he had never before done with any piece of music. Only written words—the
poetry of Schiller, for example—had heretofore been able to take him so outside of himself. But that evening, with the young violinist from Vienna playing so passionately the notes written one hundred and fifty years earlier, he was shocked to find tears at his eyes, realizing he was crying only when one tear splashed the edge of his plate of untouched food.

Now, many years later, he once again felt that same profound stirring at this music as they entered the salon. The woman, eyes closed, seemed to sense rather than hear their presence and abruptly broke off the music, dramatically removing the violin from under her chin, and resting it in the crook of her right arm. She peered at Werthen and Berthe with her head cocked like a bemused pigeon.

“Please, Natalie,” Justine Mahler said. “Not on our account. It was quite lovely.”

The woman named Natalie merely smiled at Justine, making no overture toward recommencing.

“Werthen,” Mahler called out from his sickbed. “We must stop meeting like this. You are going to take me for an invalid, while I am, despite my slightness, a rather robust individual. And who might this charming young woman be?”

Noting a look of disapproval from both the other women at Mahler’s remark, Werthen made introductions and was introduced in turn to the violinist, Natalie Bauer-Lechner, an old family friend. A friend, that is, of Mahler’s since the days when he was a poor music student in Vienna.

Mahler did not bother with common civilities; not waiting for small talk, he immediately said, “Now, ladies, I am sure you will forgive Herr Werthen and myself for secreting ourselves for a small business conference.”

His sister and Frau Bauer-Lechner were immune to Mahler’s abruptness, clearly having suffered it, perhaps even encouraging it as a sign of his artistic genius, for long years. Berthe, however,
noticeably bristled at the remark, but said nothing. Instead, she repaired with the other women to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

Mahler waited for the double doors to shut behind them, then breathed a sigh of relief.

“Sometimes a chap needs to be on his own.”

Werthen smiled at the comment, having felt the same way at times.

“Sit, sit.” Mahler waved his good arm at a nearby armchair. “By your concerned demeanor, Werthen, I assume you believe this latest fiasco is a further attempt on my life.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Poppycock. Though it is interesting. I suppose you are a student of musical history, no?”

“Of a sort.”

“Of course you recall the sad events of 1870? This was five years before I entered the conservatory here, but even in the backwater of Iglau where I grew up we heard of the tragedy to befall Josef Strauss, the talented brother of Johann and Eduard.”

Werthen did recall the incident now. Strauss, on a tour of Poland, had fallen from his podium and died not long after. There was a deal of mystery surrounding the death, for his widow would not allow an autopsy. It was not known whether the composer died of injuries suffered from his fall, or if he had injuries or an illness prior to that.

“Surely you are not comparing the two?” Werthen objected. “There was no indication the podium in that instance was at fault.”

“Is there in this instance?” Mahler responded. “I have been known to experience vertigo. Sometimes in the high mountain peaks I am so overcome with passion for the scenery that I quite forget myself.”

“You’re saying that you may simply have fallen from the podium. That it did not, in fact, crumble beneath you.”

“One moment I was conducting Wagner, the next I was flat on
my back in the orchestra pit gazing up at the rather shiny white shins of Arnold Rosé, my first violinist, as he hovered over me, his trousers billowing at the ankle.”

“He was the first to reach you?”

“Please, Werthen. The man hopes to be my brother-in-law. Murdering me would hardly win him a warm place in Justine’s heart.”

Werthen felt himself growing annoyed at Mahler’s cavalier response to this latest outrage.

“There is indeed a long history of odd musical deaths, Werthen, none of which were necessarily attributed to nefarious plots. Take the unfortunate Jean-Baptiste Lully, for instance. You think my fall from a podium was dire? Monsieur Lully, in the French style of the day, pounded out the rhythm of his music from the wings, using a large staff. One night the poor man impaled his own foot while thus conducting and died of gangrene not long thereafter.”