Death And The Maiden lp-6 Page 5

  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.

  8

  Rrheinhardt and Liebermann 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 Fraulein 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-Bundler — 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.’

  ‘But if Winkelmann is indisposed …’ ventured Rheinhardt.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mahler. ‘The Hermann-Bundler 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-Bundler 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-Bundler 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,’ m
umbled Schmedes.

  ‘I have nothing to fear.’

  ‘Nothing to fear.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Liebermann gripped the singer’s shoulder. ‘Do not worry about the Hermann-Bundler, 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.