Death And The Maiden lp-6

by Frank Tallis

  In the second act, Arianne Amsel performed the famous rondo aria, ‘Have pity, my love, forgive.’ It was something of a showpiece, consisting of several sections in different tempi and clearly composed to display technique. The melody was full of large intervals, requiring the voice to drop suddenly from high soprano to contralto. Liebermann enjoyed the aria as a piece of theatre but the music did not move him. When Amsel stopped singing, a solitary clap could be heard over the orchestral coda. It continued into the silence that preceded the next recitativo, provoking only a smattering of restrained applause. Evidently the house shared Liebermann’s opinion.

  At the end of the opera, when the lovers were reunited, the cast came together to sing a strange valedictory. It was as though they were stepping out of the drama and into the real world. ‘Happy is the man,’ they sang, ‘who always looks on the bright side of everything and through life’s ups and downs lets himself be guided by reason.’ Liebermann considered himself a natural optimist and someone who venerated Enlightenment values; yet he couldn’t say that these things had brought him happiness. He knew that true fulfilment depended on something quite different.

  They collected their coats from the cloakroom and walked the short distance to the Cafe Schwarzenberg where they ordered coffee and pastries. Sitting by a window through which they could see the Karlskirche, they talked about the opera and Liebermann spoke of his recent visit to the Mozartgrab. He spoke about the symbolic meaning of the truncated column and Amelia listened intently. When he had finished, she said, very seriously, ‘None of us can know the number of days we are allocated on this Earth. Time passes and death comes suddenly. Therefore one must seize all the opportunities that life offers. It is dreadful to contemplate how it must be to spend one’s final hours regretting what might or could have been.’

  * * *

  Liebermann hailed a cab.

  For much of the journey they were uncharacteristically silent. It was a silence that they had reached not merely because the evening’s conversation had run its course. It was a silence that they had earned after the labour of all their previous conversations. A boundless silence, tolerated without discomfort and against which their intimacy might be tested. They had had so many conversations, and about so many things: diseases of the blood, Nietzsche’s theory of eternal recurrence, automata, literature, reform fashion houses, therapeutic nihilism, secessionist art and design, Renaissance architecture, women’s rights, literature and, of course, the nature of love.

  Liebermann recalled Ferrando’s aria, with its simply worded statement of love’s necessity, and realised that the very same sentiment had been expressed by Goethe in Elective Affinities: ‘A life without love, without the presence of the beloved, is only a comedie a tiroir.’ And that was precisely how Liebermann had experienced his life since his first encounter with Amelia Lydgate, a series of unconnected episodes, superficial and unsatisfying.

  Liebermann’s thoughts were racing.

  Outside, a thin rain had begun to fall.

  In matters of the heart women could not express themselves freely. It was not permitted. They relied on more subtle means of communication. When Amelia had handed him her copy of Elective Affinities she must have done so knowingly.

  They arrived in the ninth district and the carriage stopped outside Amelia’s house. Liebermann offered her his hand and helped her to alight onto the pavement, before paying and dismissing the driver. The street was empty and the atmosphere was hazed with a fine mizzle.

  ‘Will you not need a cab to get home?’ asked Amelia.

  ‘No,’ Liebermann replied. ‘I think I’d prefer to walk. My head is still full of music. I must walk, otherwise I shan’t sleep.’

  It was so easy to hide behind words, make excuses and mislead. He yearned again for the restoration of silence, the honest silence that had enfolded them in the carriage.

  They walked to the door and Amelia turned to face him. The water vapour diffused the gaslight, making her face appear soft-edged and ghostly. Liebermann felt inebriated, as if he’d been imbibing too much absinthe.

  ‘Once again,’ said Amelia, ‘I must thank you for a wonderful evening.’

  Liebermann did not reply. He stood very still, returning her intense gaze. He was aware of the distant clatter of hooves and the muted hum of the city, but the world seemed to be receding. Amelia’s eyes had always held a peculiar fascination for him. They were such an unusual colour, neither blue nor grey but some indeterminate hue in between. Their preternatural luminosity was contained by a dark rim which circulated each iris. For a moment he thought that he might be falling, but soon realised he was mistaken. Amelia’s eyes were becoming larger because she was moving closer. She had taken a step towards him. Her head fell backwards and her lips formed a tentative, experimental pout. Quite suddenly — as if a moment of intervening time had been excised — her mouth was opening beneath his and they were kissing.

  39

  Rheinhardt walked under an archway and found himself in a small empty courtyard. The building was old and crumbling — but not unclean: an able demonstration by the residents that squalor need not be an inevitable consequence of poverty. There was none of the usual rubbish which typically cluttered the entrance of such dwellings, no broken carts, rusting metal or fallen masonry. A broom, standing by a water pump, was clearly used to sweep mud from the cobbles with some regularity.

  The first door Rheinhardt examined proved to be the address he was looking for. He noticed a mezuzah, a small receptacle containing holy words on parchment and attached to the painted frame. Its presence identified the household as Jewish. Glancing along the other doors, Rheinhardt saw that all but one of the occupants were similarly observant. A quivering curtain presaged the appearance of an inquisitive face behind the window and Rheinhardt indicated that he wished to enter. Seconds later the door opened, revealing a diminutive woman in a colourful embroidered dress and white blouse. She was middle-aged, with brown hair and a swarthy complexion. Her cheeks were wide and the flesh beneath her eyes had begun to mottle and sag.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Frau Gardosh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Rheinhardt. I am a detective from the security office.’ Frau Gardosh pursed her lips and attempted — unsuccessfully — to conceal her trepidation. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘But it isn’t very convenient. I’m …’ She hesitated before going on, ‘I’m looking after a friend. She isn’t very well.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long.’

  ‘But she needs my constant attention.’

  ‘Frau Gardosh,’ said Rheinhardt impatiently. ‘If you are trying to keep me out of your home because you fear that I will discover the nature of your business, then I must ask you to desist. I have already been informed.’

  ‘Business … I don’t run a business.’

  ‘You are an angel maker,’ said Rheinhardt, with heavy emphasis. He saw that Frau Gardosh was about to deny the allegation and swiftly added, ‘Orsola Salak told me.’

  At the mention of Salak’s name the woman’s expression changed. It was as though she had been slapped round the face.

  ‘Orsola Salak told you?’ Her voice was weak with disbelief.

  ‘I have not come here to arrest you. I only want to ask you some questions about one of your … clients.’Frau Gardosh remained silent. ‘Of course, should you refuse to cooperate …’ He allowed the implied threat to register before adding, ‘May I come in now?’ Frau Gardosh consented and ushered him into her parlour. ‘Would you like to check that your ailing friend is comfortable before we begin?’ asked Rheinhardt. Gardosh raised her hand and touched her lips. Her body swayed backwards and forwards, pulled this way and that by the conflicting currents of her own indecision.

  ‘Forgive me, Inspector … but-’

  Disinclined to prolong her misery, Rheinhardt said, ‘I see. There is no fri
end. It doesn’t matter. Shall we sit? Good.’ His clipped delivery did not permit the woman to dwell on her shame. ‘If I might suggest you come a little closer. Thank you. Do you live here on your own, Frau Gardosh?’

  ‘Yes. My husband died many years ago, soon after we came to Vienna.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have any children?’

  ‘Two sons.’

  ‘And where are they?’

  ‘One is apprenticed to a carpenter in Hernals. The other is in the army.’

  Rheinhardt took out his notebook.

  ‘Tell me, how long have you been assisting young women in difficulty?’

  ‘It was hard, Inspector, without a husband and with two hungry boys to feed.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine.’

  ‘And they’re not always so young, the ones who come here. Older women can make mistakes too.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Inspector …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why aren’t you going to arrest me?’

  ‘I promised Orsola Salak that I wouldn’t.’

  ‘And you intend to keep that promise?’

  ‘I do.’

  Frau Gardosh was clearly suspicious of Rheinhardt’s casual dereliction of duty. Her wrinkled brow suggested that she wanted a more substantive reason to believe him. Rheinhardt was happy to oblige. ‘And there is the matter of your religion.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I am not eager to further the cause of certain parties unsympathetic to your people. If I arrest you, elements of the press will make much of a Jewish angel maker.’

  ‘Why should you care about that?’

  ‘There is an election coming. Things are bad enough as it is. I don’t want to give the belligerents another excuse to march into Leopoldstadt.’ He ventured a self-congratulatory smile. ‘Good police work isn’t just about arresting people.’

  Frau Gardosh considered the point. A subtle movement of her head suggested that she found it plausible enough, although a residue of scepticism continued to corrugate her brow.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘In the spring,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘Orsola Salak sent a woman to you. Her name was Ida Rosenkrantz. Do you remember her?’

  ‘Yes, of course I remember her. She was an opera singer, a famous one, too.’

  ‘Unfortunately, she died recently. Did you know that?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘It was in all the newspapers.’

  ‘I don’t read them. It’s been years since I last sat in a coffee house.’

  ‘Can you remember the date when she came to see you?’

  ‘No, not exactly.’

  ‘Then approximately?’

  Frau Gardosh paused to think. ‘Late March, early April … perhaps. She was very young. How did she die?’

  ‘An accident. How many months pregnant was she?’

  ‘She came to see me as soon as she realised. It was very early.’

  ‘How did she present? Was she sad, relieved, tearful?’

  ‘They’re all sad, Inspector, the women who come to me for help.’

  ‘Then how did she compare?’

  ‘She was very distressed. She cried a great deal. I had to encourage her to be brave.’

  ‘She didn’t really want to go through with it?’

  ‘They all have second thoughts.’

  ‘And you encourage them to be … brave.’

  Frau Gardosh sighed.

  ‘You think me a bad person, Inspector. But most of the women who come to me aren’t like Fraulein Rosenkrantz. They don’t have fine dresses and plenty of money. They are poor, with husbands who get drunk and can’t hold down a job. These women come to see me because they don’t want to bring another child into the world — a child that they can’t provide for — they don’t want to nurse another baby through coughs and fevers, only to see it die when the weather turns cold. I know what people say … that what I do is wrong, sinful. But is it so wicked? To spare a sweet little infant from suffering?’

  ‘I have not come here to judge you, Frau Gardosh.’

  She looked down and studied her hands.

  Rheinhardt waited until she looked up again before continuing. ‘When you were comforting Fraulein Rosenkrantz, did she say anything about her circumstances?’

  ‘It was a long time ago, inspector. Six months.’

  ‘Indeed, but I am interested in every detail. Did she, for example, give you any indication as to who the father might be?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘Yes. A doctor.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘In fact, I seem to recall her saying that the father was her doctor.’

  ‘Engelberg? Saminsky?’

  ‘I don’t remember her mentioning those names.’

  Rheinhardt leaned forward.

  ‘You’re quite sure of this, Frau Gardosh?’

  ‘Yes. A family man — naturally. I think he must have been quite rich. She said he’d given her the money to pay me with. It was a lot. More than I usually see in months.’

  ‘Why so much?’

  ‘Largesse, I imagine.’

  Rheinhardt’s pencil hovered above his notebook, but he was too stunned to write anything down.

  40

  Liebermann was familiar with most of the songs in Klassiker des deutschen Liedes but he was making a number of small and irritating mistakes, such as bad fingering and forgetting the prior introduction of accidentals. Rheinhardt didn’t seem to mind (indeed, he didn’t even seem to notice): he was clearly enjoying himself, belting out one popular song after another — Schubert’s Standchen, Weber’s Reigen, Franz’s Fur Musik — his voice spirited and booming.

  The cause of Liebermann’s poor performance was a stream of vivid and intrusive recollections. He could not stop thinking about Amelia Lydgate: her mouth yielding to his ingress, enfolding her in his arms and drawing her close, the coolness of her white neck, and the sweetness of her perfume. The whole experience had left him in a state of ecstatic remove, light-headed and slightly delirious. Something of their coming together had remained with him — in one form or another — since their parting on Thursday night. These memories were constantly vying for attention, interrupting his thoughts or waiting for an opportunity to inhabit every part of his conscious mind. They seemed to achieve this by ingenious associative pathways. Even an innocuous lyric could serve as a starting point.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Liebermann after a mechanical rendition of Beethoven’s Adelaide. ‘I am not playing very well this evening.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘A little lacking in energy, perhaps, but otherwise perfectly acceptable.’

  ‘No. This really won’t do. One more song and then we will have to bring our music-making to an end.’

  Rheinhardt stood behind his friend and gripped his shoulder.

  ‘Sometimes you take it all too seriously, Max.’

  ‘You sound like the emperor.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘That’s what he said about Mahler.’

  Rheinhardt smiled, leaned forward, and turned the page. The next song in the collection was Freimark’s ‘Hope’. Liebermann placed his hands on the keyboard and played the introduction, emphasising the sharp discords scattered like treacherous barbs among the dense harmonies. It was an apposite choice, and the sentiment expressed in Schiller’s poetry found his susceptible heart with the swift and direct certainty of a well-balanced arrow. Liebermann hoped that Amelia Lydgate would not regret their moment of abandon and decide against further intimacy, he hoped that their first kiss would lead to others, he hoped that he would see her again soon …

  Liebermann had written Amelia a letter as soon as he had returned to his apartment. Among the gentlemanly obligations of the age was a requirement that he should compose a pre-emptive request for forgiveness. It was always possible that a woman might, on reflection, conclude that she had be
en treated disrespectfully or, even worse, exploited. However, even as he was composing his propitiatory sentences, he was acutely aware that it had been Amelia who had stepped towards him and not he towards her. When Amelia’s reply arrived he was relieved to find, among the cautious, allusive, discreetly worded paragraphs, the desired gentle assurances.

  The intensity of his feeling found an easy outlet in the pliant keys. As ‘Hope’ approached its emotional climax he felt a charge of energy coursing down his arms, animating his fingers. As the final chord faded into silence he was satisfied that he had done justice to the composer’s genius.

  ‘Well,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘There was nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Even so, I am not inclined to continue. Now that I have, at last, delivered an acceptable accompaniment, that is where we should finish.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Rheinhardt.

  They entered the smoking room and took their customary seats. Brandy was poured and cigars distributed. Rheinhardt made some introductory remarks and proceeded to describe his encounter with Orsola Salak — although he neglected to mention his undignified escape. The memory of the sudden drop in temperature and the moving shadows still unnerved him. He then recounted his interview with the angel maker, Frau Gardosh.

  ‘Fraulein Rosenkrantz went to see Frau Gardosh in late March or early April. She couldn’t remember exactly when. One must suppose that Frau Gardosh gets a lot of custom. I asked her if she had any idea who had made Fraulein Rosenkrantz pregnant, and to my great surprise, she said yes.’ Rheinhardt sipped his brandy. ‘According to Gardosh, Fraulein Rosenkrantz was in a distressed state. A very distressed state, even when measured against the standards of misery that Frau Gardosh is accustomed to. The gentleman in question had given Fraulein Rosenkrantz the money to pay for the procedure and had urged her — perhaps against her will — to terminate the pregnancy. Gardosh said that this gentleman, a family man, was her doctor.’