Mephisto Aria

by Justine Saracen

  “A banana?”

  “Yes, it was that or the peach.” She continued with a straight face. “It was wood so it held up when I poked him. But Cornell was so shocked, he missed his cue. Fortunately, he only had to fall down, while I, on the other hand,” she laid her open hand on her chest, “had to continue singing while he writhed on the floor clutching his banana and giggling.”

  “A stunning performance.” Gregory Raspin took Sybil’s hand and kissed her lightly on the knuckles. “You must sing an opera especially for me one day.”

  Raspin looked toward Katherina. “And I have already informed Madame Marow that she swept me off my feet in Brahms’ Requiem. Her solo transported me, beyond the concert hall, beyond polite society, I would even venture to say, beyond good and evil, like all great music.”

  “Beyond good and evil? Oh, dear. And in a sacred mass?” Katherina replied.

  Raspin seemed amused. “Yes, the opera house is a veritable temple to the passions, a sordid place, after all. Quite the opposite of sacred.”

  “Beyond good and evil.” Von Hausen chuckled, chewing on the last of his venison. “We Germans love our Nietzsche, don’t we?”

  Katherina raised her glass, changing the subject. “I propose we drink to our innocent little Rosenkavalier and leave it at that.”

  They toasted the opera, then the composer, then the Salzburg Winter festival. Feeling the wine rise to her head, Katherina thought again of Anastasia. What was she doing while the others dined at Gregory Raspin’s expense? Was she quarreling with her husband, or embracing him?

  Then Hans Stintzing was standing up and helping Sybil on with her coat. The von Hausens too got up to leave, and Katherina wondered if she could also politely escape. Their host seemed to read her thoughts.

  “Madame Marow, would you be so kind as to stay for another glass of wine. I have a business proposal for you.”

  “If you’d like.” Katherina was nonplussed, but remembered who Gregory Raspin was and so waited through the awkwardness of multiple good-byes. In a few minutes, she was sitting alone next to him.

  While waiters cleared the table and set out fresh wineglasses Gregory Raspin fumbled under the table—in his briefcase presumably—and a moment later he pulled out a thick manila envelope.

  “You may have surmised by now that I have been monitoring, not to say guiding, your career,” he began, and laid the envelope on the table.

  Katherina frowned slightly, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  He spoke softly, like a father gently explaining the harsh realities of business. “I mean that it was I who got you the Rosenkavalier. The Carmina Burana too. Your success in the one led to the other.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you are pleased.” He slid the envelope closer. “So you can see, I have the highest regard for your talent and am devoted to advancing it. You will agree, I think, that you have done well by my assistance, not only financially, but also with regard to public exposure. In that light, I would like you to give serious thought to this proposal for your next engagement.”

  Katherina stared at the envelope without opening it. No law said that engagements could not be initially discussed directly with a singer rather than through an agent. Joachim von Hausen had in fact proposed the Rosenkavalier in this way. But something about Gregory Raspin himself bothered her. Maybe it was simply that he was not a musician, but a businessman. Maybe it was the roses.

  “I am grateful for your efforts, Mr. Raspin. But generally engagements are negotiated through my agent who knows my schedule, repertoire, and fees.”

  He tapped the envelope. “I know your schedule, and I have already contacted your agent. This will be a world premiere of an innovative and at the same time ancient work, and in a format unlike you’ve ever worked in before. As such, it requires your understanding at the outset. Do not worry about compensation. I assure you it will exceed your usual fee by a wide margin.”

  “A world premiere? Who is the composer? I haven’t had any experience with experimental music, twelve-tone, and that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, you will find it is quite melodic. When you read the score you’ll see how thrilling it is. Its initial staging will be on a mountaintop. Most striking, however, is the erasing of the separation between performers and audience.”

  Katherina’s resistance weakened. “A ‘sing-in,’ you mean?”

  “Something like that. The idea is to allow the audience to participate in the passion and the ritual of the music. A bit Dionysian, if you will.”

  “I don’t know what ‘Dionysian’ means, but the idea does sound intriguing. You haven’t told me the name of the composer.”

  “Friedrich Diener. I doubt that you will know him. The work is called Walpurgisnacht.”

  “The Witches’ Sabbath?”

  “Yes. This is the libretto, soprano part, and contract.” He tapped the envelope again. “I have already faxed a copy of the contract to your agent. You will note that it is to be performed on the Brocken Peak in the Harz mountains, the legendary site of the Witches’ Sabbath. Although it is a high-security location, and generally closed to the public, I am in discussions with the East German government to televise a performance with an invited audience.”

  She took the envelope without opening it. “It sounds audacious.”

  “I know the offer seems precipitous, with the performance only five weeks away, but in fact we have been in preparation for weeks already and in negotiations for months. We simply needed to find the right soprano, and I am convinced you are it.”

  “I’ll look at the opera, of course, as soon as I have opening night behind me. I’m sure you won’t mind if I also discuss it with my agent. She has been looking after me for a long time now and I trust her judgment. Now, if you don’t mind, it is quite late.”

  He leapt up and drew back her chair in cavalier fashion. “Of course. Take all the time you need.” He helped her on with her cape and she thought he was planning to offer to accompany her back to the Pension Stein. Instead, as he buttoned his alpaca coat in the doorway of the restaurant, he looked at his watch. “I do apologize, Madame Marow, but I see we have chatted a bit long. I have a business call scheduled in just a few minutes. Please forgive me if I have to leave you here.”

  “That’s quite all right, I don’t mind at all,” she replied, shaking his hand one last time. Watching him disappear down the cobblestone street that glistened slightly with frost, she felt inexplicably relieved.

  The Pension Stein was quiet as Katherina entered and crept up the stairs past Anastasia’s door. For the briefest second she considered knocking, then thought better of it. Anastasia was probably at the Hilton with her husband or, worse, in her room sleeping with him. As long as Boris was in Salzburg, there would clearly be no more of their late-night talks.

  Disgruntled, she unlocked her own door and kicked off her shoes. She stood in stocking feet, too tired to go out again, and to what? But she was also too restless to go to sleep under the pain-filled eyes of the wooden Jesus.

  Vaguely disappointed that a pleasant evening had lost its cheer, she tossed her bag onto the bed. The bag landed on its side and its flap opened, spilling first her comb and wallet and then the envelope Raspin had given her. Recalling the same disgorging in the Peter’s Church, the day before, she resolved to add a fastener to the flap. Idly, she sat down on the bed and gathered the items, and a wave of dread washed through her as she realized the whole bundle was too light. Something was missing.

  With rising panic, she rummaged through the bag, then emptied all its contents onto the bed. The journal was not there. She glanced around the room. No, it was not there either. She had definitely taken it with her that evening to the restaurant. It had to have fallen out again.

  Her mind raced to all the places where she had set down the bag that evening: the horse pond, the floor of the restaurant, the wall of the main bridge where she had stopped to watch the Salzach flow beneath her. She t
hrew on her shoes and cloak and rushed out to retrace her steps.

  An hour later she came in again, sick with anger at herself. She had found nothing, and neither had the restaurant staff. How could she have been so careless as to carry around the precious family document with her every day? It was insane. She rubbed her knuckles across her lips. The book had to be some place in the city. She just had to make sure it was identified and not thrown away. She would go out early in the morning and notify the police to say a valuable document had been lost. Probably more importantly, she would contact the Salzburg sanitation facilities to make sure it was not swept up with the city’s trash. Her costume fitting the next day was at nine o’clock, but before that, she would retrace her route meter by meter and stop at every shop nearby.

  Fretting with alternating anger, determination, and guilt, she finally fell asleep only an hour before dawn.

  XVIII

  Impetuoso

  “I’m sorry to be so late, but I had an emergency,” Katherina said, as she stepped up onto the dressmaker’s stand.

  “It’s no problem, hun,” the costume designer said cheerfully as she set to work, snipping through the thread that held the hem in place. “Is it solved, your emergency?”

  “No, it’s not. Something very valuable fell out of my bag yesterday. This morning I went back to every place I had been—for the second time—and then, when the shops opened, I stopped at each one just in case anyone had found something.”

  “I’m so sorry. Are you sure it wasn’t stolen?”

  “That would make no sense. My wallet wasn’t touched. What I lost was my father’s journal, and no one would be interested in a battered old book. No, I’m sure it fell out of my bag during the evening. I called the sanitation department to try to keep them from throwing it away with the city trash if they found it on the street. I’m still a wreck about it.”

  “It sounds like you did all the right things. Maybe someone found it and turned it in at their hotel. You should check with all the hotels in the area too.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea.” Katherina felt a faint surge of hope and forced herself to concentrate on the work at hand. “Thanks also for making time to alter the costume. It was obviously made for a shorter, plumper soprano than I am.”

  “Don’t worry about it, hun. It’s easier making a wide, short costume smaller and longer than the other way around. And just between you and me, the dress looks loads better on you. But you didn’t hear me say that.” Anne’s lighthearted analysis of every aspect of the Salzburg opera world was cheering, like her American-accented German.

  “Thank you for the compliment. But the dress is beautiful. Did you design it?” Katherina held up a pinch of skirt, trying to feel interest.

  “Yes, but dresses are not really my thing. I’m better at designing boys’ clothing.”

  “Really? You did Octavian’s costume, then? I mean the white one for the rose scene.”

  “I did them all. Octavian, the Baron, the palace guard, the whole shebang. ’Course I have people sewing for me, but I do the design. I did over thirty costumes in two weeks.” Anne snipped the thread holding the hem in place and undid the fold at the bottom of the skirt. Then, getting to her feet, she inserted a row of pins down the two seams of the bodice, first on the left and then on the right.

  “You must be glad that’s over.”

  “It’s never over, hun. I’m doing the Spanish soldiers in Hanover next month where Anastasia Ivanova is singing Carmen. One of my specialties is women’s ‘trouser’ roles. I had a lot of fun doing her Octavian.”

  Katherina visualized the white satin breeches and waistcoat the young Count wore in the second act. On Anastasia, they were absolutely gorgeous. Even her full bosom was only hinted at under the glittering waistcoat. “Are men’s costumes for women different from men’s costumes for men?”

  “Oh, absolutely. For starters, you have to compensate for all the round female parts. I once made a Cherubino outfit for a singer who was five months pregnant. Boobies out to here.” She held a cupped hand a distance from her own chest. “But if I had my druthers, I’d do military. Soldiers, police, Cossacks. The Pentagon should hire me. I’d get those boys out of olive drab and into some really snappy outfits.”

  “Hello, ladies.” A man stood in the doorway, mustached and avuncular. “This gonna take a while?”

  “Hey, there’s my favorite soldier.” Anne twisted her head to glance back at him while she checked the lacing at the back of the costume. “Hi, hun. No, not much longer.” She knelt down again and tugged on Katherina’s skirt, pulling it to its new length. “What j’a think?”

  “Dunno. It’s not lit yet.”

  “Oh, sorry. Katherina, this is my husband, Chuck. He does the stage lighting.”

  “Yep. I’m the one who makes you look real purdy up on stage. No matter if you got a face to scare the horses. Once I got my lights on you, I can make you look like a million bucks.”

  “He’s speaking in the abstract,” Anne said reassuringly. “Chuck, hun. You make Katherina sound like an ogre.”

  “No, I understood him. He just means it’s all in the presentation, and he’s good at it. You both are. Reality doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “Reality? What’s that?” Waving her husband away from the room, Anne helped Katherina out of the costume. “We don’t do reality here. We’re in the business of illusion.”

  “That’s what Detlev says. Though for him it’s all in the coif.” Katherina pulled on slacks and a shirt again and sat down to watch while Anne turned the costume right side out and hung it on a hanger.

  “Detlev is a sweetheart, isn’t he? And he’s right. Good hair, spiffy clothes, great lighting, and you’ve got the world in your hand. Isn’t it nice that he and Hans have hooked up? They make such a delightful, funny couple.”

  Katherina was taken aback by the American’s lighthearted candor. “Detlev and Hans? I had no idea. But I’m not sure Detlev would like people talking so openly about his affairs. I mean, technically, it’s still illegal in Austria, isn’t it?”

  “Hun, just don’t you worry about Detlev. He’s got past that fear thing a long time ago. It’s no issue in the theater world anyhow, and Lord knows, if it was, you’d have to just about shut this place down. Fact is, we owe it to him not to whisper about him, thinking we protect him. We should celebrate out loud with him, just like we celebrate with other folks when they get engaged or have kids. Don’t you think?”

  Katherina hesitated. “It just seems like something intimate that people don’t talk about. Shouldn’t we respect his privacy?”

  “Privacy? How’s that? Is it private when I introduce my husband to you? Or when a woman announces she’s going to have a baby? Why should it be private if someone like Detlev has a boyfriend? The subject isn’t sex. The subject is husband, partner, baby. Oh, I’m sorry, hun. There I go lecturing again.” She took a few stitches to repair the lace on the front of the dress and bit through the thread.

  “You’re right, of course. He shouldn’t have anything to be secretive about. I just never thought about it that way.”

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you how to think. But if everyone gay was open about it, we might find we have gay brothers, plumbers, preachers, firemen, fathers, and opera singers. Then there’d be one less stupid thing for people to be afraid of.” Anne hung up the costume and brushed it smooth.

  Katherina collected her shoulder bag, recalling again what she was upset about. “I guess I’d better—”

  “’Scuse me.” Chuck stood in the doorway again. “Don’t mean to be bothering you again.”

  “No bother, hun. What’s up?”

  “The boys and me, we was throwing out some old light bulbs and cables and stuff, and we come across this.” He held up the battered journal.

  Katherina gasped. “That’s the journal I’ve been looking for. I dropped it someplace yesterday and I was afraid I’d lost it forever.” She took it and brushed grit and sawdust
from the cover. “Where did you find it?”

  “In the trash bin out behind the theater. It didn’t have no name in it, but there was a bookmark.” He pointed to the folded schedule tucked between two pages. “Seein’ as how it was your personal rehearsal schedule, I figured it might belong to you. On the other hand, it’s all tore up, so maybe it was yours and you threw it away. I thought I’d ask.”

  “Oh, Chuck. Thank you. You’ve saved me so much anguish. But you’re right. Someone has torn a whole section out of it.” Bewildered, Katherina examined the dates before and after the gap. “They’ve ripped out everything from the 1950s.”

  Anne peered over her shoulder. “Well, it was a pretty boring decade, but ripping apart a journal for it seems a little extreme.”

  “Looks to me like whoever found it decided the only part they liked was the ’50s and they tossed the rest.”

  “What happened in the ’50s? In the journal, I mean.” Anne asked.

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t read that part.”

  “Well, I guess something’s better than nothing,” Chuck concluded. “Anyhow, I got to finish cleaning up. I’ll swing by again in half an hour when you close up for the day,” he said to his wife.

  “Thanks, again, Chuck,” Katherina called after the departing man. Bemused, she stared again at the eviscerated journal, wondering if she now faced the biggest mystery of all. What had happened in the 1950s?

  Back in her hotel room, Katherina set aside the music she planned to study in order to examine the remains of the journal. The entries at the beginning of the 1960s might give a hint of what had happened earlier. She lit the gas fire in the corner and sat down, letting the book open to the first remaining entry after the torn pages, at the end of 1962.

  She did not recall much of the year herself. Motherless and struggling to recover from diphtheria, she had focused only on herself and had emerged a changed person. It occurred to her only now that her father might have also changed. In fact, the new entries seemed to come from a different man.

  October 7, 1962