by Rick Blechta
“Shortly after she became seventeen, she was asked to give a concert at the house of someone in Vienna. Her teacher arranged it all for her. Many important people were invited to listen to my daughter play. Even though she was nervous, Anna Maria played well until the last piece, a Beethoven sonata. Something went wrong. Anna Maria said it was as if her brain was not connected to her hands any more. She faltered and stopped. She could not tell her fingers to play the notes. The important people sat and stared at her. Someone coughed. Anna Maria fled in shame. She ran out into the winter night without even her coat or boots.
“She was found in a doorway several hours later. The only thing which saved her from freezing was that she was burning up with fever. Anna Maria spent months in hospital, her illness filled with complications, and I thought many times that I would lose her. When she finally was well enough to come home, she would not speak of that concert. She said that she had decided to dedicate her life to God, who had saved her from death. Her father approved, but I was not so sure. There was something in Anna Maria’s eyes which told me that she did not truly believe what she was saying.”
The disembodied voice spoke again. “Was it around this time your daughter met Rudolph von Heislinger?”
The poor woman drew herself up. “I spit on the memory of his name! He is the devil incarnate. It is he who... who...” She broke down and sobbed quietly into her handkerchief for a few minutes.
The voice finally said, “It is important that we hear this story from your lips. Can you continue?”
The woman nodded but didn’t begin again for almost a minute. “The illness changed Anna Maria. Something had been burned away by her horrible fever. Before, her weight had always been somewhat heavy, now she was thin. She had been a child, now she was a woman. Men began looking at her differently, and at first I was proud. My little duckling had become a swan.”
“One night, he showed up at our door. He was present at Anna Maria’s concert and had been impressed by her talent and what he had been told about her spirit. Hearing of her illness and recovery and of our need, he had come to offer his help. He would pay for Anna Maria’s continued study, but with Jacob Rothstein, the most famous piano teacher in all of Vienna. Baron Rudolph even offered to let Anna Maria stay at his apartment on weekdays so that she could practise on his very fine piano. On weekends, she would come home to me.
“Anna Maria told him of her plans to enter the convent, but he said that he saw inside her the soul of a musician and that she should not walk away from her talent without giving it one last chance to blossom. Then he also said that he would give money to me to help make ends meet. He also promised a chaperone for Anna Maria at all times.
“Anna Maria did not know what to do. She was scared, unsure of herself, so he suggested that we speak to our priest. Father Alexander told us that Anna Maria had been given a new chance and that God meant her to take it. If she tried again and did not feel that the life of a musician was what she wanted, the convent would always be ready to accept her. It would be a very bad thing for Anna Maria to take her vows only to discover that she could not dedicate her life to God after all. If she came to the Holy Church, she should come with a steady heart and a steadfast mind.
“So Anna Maria agreed and went off to Vienna. I counted the days of each week until she returned home to me. That man sent me a brand new television set, and Anna Maria was so pleased. Her studies with her new teacher were going very well, and she was preparing for another concert.
“Then things began to change. I sensed something different in my Anna Maria. She seemed to grow distant, and one week she refused to come to Mass with me. She said she was feeling ill, but a mother knows better. I could not get her to tell me what was really bothering her. Anna Maria said she was under great stress getting ready for her concert. Finally, one weekend she did not come home. On the phone, she said that she needed to practise.
“I asked Anna Maria if she was all right. ‘You don’t want to get yourself sick again,’ I told her. ‘Come home and let Momma take care of you for a few days. Then you can return to your studies with renewed vigour and a good heart.’ Anna Maria broke down and told me she was a terrible person, that she had sold her soul to the devil and then hung up the phone.
“Naturally, I went to Vienna immediately to see her. She was not at that man’s apartment. I was told he had taken her to his castle in Kärnten for the weekend. I went home full of great concern. I wanted to speak to the authorities, but when I told the priest of my plans, he said that I should wait until I could speak to Anna Maria again. I pray to God every night for forgiveness for listening to him!”
The poor woman broke down again, her sobs punctuated by a clock ticking softly somewhere in the background. I put the video on pause and sat thinking.
I was pretty sure I knew where this story was going, but like one of those people who happens upon a car crash, I couldn’t turn away. With a sigh, I unpaused the VCR .
The disembodied voice spoke again. “You are a very brave woman, Madame Kozslik, to relive this again. We are sorry to have to reopen such deep wounds.”
The woman dried her eyes and looked up. “It is all right. If I can do anything to avenge my poor Anna Maria, I will—no matter what it costs me! I failed her. I failed her completely! And I will carry the guilt of it to my grave!
“When Anna Maria called the following Tuesday, she sounded more calm, but there was something strange about the way she spoke, as if the words were not her own. The concert was in two weeks, and Anna Maria promised that after it was over she would be free to come home. My fears slept, but uneasily.
“I did not speak to my Anna Maria again. She said she would be too busy preparing for the concert but promised to send me a ticket and the train fare. They never came, and I began to feel that maybe Anna Maria had grown ashamed of me now that she had such a wealthy and important patron, and that she did not want me to go to her concert. When the day arrived, I waited by the phone expecting her to call.
“The next day, very early, there was a knock on my door. It was the police, and I could tell from their faces that they had very bad news. My poor Anna Maria, my only baby, had taken her life.”
“Did her playing again fail her?” the voice asked.
“It was a triumph! Everyone said they had never heard such music! No, I found out later it was all on his head. He is a seducer! A debaucher of poor girls! Anna Maria sent her one close friend a letter telling what had befallen her when she went to Vienna. That man drove her to take her own life. She could not face what he had made her do, what she had become. Awful things! Terrible things! Things I never could have imagined! That weekend at his castle... No, I cannot tell you.
“She slipped away from the party after the concert. She went to the U-Bahn still in her beautiful gown. She... My beautiful Anna Maria...” The woman gulped, her hands on her lap twisting the sodden handkerchief tightly. “My greatest regret is that she did not come home to me. I would have understood anything which had happened to her. Anything!”
The voice said, “Many people reported seeing her. We have gathered stories of the beautiful woman in the blue gown. She would not talk to anyone. She appeared to know where she was going all along.”
“I think that you are right. Anna Maria loved the Prater, and not just the amusements, the whole park itself, and one of her favourite songs was ‘An Der Schönen, Blauen Donau.’ She always sang it when she was happy. It is an indication of her mood that she wanted to end her life there. I think she believed there was no joy left, that all the beautiful things had become ugly and without hope.”
“Your daughter could not swim?”
“In a heavy gown, who can swim for long? And the Danube in the spring is still very cold.”
“A man walking his dog saw her jump in,” the voice said, “and when he ran to the spot, he could not see her. We believe she made no attempt to swim. It was lucky that her body washed ashore in the usual place for these things, bu
t I know that must be small comfort to you.”
“It is no comfort! Anna Maria should still be living! And she would be if not for...” The woman looked directly into the camera, her eyes burning from the TV screen into my own, “That terrible man deserves to die like the dog he is!”
The tape ran out to snow. and I sat for several minutes watching the static-filled screen, immersed in my own dark thoughts.
***
When Ertmann returned shortly after, he took the remote from my hand, turned off the VCR and sat on the sofa next to me. “It is very powerful, is it not? The priest mentioned on the tape was also interviewed. Baron Rudolph applied pressure to him to coax the girl into going to Vienna.”
“How did he do that?”
“The parish church was in very poor condition. It no longer is. The priest has since withdrawn to a monastery in shame.”
“Everyone who thinks von Heislinger was a saint should be forced to watch this. What he must have done to that poor girl. I feel sick.”
“And you, my friend, are not the father of a beautiful and talented daughter.”
I sat up straight, comprehension dawning. “Did he show interest in Stefanie?”
“No,” Ertmann said carefully. “But I knew of his predilections. I would have been prepared for him. I only wish that I had been in time to help poor Frau Kozslik and your wife.”
“And this is why you’re willing to help me.”
He nodded.
***
“How can we use this information to Tory’s advantage?” Roderick asked later, reading my thoughts.
After viewing the tape and discussing what I needed Ertmann to do for me, he’d offered to drive me back to the hotel. I’d asked if he could drop me at Hugo’s apartment instead.
Elen had left to do some research on Beethoven, and Hugo had gone to work. Roderick and I sat in the same room as before, this time lit by a lamp in the far corner. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the panes, and they were predicting possible snow before morning. We had polished off a bottle of red wine.
“And has it occurred to you that there is a pattern to the way von Heislinger operated?” Roderick continued.
“He was like a serial rapist or something. If the woman was willing, all the easier for him—”
Roderick interrupted again. “You know, it strikes me as unrealistic to rely solely on something like a cock-a-doodle story about a lost Beethoven concerto to get Tory to quit a tour with no notice. She’s rash—but certainly has far more sense than that.”
“She’s a child in many ways. You know how often what she does is pure impulse.”
“No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Von Heislinger baited the trap with that damned Beethoven concerto, but my feeling is that he used a lot of tricks to get her to walk into the trap.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I’ve been thinking back about what happened before Tory rushed out of that concert. Certainly, she hadn’t been at her best right from the beginning of the tour, but Tory not at her best is certainly miles ahead of most musicians I’ve worked with. Our concerts had at least been competent, if not inspired. It wasn’t until we got to the UK, though, that the critical shit hit the fan and the chorus of boos seemed to be led by one person: John Easterbrook.”
I dismissed that with a wave. “Certain critics never like certain musicians. You know that. Easterbrook wants all his musicians to have grey personalities. Flamboyance has nothing to do with the concert stage. We should all serve the god of music in sackcloth and ashes. The man’s a puritan in modern dress! Have you read any of his essays?”
“The way he attacked poor Tory was incredibly vicious, way past the bounds of journalistic decency. And these attacks really threw her for a loop. She’s not used to having her musical integrity held up for public ridicule. Her lifestyle, maybe, but certainly not her musicianship. If you wanted to unbalance someone, make them more ‘persuadable’ as it were, wouldn’t you try to destabilize the most important thing in their life? We know he manipulated the press in that one opera singer’s case, and he used that priest to help get the Hungarian girl to come to Vienna. Tomorrow, I’m going to find out if that bastard Easterbrook was also in von Heislinger’s back pocket.”
“Do you think he had that kind of reach?”
Roderick held up his right hand, rubbing his index finger and thumb together in the classic gesture for the power of money. “More than enough to get any job done. And if money wouldn’t work, we know already that he wouldn’t have hesitated to use a bit of blackmail.” Roderick took a last swallow of his wine. “I didn’t tell you the complete story about my trip to Freisach. I went to the von Heislinger Schloss and got in posing as a photographer.”
“Using the fact that your friend Hugo is a journalist. Right?”
My friend smiled. “That’s why I took him with me instead of you, and it turned out to be most useful. As you’ve found out, the baron was a complete cad. He collected women: all young, all talented, and all very beautiful. Tory was to be his crowning achievement, I imagine.”
“How do you know that?”
“When Ertmann told you about von Heislinger’s copy of that photo of Tory practising in the buff, he didn’t tell you it’s an eight by ten—and I’m talking feet, not inches. His library also has the largest collection of books on pornography you could imagine. The whole place is really quite unbelievable.
“There’s also his indoor garden. It’s exceptionally beautiful—until you realize what its purpose is.” He looked over at me. “This is where he took his women and seduced them. He didn’t care if he ruined their lives. He only cared about having them. Thekla told you about his damned video library chronicling his conquests. It’s too bad that von Heislinger is dead. I would have thoroughly enjoyed seeing him answer for all his misdeeds.”
“You and a whole bunch of people,” I answered sourly and went to get my jacket.
The evening was getting well on, but for me, as it turned out, it was far from over.
***
As usual, there were messages waiting at the front desk. Only one caught my eye as being worthy of an instant reply. The envelope it came in was expensive and smelled like a meadow of wildflowers.
Herr Lukesh,
I have stopped by to see you this afternoon and was told you were out. No matter when you come in, I would like to speak with you. I am staying downtown for the night and you can reach me through my hotel, the Diplomat. Please call me when you return.
Gertrud Schatzader
***
Gertrud Schatzader was the type of woman whose beauty intensified with repeated viewings. The first time I saw her at the door of her husband’s library in Grinzing, it had registered that here was an impressive example of the female gender, but I had seen a lot of beautiful women while being the “husband of ”. I’d look at a bigtime fashion model and think, Wow! Nice piece of work here, and then, champagne in hand, move on to the next person and discuss the latest hit movie or political crisis. Not so with Frau Schatzader. In an earlier time, she would have either become a queen or been hung as a witch.
When she opened the door to her hotel room that evening and fixed her attention solely on me, I received the full jolt of her female presence. She had more “it” than any two women I’d ever met—and that includes Tory, who could still take my breath away with just a glance. As if she’d cast a spell, I was instantly aware of the possibilities of what we might enjoy together if I took her fancy. It was a bit unnerving, to say the least. As she looked me over very slowly and deliberately, her expression remained friendly and a bit quizzical.
“Herr Lukesh,” she finally said, “won’t you come in?”
“Thank you,” I answered, my voice sounding rather squeaky, as if I’d just left puberty behind, and that’s kind of the way she made me feel, too.
Taking my jacket, she laid it carefully over a chair and motioned me to a sofa across the room.
“Would you car
e for a drink? Scotch?”
“That would be fine. On the rocks, please.”
While Frau Schatzader filled two glasses, I took the time to look over her suite—discreetly eyeing her at the same time. Roderick had told me that the Diplomat was the next step above my digs, and it was easy to see why. Even in expensive chain hotels, the decor often looks as if it were designed by someone with a cookie cutter. The room I was sitting in had all the individuality my hotel room lacked and I felt certain the room next door would look different.
The lady herself had quite possibly picked her clothes to complement the colours of the room. She looked casual but elegant, though the high slit up one side of her mid-calf skirt was pretty darned blatant. Her silk blouse was rather low-cut, too, and there was a lot behind it, so to speak. Two silver combs held her lustrous, dark hair off her neck. Everything about her seemed perfect—and desirable.
When she came over with my drink, I studiously kept my eyes high and my thoughts pure as she bent over farther than necessary to hand it to me. Her face had an enigmatic smile as she sat down at the opposite end of the sofa.
“Prosit!” she said, holding out her glass to be clinked. “Thank you for coming to see me at this very late hour,” she said as she placed her drink on the glass-topped coffee table in front of us.
“My schedule has been full of very late nights recently. One more makes no difference, Frau Schatzader.”
She reached out and put her hand on my forearm. “Please, you must call me Gertrud.” The German pronunciation made her name sound so much sexier.
“All right. You can call me Oscar or Rocky. Take your pick.”
“I like Rocky,” she said with a smile. “It sounds so much more... American.”
