Vienna Blood lp-2
Page 20
“Help me,” sang Prince Tamino. “Or I am lost.”
“There is no escape from this serpent.”
The beast circled the desperate prince.
“Closer and closer it comes.”
“Someone help me.”
Clara squeezed Liebermann's hand.
It seemed that the prince was about to meet his end. He swooned and fell to the ground. Above him the snake's massive head swung from side to side. Its great jaws opened, revealing terrifying long fangs. At the point when all seemed lost, the gates of the temple opened and three veiled ladies appeared.
“Die, monster,” they cried, “by our power.”
They raised their arms and called down from the heavens a magical nemesis.
The beast lashed its tail, writhed, squirmed, and snapped its jaws. Then, rearing up one last time, the serpent seemed to cry out before collapsing in a twisted heap.
“Victory,” sang the mysterious trio of women. The music became triumphal. “The heroic deed is done.”
They approached the unconscious prince and praised his beauty. Then, after expressing regret, they took their leave, in order to report to their mistress-the Queen of the Night.
The next scene was comic.
The prince awoke and, somewhat confused, concealed himself behind a rock. Then a man in a plumed costume appeared, carrying some pipes and empty cages. He was attempting to catch birds, singing a jolly song as he set about his business. At the end of the song the prince made himself known to the bird catcher, who mischievously allowed the prince to think that it was he who had slain the monstrous serpent with his bare hands.
The three ladies returned and identified the bird catcher as Papageno. It was apparently Papageno's custom to offer the ladies birds in exchange for wine and cake. On this occasion, however, the three ladies did not honor their tradition. Instead of wine they gave him plain water, and instead of cake they gave him a stone. And to prevent Papageno from lying again, they sealed his mouth with a golden padlock…
Liebermann loosened his hand from Clara's grip and leaned over the edge of the box.
The drama continued to unfold and new characters appeared: the Queen of the Night, who explained to Tamino that her daughter Pamina had been abducted by the evil Sarastro. Three boys-or genii-who entered the drama in a flying chariot, to guide Tamino on his quest. Slaves, Princess Pamina herself, and finally the lascivious Moor, Monostatos.
Liebermann became increasingly agitated.
There were definite parallels.
He could hardly believe what he was seeing. It seemed too extraordinary, too strange.
Clara tutted as he fidgeted in his seat.
When Monostatos the Moor appeared, Liebermann's agitation turned into excitement.
The experience was like vertigo. The box felt insecure, as though it might tip and deposit him and all of the Weiss family into the stalls below. His heart felt engorged and banged violently against his ribs as if seeking to escape its bony confinement.
He leaned toward Clara. Her soft hair tickled his lips.
“I have to go,” he said.
She turned and drew back, her expression confused and disbelieving.
“What?”
Surprise had amplified her voice. Herr Weiss craned his head to see what was going on.
Liebermann drew her closer again and whispered into her ear.
“It's important. I have to go-I'll explain… I'll explain tomorrow.”
Clara grabbed his arm, stopping him from getting up.
“What are you talking about? You can't just go.” Her voice was conspicuously loud.
Liebermann removed her hand from his arm and stood up.
“I'm sorry.”
The entire Weiss family was looking at him. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and left.
44
THE THREE REPRESENTATIVES OF Primal Fire had come bearing gifts, all of which had been placed at the great man's feet. Collectively the group resembled a strange Epiphany in which the adoring Magi were obeisant not to a divine child but to a wizened prophet. Guido List had responded to the party's votive offerings with an extempore disquisition on the Aryan origins of classical civilization. But while still discoursing on Roman architecture, he was interrupted by his wife.
Frau List was a striking woman: youthful, attractive-and an actress of some renown. As Anna Wittek, she had read the part of the Wala in List's The Wala's Awakening. Von Triebenbach remembered the celebrated performance seven years earlier, sponsored by the German League. The statuesque Wittek had declaimed List's poetry into the balmy night, and Von Triebenbach recalled the squareness of her shoulders, the swell of her bosom…
Anna pinched the lint that circled her husband's head and tugged at it to see if the dressing had become slack. It gave a little.
“I will have to tighten the strip,” she said softly.
“Very well, my dear,” said List. Then, addressing his guests, he said, “Excuse me, gentlemen. This will only take a moment.”
The actress manipulated some hidden pins and the bandage became taut. Satisfied with her handiwork, she lowered herself onto a stool and straightened the tartan blanket that covered her husband's legs.
“My angel,” whispered List, taking her fingers and pressing them into the gorse of his beard. He moved his head so that he appeared to be looking directly at his guests. Von Triebenbach was standing behind Aschenbrandt and Olbricht, who were seated next to each other and facing their host.
“I don't know what I would do without her,” List added with tenderness.
“You are a very fortunate man,” said Von Triebenbach, modulating his voice to disguise a trace of envy that threatened to squeeze the bonhomie from his avuncular baritone.
“Indeed,” said List, allowing Anna's hand to fall into his lap. “Very fortunate.”
He did not relinquish his grip.
Seeking to preempt an embarrassing eulogy, Anna turned to the young composer and said, “Herr Aschenbrandt, I understand that you are writing an opera based on my husband's Carnuntum?”
“Yes… ” Aschenbrandt replied, unsure of whether he was expected to elaborate before List had completed his disquisition.
“It will be a fine work,” said Von Triebenbach, patting Aschenbrandt's back.
“With the exception of The Wala's Awakening,” said Anna, “to which I have a particular sentimental attachment, I would very probably count Carnuntum as my favorite among my husband's works.”
“It is a masterpiece,” agreed Aschenbrandt. “The greatest novel in the German language-and I am truly honored to have received the author's benison.” Then, raising his voice, Aschenbrandt added, “Thank you, sir. I will not disappoint you.”
“On the evidence of your overture,” said List, “I know that my favored child is in capable hands. I have every confidence in your gift.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Aschenbrandt again. “You are too kind.”
Olbricht reminded the baron of his presence by shifting in his seat. Von Triebenbach had promised Sophie von Rautenberg at the Wagner Association soiree that he would introduce the artist to Guido List.
“Herr Olbricht,” said Von Triebenbach, “is to have an exhibition in December featuring several oil paintings inspired by your work.”
“Is that so?” said List.
“Yes,” said Olbricht. “I am particularly proud of a canvas based on Pipara.”
“The Germanic Woman in the Purple of the Caesars,” said Anna, completing the novel's full title.
“She is depicted on a balcony, surveying a mighty Roman army under her command,” said Olbricht.
“Perhaps,” said List, “when these wretched bandages are removed, my eyesight will be restored and I will have the opportunity to admire your… interpretation.”
“That would give me the greatest pleasure.”
List did not make any further inquiries about Olbricht's exhibition. Instead, he addressed Aschenbrandt again.
“But of course… and I have recently completed an orchestral interlude, The Eve of War, that I could arrange for piano. It employs the triumphal theme that appears at the end of the overture, but with values extended. It is a dark tenebrous piece, full of atmosphere… and it is followed by an aria, an exquisite battle hymn, Blood and Thunder, sung by the leader of the Quadi. With your permission, I could invite a tenor-a friend of mine, one Herr Hunger. Then you could hear the interlude and aria together.”
List and his wife agreed that this would be an excellent idea. A further attempt by Von Triebenbach to reintroduce the topic of Olbricht's exhibition failed abysmally. He consoled himself with the thought that at least he could tell the alluring Von Rautenberg widow that he had kept his word.
In due course the subject of Aschenbrandt's opera was exhausted, and the young composer tactfully invited List to finish the disquisition on the Aryan origins of classical civilization that he had started earlier, but had not-so far-had the opportunity to conclude.
List obliged, describing how the Aryans were forced to leave their boreal cities during the Ice Age, and how, by mixing with the inferior peoples of the south, they had seeded the civilizations of Greece and Rome. This led him, by an oblique argument, to an affirmation of the nationalist Pan-German agenda and a vitriolic condemnation of their enemies. After he had denounced the Church and the monarchy, he directed his diatribe at a third and no less reprehensible institution.
“We must not underestimate the Freemasons. They are a growing threat. They have played no small part in influencing world events in the past, and they will seek to do so again-with devastating consequences. We have grown complacent. Politicians have short memories. They may have forgotten about the Masonic uprising of 1766-but I, on the other hand, have not!”
“With respect,” said Von Triebenbach tentatively, “I am ashamed to admit that I too cannot recollect this… important historical event.”
“Seventeen sixty-six!” said List, thumping his free hand on the arm of his chair. “An uprising, planned to begin in Prague and intended to spread across the whole of Europe. The brotherhood would have seized power in every significant state. Fortunately, the secret police knew of their scheme and arrested the principal conspirators. But I tell you…” List touched his temple and shook his head. His expression became pained, fearful, as though his shadowy world were being visited by horrible visions.
“My love…” Anna reached forward and stroked a furrow from his troubled brow.
“I tell you,” List continued. “It could happen again. I have heard that the Masons are fomenting dissent in Bohemia and Hungary… and no one is doing anything to stop them. Our politicians are feeble. Weak. Dullards! Unaware of the imminent danger.”
The room fell silent.
“We are in dire need of a hero,” said Von Triebenbach solemnly. “A youngblood-a new Siegfried.”
His hand found Aschenbrandt's shoulder and rested on it briefly.
It was a small gesture, but it did not escape Anna's notice. She smiled at the baron, then at the young composer.
Part Three
45
LIEBERMANN RUSHED OUT OF the Opera House and marched briskly to the rear of the building. To his left was the eastern extremity of the Hofburg Palace, the bastion of which was surmounted by an equestrian statue of Archduke Albrecht. In spite of the archduke's overbearing presence, the plaza in front of him was dominated by another figure: a white marble likeness of Mozart examining an open score on an ornate music stand. He was dressed in a long cape that tumbled artfully off his left shoulder, a short jacket, frilly cuffs, and tight breeches. Putti danced and cavorted around a substantial pedestal, which was decorated with discarded manuscripts, laurel wreaths, and a somewhat chaotic jumble of instruments. Next to this arresting monument was Liebermann's destination, the eponymous Cafe Mozart.
Once inside he was immediately blinded as his glasses steamed up. He removed them impatiently and approached one of the waiters.
“Good evening-could I use the telephone, please?”
The waiter bowed and escorted him to a private kiosk. Being somewhat preoccupied, Liebermann tipped the waiter an excessive amount. The waiter smiled obsequiously and opened the door with the florid flourish of a courtier. Once inside, Liebermann called Rheinhardt.
“Oskar-it's Max. I need to see you immediately.” His words were animated with a breathless urgency. “I know how he's doing it. I know how he's choosing his victims.”
The line crackled. Liebermann heard the sound of Rheinhardt's two daughters laughing in the background.
“Where are you?”
“Cafe Mozart.”
“Wait there. I'll be with you shortly.”
Liebermann replaced the receiver in its cradle and stepped out of the kiosk. Nearby, two rakish gentlemen in striped jackets were entertaining a loud lady friend. A dark green magnum bottle of champagne suggested that she had been plied with an injudicious, if not positively reckless, quantity of alcohol. Peering through thick, undulating curtains of cigar smoke, Liebermann tried to locate an empty table. None seemed to be available; however, he was soon rescued by the waiter, who-perhaps anticipating further tokens of gratitude-guided the young doctor to a vacant window seat.
Liebermann ordered a schwarzer.
“And something to eat, sir?” The waiter offered him the menu. Liebermann gestured to indicate that he did not need to read it.
“Mozart torte,” he said decisively.
“An excellent choice, sir,” said the waiter, smiling and stepping backward, his head lowered between hunched shoulders.
The inebriated woman threw her head back and produced a shrill, abrasive laugh. Her hair had begun to unravel and loose dark strands tumbled wildly past her shoulders. The two rakes exchanged eager glances, their eyes alight with concupiscent interest. A group of portly burghers at an adjacent table shook their heads and scowled disapprovingly.
Liebermann's attention was recaptured by the waiter, who had returned with his coffee and cake. The Mozart torte was a colorful checkered arrangement of chocolate and pistachio sponge, on top of which was a marzipan coin bearing the profile of the great composer. Liebermann took a mouthful, found it a little too sweet, and decided that the time might pass just as quickly with a cigar.
Some twenty minutes later Rheinhardt appeared at the door. He did not take his coat off and came directly to Liebermann's table.
“Well, Max,” said Rheinhardt. “This is most unexpected.”
Liebermann rose and they shook hands firmly.
“Please, sit.”
Before they had settled, the waiter seemed to materialize out of a vortex of cigar smoke.
“Another schwarzer,” said Liebermann. “And a turkische for my friend.”
“Strong-with extra sugar,” Rheinhardt added.
The waiter retreated into the yellow-brown fug.
“It's extraordinary,” Liebermann began. “He must be unique… peerless in the annals of abnormal psychology. We are dealing with a most remarkable individual. A mind of singular peculiarity.”
“Max,” said Rheinhardt, halting his friend with an expression that demanded moderation. “Slowly, please. And from the beginning.”
Liebermann nodded. “I am quite feverish with excitement.”
“And I do not doubt that you have good reason to be; however…”
“Yes, of course. Slowly, and from the beginning.” Liebermann sat back in his chair and loosened his necktie. “This evening I went to the opera.”
“It must have been uncommonly short.”
“I left early.”
“Was it that bad?”
“Not at all-Director Mahler's Magic Flute.”
“Then why-”
“Do you know it?”
“The Magic Flute? Not very well… I h
aven't seen it in years.”
“Nor have I.”
“Well?”
“The characters, Oskar-can you remember the characters?”
“There's a prince-Tamino… and a princess, Pamina. The Queen of the Night, who has that glorious aria-the famous one in which the melody hops about on the very highest notes.”
“Yes, the Queen of the Night! Now think, Oskar! Does that name-the Queen of the Night-not sound to you like a certain colloquialism?”
Rheinhardt twisted the right tip of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “Lady of the night?”
“Or, as the French would say, fille de nuit. Meaning what?”
“A prostitute, of course!”
“The Queen of the Night has three attendants-or serving women…”
The inspector's eyes widened until he began to resemble an exophthalmic patient whom Liebermann had examined earlier the same day.
“Good heavens,” Rheinhardt gasped. “Madam Borek and the three Galician girls.”
“Exactly! And then there is Papageno, the bird catcher. Who is punished for lying. Can you remember the punishment, Oskar?”
“Dear God! His mouth is sealed with a padlock!”
“Now think of the Wieden murder. The black man.”
“Why, he must correspond to the Moor.”
“Monostatos.”
Suddenly Rheinhardt's expression changed. It vacillated on some nameless cusp before collapsing into unequivocal despondency.
“Oh, no, no, no.” The inspector groaned as if in physical pain.
Liebermann was puzzled at his friend's unexpected response. “Oskar?”
Rheinhardt placed his head in his hands.
“What a fool I've been. What an absolute fool!”
Liebermann felt rather deflated by his friend's response. “It wasn't that obvious, Oskar. The recognition of these correspondences did require some imagination.”
“Forgive me, Max. I did not mean to belittle your achievement. But it really should have been obvious… to me!”