by JJ Marsh
So many times in Rolf’s career as a musician he had felt a fraud, convinced every promotion or opportunity would be the one that exposed him for the amateur he was. On every occasion he succeeded, he had a recurring dream. He was in the wings, about to go onstage, dressed more elegantly than he ever managed in real life, only to realise he was carrying a French horn. He couldn’t even hold it the right way up. The audience either booed or laughed and he never knew which was worse. The mortification would linger for hours, long after he’d woken up.
But that was nothing in comparison to the truth of this precise moment. They all knew. His colleagues, his friends and his boss. He was exposed. Once again, he didn’t know which was worse; a gay love affair or his weak and spineless enslavement to Leonor that was obvious to everyone. Shame engulfed him and he had no idea where to look other than at his feet.
The maestro stood in front of Rolf and placed a hand on his shoulder. “We are not privy to your relationship, and we have no right to enquire. All I would say is that if the situation increases in complexity, I have a guestroom. You would be welcome to stay at my home. Jun and I will leave you now and look forward to meeting you relaxed and refreshed on Monday. Herr Berger, allow me to say how sad I am to see you leave. You can count on me for a full and enthusiastic reference for any future position. You will be missed. Jun, shall we go?”
It came as a shock to see that Jun was crying. She pressed her fingers to her mouth and blew a kiss to Anton. He was blinking furiously but repeated her gesture with a sad smile. Jun gave Rolf and Trudi her funny little wave, palms facing out, fingers flapping as if she were trying to catch a mosquito. They waved back and the maestro led the way out of the apartment. Anton and Trudi opened the balcony door so they could wave goodbye as they left the building. Rolf could not join them. While they were still on the balcony, Rolf sneaked out of the front door.
Back at his own apartment, he saw with a start that Leonor had returned. Her keys were on the hall table and her handbag was dumped on the sofa. Of Leonor herself, there was no sign. In the bathroom there was a wet towel on the floor, and in the bedroom her clothes were flung on the bed. As he walked back into the living room, he heard singing from outside and stepped onto the balcony. In the garden, Leonor was on her hands and knees in front of the flowerbed, surrounded by little plants.
“What are you doing?” Rolf called.
“Gardening! I thought we could do with a bit of colour around here. I bought geraniums, pansies and nasturtiums. Plants that are very low maintenance but all very pretty. Why don’t you make us a gin and tonic each and bring it down here?”
Rolf had no idea how to handle the situation, but chose the past of least resistance. “Um, OK. Just give me a minute to feed the cat.”
He made the drinks, leaving the gin out of his own and took them downstairs. He opened Anton’s apartment and checked for Blue. The food bowl was empty but he couldn’t find the animal himself. Nor was the cat carrier where Anton had said. He put some kibble in the food bowl and went outside.
“There you are! How long does it take to make two gin and tonics? What do you think?” Leonor gestured to the recently dug flowerbed now sporting a semicircle of bright little plants.
“Pretty,” said Rolf, handing her the glass with a slice of lemon. “What made you suddenly decide you have green fingers?”
Leonor sat opposite him, a satisfied smile on her face. “Just a whim. Cheers! Where have you been all morning?”
He should have thought of that. Why hadn’t he prepared a story? He was a hopeless liar and she knew it. “At Trudi’s. She invited me and Jun over for brunch.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.
She rolled her eyes. “Why on earth you hang out with those bourgeois little bitches in your free time, I have no idea. You need to get out more, find some non-orchestra friends or people with influence. You know what they say about all work and no play.”
Rolf didn’t reply. He was wrestling with the question of whether or not to mention her pupil’s attempted suicide. He decided against it. “How was your party?”
She gave him a puzzled look.
“Last night? You said they were having a party at the stables.”
“Shows how much you listen. I said the owners had invited me for dinner and offered me a bed for the night to save me travelling home late. Friedrich is a fantastic cook.”
Rolf opened his mouth to protest but then realised he couldn’t be bothered to argue. She had most definitely said they were having a party. He still had the text message, but why debate the point? He changed the subject. “Have you seen Blue since you’ve been back?”
She stood up and drained her glass. “That was a pretty weak G&T. What did you do, just wave the gin bottle at it?” She picked up his glass, sniffed and took a large swig. “And you’re just drinking tonic. When did you get to be so boring?”
Stung, Rolf retorted. “Since I started taking my health seriously. I’m not drinking until after opening night. You didn’t answer my question. Have you seen Blue?”
“He was screeching out here earlier. I’m going inside to make myself a proper drink. Aren’t they lovely?” Her gaze was on the plants.
“Yes, they are.” Rolf checked his watch. It was just after twelve so there was plenty of time for Blue to make an appearance. When he did, Rolf would lock him indoors until it was time to put him in the cat carrier and leave for the station. As Leonor walked away, Rolf heard Blue’s bell. He scanned the garden for the Burmese then realised it was more than likely ice cubes in Leonor’s empty glass.
More than anything, he wanted to take his cello and sit in Anton’s living room, practising and watching out for the cat’s return. If she stayed upstairs drinking gin, that might be a possibility. His mobile buzzed and he saw a message from Trudi.
Hi! Do you have the sheet music for Rossini’s duet? I need it before tomorrow. Any chance you could swing by this afternoon? Thanks, Trudi
Rolf read the message twice before he understood the meaning. Neither the orchestra nor the quartet played Rossini so why would she need the sheet music? And what duet was she talking about? Slowly, a smile spread across his face as he cottoned on to the double meaning. The composer of the cat duet, two female voices with a piano, was allegedly Rossini. Now it made sense. There was no way Anton could text him to check if he was bringing the cat, and clearly neither of them trusted Rolf’s phone as a secure method of communication.
Rolf replied.
Searching for that now. When I find it, I’ll bring it over immediately. PS: thanks for brunch!
Leonor wandered across the grass in his direction, ice cubes chinking in her glass. She had a bowl of something in her other hand.
“After your brunch, I don’t suppose you’re hungry. Friedrich insisted I take some leftovers with me. That grilled meat is even more delicious cold. I hope you don’t mind my having a snack?”
His anger sparked sarcasm. “Certainly not. How could I spoil your sophisticated friend’s culinary courtesy and deny you your well-deserved pleasure? I’m going to practise and keep an eye out for the cat, so I’ll rehearse downstairs.”
Her focus remained on her glass for a moment, and then she burst across the lawn towards him. He reversed a couple of paces, afraid of her unpredictability. She whipped a hand behind his neck, drawing him closer. With a soft smile, she slipped her palm into his left hand, threading her fingers between his. The kind of gesture which used to be so natural as they strolled along the riverbank. Her gaze, first tender, grew intense and with increasingly painful pressure, she bent his fingers backwards, her nails piercing his flesh. In another second, she would break a bone.
He wrenched away, horrified.
“Not my hands, Leonor! Never my hands!”
Her anger evaporated and she flashed her supermodel smile. “That’s a fantastic idea! Maybe you should move downstairs permanently. Let’s face it, Anton’s not going to need the place again once he’s in jail for assaulting children. Our relati
onship is dead in the water and you’ve reverted to type. A bit of distance will give us both the space to think things through and realise what is important, and what is not. Yes, all things considered, that’s the best thing to do. Take your shit downstairs and leave me in peace. We’ll have to come to some kind of arrangement regarding sharing the garden. But as you’ve had the place to yourself all weekend, I’d say it’s my turn.”
Not for the first time in their relationship, Rolf’s discombobulation, physical pain and fear robbed him of speech. How could he challenge blatant untruths and 180° switches in perspective? He answered himself. You can’t. And there is no point in trying.
“If that is what you really want.” His voice was devoid of any emotion. Drama was exactly what she’d expect and he refused to perform.
“Yes. It’s best. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to enjoy life without looking at your self-pitying face all the time. Bye.”
Rolf had been dismissed. He packed as many of his belongings as he could and took the suitcases downstairs. Through the balcony window, he could hear Leonor on the phone, chatting, laughing, flirting. There was still no sign of the cat.
With a sense of foreboding, he went down to the cellar, where Blue got locked in last time. The laundry room contained nothing more than hanging washing and a freezer humming quietly in the corner. The storeroom was the usual jumble of skis, cardboard boxes and broken electronics. He looked into the laundry room again. Something had registered as odd but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He stepped closer to the shelf of detergents and fabric conditioner and saw it. Hidden behind a tub full of pegs, there was a box of cat biscuits, the kind Anton used when calling Blue in from the garden. He returned upstairs and checked the kitchen. Sure enough, there was a box of the same brand in the cupboard with Blue’s kibble.
Standing in Anton’s living room, he stared out at the freshly dug earth of the flowerbed.
There was nothing else to do but wait. The afternoon grew colder and the skies gathered and swirled like boiling water in a pan. Leonor went indoors and around three o’clock, Rolf heard her footsteps on the stairs. She moved slowly, as if afraid of falling, waited a moment outside the ground floor apartment and exited via the front door. From the window, he watched her load a box into the boot of a taxi without a backward glance. She was dressed in her riding gear, as if she was going to the stables. But she’d only just come back. Now was the time to check the flowerbed to see if the plants disguised a grave. Rolf didn’t dare. His experience of her psychological games warned him not to risk the garden.
It was another one of those Salzburg days where the sun crisped the city all day long and then refreshed it in the evening with a summer storm. Rolf opened the French windows, set up his cello inside and began to play a piece from Mahler’s Kindertotenlieder, entitled ‘In diesem Wetter, in diesem Braus’. The piece was heart achingly sad and spoke of loss, love and regret. Rain began to hit the patio stones with spiteful force. If Blue was out there, he would either shelter somewhere safe or make a run for home.
He finished the cycle, by which time the garden was drenched. The sky lit up with occasional flashes of white light accompanied by rumbles of thunder. Blue had not returned and it was almost too late to catch Anton at the station. He closed the windows, grabbed a coat and ran outside to hail a taxi. It only took a few moments before a free cab hissed along the street but in that time, Rolf was already soaked. He instructed the driver to take him to the Hauptbahnhof and used his phone to see from which platform the train was due to depart. He had fewer than fifteen minutes to find Anton.
The driver dropped him at Hans-Prodinger-Strasse and Rolf thrust ten Euros at him before pelting into the station. At platform twelve, Rolf saw Anton at the ticket barrier scanning the crowd with a worried face. Anton spotted him and immediately his eyes took in the lack of a cat carrier.
Rainwater was running down Rolf’s face and he brushed it away. “I waited till the last minute but Blue hadn’t come home. When he does, I promise I will look after him until I can bring him to you. I … I left Leonor and I’m staying in your apartment.”
They stared at one another, a mixture of disappointment and hope playing across Anton’s face. “Thank you. I have to go, the train is about to leave. Rolf, listen to me. Whatever happens, stay away from Hofmeister. I’m not even sure how much the maestro knows. Stay out of ... oh, shit, there’s the whistle!” He slotted his ticket into the machine and ran onto the platform, shouting to the conductor. He just made it to the first carriage before the doors closed. The angle of the train made it impossible for Rolf to see him and wave goodbye, but he waved anyway.
So much for fond farewells.
He walked home in no particular hurry. The rain was drizzling as if it had lost interest. Perhaps when he got home, Blue would be sitting on the kitchen floor, cleaning his paws.
Wet and miserable, he unlocked the building to see a note taped to his apartment door. She must have put it there when she left, and he’d overlooked it in his hurry to get to the station.
Hotel Löwen, Room 280. He’s expecting you at 20.00.
He tore it off and went inside. Still no Blue.
18
This was Rolf’s opportunity. Defy him, refuse her and stand up for himself. What’s the worst that could happen? He couldn’t answer that. He paced from room to room, arguing with himself. He hadn’t agreed to anything, so he couldn’t be accused of reneging on a promise. Yet if he played, it might defuse multiple conflicts, and Leonor would be soothed by his willingness to make concessions for their combined well-being. Plus it would certainly help when he confessed to sleeping with their neighbour. If all he was supposed to do was play, why not? Hofmeister was an influential man, and a wealthy sponsor might open all sorts of doors. With his probation over, he could participate in the season and the autumn tour as a permanent employee, earning more money and gaining greater prestige.
He recalled Anton’s words: Whatever happens, keep away from Hofmeister. I’m not even sure how much the maestro knows. Stay out of ...
Stay out of what? If he took his cello to Hotel Löwen this evening, he would be stepping into the lion’s den. How could he hold his head up when he was dependent on someone else, be it benefactor, lover or the maestro?
He’d promised himself to keep the peace, at least until opening night. But if keeping the peace cost him his dignity, it wasn’t worth it. He had to man up and negotiate his own place in the world. Everyone wanted to control him: Leonor, the maestro, Anton, Hofmeister – even Trudi had an opinion on what he should do. It was no one else’s business but his own.
For two hours he walked around the apartment, arguing with himself. Finally, he made up his mind and looked up the address of Hotel Löwen. He was prepared to play for his patron, but purely to demonstrate his skill. There would be no blurring of boundaries. Any hint of impropriety and he would just leave. He showered, changed into his performance suit and caught the bus into the centre of the city. It’s a performance, that’s all. If he tries anything else, I will refuse. I am an athlete.
Hotel Löwen was not the ostentatious kind of establishment Rolf was expecting. A discreet building down a side street among cafés and bookshops, it described itself as a boutique hotel. There was no doorman or grand entrance, so Rolf carried his cello up the steps and glanced at the reception desk. A uniformed man was giving directions to an older couple with the help of a map and did not glance up. Rolf made straight for the elevator and pushed the button for the second floor.
The doors opened onto a carpeted corridor. No one was around but Rolf was keenly aware of the hotel’s CCTV cameras high in the corners. Suite 280 was at the end. He pressed the little bell and wiped his hands on his trousers. An unexpected sound came from within – a female voice. The door opened and a young woman appeared. Something about her clothes and stance told Rolf she was an employee rather than friend or family. A maid? Her expression was not suspicious or hostile, it was merely polite.<
br />
“Good evening?” She rested a hand on the door handle. Somehow, the presence of a woman reassured him.
“Good evening. I think Herr Hofmeister is expecting me.”
Hofmeister’s voice came from inside. “Punctual to the minute, Herr Jaro. Show him into the salon, Tina.”
She showed no surprise, standing aside to let him in and closing the door. Rolf followed her up the corridor. The space was much larger than the average hotel room, with a separate sitting area and a bedroom visible through open doors. The curtains were closed and fresh flowers scented the air.
“Thank you, Tina, that will be all for this evening.” Hofmeister poured himself a drink that looked like whisky, but offered Rolf nothing. The woman nodded with a brief smile at Rolf and left through another set of double doors.
“Set up your instrument and take off your clothes while I wait next door. You will play the Andante from Brahms’s Piano Concerto No. 2. I will tell you when to start and when to stop.” He took his glass through the double doors and closed them behind him.
The words ‘piano concerto’ had thrown Rolf into such a state of confusion, he sat frozen for several seconds until he remembered how well he knew the piece. His puzzlement returned when he remembered how short the cellist’s introduction was. With a grim urgency, he stripped off and seated himself on a stool, his instrument preserving his modesty. He waited for several minutes, feeling cold and exposed despite the warmth of the suite. Eventually, Hofmeister returned, topped up his glass and came to sit on the armchair opposite. Once again, he did not acknowledge Rolf’s presence; he just looked into his Scotch.
