by JJ Marsh
“Do you know where Leonor von Rosenheim is staying?”
“No. I was surprised to find the place deserted myself. I last saw her yesterday evening after a concert rehearsal but I didn’t speak to her. We separated last Sunday.”
The inspector nodded. “Do you or your ex-partner own a firearm?”
Rolf gasped, then denied it automatically. No one could know he had found that handgun in her drawer. The implications dawned upon him.
“Do you know if Anton Berger had any enemies, or people holding a grudge against him, maybe due to recent events?”
“None that I could think of, no. He was cleared of all allegations, after all. At least that’s what I have been told.”
“Yes,” the inspector paused again.
Rolf noticed his scanty hair and the swollen lacrimal sacs that made him look older that he probably was.
The inspector narrowed his eyes. “How was his standing with the orchestra and the organisation at the Konzerthalle in general?”
“Quite good, I guess. He taught pupils and played in ensembles – which, I would say, are clearly linked to the Konzerthalle in the public eye, although probably not officially. Those people I know more closely from the orchestra were friendly enough towards him. Nobody believed the allegations to be true.”
“Including Jurgen Wilk?”
“Yes of course. I’m not sure I understand where this is going …”
“That’s all right, you can leave the conclusions to me. Let us talk about your relationship with your neighbour. The first time I spoke to you, you said he was a friend. I wonder if you would like to revise that statement.”
Heat shot into Rolf’s head like a fever. Had the maestro told the police? Was the chief inspector giving him a chance to set the record straight, or was it a trap?
“Relationships can change over time. Last time I saw him, we were definitely friends.”
Weissmann looked at his screen. “That was last Sunday evening, at the train station, when you saw him last, correct?”
Rolf’s throat turned hard as stone. “I think I saw him after that, but I’m not entirely sure.”
He told him of Thursday’s episode, seeing Anton from the taxi and searching for him in the rain. “Herr Weissmann, am I to understand the body was Anton’s and you suspect Leonor of killing him?”
The man seemed surprised. “I believe the deceased is Mr Berger but would like you to make a formal identification. As for Frau von Rosenheim, I want to talk to her, for sure. But until I have seen a detailed post mortem report, I won’t rule anything or anyone out. That’s why I must ask you to stay in Salzburg until further notice. We all are friends of the musical arts here, and I will try my best to avoid getting into the orchestra’s way, especially on such important occasion as today. Can I count on your cooperation, Herr Jaro?”
Rolf shrugged, as if he had a choice.
The inspector got to his feet. “Thank you. Now, the formal identification, if you wouldn’t mind? I’ll drop you off at the concert hall afterwards.”
25
The silence in the tutti section waiting room was interrupted only by the odd deep breath. Everybody seemed suspended in time. Rolf eyed the red light above the exit, dark and unlit. Waiting was the worst. Getting into motion calmed him, unified him with the others and his instrument. He needed to move, to act, because in an idle state his brain was dangerous. Unlimited spaces of doubt and anxiety opened up, his mind oscillating between the picture of Anton’s lifeless face and the impossible idea of playing an entire concert. Panic was lurking, ready to trigger his flight instinct. He readjusted his bow tie and collar, uncomfortable as he’d never been before, intent on avoiding everybody’s eyes.
According to Weissmann, Anton had been shot in the chest at close range, and there were physical signs of a small fight or struggle. Rolf tried to imagine what happened after he saw Anton walking through the rain. It was less than a quarter of an hour until he had returned to Gerhardstrasse. Was that all it took to escalate an argument and end a life? It was inconceivable. Had Leonor’s penchant for violence got out of control or did she act in self-defence? If it was her, that is. The police seemed unconvinced. Rolf shook his head, trying not to think about the events of Thursday night. He needed to calm down and focus on the performance. Just survive a few more minutes until he stepped on stage and let the training take over.
Rolf clasped the neck of his cello. How had his entire life ended up in this moment, in this room, while Trudi lay sedated in Wilk’s house and no one in the orchestra, apparently not even Jun, knew about Anton’s death? The maestro had made it absolutely clear that nothing was to be discussed until the premiere was over. Not a word.
It seemed as if the whole building was holding its breath. He wondered about the atmosphere in the other rooms. When the orchestra had taken their positions half an hour ago to set up their instruments, most heard for the first time about Trudi’s incapacitation and her last-minute replacement. The concertmaster emphasised their good fortune in finding the perfect fit at such short notice, but the subtext was obvious. Karin was hurried in early afternoon for a short run through the programme with her section. She was doing an incredible job, but a change at that point was always going to take its toll. During the string rehearsal, if it deserved the name, the principals had to remind their players several times to ease up and drop their overly strong focus on the new violinist. Karin was humble and extraordinarily skilled, both as a player and in adapting to the others. Whether it would be enough to withstand the pressure of a live performance at a premiere, only Schoenberg could tell. That first piece was to set the tone for the entire night. Until then, unease spread through the entire orchestra, like a cold breeze reaching every nook in a ramshackle house.
The red light illuminated, triggering the massive organism into motion. Chests straightened, doors opened, and from every corner of the hallway, musicians marched with slow and silent determination towards their destination, following an invisible, predestined pattern. Nothing other than an earthquake could prevent how the evening would unfold. Rolf looked out for Jun, who had recovered from the frail impression she’d made during emergency rehearsals. She flashed him a smile, relieving him of at least one worry. Applause erupted as the first sections entered stage, echoing like growling thunder through the hallway. The moment Rolf stepped onto stage in the brilliantly lit hall, the atmosphere changed irrevocably.
The auditorium was filled to capacity, with not a single empty seat. The clapping washed over him in anticipatory waves, rising to near-emotional levels, leaving no space for anything else. Rolf’s tension transformed into that deep inner calm he could never actively induce but simply had to await. Confidence emboldened him with every step he took. It worked; it always did. With an unfocused sweeping glance over the audience, he set down his cello and assumed his posture on the chair, relaxing his shoulders with a deep exhalation. He was in third position from the middle, and once four and five had seated themselves, all musicians had taken their positions. Audience noise died down with the dimming of the lights, leaving the barely audible shuffling of hundreds of people getting comfortable, like a child’s sigh before a bedtime story.
In that moment, the huge room existed in a vacuum, a promise made and expectations high. When the concertmaster entered the stage, a renewed burst of applause erupted, fading as he stepped onto the podium. With a nod to the oboe, he started the tuning. Slowly, the cellos’ soft growl rose in unison, only to meld with the brighter violas behind them a moment later. The tone wafted between the two sections, an octave apart, but where were the violins? Rolf lifted his eyes to Sebastian, who shot a cutting glance to the concertmaster. Then they joined, hesitant at first, but gradually increasing in volume and intensity. The concertmaster stepped down and took his seat with the other violinists, while the rest of the orchestra entered the tuning.
Rolf risked a gaze over his right shoulder to the second violins. Jun’s face was stony and her skin
cheese white. He swallowed. Maybe she did know. Before he could remind himself to erase every thought but the score in front of him, the enthusiastic crowd welcomed Jurgen Wilk. The conductor floated towards centre stage, applauded by the musicians’ patting feet. When he bowed towards the audience, the maestro stiffened for a split second, as if in shock or disbelief, before turning away to shake the concertmaster’s hand. Rolf tried to catch Wilk’s eye but he averted his gaze, giving no indication of concern. His instinct warned his mind even before he registered the faces in the audience. A wave of panic roiled in Rolf’s stomach, robbing him of his habitual calm. In the front row, wearing a shimmering white dress, sat Leonor von Rosenheim.
Every hair on his body rose as the slow, dark opening melody of Verklaerte Nacht crawled out of the celli. His thoughts ran feverish circles round his head and only the pressure of playing the very first notes of the concert kept him from passing out. How was it possible she was here, in such a prominent position? She should have been nowhere other than a police interview room after what had happened to Anton. Positioning herself directly in the front row was intentional. She was out to disconcert him.
Sweat loosened his grip on his bow. Any moment now and he’d either drop it or let a string slip. His upper body was an oven, the intense heat trying to escape via his collar. The pressure in his head was unbearable, he couldn’t take in any fresh air. All those people sitting there, judging him, finding fault with his clothes, his hair, his playing; his stomach cramped like an awkward child.
When more instruments layered themselves onto the foreboding back-and-forth that introduced the motif, he grabbed the moment to hide and collect himself. Keeping the bow movements in time, but without stroking the strings, he faked playing, breathing and emptying his mind, drawing himself into a world of his own. His mouth was dry as paper and his stomach burned in pain, but he regained control over his breathing. He managed to latch onto the circular flow and stabilise the gruelling maelstrom of fear. At the start of the next bar, he was back in the saddle and actually playing, far from relaxed, but at least holding panic at bay. For the majority of the piece, he immersed himself in his role and the music, barely looking to Sebastian for guidance, not to mention the maestro. His mental state aligned itself with the musical theme, turning turbulent from fretful, connecting with the orchestra in its light, harmonious anti-climax of sweet togetherness. Transfigured Night indeed, thirty minutes of his life he’d never forget.
Debussy’s Jeux usually followed, tying seamlessly into the calm end of the previous piece. But today, the maestro took some extra time, examining the different sections of the orchestra one-by-one, and once even turning to the audience, not to bow, but to glare. Was it Rolf’s imagination, or did he target Leonor? He risked looking in her direction. She sat next to Hofmeister, which explained the exclusive seat, wearing a dazzling dress made of glittering metallic plates. She made a very loud impression, in every sense, and her body language was confrontational, even at such distance. At least the cello section was a good distance away. Sebastian met his eye, pulling a face Rolf had no idea how to interpret.
A revelation hit him like a bad memory, taking him out of the present and removing every point of his compass. But this was a question of trust, replacing his own navigational system with blind faith in others. His principal and the maestro were his guiding lights. They deflected his own struggles, and their presence meant he was not alone. Between them, they provided a stable fundament. He needed them and they needed him. He lifted his bow, scanned his score and raised his gaze to his conductor.
Applause at the end of the first half was restrained, and rightly so. They were a long way from their best. The maestro kept his closing gestures short and hurried off stage, his eyes never leaving the exit door. A minute later, Rolf took his bows with the rest of the orchestra and left the stage for the interval. To his amazement on arrival in the Green Room, Karin was weeping in Bertrand’s arms, with Jun stroking her shoulder. Even more shockingly, the maestro appeared in the doorway. It was an orchestral tradition that the Green Room was exclusively for cast and crew. Management and artistic directors were not welcome since this was the one place the ‘ordinary folk’ could relax and gossip amongst themselves.
The maestro seemed to understand that, simply saying, “Ms Haas, can I have a word?” A tearful Karin followed him out of the room.
A furious Bertrand appeared next to Rolf. “Your ex-girlfriend did a real job on Karin tonight.”
“What do you mean?” Rolf’s pulse began pounding.
Jun joined them. “Surely you saw what she was doing? She shifted in her seat every time Karin picked up her bow.”
“Disgusting behaviour,” spat Bertrand. “She exchanged glances with Hofmeister, shook her head and even did a face palm. In that dress, what do you call it, like fish scales or something, she attracts attention. Someone behaving that way in the front row is nothing more than sabotage. She should be kicked out and banned from ever coming back.”
With a sense of guilt, Rolf realised he had been so self-absorbed through the performance, he’d paid little attention to the rest of the orchestra. He agreed with Bertrand’s opinion. Better still, he knew how to make that happen. He left the Green Room and made his way out of Stage Door to the car park. After a brief internal debate, he called Inspector Weissmann’s number. The redial landed in the control centre, so he left a message.
“ROLF!” Bertrand’s head poked around the door. “Come upstairs! It’s all kicking off in the Members’ Lounge. The maestro wants her out!”
They all but ran up two flights of stairs and entered the private area to the complete opposite of the usual laughter, chatter and jingling of glasses. VIP audience members were sliding away in awkward silence, leaving a group of five in a confrontational circle. Several musicians hovered nearby, among them a pale-faced Jun. Rolf’s breathless entrance did not go unnoticed.
Leonor’s eyes bored into him and a smile spread over her face. She greeted him with that knowing look, partners in crime. Her voice was calm and reasonable, poison sweetened with honey.
“The maestro is protective of his stable, I see. Honourable, but blinkered. Be realistic, Herr Wilk. If the orchestra cannot appreciate audience reaction on first night, I worry about the rest of the run.”
René, in his role as concertmaster, touched his fingers to the maestro’s elbow, a reminder they should all be onstage in the next two minutes. Beside him, the Front-of-House manager of the Konzerthalle glanced from one to another, as if everyone were speaking another language.
Hofmeister took another sip of his cocktail, clearly in no rush to appease the three men in front of him. “My guest and I will return to our seats in five minutes. I hold out some hope the second half can compensate for the first, but I am not optimistic.”
“The painful part is seeing such talent wasted,” added Leonor, her gaze on Rolf. “To see musicians of this stature reduced to performing facile acrobatics is mortifying. Both for them and for a discerning audience. If the evening continues in the same vein, I’m afraid we will have to leave.”
The maestro’s voice, soft and precise, cut in. “Yes, I’m afraid you will. You are leaving now, creating no further disruption to our evening. Herr Hofmeister, your guest is not welcome and will not be readmitted to the auditorium.” He did not check with the manager, whose eyes were fixed on the carpet. Even so, the man nodded in loyal support.
“I beg your pardon. Who holds the superior role here?” Hofmeister’s sneer was derisive. “We hired you, I seem to remember. We run this concert house and we decide who can or cannot attend a performance. Your arrogance has been a concern since your arrival in Salzburg and is one of the reasons your employment will soon be terminated. This conversation shall be resumed after the second half.” He tossed the remainder of his cocktail into his mouth. “Time to take our seats, my dear, at least for as long as we can bear it.”
“You may take your seats if you wish, Herr Hofmeister. B
ut you can expect a dull evening. If you and your guest are present in the audience, my orchestra will not perform.” Wilk’s voice was dispassionate and his tone was wholly believable.
No one moved and the entire room held its breath.
Hofmeister tilted his head to one side, his smile almost pitying.
René, with broad shoulders and head high, stood beside Wilk. Seconds later, Rolf, Bertrand, Jun and every musician in the room joined him, forming a silent wall of folded arms.
26
Five curtain calls. Five. They bowed and applauded each other, each soloist shaking hands with the maestro. The largest swell of enthusiasm from the orchestra members came for Karin, whose eyes became tearful again, but this time, with happiness. Rolf scanned the Gods, the Dress Circle and the Stalls. Two seats on the front row remained empty. At one of the exits, he saw Weissmann peeking into the room. Only then did he realise uniformed police were waiting discreetly at every door.
The after-show party on this occasion was in the downstairs bar, with tables of champagne, waiters carrying canapés and very few places to sit. That suited Rolf perfectly. He carried a glass of tonic water as he mingled, refusing all offers of drinks and accepting all accolades with humility and grace. In his peripheral vision, he watched for her. Silvery sparkles were present in abundance, but none indicated the presence of Leonor von Rosenheim.
This time, Rolf was meticulous in attending to the public. He spoke to everyone, remembered names, declared himself astonished at the great taste of Salzburg’s audiences and vowed never to leave the city. Across the room, he caught glances from his colleagues; each with a hint of conspiratorial allegiance. Bertrand, Jun, Karin, even the maestro were on the same side. He should have known the balloon of high spirits would be punctured.
