Death and the Maiden (12 page)

On returning to his apartment, Liebermann hung up his coat and went straight to the music room. He sat at the Bösendorfer and sight-read through some of the easier sections of the Brosius. There were frequent tempo changes, some interesting modulations, and a fondness for canonic devices. The overall effect reminded Liebermann of Robert Schumann.

Liebermann was satisfied with his purchase. He picked up the
volume, held it close to his nose, and breathed in the ripe scent. The pages fell open again, and he noticed a dedication:
To my beloved, Angelika
. He remembered Frau Zollinger mentioning Brosius’s wife. What had she said? A great beauty, but superficial. Frau Zollinger hadn’t liked her. Presumably Angelika Brosius, like her husband, was now dead. That was how Frau Zollinger had spoken about her. Liebermann felt a subtle melancholy seeping into his soul. It was sad, how people passed into oblivion. Physical death was only the beginning. Thereafter began a process of slow attrition, the gradual dissolution of biographical evidence. Angelika Brosius – the talk of salon society – beauty and muse – was almost gone: a dedication at the front of an old score and a few fading recollections in the head of an old woman. What else of her remained in the world?

‘Still,’ said Liebermann out loud. ‘The music has survived.’

He placed the volume back on the stand and began to work on the first piece, this time concentrating hard to make sure he was getting the fingering right.

T
HE LORD MARSHAL AND
the emperor were seated at a large table in the conference room, on chairs upholstered with green and gold silk. A rug, decorated with a circular motif, covered most of the parquet floor. The electric chandelier had not been switched on. Instead, illumination was supplied by two candelabras which stood beneath a large oil painting. The scene depicted within the ornate frame was a famous battle that had taken place during the Hungarian revolution.

After some initial business, requiring the signing of certain documents, the two men lowered their voices and leaned towards each other like conspirators. The conversation that followed was elliptical and imprecise. An eavesdropper might have concluded that they were speaking in code.

‘And what did the priest say?’

‘Everything is in order, Your Majesty.’

‘Will he fulfil his obligation?’

‘There is no reason to doubt his loyalty.’

‘Good.’

The emperor was looking more tired than usual. He sat back in his chair and pulled at his mutton-chop whiskers. The lord marshal noticed that the old man was gazing at a white marble bust of Field Marshal Radetzky – a pale visage, hovering in the shadows like a ghostly revenant. Franz-Josef’s hand stopped moving.

It was not for the lord marshal to disturb the monarch’s private
thoughts. Being a fastidious observer of court protocol, he never spoke unless spoken to. Minutes passed before the emperor finally stirred. ‘Do dreams have meaning?’

‘I believe, Your Majesty,’ answered the lord marshal, ‘that there are some doctors who interpret dreams. It is a new practice among psychiatrists.’

The emperor sighed.

‘I’ve been having a lot of dreams lately, unpleasant dreams. They always begin here, in the Hofburg, and involve some kind of civil disturbance outside.’ He described his unsettling vision: agitators in Michaelerplatz, the cobbles awash with fire. As he spoke, he kept his gaze fixed on the likeness of Radetzky. The field marshal’s sabre was mounted on the plinth which supported the bust, and the soft lambency of the candles played along its curved edge. When the emperor finished his description, he turned to face the lord marshal and asked, ‘Is there any hope, concerning the election?’

The lord marshal shook his head.

When Lueger had first been elected the emperor had vetoed his appointment. In fact, he had done this not once but three times. The city council had been dissolved and Franz-Josef had ruled Vienna through a board of special commissioners. He had hoped that the people would eventually recognise the folly of installing a demagogue in the town hall. But it wasn’t to be. During the Corpus Christi procession of 1896 Lueger had received more applause than the emperor himself. Reluctantly, Franz-Josef conceded defeat and sanctioned Lueger’s fourth victory. It was a concession that had cost him dearly, a compromise too far.

The lord marshal registered the emperor’s glum expression and felt obliged to lift his spirits.

‘There is
some
good news, Your Majesty.’

‘Concerning the mayor?’

‘Intelligence that, if managed correctly, has considerable potential for …’ the lord marshal chose his word carefully, ‘advantage.’

More talk followed, indirect and euphemistic.

The emperor stood and crossed the floor to inspect a clock, suspended on a chain within a lyre-shaped case with windows. He touched the gilt shell mounted on its summit.

‘I will leave the matter in your capable hands, Lord Marshal,’ said the emperor. ‘But remember, time marches on.’

He tapped the glass and indicated the clock face to underscore his exhortation.

The interview was now over.

Gathering the signed documents together, the lord marshal placed them in a leather briefcase. He rose, bowed, and said: ‘Very good, Your Majesty.’

‘I
WOULD LIKE TO
know more of Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s medical history,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘and I am particularly interested in those illnesses that she might have suffered from during the spring and summer months.’

‘We have already discussed all that could possibly be relevant,’ said Doctor Engelberg testily.

‘Even so,’ said Rheinhardt.

Engelberg pulled open the drawer of his cabinet and selected a green folder. Returning to his seat, he said, ‘What was it you wanted, illnesses in the spring and summer months?’

‘That is correct.’

The doctor scrutinised his notes.

‘She had a stomach complaint. But nothing else in March and April, other than the problems you already know about. She complained of difficulty swallowing for the first time on the third of February, and I referred her to Professor Saminsky four weeks later.’

‘Stomach complaint?’

‘A little indigestion, that’s all.’

Engelberg’s index finger dropped down the margin. He hummed contemplatively.

‘What is it?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘My entry dated April the twenty-seventh:
fever, lower abdominal
tenderness, and vaginal discharge
. A gynaecological problem – an infection of some kind – I advised Fräulein Rosenkrantz to rest.’

‘Frau Marcus mentioned that Fräulein Rosenkrantz was confined to her bed because of what she called
a ladies’ problem.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Did you identify the illness?’

‘Not specifically. There was no need. I knew it would clear up soon enough.’

‘But you must have examined your patient?’

The doctor appeared outraged by Rheinhardt’s suggestion. ‘Not invasively, no.’

‘But surely it would have been appropriate for you to do so.’

Engelberg shook his head. ‘A doctor must have good cause to compromise a woman’s dignity.’

Rheinhardt hesitated before continuing: ‘Is it possible that Fräulein Rosenkrantz had contracted a venereal disease?

‘No.’

‘You’re quite sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then could the infection have developed subsequent to a termination?’

Engelberg started. ‘What are you implying, Inspector?’ Rheinhardt did not respond. Engelberg tutted and said, ‘Yes, I suppose the infection might have been caused by a termination, but Fräulein Rosenkrantz gave me no reason to believe that this was a cause I should be considering. What have you found out, Inspector? Perhaps you would be so kind as to speak frankly.’

‘Fräulein Rosenkrantz fell pregnant in the spring.’

‘Who told you that?’ said Engelberg, evidently unconvinced.

‘An associate of hers.’

Engelberg tapped his notes. ‘She didn’t complain of these symptoms until late April.’

‘Perhaps she felt ashamed, embarrassed? Perhaps she tolerated her discomfort and only came to see you after procrastinating.’

Engelberg shrugged. ‘That is possible.’ He closed the folder. ‘Inspector, I think you should talk to Professor Saminsky.’

‘I intend to. He is away at present, but I understand he will be returning shortly.’

‘A psychiatrist necessarily touches upon personal matters during treatment. But why must you delve into Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s private affairs? I really don’t see how it serves the public interest. What if she did terminate a pregnancy? I dare say she has already been judged by her maker. There is no need for a further judgement to be made in the newspapers.’

Rheinhardt stood up and put on his hat. Catching sight of his reflection in a mirror, he straightened the brim and squeezed the upturned ends of his moustache.

‘Thank you for your assistance, Herr Doctor. Please don’t trouble your servants. I can see myself out.’

A
S
L
IEBERMANN APPROACHED THE
opera house he inserted his hand into his coat pocket and checked that the letter was still there. The young doctor needed to reassure himself of its existence, to dismiss nagging doubts that he had only imagined its appearance or perhaps misread the signature of the correspondent. Director Mahler had referred to ‘a confidential matter’ which he wished to discuss ‘in person’. Liebermann wondered if the director had developed a psychological problem that he did not wish to disclose to the opera house physician. The director’s mannerisms had certainly suggested a restless, neurotic temperament.

Przistaupinsky met Liebermann at the stage door and escorted him to the director’s office.

‘Herr Doctor Liebermann,’ said Mahler, rising from his chair. ‘I am so glad you could come.’ He glanced at his secretary. ‘Przistaupinsky – tea. Please sit, Herr Doctor.’

The surface of the director’s desk was obscured by a chaotic jumble of scores and books. Liebermann recognised two titles: a novel by Dostoyevsky,
Crime and Punishment
, and a book of philosophy by Gustav Fechner,
Zend-Avesta, or Concerning All Things in Heaven and the Beyond
.

Director Mahler made no small talk. He produced a newspaper from beneath a battered copy of Mozart’s
Jupiter Symphony
and showed Liebermann the masthead. It was the
Deutsche Zeitung
.

‘Yesterday’s edition,’ said the director. He opened it and presented
Liebermann with a lengthy article, the heading of which was stark and unpleasant:
The Jewish Regime at the Vienna Opera
. ‘Did you see this?’

‘I do not read the
Deutsche Zeitung
,’ said Liebermann.

‘It is an anonymous article that appears to have escaped the censor’s notice, a scurrilous piece of low journalism. Unfortunately, I must ask you to read it.’

Liebermann took the newspaper.

The initial paragraphs concerned Mahler’s style of conducting.

What Herr Mahler sometimes does cannot be called conducting. It is more like the gesticulations of a dervish and, when the Kapellmeister has St Vitus’s dance, it’s really very difficult to keep time. His left hand often doesn’t know what the right one is doing …

The author then went on to attack Mahler’s habit of reinforcing sections of the orchestra with additional instruments.

If Herr Mahler wants to make corrections he should tackle the works of Mendelssohn and Rubinstein … But let him leave our Beethoven in peace …

The final paragraph claimed that certain members of the orchestra had given Mahler a nickname, the Duty Sergeant, due to his peremptory manner, and had promised rebellion.

Resistance is smouldering, even the most cowardly and submissive musicians will finally join the majority, and one of these days Mahler will find himself without an orchestra … it is conceivable to have the Opera without Mahler, but not without the orchestra
.

Liebermann was reminded of the civil disturbance he had seen outside the town hall and the hateful graffito. The general atmosphere of volatility had spread even to the philharmonic orchestra. He gave the newspaper back to the director and shook his head.

‘Disgraceful.’

‘It has obviously been written by an orchestral player and there are some whom I suspect; however, I cannot make an accusation without being absolutely confident that I have the right man.’

‘And you want my help?’

‘Precisely. I want you to identify the author of this article.’

Mahler tossed the paper disdainfully across his desk.

‘Other than the fact that he is an orchestral player and an anti-Semite – which you no doubt already know – there is nothing more I can say.’