Death and the Maiden (9 page)

The director failed to register the question. He was still thinking about the vanity of opera singers. ‘You see, they don’t understand that, ultimately, what we do here is not about
them
but about the music. The music
must
come first.’ His fist came down on the desktop, causing everything on the surface to jump. ‘We must subjugate our
individual personalities, our pretensions, and lose ourselves entirely in serving the composer’s vision. Did you know there are still some singers who employ the claque? I can’t have professional clappers in the opera house! I tried to stamp out this despicable practice as soon as I was appointed. They think it’s acceptable to break the spell of the music, destroy the magic of theatre for the sake of a few seconds’ contrived applause. But I’ll show them. I’ve recently hired some private detectives. I intend to discover the perpetrators and rid the opera house of the claque once and for all.’

‘Herr Director?’ said Rheinhardt. Mahler seemed to emerge from a state of self-absorption. ‘Herr Director,’ Rheinhardt repeated, ‘did Fräulein Rosenkrantz have many enemies?’

Mahler tilted his head to one side and his spectacles became opaque with reflected light.

‘I can think of many singers who resented Ida Rosenkrantz’s success, her popularity. Even cab drivers recognised Rosenkrantz and took off their hats as they passed; however …’ He changed position and his eyes became visible again. ‘I would say that, among her peers, Arianne Amsel resented her most.’

‘Why?’

‘Because prior to Rosenkrantz’s arrival many regarded Amsel as our finest female singer. She does possess a very fine voice, but, if I may express an opinion in confidence, I never considered her the equal of say, Anna von Mildenberg or Selma Kurz. Amsel’s voice does not possess Mildenberg’s wealth of shadings. Mildenberg’s
piano
will yield as much variety as her
forte
—’

‘Herr Director,’ Rheinhardt interrupted. ‘You were explaining why Amsel resented Fräulein Rosenkrantz.’

The director raised a hand apologetically. ‘Yes, of course. My reservations concerning Amsel’s pre-eminence were not shared by the press. You may recall, perhaps, the outstanding reviews she was getting
only a few years ago. The critics had become quite indiscriminate, lavishing commendations on her every performance. She was feted at society events, invited to the palace and presented to the emperor. Needless to say, all this adulation went straight to her head. She became proud and complacent, inflated with self-regard. She started cancelling performances – more often than not, without good cause. I would have terminated her contract but she was so esteemed by the critics, the public and the palace, that my will was opposed. I was summoned by the lord chamberlain and reprimanded for being irascible and overhasty. The situation was intolerable. Yet things were to change and much sooner than I had expected.’

Mahler stubbed out his cigar. ‘I appointed Ida Rosenkrantz after seeing her perform in Prague, where she had distinguished herself as Jitka in Smetana’s
Dalibor
. In her first season, here in Vienna, she sang well but was rather overlooked by the critics. Then something quite remarkable happened. We were due to perform
The Flying Dutchman
, with Amsel singing Senta, a role which she had made her own. That afternoon I received a telephone call and was informed, yet again, that Amsel was indisposed. As you can imagine, I was furious. And even more so when I learned that the soprano who was supposed to take the role of Senta in the event of Amsel’s indisposition had, that very morning, eloped with a Russian prince. It seemed that the public would have to be disappointed, and I was on the brink of making an announcement to that effect when Rosenkrantz came forward and said that she knew the role and was willing to perform it. I was sceptical, and nervous, but in the absence of any other alternative I agreed to her proposal. No one could have predicted the outcome. Rosenkrantz’s Senta was sensational. She brought to the role a curiously affecting vulnerability. I have never witnessed anything like it. The opinion of all but the most ardent of Amsel’s supporters was that Amsel’s hitherto definitive Senta had finally been surpassed. Some
critics commented that Rosenkrantz made a very sympathetic female lead on account of her small build. Others were less diplomatic and stated plainly that Rosenkrantz was the prettiest soprano ever to grace the court opera stage. Somewhat insensitive comparisons were made with her
statuesque competitors
. From that night onwards, Rosenkrantz’s stock has been steadily rising, while Amsel’s has been steadily falling. Amsel has become quite embittered.’

Rheinhardt frowned.

‘But Rosenkrantz didn’t do anything wrong, as such.’

‘Of course she didn’t,’ Mahler agreed. ‘But I suppose Amsel imagined Rosenkrantz secretly learning her best-loved roles in readiness for the moment when she could step into her shoes. And it did make a good story: the shy, diminutive soprano, thrust into the limelight by chance and given an opportunity to demonstrate her prodigious gift. It is the stuff of legends. Not strictly true, of course, but that’s what the critics wrote.’ Mahler picked up the metronome and slid the weight down the pendulum rod, from
largo
to
presto
. He seemed perplexed. ‘I suppose you will want to interview Fräulein Amsel. But I really don’t see how she will be able to help you. Amsel and Rosenkrantz were hardly intimates. They never spoke, apart from the exchange of an occasional frigid greeting.’

Rheinhardt did not reply, because at that juncture the director’s secretary re-entered the room. He was carrying a square of blue paper on which Herr Schneider’s address was copied out in a neat, pedantic hand.

‘Thank you,’ said Rheinhardt, folding the sheet into his notebook. Then, looking up at the director, he asked, ‘Is Fräulein Amsel in the building?’

The director put the metronome down and consulted a massive volume that looked like an accountant’s ledger.

‘I believe she is rehearsing in the red room.’

Rheinhardt stood up.

‘I would like to speak to her, if I may. I won’t keep her long.’

‘Very well,’ said the director. ‘Przistaupinsky will take you. But before you go …’ Mahler turned to face Liebermann. ‘Herr Doctor, do you have a card?’

T
HEY COULD HEAR HER
long before they arrived outside the red room. She was repeating the same line. Even though the director had expressed the view that Amsel’s gift had, in the past, been over-estimated, she was still an operatic diva, and the proximity of such a powerful voice made Liebermann’s heart race. The fragment of melody that she was practising ascended to a beautiful high note that she sustained before gradually introducing a gentle, warm
tremolo
.

Przistaupinsky knocked on the door.

When the singing stopped, they entered.

The red room was clearly so called on account of its overwhelming redness. All four walls were covered with a bright red paint and the large Persian rug laid out on the floor was also red. The effect administered a violent shock to the eye.

At the far end of the room was a grand piano at which a youthful accompanist was seated. Next to the piano stood a woman, and beside her was a short olive-skinned man with a pointed black beard. Przistaupinsky introduced Rheinhardt and Liebermann and then said a few words concerning the purpose of their visit. On hearing Rosenkrantz’s name, the olive-skinned man made the sign of the cross and bowed his head.

An arrangement was made to resume the rehearsal in thirty minutes, and Przistaupinsky, the accompanist, and the olive-skinned gentleman left the room.

Liebermann studied the soprano.

She was in her late twenties and possessed an abundance of dark hair, the extremities of which had a tendency to twist into coils. Her eyebrows were high, forming almost semicircular arches, and her nose was, if a little too long, finely cast. The lips beneath the nose were wide and coloured a shade of red that matched the brightly painted walls. She was not overly large, as the critics had implied, but she was certainly tall and had an imposing appearance. The loose-fitting dress that she wore was green and cut from a material that shimmered. Even her smallest movements created vivid coruscations that intimated the contours of her figure beneath – the curvature of her hips, and the full swell of her breasts. A silver and emerald crucifix hung from her neck.

Rheinhardt looked at the score on the music stand. It was an aria from Verdi’s
Aida
.

‘Do you read music, Inspector?’ asked the soprano, seating herself on a chair by the piano.

‘Yes.’

‘And do you sing?’

‘Well,’ said Rheinhardt, his cheeks flushing. ‘I would hesitate to make such a claim in present company.’

Amsel accepted the compliment tacitly by rippling her fingers.

‘Actually,’ said Liebermann, ‘he’s rather good for an amateur. A very competent lyric baritone.’

The diva’s eyebrows, already naturally elevated, found further scope for ascent.

‘Then perhaps we should try a duet, Inspector.’

‘I think not,’ said Rheinhardt, lowering himself onto the piano stool. ‘Much as I would deem it a great honour.’

Rheinhardt fancied that although Amsel’s suggestion wasn’t wholly serious, it wasn’t made entirely in jest, either. What a story it might
have made, in years to come: how he had sung a duet with the celebrated prima donna. Rheinhardt dismissed the thought and returned the conversation to the subject of Ida Rosenkrantz.

‘Yes, poor Ida,’ said Amsel, touching her crucifix. ‘How dreadful, to turn away from God, to rebel against one’s maker.’ Then, looking from Rheinhardt to Liebermann and back again, she added, ‘But I’m not sure that I can help you. We were not … friends.’

‘You must have been acquainted.’

‘Well, yes … But … ’ Amsel’s ample bosom rose and descended as she produced a lengthy sigh. ‘I do not wish to speak ill of the dead.’

‘No one ever does. I will not judge you unkindly for being honest.’

‘We were not friends,’ Amsel repeated. ‘Indeed, it is no secret that our relationship was somewhat strained. We rarely spoke. I am sure that von Mildenberg, Förster-Lauterer, Slezak or even Winkelmann would be much better informed concerning Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s circumstances and state of mind.’

Rheinhardt removed his notebook and scribbled down the names.

‘Why was your relationship with Fräulein Rosenkrantz strained? What was so contentious?’

‘Are petty opera house squabbles really of interest to the police, Herr Inspector?’ Rheinhardt did not respond and as the silence intensified Amsel was obliged to supply an answer: ‘She turned people against me.’

‘Who?’ Rheinhardt asked.

‘I trust this conversation is confidential?’

‘Of course.’

‘The other singers – some of the critics – even Director Mahler. I do not want to speak ill of her, especially now, and I have remembered her in my prayers.’ Again the singer touched her crucifix. ‘But there was something about her … something about her appearance,
a kind of fragility, the illusion of childish innocence, that she used to her advantage. She found it easy to manipulate men. And men run the opera house.’

‘Why would she want to turn people against you?’

‘Jealousy, Inspector.’ These words were spoken with decisive finality. Amsel clearly believed that her vocal superiority was indisputable and that only a man whose musical instincts had been horribly corrupted by Rosenkrantz’s perfidious charms could possibly think otherwise.

Liebermann crossed the Persian rug and leaned back against the piano, his arms folded.

‘Why,’ he began, ‘did you say that Ida Rosenkrantz turned away from God?’

‘Because she took her own life,’ the singer replied, a little perplexed. Then, looking narrowly at Liebermann, she added, ‘In the Catholic faith, Herr Doctor, self-slaughter is considered a mortal sin.’

‘Indeed,’ said Liebermann. ‘But why do you suppose she committed suicide?’

‘I am not
supposing
anything, Herr Doctor. I read that she had committed suicide in the
Zeitung
and the
Tagblatt.’

‘The newspapers reported that Fräulein Rosenkrantz
could
have committed suicide. It was also suggested that Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s death might have been accidental. The reports were inconclusive.’

Amsel shrugged. ‘I formed the impression that she had killed herself.’

‘Do you think that is what happened, then? Do you think she took her own life?’

The diva lifted her hands, her expression showing exasperation. ‘I don’t know. And what does it matter what I think? My opinion on this matter is surely of little importance. I didn’t know her well enough to pass comment.’ Then, quite suddenly, Amsel’s lower lip
began to tremble and she produced a loud sob, an anguished spasm of grief that might easily have reached the upper balcony of the world’s largest opera houses. The sob was so theatrical that Liebermann could hardly accept it as sincere, even though tears had begun to course down Amsel’s cheeks.

‘Madam,’ said Rheinhardt, offering her a starched white handkerchief.

‘Thank you, Inspector. I’m sorry.’ She dabbed at her eyes and spoke between mighty heaves of her chest. ‘We were not friends – quite the contrary – even so – it is a terrible thing … a terrible,
terrible
thing … One
would
… one
wouldn’t
wish such a thing to happen to anyone.’