The Strange Case of the Composer and His Judge (38 page)

Again she began to rationalise the circumstances. He is a busy man, about to conduct an important performance. The phone call may have been urgent. Perhaps one of the singers is ill. Marie-T will have told him that I intended to come. He knows where I am sitting. He will interpret my presence as the answer, the answer he desires and that I promised to give. And so she turned away from the door and settled herself in the vast red-and-gold cavern of the Albert Hall.

The concert had sold out. An impatient queue waiting for returns stretched away from the box office and curled round the building. Some people wore evening dress, others turned up in jeans, grimy jackets, wet raincoats, and pushed past her to their seats. A hollow echo in the corridors regurgitated the muffled noise of talk, food being wolfed down quickly, programmes, scrunched newspapers. The informality amused the Judge; the whole thing was vast as a football stadium and the public presented themselves groomed for an outdoor performance. Yet something festive and intent washed over all; everyone had already decided that they were going to love the music and enjoy themselves. She looked round for Marie-T. Where is she? She knows where I am. She noted the seat number when she looked at my ticket.

And suddenly she saw the girl, the green dress shining among the dark suits, the tall fair head craned above the crowd. She watched the Composer’s daughter searching for her. But just as she was about to wave she recognised the small grey man beside her: Professor Hamid, in full evening dress with white tie and silk scarf, elegant and dapper, two programmes tucked under his arm. He scanned the stalls, also searching for her face. The Judge looked down and away, startled. Hamid, the Keeper of the Stones. And of course it was obvious; he isn’t just an expert on Egyptian astronomy, he too must be a member of the Faith. The Judge found her own sudden shiver of repulsion unaccountable and strange. It’s the not-knowing. I am so used to holding all the cards, always knowing more than the helpless people before me. I suspected him, but was not sure. And even now I cannot be utterly certain. I do not know what I know.

The choir filed in, taking their places on the raised rows of seats above the orchestra. The great dome rustled and hushed. The Judge noticed the absence of Johann Weiß at once. A young woman with short hair took his place as the first violin to a warm outburst of applause. Where is he? But of course, it’s not the Composer’s usual orchestra. Yet still – something was wrong. She risked a glance to the far end of the rows behind her. Marie-T was buried in the programme and Hamid was gazing at the gilt decorations on the boxes above. No one else seemed concerned. Then she felt the spreading expectation throughout the auditorium and saw the Composer’s great white mass of hair and broad shoulders following the singers: two women in bright silk gowns, the men in evening dress. The audience erupted with a great boom of applause.

Is it possible to be impatient with Beethoven? The Judge fiddled with her programme, seething in irritation. How long will this take? She fixed her eyes on the Composer’s hands, his fingers on the baton, she calculated the tension in his back, his white hair shaking as he lunged down to kiss the hand of the first violin. She braced herself in surprise as she saw the long lines of pain and stress that marked his cheek when he turned, his glare drawing in the brass and the woodwind. She could not see his entire face. Suddenly he wheeled around and bowed to the audience; amidst the thunder of welcome she caught the caged glance of a creature gathering all its remaining force, crouched and ready to spring.

The entire first act tortured her powerful calm, her habitual self-control. She wanted to see his face again. Beethoven set out his stall, his only opera, the only one of the many he tried to write, whose success was uneven and late in coming. But the Judge could barely listen to Beethoven. The thing was sung in German. She locked her understanding against a language she knew perfectly well and fought the impulse to fidget. She had absorbed the synopsis in the programme, but now found it impossible, given that the singers were standing still and bellowing over the footlights and the music stands, to follow the plot.

A prison, a dungeon, a tyrant, his jailer, the daughter Marzelline, who is in love with a woman disguised as a boy, the eponymous Fidelio, who is in fact looking for her husband, incarcerated somewhere in the prison by the evil villain. All the elements of opera condensed into a static tableau of pure music. The Judge, bored and cross, contained herself with difficulty. This was all an unnecessary prelude to the real action of the evening: her confrontation with the Composer. The odd moments where the singers appeared to drop out of character and actually spoke rather than sang disconcerted her completely. So too did the rapt and reverent attention of thousands of people all around and above her. It was like being part of a congregation whose beliefs she did not share. She clenched her fists and fixed her concentration solely on the man she loved; she had no idea what he was actually doing in front of this disparate engine of noise and movement; he seemed to be hauling on invisible ropes, as if struggling to control a ship in full sail and high winds. She noticed that he actually mouthed the text back to the singers; he knew the opera by heart. Neither the principals nor any member of the choir took their eyes off him for an instant. He was the centre of the great wheel churning round him. She longed for the concert to end, and sat biting her lip.

Marie-T found her in the interval.

‘Isn’t it wonderful? I’m so happy you are here. Have you met Professor Hamid from the British Museum? He’s one of Friedrich’s friends.’

Professor Hamid gravely raised her fingers to his lips. His face, set and serious, further disturbed her equilibrium; his entire presence appeared heavy with undisclosed knowledge.

‘Mes hommages, Madame.’

‘Yes, we have met.’ Her cold eyes scanned him, wary, suspicious. The moment passed. The Judge settled back for the second act, now radically ill at ease. There was no reason for Hamid not to be there, but his presence caused an upheaval within her. Why? She could not make sense of her own discomfort.

The second act of
Fidelio
, even presented as a static concert performance, is irresistibly dramatic. And the singers rose to the task. Florestan, waiting for death in the darkest corner of the prison, imagines that he sees his wife as an angel come to release him, and, in one of the most extraordinary shifts from the minor to the major key, oppression gives way to liberation and despair is transformed into hope. Even the Judge, her spirit muffled and overwrought, heard the moment, and the promise:
Ein Engel – der führt mich zur Freiheit ins himmlische Reich
. An angel leads me to freedom in the heavenly kingdom. The production eschewed all costumes, scenery and props, all except one. As Pizarro the tyrant rose up to stab his victim the soprano reached into her small jewelled evening bag and pulled out a gun, clearly visible to all the audience, which she pointed straight at his chest. A gasp rippled through the Albert Hall. The drama of the incident was compounded by the sudden call of the trumpets, the trumpets of judgement and salvation. Leonora cast away her pistol, seized the tenor’s velvet lapel, and announced the moment of universal salvation with a mighty roar:

Es schlägt der Rache Stunde!

Du sollst gerettet sein!

The hour of vengeance is at hand!

You shall be saved!

And the choir, unleashed at last, belted out their hymn to joy, justice and love, for just slightly more than ten minutes. The climax struck the Judge as unlikely as it was compelling. But she too was swept away in an explosion of rejoicing.

The Composer commanded the orchestra to its feet and as he stood, facing the bright hall and rapt thunder of the public, his still face swept round the stalls, searching for her. Along with everyone else the Judge had risen to her feet. But he had already seen her and his face, tense, lined, obscure, illuminated with excitement and relief. She saw him clearly at last, beyond her reach, his arms raised in triumph, his face transfigured with certainty and joy.

17

JODRELL BANK

‘We’re staying at the Dorchester. Professor Hamid’s gone on ahead. Friedrich booked you a room. It’s terribly expensive. You mustn’t think of paying. He says the orchestra will foot this one. Quick! Taxi!’

And so she was swept away on Marie-T’s arm, into the rainy night, hearing the hiss of traffic through the wet, seeing the drooping trees turning downwards, inwards towards the dark. The uniformed porter at the hotel wanted to carry her luggage and seemed disconcerted that she didn’t have any.

‘Here’s the key to the suite. Slip it in the slot and the lights come on. You know that system? The Professor might be up there already.
502
. I’m just going to sort out supper and champagne. We’ve stayed here before. I know everybody in the bar.’

The Judge took the lift. As she stepped out on to the hushed dark carpet she became instantly aware of someone waiting. The long grey coat and scarf were familiar, so was the obstinate stubbled jaw and the shaved down on his naked head. Schweigen.

‘André! Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici?’ She clamped her hand upon his arm in horror. But her stalker refused to give way.

‘Just listen, Dominique. And don’t say anything. There’s been another mass suicide. Again in Switzerland. At that château where I found you last week.’

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘How?’

‘We don’t know. Probably poison. But the last one out must have torched the building. There’s very little left and most of the bodies are burned beyond recognition. They’ll have to be identified by DNA and dental records.’

‘How many?’

But she already knew the answer. Nine. There had been twelve plates in the dishwasher. The Composer, Marie-T and the Professor were still here. The thirteenth plate had been hers. Nine. There were nine bodies consumed by fire.

‘How did you know?’

‘It’s my investigation. I know.’

‘Well, the Swiss will fuck it up now. So far as I can gather there were no French nationals in this departure. They were either Swiss or German.’

‘Why are you here, André?’

He took hold of her shoulders and shook her until her glasses were dislodged and her tortoiseshell clamp came loose.

‘To make sure you weren’t one of the dead,’ he yelled.

She wrestled out of his grasp.

‘You’re mad.’

‘So are you!’

‘Am I interrupting anything?’ Professor Hamid, suave, self-possessed, still wearing his camel coat, appeared in the doorway; the dim rooms, comfortable and luxurious, unfolded behind him in a sequence of crystal and mirrors. He stood aside. Schweigen, unaccountably aware of the geography of the suite, strode in, pushing the Judge in front of him.

‘Monsieur Schweigen?’ The Professor held out his hand. André ignored him and prowled round the sitting room, turning off the television, which welcomed Mr Friedrich Grosz and family to the Dorchester in flickering yellow letters. Hamid sat down on a deep golden sofa, which settled around him, like a throne.

‘Well, I gather that you both know about the recent Swiss departure. A tragic business, which we have tried – and failed – to prevent. At least no one else was hurt in this terrible catastrophe. And no children were involved. I have something to give to each one of you, which I must do quickly, before Marie-Thérèse arrives with her bottles of champagne.’

He unearthed the Guide, Das Buch des Glaubens, from beneath the cushions and presented it to Dominique Carpentier, who dropped her black rucksack to the floor and accepted the gift with both hands.

‘This is from Friedrich Grosz, Madame. He has given it to you for safe keeping. And I am sure, that if you come to visit me, which I hope you will do, I can teach you how to read every word.’

He glanced at Schweigen, who was studying each object in the room in turn, as if committing everything to memory, before trying his hand at naming them all in a quiz show.

‘Monsieur Schweigen? This is for you.’ And he produced a small-calibre pistol from the inside pocket of his coat. The Judge and Schweigen froze. She pressed the great book against her chest.

‘Please don’t be alarmed. It’s not loaded. And it is the gun that was used to shoot Professor Anton Laval and his sister, Marie-Cécile. I am very happy to make a detailed statement to the British police concerning both their deaths in front of you, Monsieur Schweigen, at your earliest convenience. Your presence as the investigating officer in the last case and your familiarity with the events of
1994
will be a great help, both to the authorities here, and indeed, to me. Needless to say, our friend Monsieur Grosz knows nothing about any of this, and should you see him again I would be grateful if you would say nothing. Or at least not yet. We all have our methods of persuasion and I know that I could never bring him to approve of mine.’