Deadly Communion

62

LIEBERMANN WAS SEATED IN a box just to the right of the opera-house stage. The stalls were almost full and he glanced anxiously at his wristwatch.

Where was Rheinhardt?

An extraordinarily large chandelier hung down from the ornate ceiling. It consisted of two rings of light (a smaller circle floating above a much larger one) from which thousands of adamantine crystals were suspended. The Emperor’s box was dark, but beneath it the standing enclosure was crowded: military personnel and civilians kept apart by a bronze pole. Directly below, the finely dressed patrons were making more noise than usual, excited by the promise of a revolutionary production. A strikingly beautiful young woman dressed in blue velvet and pearls was gliding down the central aisle, accompanied on either side by Hussars. In the middle of the front row, two gentlemen dressed in the uniform of Court officials were taking their places next to a gentleman who was possibly the German Ambassador.

Liebermann heard the door opening and turned to see Rheinhardt making an awkward entrance — struggling to part the red drapes. He was clutching a bag of pralines. The inspector blustered into the box and sat down next to his friend.

‘I’m so sorry. I got rather delayed … something I had to sort out for tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh?’

Rheinhardt dismissed the inquiry with a hand gesture.

‘I have some news.’

‘Concerning?’

‘Frau Milena. The Czech police have arrested her.’

‘When did that happen?’

‘Last night. She had adopted a false identity and was living in a village close to the Bavarian border.’

‘How did they find her?’

‘They didn’t — she found them.’

‘She gave herself up?’

‘Yes: made a full confession.’ Rheinhardt opened the bag and invited Liebermann to take a praline. The young doctor chose a white crenellated sphere dusted with cocoa the colour of ochre. He bit the chocolate in half and examined the interior, which was black and pitted with tiny pieces of crushed almond. The chocolate melted in his mouth, releasing a delicate blend of coffee and oranges. ‘Good?’ continued Rheinhardt. ‘They should be — I got them from the shop downstairs and they were prohibitively expensive.’ The inspector selected a praline covered in toasted coconut. He began chewing, closed his eyes and produced a groan of deep satisfaction. After which he added: ‘She’s being brought back to Vienna in the morning.’

‘Guilt — I suppose.’

‘What?’

‘That is why she gave herself up. Guilt. Like Erstweiler, her mental constitution was not strong enough to survive the emotional consequences of her own crime. When she and Erstweiler killed Bozidar Kolinsky, in a way they also killed themselves.’

Rheinhardt nodded in agreement. He took a second praline, the sweetness of which seemed to render him incapable of speech: an almost idiotic smile played around his lips. In due course he came to his senses and said: ‘So — Tristan anâ holâc — thank you so much for getting tickets.’

‘Well, a celebration was in order, surely — and I thought the themes apposite.’

‘The reviews have been stupendous! The dawn of a new epoch in the history of opera — so they say.’

‘I am most eager to see Roller’s sets. Apparently, his work is richly symbolic. Everything he incorporates has meaning — even the colours and small decorative details. In this respect he’s a little like a psychoanalyst …’

They continued talking about the production’s excellent reviews until the orchestra finished tuning up, the lights dimmed, and the wiry frame of director Mahler appeared on the podium.

The prelude was exquisite, emerging naturally from the preceding moment of silence and repeatedly dissolving into mute lacunae before rising in a great wave of sound which — when it broke — created an indefinable yearning, the physicality of which united the audience in a collective and audible sigh. Mahler’s genius made the score entirely transparent, a slow tempo encouraging the ear to savour every melodic line and nuance. He was like some great anatomist, wielding his baton like a scalpel, revealing mysteries that had hitherto remained beyond the reach of human comprehension.

When the curtain rose, Liebermann found himself looking down on the deck of a ship, the rigging of which stretched out towards the audience. But this was no ordinary vessel: the sea that it had crossed was not the body of water separating Ireland from Cornwall but the deeper and less fathomable ocean of the unconscious. This vessel had sailed straight out of a dream. Liebermann noticed that the deck was strewn with curious objects: a gold chest shaped like a reliquary, a couch marked with pagan carvings, and sumptuous brocaded cushions.

Unfortunately, with the arrival of the singers, the music changed — and the spell which had up to that point held Liebermann in thrall lost some of its potency. Although Liebermann was highly appreciative of Wagner’s orchestral writing, he frequently found the composer’s declarative vocal parts less impressive. Be that as it may, Liebermann was still able to enjoy the performance by focusing his attention on the statuesque figure of Anna von Mildenburg, who made an arresting Isolde. The great soprano was dressed entirely in silver-grey and wore a collar piece encrusted with semi-precious stones in a geometrical arrangement. It reminded Liebermann of Frau Vogl’s brooch …

During the first interval the two friends went outside to smoke cigars. They stood under the loggia talking about the performance and watching the carriages and trams rolling around the Ringstrasse.

‘How is Haussmann?’ Liebermann asked, suddenly recalling the last time he’d seen him: the poor boy writhing around on Sprenger’s floor.

‘I am pleased to report that he is fully recovered. In fact, he’ll be helping me with a little police business tomorrow morning.’

A beggar approached holding out a tin cup. As he advanced towards them a uniformed steward came out from behind the doors, waving his hands in the air: ‘Go on, away with you! Leave these gentlemen alone!’

Rheinhardt gestured for the steward to stand back, and dropped a coin in the cup.

‘Get yourself something warm to drink.’

The beggar bowed, touched the tin to his forehead, and shuffled off.

‘You shouldn’t encourage them, sir,’ said the steward.

‘No,’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘Perhaps not …’

When the curtain rose for the second act the stage was bathed in violet light: a garden, on a hot summer’s evening. An arched doorway and steep marble staircase led up to the keep of a fairy-tale castle that was partly obscured by trees. The battlements of the castle were glowing with a soft pink hallucinatory luminescence. Beyond a low wall, decked with lilacs, violets and white roses, the garden sloped down to a glittering moonlit sea. The entire scene was constructed beneath a sky shimmering with thousands of stars. The effect was truly magical.

This, then, was the setting for the introduction of the idea of Liebestod — the love death — Wagner’s metaphysical conflation of desiring and oblivion. The orchestra surged, ecstatic and sublime, and the two lovers, Tristan and Isolde, sang of a need for each other so deep, so profound, that it would necessarily require their utter annihilation as individuals to be fulfilled.

— Thus might we die, undivided

— One for ever without end

— Never waking

— Never fearing

— Embraced namelessly in love

The voices of Erik Schmedes and Anna von Mildenburg were so full of passion and power that Liebermann felt something catch close to his heart.

Again and again the lovers sang of their longing to be free of the world, the bliss of non-existence, and the heady pleasures of communion with the night: the effect was completely overwhelming.

Mildenburg’s voice soared above the turbulent orchestra.

— Let me die.

And Liebermann too wanted to die — in love — and to kiss the face of eternity …

It was in all of them, this insane obsession with sex and death. They were all sick: Sprenger, Erstweiler, Rainmayr, Wagner, Mahler, Schmedes and von Mildenburg. And yes, he — Max Liebermann — had to include himself at the end of this list. He was just as afflicted with the very same madness.

What was wrong with the German soul?

Why were love and death so intermingled in the German imagination?

Liebermann glanced across at Rheinhardt and saw that his cheeks were streaked with tears.

We Viennese, thought Liebermann to himself. What will become of us?