Death And The Maiden

9

‘Do you realise how many people work here, Inspector?’ said the director. ‘There are the principal performers, several choruses, choirmasters and repetiteurs, the members of the orchestra, guest instrumentalists, piano accompanists and the prompt. The stage machinery alone requires fifty permanent operators and a dozen electricians, and another thirty-five stage-hands are employed for large productions. There are the administrators, the costume designers, seamstresses, tailors, painters, carpenters, light engineers, porters, ushers, dressers, cloakroom attendants, and box-office staff. We even have our own opera physician. I could go on. The court opera is like a small principality. You wish to conduct an investigation — but where, exactly, do you propose to start?’

Rheinhardt took a slim box of trabucos from his coat pocket and offered one to the director.

Mahler waved his hand in the air.

‘No, have one of mine. I owe you two gentlemen this small courtesy, at least.’ He opened a desk drawer and removed a canister packed with fat cigars wrapped in silver paper. As he distributed them he added, ‘A gift from an archduke who fancies himself a composer. These cigars arrived with an opera score and a request for me to consider it for inclusion in next year’s programme. Regrettably, the music was entirely without merit and I had to refuse him. The lord chamberlain wasn’t very happy, but what was I supposed to do?’

Rheinhardt struck a match and lit the director’s and Liebermann’s cigars before lighting his own. The tobacco was of a very high quality and tasted like caramel.

‘Very good,’ said Rheinhardt, exhaling a yellow cloud that expanded into a haze of pungent sweetness. Crossing his legs, he returned to the original topic of conversation. ‘I take your point, Herr Director: many people work at the opera house. But I only want to consult a few of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s associates, preferably close associates, and was hoping that you would be able to identify who such persons might be.’

‘As I have already stated,’ said the director, ‘my relationship with Fraulein Rosenkrantz was strictly professional. I did not know her very well and therefore cannot speak with much authority.’ He rested his forehead against the knuckles of his closed fist. After a brief pause, he added, ‘It was rumoured that she was having some form of dalliance with Winkelmann last year, but I’m sure that it wasn’t very much more than a little harmless flirtation. You must understand, inspector, there is always a great deal of gossip at the opera house, and most of it is highly fanciful.’ Mahler drew on his cigar and the creases on his brow deepened. ‘However, I think I am correct in saying that Fraulein Rosenkrantz had a particular fondness for Herr Schneider.’

Rheinhardt took out his notebook. ‘Who?’

‘Felix Schneider. Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s dresser, although in reality he was more like a factotum. She brought him with her when she came here from Prague.’

‘Where can we find him?’

‘He will be at home.’ Mahler addressed his secretary, ‘Przistaupinsky, can you find Herr Schneider’s address for the inspector?’

The secretary bowed and left the room.

Rheinhardt wrote the name Felix Schneider in his notebook and tapped the pencil against the page.

‘I understand that Fraulein Rosenkrantz wasn’t very happy at the opera house.’

The director responded, ‘How do you mean?’

‘She found you …’ Rheinhardt faltered. ‘I apologise, Herr Director, but I must be blunt. I was informed that she found you demanding.’

The corners of Mahler’s mouth curled to produce a humourless smile.

‘They all find me demanding, Inspector. I am perfectly aware of what people say behind my back. I am a tyrant, a monster! But when the singers are getting their standing ovations and the audience are calling for more and stamping their feet, all is forgiven. Under my direction they give the performances of their lives. That is why they stay.’

‘I have been told that there is bad feeling between some of the singers.’

‘Opera singers are a vainglorious breed. They surround themselves with sycophants and panderers whose foolish talk frequently excites envy. They covet each others’ roles and begrudge each others’ successes. This business with Schmedes and Winkelmann is typical.’ Mahler shook his head, becoming eloquent with despair. ‘There are so many factions and divisions in this opera house, the atmosphere is so heavy with rancour and hostility, that if I were transported backwards in time to the court of the Borgias it would seem a model society by comparison.’

Rheinhardt smiled but his gaze remained steady and serious.

‘Did Fraulein Rosenkrantz have many enemies?’

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 Fraulein 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 Fraulein 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 Fraulein 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 Fraulein 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?’