Death And The Maiden

13

As the tram came to a halt outside the town hall, Liebermann looked out of the window and saw a crowd of men standing on the pavement. There were red flags being waved and a banner, drooping between two poles, showed the masthead of a daily socialist newspaper, the Arbeiter Zeitung. On a makeshift platform made from wooden crates stood a speaker, angrily jabbing his finger at the seat of municipal power. Every jab was accompanied by a cheer from his supporters. Another group of men, all of whom were wearing white carnations, had gathered close by and were jeering. This second group were smartly dressed, but there was something about them that made Liebermann uneasy. They looked quite menacing.

Two socialists separated from the crowd and marched over to the hecklers. Insults were exchanged and some pushing and shoving followed. It was obviously going to become ugly. The tram pulled away as one of the mayor’s supporters landed the first punch.

Liebermann repositioned himself against the curve of the wooden seat and raised the collar of his coat. There could be little doubt that in recent months the atmosphere of the city had changed. It was not an ill-defined change but as tangible as the transition from one season to another. Debate in the coffee houses had become more heated and serious than usual. Words like overthrow and revolution surfaced from the general melee with alarming frequency, and tensions sought release too easily in violence.

It must be the forthcoming election, Liebermann thought.

The prospect of yet another victory for Mayor Lueger seemed to have polarised and intensified opinions. It occurred to Liebermann that the uneasy but dependable compromises so typical of Austrian political life might prove unsustainable. If so, what would happen then? He had always ignored his father’s gloomy forecasts. Mendel’s pessimism belonged to a different generation, another age, or so Liebermann had hitherto believed. Now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps bad things could still happen in this beautiful, cultured city.

Liebermann jumped off the tram and headed north towards Schotts. When he arrived at the music shop he was greeted by the salesman, Herr Shusetka, who presented him with the scores he had ordered on a prior visit, a volume of Dussek piano sonatas and the Mephisto Waltzes by Liszt.

‘I don’t suppose you have anything by a composer called Brosius?’ Liebermann asked.

Shusetka’s brow wrinkled. ‘Brosius?’

‘Johann Christian Brosius.’

‘The name is vaguely familiar.’

‘I heard his serenade for wind instruments played earlier this week. He’s rarely performed these days, but I understand he was once quite popular.’

‘Are you in a rush?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll look in the basement. I presume you’re only interested in piano pieces?’ Liebermann nodded. ‘If anyone needs service, ring the bell.’

Shusetka vanished through a door behind the counter. Liebermann heard a dull knocking sound as the salesman made his descent down a wooden staircase. Another customer entered and looked through the lieder collections, but departed without making a purchase. A considerable period of time elapsed before Herr Shusetka reappeared. When he did, he looked a little dishevelled.

‘You’re in luck,’ said Shusetka, offering Liebermann a slim volume of piano music. ‘I found this.’

Liebermann smiled and read: ‘Three Fantasy Pieces opus eighty-six.’

The pages were yellowing and exuded a dank fragrance. One of them was mottled with green-black mould.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Shusetka, brushing some dust from the sleeve of his jacket. ‘The basement gets damp this time of year.’

Another page was torn slightly.

Liebermann searched for the publication date and found it on the frontispiece: Vienna, eighteen sixty-two. The score was forty-one years old.

‘I’ll take it,’ said Liebermann decisively.

Liebermann walked home through the backstreets. He had not gone very far when he noticed that the stucco wall of one of the buildings had been defaced with black paint. He drew closer and the smudges became crudely executed letters. The slogan read, The money-Jews have taken our money, don’t let them take everything else. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, Liebermann tried to clean the surface — but the paint had already dried. It occurred to him that many others must have passed this slogan, but no one — so it seemed — had attempted to remove it. He placed the handkerchief back in his pocket and continued his journey, disturbed and apprehensive.

On returning to his apartment, Liebermann hung up his coat and went straight to the music room. He sat at the Bosendorfer 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.