Death And The Maiden

25

In the seventeen-eighties, Emperor Josef II had decreed that, in order to limit the spread of disease, all interments should take place outside the city walls. So it was that the St Marxer cemetery came to be situated on the south-eastern fringes of the modern metropolis. The new cemetery was so small that it soon became overcrowded and no further burials were permitted after eighteen seventy-four. Standards of maintenance were relaxed and the ensuing decades had imbued the cemetery with a desolate, forlorn aspect.

On previous occasions when Liebermann had ventured out to St Marxer, this general impression of remoteness and neglect had been assisted by the weather. An overcast sky had created an oppressive, eerie gloom. Curiously, the conditions now were, once again, identical. He had never seen, and wondered whether he ever would see, this sad little graveyard in sunlight. It seemed to exist under a pall of perpetual melancholy. Grey clouds had massed on the horizon and the fitful breeze carried with it the harsh laughter of crows.

Liebermann strolled down the principal avenue, occasionally stopping to admire the statuary: an angel, kneeling, hands clasped together, his robes falling in beautifully executed folds from his muscular body; a sweet little child, with curly locks, hands crossed over his chest, and chubby ankles exposed beneath the hem of his baggy nightshirt; an ethereal being, bearing a torch, emerging from the uneven surface of a rough-hewn slab of rock. None of the tombs were very grand, but the understated artistry of their design was eloquent and arresting.

Turning off onto a muddy footpath, Liebermann made his way between more graves until he reached an open space containing a monument of white marble. A stricken cherub, hand held despairingly against its forehead, leaned against a broken pillar for support. The truncated column was symbolic, representing an untimely death. There was no epitaph on the pedestal, only a name in gold letters, and some dates:

W.A. Mozart

1756–1791

It was debatable whether the remains of the great composer really were beneath the monument. His body had been wrapped in a sack, sprinkled with lime to prevent contagion, and then tipped off a cart into a mass grave. The residual parts of those buried in this way — bones, teeth, hair — were usually dug up again after eight years. Mozart’s monument wasn’t erected until eighteen fifty-nine, by which time what was left of him would have been removed and scattered elsewhere. Still, thought Liebermann, there might be some physical remnant, some residuum, some trace yet preserved beneath the cold, wet earth.

Liebermann was, as always, deeply affected by the Mozartgrab. His instinct was to pray, but he was incapable of performing such a disingenuous act. He had no belief in God, saints, seraphim and cherubim or childish fantasies of immortality in a heavenly kingdom. It was all such nonsense! Consequently, he was denied a ready outlet for his natural inclination. Nevertheless, the urge to give some form to his feelings was insistent.

Listening to music was the closest Liebermann ever got to an experience of the numinous, so, very softly, he began to sing a song that for him served as a substitute for prayer, Schubert’s An die Musik:

O blessed art, how often in dark hours

When the savage ring of life tightens round me,

Have you kindled warm love in my heart,

Have transported me to a better world!

The gentle melody, croaked hoarsely above the imagined piano accompaniment, was cathartic: something inside, something tight and compact, found release. Liebermann reached out and touched the broken pillar. In a sense, its symbolism was universal. All lives were too short. He remembered a ward round he had attended as a student. The professor had presented the youthful aspirants with a cadaverous ninety-nine-year-old patient who was hanging on to life by a thread. It was the man’s birthday the following week, and he wanted, desperately, to reach the age of one hundred. Who was ever ready to die? There would always be one more book to read, one more person to see, one more hour or fleeting yet indispensable minute to spend.

The ninety-nine-year-old patient had died that evening.

Liebermann pressed his hand against the stone. He found himself thinking of Amelia Lydgate. He had read the book she had given him, Elective Affinities, a book about love. No, more than that, a book about inevitable love. He was constantly reminding his dear friend Rheinhardt that all human action, however trivial, had a deeper meaning. Perhaps it was time to take heed of his own counsel. Days were not in infinite supply.

Some spots of rain roused Liebermann from his deep musings. Withdrawing his hand from the truncated column, he chastised himself for becoming so self-absorbed. He had come to the St Marxer cemetery with a specific purpose in mind. Mozart was not the only composer buried within its walls. A few days earlier, Liebermann had visited the city registry in order to discover the final resting place of David Freimark. How fitting it was that the young composer, snatched from life before his time, should be buried so close to Mozart, the patron saint of premature ends and thwarted promise.

Liebermann trudged down the waterlogged avenues, searching for the headstone. Eventually he came to a group of Jewish graves, and one of these belonged to David Freimark. It was a simple arched slab, showing only his name and dates: 1837–1863. The porous stone had crumbled, rendering a brief epitaph illegible. On the raised mound in front of the headstone was a bunch of flowers. The blooms had begun to shrivel and some petals had been scattered by the wind. Other, older bunches, desiccated stems tied together with string, were also distributed around the grave. Liebermann examined each of them in turn to see if any tags were attached. There was nothing.

Rheinhardt, the pragmatic policeman, had challenged Liebermann. What was the point of speculating about Freimark? If the composer had been murdered, all those years ago, and Brosius was also dead, what was Liebermann’s purpose?

I want to find out the truth, thought Liebermann. He was a psychiatrist and an acolyte of Freud. His whole professional life was devoted to uncovering truths and it was not in his nature to ignore a mystery.

All these flowers …

Was it possible that Freimark still had a coterie of admirers? An artist remembered for a single work, however impressive, did not usually command such respect. No one had left a single bouquet on Mozart’s grave!

The rain had begun to fall harder. Liebermann raised his collar and hurried back to the cemetery entrance which was situated next to the gatekeeper’s lodge. It was a small, featureless building, the door propped open with an iron weight. Liebermann entered a bare reception room, which contained a table, a well-worn armchair and a small pot-bellied stove. A faded photograph of the emperor hung above a squat bookcase, each shelf stacked with ledgers.

Liebermann called out, ‘Hello?’

A grubby-looking man came through the rear door. He was holding a tin cup full of steaming liquid, gripped in both hands to warm his fingers.

‘Good afternoon, sir. How can I help?’

‘My name is Liebermann. I am currently undertaking some musical research. The composer David Freimark is buried here.’

‘Freimark,’ said the gatekeeper. He took a sip of his beverage, smacked his lips and added, ‘Composer, was he? I didn’t know that. Of course, if it’s composers you’re looking for-’

‘Mozart,’ interrupted Liebermann. ‘Yes, I know. My interest, however, is in Freimark.’

The gatekeeper shrugged: suit yourself.

‘I noticed,’ Liebermann continued, ‘that fresh flowers have only recently been laid on his grave. Do you know who put them there?’

‘Yes, I do. It was me.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘Because I was told to.’

‘By who?’

‘What’s it to you?’ said the gatekeeper bluntly.

Liebermann took some coins from his pocket and nonchalantly placed them on the table.

The gatekeeper looked at the inducement, produced a melodic fragment using the syllables ‘pom-ti-pom’ and answered, ‘A lady. Frau Abend. We have an arrangement. I buy the flowers and put them on the grave four times a year. She gives me a little something for my trouble.’ He glanced again at the coins to indicate that the contract was remunerative.

‘Who is she, this Frau Abend?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is she related to Freimark?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Has she ever visited the grave herself?’

‘She did, a few years back. She didn’t stay very long. I think she was just checking up on me.’

‘Is she a very elderly lady?’

The gatekeeper laughed. ‘No. She’s quite young, as I recall.’

‘Do you know where she lives?’ The gatekeeper offered Liebermann another ‘pom-ti-pom’ and his expression suggested that something else was necessary before he could proceed. The young doctor found another krone in his pocket.

‘Much obliged, sir,’ said the gatekeeper. He put down his cup and pulled out a volume from the bookcase. Flicking it open he ran his finger down the page. ‘Here we are. Frau Astrid Abend.’