Death And The Maiden

34

Arianne Amsel was lying in a vast four-poster bed, her eyes wide open, gazing into the darkness. The air was redolent with cigar smoke, the pungency of which failed to smother a feral undertow of post-coital fragrances. Floating in space, somewhere vaguely above her line of vision, was the glowing terminus of the cigar. It flared and crackled, revealing the aquiline nose and shrewd eyes of the lord marshal. His expression was typically severe. There was no slackening of the jaw, no benign indifference, no sign of the inebriate idiocy which stuns the spent male into satisfied silence before the precipitate onset of sleep.

They had originally been introduced by the lord chamberlain. The occasion had been a celebration of German culture at the palace, in the presence of His Majesty the emperor, Franz-Josef.

How long ago was it now? Arianne asked herself. Two years?

A few memories flickered into existence. Glamorous women, the Bosnian Guard, and the Hochmeister of the Teutonic Knights in his gleaming white cape. She had been invited to the function with other eminent members of the Richard Wagner Association, Baron von Triebenbach and a charming young composer called Aschenbrandt. It seemed to her that an age had passed since those heady days when she was loved by everyone.

At that time she’d had no idea how the lord marshal’s office served the emperor, but she had quickly guessed from the lord marshal’s manner (and the sycophantic behaviour of those around him) that he occupied an elevated station in the imperial hierarchy. He was certainly more commanding than the lord chamberlain. However, unlike Prince Liechtenstein, the lord marshal knew almost nothing about opera and his manner was rather cold and stiff. She had flirted with him, albeit in a rather half-hearted way, and when Aschenbrandt had appeared, providing her with an excuse to leave, she had welcomed the opportunity.

Flowers had followed and in due course the lord marshal had come to hear her sing in The Flying Dutchman. Friends told her how powerful he was, but even then she had only responded with polite interest to his romantic overtures. It wasn’t until Rosenkrantz had sung at the mayor’s birthday party that Arianne had cause to review her position with respect to the lord marshal. It wasn’t until then — far too late, in fact — that she came to appreciate the extent of Rosenkrantz’s iniquity.

When, finally, Arianne and the lord marshal did become lovers, their illicit couplings were an unexpected success. Even so, their assignations took place infrequently. The lord marshal exercised extreme caution in all his affairs and he made no exception when it came to the management of his private life.

‘Have the police been again?’

Arianne was aware that he had said something, but she was so deeply submerged in reminiscences that she was unable to identify the exact words.

‘I’m sorry? I was drifting off,’ she lied. ‘What did you say?’

‘The police? Have they been to the opera house again — asking questions?’

‘They haven’t spoken to me.’

‘What about the others?’

‘The police doctor, I’ve forgotten his name, he’s been back a few times to talk to the director.’

‘You saw him?’

‘No.’

‘Then how do you-’

‘It’s the opera house!’ said Arianne, sitting up. ‘We make it our business to know such things. Nobody enters the director’s office without news spreading.’ She paused before adding, ‘I hate him!’

‘Who?’

‘The director.’

‘Why? What’s he done now?’

‘The roles he has given me for the spring season are … demeaning. More Mozart! Who wants to sing Mozart! He does not give me the roles I deserve.’ Arianne turned on her side and nestled against her lover’s body. ‘Couldn’t you speak to Liechtenstein?’

‘I did.’

‘No, again, I mean.’

‘He said that Mahler doesn’t listen to anybody. He’s completely inflexible.’

‘But surely …’

‘The palace doesn’t like to be seen interfering.’

Arianne sighed and let her fingers play on the lord marshal’s inner thigh.

‘But the palace does interfere, doesn’t it?’

Arianne felt the lord marshal’s leg muscles tightening.

‘Whatever do you mean by that?’

‘People try to please the emperor, don’t they? And I’ve heard that, privately, His Majesty has said things about the director. He doesn’t approve of the way he runs the opera house.’

The lord marshal relaxed again. ‘That’s probably true.’

‘Well then …’

The lord marshal drew on the cigar and closed his hand around one of Arianne’s large breasts. The flesh only began to resist further compression when he was squeezing quite tightly. Arianne gasped.

‘I’ll think about it,’ said the lord marshal.

Arianne was not convinced that he would. Consequently, she disappeared beneath the bedclothes, where she began to perform an act which would ensure his compliance. She had come to accept, belatedly, that a singer’s career depended on more than just a good voice. Ida Rosenkrantz had obviously reached the same conclusion, but many years earlier.