Death And The Maiden

37

Although Frau Zollinger had agreed to see Liebermann, her tight-lipped suspicious expression did not betoken recognition. She was sitting in a chintz armchair and her features were even more severe than Liebermann had remembered: hooked nose, sharp chin — brittle lacquered hair. She picked up her walking stick and waved

it towards a chaise longue.

‘Sit down, Herr Doctor. Do you know anything about bunions?’

‘A bunion is an enlargement of bone or tissue around the joint of the big toe.’

‘What do you do with them?’

‘You mean, how are they treated?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am a psychiatrist. It would be better to follow the advice of your specialist.’

‘He wants me to sit with my feet in a bucket of ice.’

‘Then that is what you should do.’

‘A woman of my age? I’d get a cold.’

‘I cannot suggest an alternative.’

At least Frau Zollinger knew who he was.

Liebermann sat down, glancing around the room. It was filled with ornaments and objets d’art. The walls were covered with oil paintings — one of which looked like an allegorical work by Hans Makart — and a rosewood grand piano occupied the far corner.

‘Do you play, Frau Zollinger?’

‘No. My husband did, but very badly. He was good at making money but not much else. He would sit for hours at that piano, murdering Chopin.’ She shook her head. ‘When he developed arthritis he had to stop. He was devastated but I was relieved. I used to get such headaches.’

Liebermann had written to Frau Zollinger, explaining that he had developed an interest in Brosius’s music since hearing the Wind Serenade at the concert where they had met. He had requested an interview in order to discover more about the composer and his circle. The request had been granted in spindly handwriting on paper that smelled of violets.

Frau Zollinger did not take much prompting. She spoke readily about her soirees, recalling the artists and poets whom she and her husband had entertained. Many of them were no longer famous, but Liebermann permitted himself the humane dishonesty of pretending to know of their reputations. Frau Zollinger had obviously over-estimated the significance of her salon, and Liebermann did not want to disabuse her of this harmless delusion. In due course she spoke of musicians, and once again linked the names of Brahms and Brosius together.

‘They were friends,’ said Frau Zollinger, ‘but it was only a matter of time before they argued. Brahms argued with almost everyone in the end, even with his closest associates. He had a colossal temper. And Brosius was just the same. It was remarkable that the friendship lasted as long as it did.’

‘What was the cause of the argument?’

‘I don’t know. Something to do with Bruckner, I think.’ She paused and added, ‘I have a recording of him somewhere.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Brahms. You know — a wax cylinder? My husband was much impressed by Edison’s machine and brought one back from America. He recorded Brahms playing one of the Hungarian Dances.’

‘Where is it?’

‘In a box with all the others. My husband made many recordings — mostly of himself, unfortunately. Everyone thought the phonograph was a miracle, but I found its scratchy sound rather irritating.’

‘Do you have any recordings of Brosius or Freimark?’

‘No. They died long before my husband visited America. He didn’t talk to me very much.’

‘Your husband?’

‘Brahms. He exhibited a peculiar attitude with respect to women. If they did not appeal to him, he was incredibly awkward and ungracious; if they were pretty, he had an unpleasant way of leaning back in his chair, pouting, stroking his moustache, and staring at them as a greedy boy stares at cakes. He never gave me that greedy stare.’ The old woman paused and added without sentimentality and with a modicum of pride: ‘Few did.’

‘I expect he must have given Angelika Brosius that look.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Frau Zollinger. ‘Of course.’

Her lips twitched but failed to sustain a smile.

Liebermann crossed his legs and leaned forward.

‘Did you know that Angelika Brosius has a niece? Frau Abend?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

Liebermann explained how he had learned of Frau Abend’s existence. When he had finished telling the story of Freimark’s grave he added, ‘She agreed to see me last Sunday. I was hoping to find some of Brosius’s manuscripts. But they’ve all been given to the conservatoire.’

The old woman seemed to withdraw and her eyes became glassy.

‘I was there — at Freimark’s funeral.’

‘Were you?’

‘Yes. A modest affair.’

‘Was Brosius there also?’

‘Yes. And Angelika.’

Liebermann tried to make his next statement sound innocuous.

‘Frau Abend said something very intriguing. She said that Angelika Brosius and David Freimark were … lovers.’ The old woman nodded. ‘You knew this?’

‘It was suspected.’

‘Did Brosius know of his wife’s infidelity?’

‘He couldn’t leave her. She was his inspiration.’

‘Frau Zollinger,’said Liebermann, ‘the accident on the Schneeberg …’

‘Yes?’

‘Was it an accident?’

‘Men are maddened by beauty. I was never beautiful, which is just as well. Who wants to be surrounded by madmen?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Apart from psychiatrists.’

‘Frau Zollinger,’ said Liebermann, a hint of urgency hardening his voice. ‘Is it possible that Brosius killed David Freimark?’

The old woman examined her walking stick. She wasn’t disturbed, merely preoccupied. Eventually she changed position and said, ‘I asked the very same question myself — at the time.’

‘Did you speak to anyone?’

‘Yes. My husband.’

‘How did he respond?’

‘He became angry. He told me I was being ridiculous. He told me I should keep thoughts like that to myself. It was shameful, he said, to doubt the integrity of Brosius, a man whom we counted among our friends. I know why he was so agitated.’

‘Why?’

‘It had crossed his mind too.’