Death And The Maiden

45

Only the chandeliers above the stage of the Grosser Saal were illuminated. The rest of the concert hall was in shadow. Liebermann was seated in the back row of the balcony, peering through opera glasses at the wind section of the orchestra. It consisted of Herr Treffen — the principal flute — two oboes, two clarinets and two bassoons.

Director Mahler was rehearsing Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony: the trio section of the third movement. The music was lively and exciting, its equine gallop carrying the listener forward with the buoyant energy of its skittish syncopations. Mahler’s left hand was planted firmly on his hip, while his right hand beat the air with casual ferocity. Sweat had collected on his brow, his hair sprouted vertically from his head, and his pince-nez were tilted at such a crooked angle that Liebermann felt sure they they would fall off at any moment. Suddenly the director stopped conducting and stamped his foot on the podium. The booming sound he managed to create was apposite, being very Beethovenian in its power to evoke fateful associations.

‘No, no, no,’ Mahler cried, glaring at the wind section. ‘Gentlemen, would you kindly observe the composer’s phrasing. Again please.’ Through the opera glasses Liebermann observed Herr Treffen’s expression. He did not look very happy.

The orchestra repeated the passage but their efforts failed to appease the director. He stamped his foot again. A single ceremonial beat that found dramatic longevity in the hall’s acoustically munificent niches.

‘This is intolerable!’ Mahler cried.

His face was distorted with rage. His eyes flashed with a diabolical light and his mouth twisted into an ironic, malevolent smile. The right corner drooped down to create an expression of such menace that the offending parties became rigid with fear.

‘Who did it?’ Mahler shouted at the wind section, jutting his head forward. ‘Come on. Own up! Which one of you did it?’

‘Herr Director?’ ventured one of the bassoons, his voice quavering and uncertain. ‘Who did what?’

‘I heard an F.’ Mahler slashed the air with his baton. ‘Who played the F?’

The tension mounted. Mahler’s face darkened, turning a shade of red that augured an outburst of volcanic magnitude. The tension created by the imminence of this cataclysm was unbearable, causing those musicians closest to the director to cringe. The second oboe, a young man with a fuzzy blond beard, courageously raised his hand and said, ‘It might have been me, Herr Director.’ There was a communal holding of breath, an expectant pause, during which it seemed perfectly possible that Mahler would pounce on the oboist and devour him. Instead, the director nodded at the young man and said, ‘Let us continue.’ Mahler tapped the music stand with his baton. ‘From the pianissimo — and please, gentlemen, pay attention to the dynamics. It doesn’t say crescendo on the score. It says crescendo poco a poco.’ He rotated his head, slowly, taking in every member of the orchestra. ‘Poco a poco. Little by little.’

The rehearsal continued in this manner for over an hour, with Mahler attending to every minute performance indication with pathological exactitude. At one point, he insisted that Herr Treffen play a single phrase, on his own, six times. Afterwards, Liebermann scrutinised the wind players and was gratified to see small gestures of consolation and solidarity. The subtle exchange of complicit glances was encouraging and gave him reason to believe that his plan just might work.

When the rehearsal was over, Liebermann quickly left the concert hall and stood in the vicinity of the stage door. The musicians soon followed, spilling out onto the pavement. A few walked off immediately, but the majority stopped to smoke and talk with their colleagues. They hung around in a large amorphous group that gradually fragmented into smaller groups and a ribbon of stragglers. The dispersal of the orchestra was a slow process, but in due course Herr Treffen, the second oboe and one of the clarinettists separated from the throng and drifted off in the direction of the Ringstrasse. Liebermann stepped from his place of concealment and commenced his pursuit.

The trio of musicians crossed Karlsplatz and turned along the Naschmarkt. They chose a side street and after taking a few more turnings arrived at their destination, a grubby little beer cellar. Liebermann congratulated himself on his perspicacity. After such a gruelling rehearsal, during which the wind instruments had been thoroughly humiliated by Director Mahler, it was inevitable that Treffen would call a meeting of his war council. Liebermann waited for a few minutes and then walked down the steps and opened the door. On entering, he was surprised and delighted to find that the beer cellar was quite full. The clientele were a strange mix of professional men and labourers. Some political pamphlets on the tables suggested a common cause.

Liebermann located the players. They had taken off their coats and were now sitting at a table. The landlord — a man with a spectacularly oversized turned-up moustache — presented them with three steins and slapped Treffen on the back. They were obviously regulars.

Mounted on the wall next to their table was a blackboard displaying the menu: salonbeuschel (veal lung and heart), gebackene Schweinsohren(fried pig’s ears), grenadiermarsch (infantryman’s stew) and tafelspitz (boiled beef). There were only two desserts, apfelstrudel and pancakes. Liebermann stood with his back to Treffen’s cabal and studied the menu carefully. Over the general hubbub he was able to catch a few angry words: outrageous, unacceptable. A gentleman at an adjacent table rose and Liebermann took his place. As he did so, a woman advanced from behind the counter and wiped the dirty surface with a damp rag.

‘What can I get you?’ she said, giving Liebermann a rather peculiar look.

‘The boiled beef,’ he answered.

‘And anything to drink?’

‘A dunkel.’

‘Which one?’

‘I’m not fussy.’

The woman walked off, her broad hips swaying as she negotiated a course through the crowded cellar. Liebermann saw her say something in the landlord’s ear which prompted the man to throw a glance in Liebermann’s direction. This prompted Liebermann to consider his surroundings more carefully and he was soon able to guess the nature of what had been said. He was the only Jew present. However, none of the patrons seemed to have noticed and the landlord showed no further interest in him.

Liebermann turned his head slightly and strained to hear the musicians.

— Did you understand what he wanted?

— No, not all.

— He is insane. He tries to make distinctions where there are no distinctions to be made. I’ve never known anything like it.

— We cannot go on like this.

A group of labourers burst out laughing, drowning out the musicians’ talk with their loud guffaws. When their racket had subsided, Liebermann heard just one further snippet of conversation, but it was enough.

— What are you going to do now, Thomas?

— I’m going to write to Plappart again.

The waitress returned with Liebermann’s boiled beef and beer. She put the plate in front of him and flicked open the lid of the stein.

Liebermann took some coins out of his pocket and placed them in the woman’s hand. ‘Actually,’ he said, standing to leave, ‘I’m not very hungry after all.’ The look of disappointment on the waitress’s face suggested to Liebermann that she had either spat in the food or adulterated it with something worse. ‘You eat it,’ he added, with a kindly smile.