Death And The Maiden

53

The director looked Amsel directly in the eye and said, ‘I am afraid that your contract will not be renewed next year.’

At first, the singer looked as if she was going to cry. Her haughty expression lost its integrity as her lower lip began to tremble. But then she touched her crucifix and seemed to draw strength and inspiration from its substance. Suddenly she was like a martyr, bravely accepting her destiny as the faggots ignited and the flames licked at the hem of her gown. Arianne Amsel shook her mane of dark curls and raised her chin. ‘I am not surprised, Herr Director. You have been undermining me for years now. It was inevitable that you would one day deliver the final blow.’

‘That is a very serious allegation, Fraulein Amsel.’

The singer responded by assuming an expression of pure contempt. ‘You men are so weak.’ Mahler drew back, his quizzical expression intensifying. ‘So easily manipulated.’

‘What?’

‘She turned you all against me.’

Mahler laughed incredulously.

‘Are you referring to Ida Rosenkrantz?’

Amsel reached across the director’s desk, pointing.

‘You were duped, just like the rest of them. Prince Liechtenstein, Intendant Plappart, Mayor Lueger! Yes, even you fell for her act.’ Amsel jabbed her rigid finger. ‘Even you were seduced by her counterfeit innocence.’

‘I can assure you,’ said the director with earnest authority, ‘Ida Rosenkrantz played no part in my decision to end your contract.’

‘That is something I find very hard to believe.’

‘Perhaps so, but it is true. There is only one person responsible for your fate.’ Mahler produced a knowing look. A subtle movement was sufficient to clarify his meaning. ‘You have given me many reasons to terminate your contract — your frequent indispositions, your tantrums and your tiresome objections to being cast in perfectly good roles. All these I have overlooked. But there is one thing that I could not, and cannot, overlook — your stubborn refusal to accept my prohibition of the claque.’

‘You are mistaken, Herr Director. I have never required services of that kind. I can hardly be blamed if my supporters are moved by the beauty of the human voice and choose to show their gratitude for artistry with applause.’

Mahler sighed.

‘I might have been persuaded otherwise last year, but this …’ Mahler’s hand revolved in the air as he searched for the right word, ‘… nuisance has become particularly conspicuous of late.’

Amsel motioned as if to speak but then suddenly changed her mind. She shook her head and her curls bounced before settling. This gesture, which usually betokened pride and vainglory, was now devoid of confidence. It had been reduced to a nervous tic, little more than an involuntary spasm.

‘I have employed some professional gentlemen of my own,’ Mahler continued. ‘Private detectives.’ He allowed Amsel a moment in which to register the implications of this admission: ‘The likes of Herr Vranitzky have no place in the opera house of the new century.’

The look of defeat on Amsel’s face was unmistakable. She rose from her chair and walked to the door. Mahler stood up and bowed. The gesture was entirely redundant but it was unthinkable for him to remain seated. It was important to observe the customary courtesies. Amsel turned. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes glinted with moisture.

‘I am sorry,’ said the director. ‘But the score is sacred, and the music must come before everything.’

‘You’ll never win, you know. ‘

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The claque. You’ll never get rid of them.’

‘Perhaps not. But I intend to have a very good try.’

‘A word of advice, Herr Director?’

‘Oh?’

‘You are making yourself very unpopular. You are making yourself enemies in high places.’

The director smiled.

‘I know.’