Fatal Lies

72

Liebermann watched the late-afternoon traffic rolling by: fiacres, omnibuses, trams, and an impressive four-horse carriage with a gold crest emblazoned on its black lacquered door. The occupant-a visiting royal of some description-could just be discerned inside, a shadowy figure craning to get a better view of the opera house.

It was a grand building, constructed in the neo-Renaissance style. However, when it had been completed, the emperor had been overheard agreeing with one of his aides concerning the appearance of the new opera house: it looked… a trifle low, perhaps? The architect dutifully hanged himself, and two months later his collaborator died of a heart attack. Thereafter, Franz Josef only praised the work of civic artists. “Beautiful, beautiful…” became his unvarying response.

Inside the opera house, the orchestra and singers were rehearsing Siegfried. Liebermann had discovered this by talking to the doorman, who-for two kronen-was easily persuaded to give him advance notice of the musicians’ imminent departure.

The young doctor had stationed himself by one of the two stone fountains that flanked the loggia. He had stood by this particular fountain on numerous occasions but had never troubled to examine it closely. The female figure seated at the summit was the legendary siren Lorelei, and below the elegant bowl were three sentries representing love, grief, and vengeance. Liebermann laughed bitterly. The themes dramatized his circumstance perfectly.

He had fallen in love with Trezska: he had been beguiled by her beauty, virtuosity, and mystery. In the virid halo of an absinthe stupor, she was as irresistible and strange as Lorelei. Yet there was a natural order of things, a universal logic, which insisted that love must always-at some point-be associated with grief. Small partingswhich pained the heart-were a mere prelude to the great sundering that awaits all lovers. Deceit, calamity, death-grief could not be postponed indefinitely. Liebermann had already started to grieve- even though the outcome of his inquiries was still uncertain. It did not feel premature. He was not psychic, but he wasn't stupid either. Love had been followed by grief, and he wondered whether vengeance was now waiting in the wings. Presumably, vengeance could come only at his behest. Would he summon that dark spirit, and become acquainted with all three personifications of the operatic triumvirate?

Liebermann was familiar with the legend of Lorelei through Liszt's setting of an eponymous poem by Heine. He recollected the opening bars: yearning, ambiguous harmonies, falling for a moment into silence-and then the voice, entering: “Ic h wei? nicht, was soil es heieuten,

Da? ich so traurighin.” I do not know what it means That I should feel so sad.

It was a romantic tale of men fatally fascinated by beauty. Liebermann looked up at the Rhine maiden. She was seated on a decorated pedestal, her body half-turned-carelessly exposing her breasts. She was slim-her arms delicately poised-and her corrugated hair flowed off her shoulders. Her expression was wickedly indifferent to masculine worship.

The sound of a voice floated above the traffic. The doorman had come out from beneath the loggia and was waving his hands in the air. Liebermann acknowledged his presence and walked toward the lobby. When he arrived, two men were emerging. The first was taller than the second. His thick dark hair was combed to the side and his beard was neatly trimmed. He wore spectacles, a fine gray suit, and a necktie loosely set to produce a wide knot. The second man was small and wiry, but his face was distinguished by an exceptionally high forehead and a strong, square chin. His hair-which was thinning a little-was brushed back and slightly bristled. He wore spectacles similar to the first man's, a dark jacket, and a white bow tie. Liebermann noticed that his gait was rather unusual: somewhat jerky and uneven.

The first man was Alfred Rose. The second was Rose's brother-in-law, Director Mahler. Although Liebermann had been waiting to address the first, the mere presence of the second made his step falter. For Liebermann, Director Mahler was only slightly less than a god.

“Concertmaster?” Liebermann called hoarsely. Rose didn't hear him, and the young doctor had to call again. “Concertmaster?”

The violinist stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“Herr Rose, I have a message… from one of your pupils.”

Rose didn't respond, but simply looked at his interlocutor inquisitively. Liebermann noticed that Mahler's right leg was twitching. This movement suggested impatience, but his expression was perfectly calm. The director finally stamped the ground lightly, and the twitching stopped.

“Fraulein Novak?” Liebermann added.

“Who did you say?”

“Fraulein Novak.”

“I'm sorry” said the concert master, shaking his head. “You must have been misinformed. I have no pupil called Novak.”

It was the answer that Liebermann had expected: but he wanted to make absolutely sure that later there would be no room for doubt in his mind.

“A Hungarian lady” he persisted. “She recently sought your advice on the spring sonata?”

Rose shook his head again-this time more vigorously. “No, my friend. You really do have the wrong person.”

“So it seems… Forgive me.”

Liebermann bowed, and the two men walked on. Mahler immediately began talking.

“I've agreed to the guest engagements-and Salter has confirmed that at least one of my works is to be included in every program.” In spite of his severe features, the director spoke cheerily.

“And the fee?” asked Rose.

“I said I wouldn't accept less than two thousand kronen.”

“Two thousand,” repeated Rose, impressed.

As they receded, their voices faded beneath the clatter and thrum of the Ringstrasse traffic.

Liebermann's attention was drawn upward. A dark cloud was floating over the roof of the opera house.