The Keeper of Hands

TWENTY

He had followed them through the course of the day, but he was not the only one doing so. There was also a cornstalk of a man with a scar on his face that would frighten even a crucifix-worshipping nun.

He was a protector or a watcher. At first Schmidt wasn’t sure which.

Not very effective at either, though, since he never noticed me, Schmidt figured.

The lawyer and his bulky friend had been busy indeed. Cornering that pimp Siegfried from the Bower. Schmidt did not like the look of that interview: Siegfried had walked away from the café like a man with a noose round his neck.

And yet what the hell did Siegfried know? What could he tell the lawyer and his rotund pal? Another loose end that needed tying up.

Then to the Belvedere, and he could only guess at their mission there, as well. He followed them in through the entrance at No. 6 Rennweg, through a passage in the lower palace and to the grounds behind. Schmidt was in luck, for the gardens were open to the public during the warm months. He followed at a distance, through the ornamental flower-beds, past fountains and statues and terraces, up the slope to the Upper Belvedere.

It was while setting up watch at the Belvedere that Schmidt determined the cornstalk man’s function. He was a protector, for not long after the lawyer and his companion entered the upper palace the cornstalk man followed, giving one last glance behind him. But by then Schmidt had melted into the midday throng of other Viennese enjoying the gardens.

They stayed in there for a good two hours. Schmidt knew it was the town residence of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, but he couldn’t imagine what business the heir apparent would have with a lawyer who dabbled in private inquiries and wills and trusts. He’d need to find out the identity of the bulky older fellow accompanying him, but he did not like the direction this was headed.

He made a mental checklist, on the assumption they had gone to meet with the Archduke; it seemed unlikely they were making a social call on one of the footmen. Schmidt knew about Franz Ferdinand’s shadow government; his Russian controller had apprised him of advances that the Archduke had made to Tsar Nicholas, desiring to maintain peaceful relations, especially regarding their mutual interests in the Balkans. The Archduke, Schmidt knew, was kept abreast of intelligence matters via informants in both the Austrian Foreign Office’s espionage wing and the Intelligence Bureau of the General Staff. But what if he wanted to have his own agents in the field?

More checklists. This Werthen had gone to see the parents of the prostitute. He had also talked with Siegfried from the Bower and imparted something serious enough to make the man wear a look like he was attending his own wake.

And now to the Archduke. Was it mere coincidence that this lawyer, apparently investigating the death of the prostitute from the Bower, was also somehow involved with the ambitious and impatient Archduke?

This had all the signs of a field agent meeting with his controller.

Schmidt discounted the fact that he had followed the lawyer to Arthur Schnitzler’s residence three days ago. The mere thought of that confusion made Schmidt wince. Forstl! What a complete idiot. Called him to a meet earlier in the week in a panic that he, Schmidt, had failed in his mission to dissuade a blackmailer with whom Forstl had had a homosexual affair. Lording it over him as if he, Schmidt, had made the error. Until he told Forstl that he had handled the matter with Arthur Schnitzler.

Forstl had gaped at him like a mouth-breather. ‘Schnitzel, you fool!’ he shouted at him. ‘Not Schnitzler.’ At which Schmidt pulled out the small leather-covered notepad he carried for such matters, and found the page with the appropriate name and showed it to Forstl.

‘This was the name you gave me,’ he said, reining in the desire to break the man’s neck there and then and be done with it. ‘Arthur Schnitzler, the physician. There was a plaque on the man’s building.’

A look of horror had crossed Forstl’s face as he realized the error was his own, and quickly explained how at that time he had been preoccupied with the ‘traitor’ Schnitzler, the playwright who had betrayed the military with some damned theater piece. Schmidt couldn’t have cared less about the theater or the arts, and had never heard of the dramatist. All that concerned him was that the blackmailer Forstl mentioned was endangering the mission and needed a small disincentive.

Now he knew that he had got the wrong man. It was another doctor — named Arthur Schnitzel — he needed to deal with. And given the delay, a simple disincentive would hardly be enough now. No longer would it simply be enough to scare the man off with a beating. From what Forstl said of his last meeting with this Schnitzel, extreme action was now necessary.

Nor did Forstl apologize for his error, or for blaming Schmidt.

His parting shot was, ‘And no more fingers!’

Schmidt filed this slight away for another time, when there would be a reckoning.

He had yet to deal with the Schnitzel matter, but had made contact of a sort. At least he had found the correct address this time, a tenement in Hernals, and had learned the man’s habits and when he was most vulnerable.

Meanwhile, there were other loose ends to tie up, or that needed cauterizing. Including Advokat Werthen and his connection to the matter at the Bower. Forstl again. Endangering his role as double agent with an unauthorized operation.

There was plenty of time for these ruminations as Schmidt strolled through the grounds of the Belvedere this sunny afternoon. Time enough even to recall his early, heady student days in St Petersburg.

It was the thought of the playwright Schnitzler that triggered these memories, the fact that he had never heard of the man. There was a time when he would have done, when the arts was all he cared about. He, the simple village boy from the Livonian coast north of Riga. His family was from a long line of amber fishers, plying the shore waters of that coast marked with banks of pine trees and sand dunes on the Baltic Sea. For two centuries the Klavan family had worked those waters in search of what was known as scoopstone, because of the large scoop-shaped nets used to sweep along the bottom of the sea and gather the precious chunks of amber dislodged from the ocean floor by wild storms and fierce tidal action. By the time young Pietr had joined his father and two older brothers in the trade, they were using a broad-beamed rowing-boat with men lying over the side raking the sea bottom to dislodge the amber, which was then swept into large nets.

For the fact that he was no good at this trade — the motion of the water even close to shore always made him ill — he compensated with his passion for music. He had no idea where the gift came from, but in the evenings he would entertain the family in their homely reed-roofed whitewashed dwelling with melodies picked out on the old violin his favorite uncle had given him. There had been no history of musicians in the family, only sturdy amber fishermen, but he loved the feel of the wood on that simple instrument which his uncle had found left behind in a tavern. The local priest had given Pietr rudimentary lessons, showing him the fingering and the sweep of bow against string. He had begun playing when he was eight; by the time he was fifteen he could play Bach sonatas in the local church, to the amazement of all, the rich, sonorous tones filling the small chapel.

His beloved uncle took to calling him Wenno — one of the masters of the Livonian Brothers of the Sword, a thirteenth-century military order founded in the vicinity of Riga. Like the knights of the Teutonic Order, the Livonian Brothers defended the Church in the northern crusades against the pagan peoples of the Baltic region. Pietr’s uncle was a romantic: he claimed that the Klavans were descendants of the Livonian Brothers, that they were knights who took to the sea. Pietr’s father had little patience for such nonsense, but Pietr would listen to his uncle’s tales of the glorious deeds of this fighting order. His childhood was marked by dreams of devoting his own life to heroic deeds and to the warm touch of the violin he soon came to master.

Thus, when a nobleman, Count von Girzwold, from Riga happened to visit their humble chapel one Sunday when Pietr was playing his favorite Bach violin partita, he was overcome with emotion hearing this simple peasant lad create such sweet sounds. He talked with Pietr after the service, encouraged him to play more. This nobleman was a strong believer in the ideas of Rousseau; in Pietr he saw a perfect example of natural talent, of ‘the noble savage’. He talked with Pietr’s parents, who stood in the man’s presence and bowed respectfully while he talked.

But upon his departure they said no. No, they would not send their youngest son off to the urban dangers of St Petersburg or the temptations of the Conservatory. For that was what the nobleman had offered them, intercession in winning the boy a scholarship to that famous musical institution.

But the uncle argued otherwise. The lad is unfit for the amber trade; far better to give him an education, make him a man of the world. He could become a famous musician, bring fame to the Klavan name once again, as in the age of the Livonian Brothers.

At which the father scoffed; but in the end he relented, after the nobleman offered to reimburse the father for the lost labor of his son.

And so it was off to St Petersburg for young Pietr; and when leaving, his uncle slipped him a going-away gift, telling him to open it only when safely on the train. Later, as the train carried him along the coast towards Tallinn, he opened the package and discovered a beautiful knife with amber-encrusted grip and the name Wenno inlaid in silver on the bronze blade. He tucked the prized knife away in his violin case.

The first weeks in St Petersburg were miserable ones for Pietr, accustomed as he was to the rhythms of the country, not the city. He had never used a flush toilet before, never ridden a street car or seen an electric light. The modest room he was assigned in a widow’s flat seemed like a palace compared to his family home, but there was no warmth at night, no simple cheer of sitting around the open fire and sharing stories of the day’s events, or experiencing the slap-and-clap accompaniment of his family to the tunes with which he would entertain them.

And the other students at the Conservatory, most of whom came from the professional class or higher, treated the scholarship boy like a leper. When he auditioned for and won a place with Professor Auer, he thought their attitude would change. He was right: it got worse. Now they called him names not just behind his back but to his face. They accused him of being the token poor boy, better suited to playing the hurdy-gurdy. One in particular, Heimito von Kornung, said the most stinging words:

‘You’re an amber fisher not a musician, Klavan. Go back to your own kind.’

He poured himself into his studies to prove them wrong. Auer was a harsh master, focusing on both technique and interpretation. His criticisms came so fast and furious that sometimes Pietr wondered why he had accepted him as a pupil; he must be terrible to deserve such criticism. He broke down one day, while playing Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major, and voiced this sentiment. Auer, who sat across from him bow in hand, usually brooked no such emotional outbursts. But the older man looked at him kindly, with sparkling eyes.

‘It’s because you have greatness in you, Klavan. That is why I am so hard on you. You of all the students in this Conservatory are headed for a concert career. You need to be strong, supple. Learn to bend against criticism and not let it break you.’

From that day on, Pietr began to feel at home in St Petersburg and at the Conservatory.

But it was short-lived comfort.

One afternoon, as he was about to prepare for his lesson with Auer, he came upon Heimito von Kornung and three of his wealthy friends. They were in the cloakroom, huddled near his locker. They seemed to be having a great deal of fun, giggling like little girls. He approached to retrieve his violin, and then saw what was amusing them. They had opened his violin case and were plucking the embedded bits of amber out of the cherished knife his uncle had given him.

Red-hot rage overcame him and he let out an animal scream as he plunged into their midst and grappled with Heimito for the knife. The other took up a defensive posture, switching instantly from humorous vandalism to deadly intent. Pietr could see it in his eyes: Heimito wanted to kill him. And Pietr understood the urge, for he too wanted to do as much damage as he could to these animals.

Pietr had never been in a fight, but he had witnessed plenty between the men on pay-days when they had spent too much time at the local inn. As Heimito swooped at him with the blade, Pietr dodged and spun out of range, whipping off the jacket of his woollen suit and wrapping it round his left arm. He quickly surveyed the area for a weapon, but the only thing within reach was his violin. He grabbed it and began circling to the right, out of range of the knife. Heimito made a sudden lunge and Pietr was able to block his thrust with his left arm, though the blade penetrated the wool and sank into his forearm. But he ignored the pain and swung his violin into Heimito’s left temple, stunning the larger boy, who stumbled backwards, tripping over a bench. Pietr was on him now, lashing out with the violin mercilessly, hearing the crack of wood, the ping of broken strings, but not caring.

The others pulled him off, holding him by the arms. He was panting like a wild animal. Heimito struggled to his feet, blood coursing down his face. His eyes were tiny slits of hatred as he came up to Pietr, who struggled to free himself.

‘Hold him,’ Heimito ordered his companions.

And then he grabbed Pietr’s left hand, securing his little finger in a tight grip and bent it until it broke like a twig. The pain tore at Pietr, but he forced back the tears. That he did not show the pain served only to anger Heimito further. He took Pietr’s right little finger in the same grip and broke that one as well.

A scream filled the small room, and Pietr only slowly realized it came from him.

‘Now try playing the fiddle, amber man.’ Heimito spat at him and then left the room. The others followed.

The affair was, of course, covered up, for Heimito’s parents had power. The others accused Pietr of attacking them; and the administration, despite Auer’s protests, took their side.

Pietr rode the train back to his little village in disgrace, the broken violin in its case, his injured fingers splinted and bandaged, the wound on his forearm hot and sore.

It took two weeks before he finally told his uncle what had happened.

‘So you won’t be a famous musician,’ his uncle said with surprisingly little sympathy. ‘Did you fight back?’

Pietr nodded. ‘I bloodied him.’ His only regret was that he had not killed Heimito.

‘Good. In that case we will make a knight of you.’

It happened very quickly. His uncle had a word with Count von Girzwold, who used his connections in St Petersburg to obtain a place for Pietr in the officers’ cadet school. It was there an instructor saw his potential: the chameleon who could be at home in the country or the city; the man of no distinguishing characteristics. A person of iron will, both ruthless and clever. Thus was born Schmidt, agent number 302.

Schmidt suddenly realized he had been standing by the same flower-bed for minutes on end, staring at the orange-red swirl of geraniums on the ground before him. He blinked hard, feeling sudden moisture in his eyes. The pollen must be getting to me, he told himself.

And then he saw his quarry, the lawyer and his older companion, leaving the Upper Belvedere and heading for the gate in the Rennweg. He did not follow immediately, however, waiting until the cornstalk man took up position behind them. Schmidt quickly took off his bowler hat and tossed it into a bin when no one was watching. He needed to alter his appearance in some way. Cornstalk had not noticed him yet, but Schmidt was a cautious man.

Then the tall watcher suddenly turned and scanned the gardens once again, his eyes flickering past Schmidt, with his changed appearance.

No more following today, Schmidt decided. Caution had kept him alive for many years now.

Besides, he had the pressing matter of Doktor Schnitzel to deal with.

His experiences at the St Petersburg Conservatory had closed Schmidt’s mind to the arts. Thereafter, they had become dead for him. He avoided mention of or contact with artists of any kind.

But now he realized such a stance was impractical. The fact that he had not known of this playwright, Schnitzler, made him less effective as an agent. His personal history had impinged on his mission. And that was something he would not let happen again.