The Memorist

Chapter 55

Baden, Austria

October 18^th, 1814

At a brisk pace, Beethoven strode up the pathway toward the gardens outside the hotel. As he walked and talked he kept rolling and unrolling the score he held. Margaux was amazed at his stamina. She knew his stomach and head hurt. His energy level was low and he’d complained about being tired.

“I have written much music that has made me proud. But that was when I was younger. Now I know how much more the music needs to do. I have given up so much. Even made a deal with my God to forgo all earthly riches, a wife and children, if only I could go on creating the music.

“I have lived up to my side of the bargain but God has not lived up to his. The struggle to create has not gotten any easier. If anything, only more and more obstacles are thrown my way. And now this music from the Devil that you’ve brought to me out of your dreams and that ushers forth such dangerous visions… I won’t unleash this on anyone. I can’t.”

She touched his arm so that he would look at her and be able to read her lips. “Where are we going?”

“I need to think.”

“Why did you bring the music? You’re not going to do anything to the score, are you?”

He ignored her questions and all she could do was struggle to keep up with him. Margaux was alarmed. Although he’d been able to work out the complete memory song, she couldn’t remember any more than those first three notes.

Passing through gardens, they continued climbing the hill into the woods and were deep into the forest by the time they came to the small chapel with the crucifix, rough-hewn stone altars and statues of Mary and Joseph.

Sheltered from the wind, Beethoven opened the score and read it over. “I don’t know what to do with this unearthly music,” he muttered. He was still studying it when the storm came upon them without any warning. A fierce wind blew the rain in, splashing the score, making the ink run.

“Put it under your coat,” she shouted, and mimed to his coat pocket in case he couldn’t hear her over the thunder. But he didn’t see her, was too busy looking around…searching. Suddenly he rolled the score into a tight cone and wedged it in the narrow space between Christ’s body and the wooden cross.

“It will be safe here at least until tomorrow,” he told her as a new crack of thunder reverberated through her. Lightning lit up the forest and through the sheeting rain she thought she saw someone out there watching them, but couldn’t be sure.

Was it Beethoven’s secretary, Schindler? Had he followed them there? Was it Toller? No, she was no longer in the past. She wasn’t Margaux anymore.

Meer was staring at a man wearing a dark mask and pointing a gun at her.