Vienna Blood

44

THE THREE REPRESENTATIVES OF Primal Fire had come bearing gifts, all of which had been placed at the great man's feet. Collectively the group resembled a strange Epiphany in which the adoring Magi were obeisant not to a divine child but to a wizened prophet. Guido List had responded to the party's votive offerings with an extempore disquisition on the Aryan origins of classical civilization. But while still discoursing on Roman architecture, he was interrupted by his wife.

Frau List was a striking woman: youthful, attractive-and an actress of some renown. As Anna Wittek, she had read the part of the Wala in List's The Wala's Awakening. Von Triebenbach remembered the celebrated performance seven years earlier, sponsored by the German League. The statuesque Wittek had declaimed List's poetry into the balmy night, and Von Triebenbach recalled the squareness of her shoulders, the swell of her bosom…

Anna pinched the lint that circled her husband's head and tugged at it to see if the dressing had become slack. It gave a little.

“I will have to tighten the strip,” she said softly.

“Very well, my dear,” said List. Then, addressing his guests, he said, “Excuse me, gentlemen. This will only take a moment.”

The actress manipulated some hidden pins and the bandage became taut. Satisfied with her handiwork, she lowered herself onto a stool and straightened the tartan blanket that covered her husband's legs.

“My angel,” whispered List, taking her fingers and pressing them into the gorse of his beard. He moved his head so that he appeared to be looking directly at his guests. Von Triebenbach was standing behind Aschenbrandt and Olbricht, who were seated next to each other and facing their host.

“I don't know what I would do without her,” List added with tenderness.

“You are a very fortunate man,” said Von Triebenbach, modulating his voice to disguise a trace of envy that threatened to squeeze the bonhomie from his avuncular baritone.

“Indeed,” said List, allowing Anna's hand to fall into his lap. “Very fortunate.”

He did not relinquish his grip.

Seeking to preempt an embarrassing eulogy, Anna turned to the young composer and said, “Herr Aschenbrandt, I understand that you are writing an opera based on my husband's Carnuntum?”

“Yes… ” Aschenbrandt replied, unsure of whether he was expected to elaborate before List had completed his disquisition.

“It will be a fine work,” said Von Triebenbach, patting Aschenbrandt's back.

“With the exception of The Wala's Awakening,” said Anna, “to which I have a particular sentimental attachment, I would very probably count Carnuntum as my favorite among my husband's works.”

“It is a masterpiece,” agreed Aschenbrandt. “The greatest novel in the German language-and I am truly honored to have received the author's benison.” Then, raising his voice, Aschenbrandt added, “Thank you, sir. I will not disappoint you.”

“On the evidence of your overture,” said List, “I know that my favored child is in capable hands. I have every confidence in your gift.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Aschenbrandt again. “You are too kind.”

Olbricht reminded the baron of his presence by shifting in his seat. Von Triebenbach had promised Sophie von Rautenberg at the Wagner Association soiree that he would introduce the artist to Guido List.

“Herr Olbricht,” said Von Triebenbach, “is to have an exhibition in December featuring several oil paintings inspired by your work.”

“Is that so?” said List.

“Yes,” said Olbricht. “I am particularly proud of a canvas based on Pipara.”

“The Germanic Woman in the Purple of the Caesars,” said Anna, completing the novel's full title.

“She is depicted on a balcony, surveying a mighty Roman army under her command,” said Olbricht.

“Perhaps,” said List, “when these wretched bandages are removed, my eyesight will be restored and I will have the opportunity to admire your… interpretation.”

“That would give me the greatest pleasure.”

List did not make any further inquiries about Olbricht's exhibition. Instead, he addressed Aschenbrandt again.

“Perhaps, Herr Aschenbrandt, you would like to attend one of our musical evenings. My dear Anna would love to hear the Carnuntum overture, I am sure.”

“But of course… and I have recently completed an orchestral interlude, The Eve of War, that I could arrange for piano. It employs the triumphal theme that appears at the end of the overture, but with values extended. It is a dark tenebrous piece, full of atmosphere… and it is followed by an aria, an exquisite battle hymn, Blood and Thunder, sung by the leader of the Quadi. With your permission, I could invite a tenor-a friend of mine, one Herr Hunger. Then you could hear the interlude and aria together.”

List and his wife agreed that this would be an excellent idea. A further attempt by Von Triebenbach to reintroduce the topic of Olbricht's exhibition failed abysmally. He consoled himself with the thought that at least he could tell the alluring Von Rautenberg widow that he had kept his word.

In due course the subject of Aschenbrandt's opera was exhausted, and the young composer tactfully invited List to finish the disquisition on the Aryan origins of classical civilization that he had started earlier, but had not-so far-had the opportunity to conclude.

List obliged, describing how the Aryans were forced to leave their boreal cities during the Ice Age, and how, by mixing with the inferior peoples of the south, they had seeded the civilizations of Greece and Rome. This led him, by an oblique argument, to an affirmation of the nationalist Pan-German agenda and a vitriolic condemnation of their enemies. After he had denounced the Church and the monarchy, he directed his diatribe at a third and no less reprehensible institution.

“We must not underestimate the Freemasons. They are a growing threat. They have played no small part in influencing world events in the past, and they will seek to do so again-with devastating consequences. We have grown complacent. Politicians have short memories. They may have forgotten about the Masonic uprising of 1766-but I, on the other hand, have not!”

“With respect,” said Von Triebenbach tentatively, “I am ashamed to admit that I too cannot recollect this… important historical event.”

“Seventeen sixty-six!” said List, thumping his free hand on the arm of his chair. “An uprising, planned to begin in Prague and intended to spread across the whole of Europe. The brotherhood would have seized power in every significant state. Fortunately, the secret police knew of their scheme and arrested the principal conspirators. But I tell you…” List touched his temple and shook his head. His expression became pained, fearful, as though his shadowy world were being visited by horrible visions.

“My love…” Anna reached forward and stroked a furrow from his troubled brow.

“I tell you,” List continued. “It could happen again. I have heard that the Masons are fomenting dissent in Bohemia and Hungary… and no one is doing anything to stop them. Our politicians are feeble. Weak. Dullards! Unaware of the imminent danger.”

The room fell silent.

“We are in dire need of a hero,” said Von Triebenbach solemnly. “A youngblood-a new Siegfried.”

His hand found Aschenbrandt's shoulder and rested on it briefly.

It was a small gesture, but it did not escape Anna's notice. She smiled at the baron, then at the young composer.

Part Three