Vienna Blood

54

“MY NAME IS DOCTOR MAX Liebermann. I have been issued with a special commission by the security office to conduct an interview with Herr Aschenbrandt.”

The sound of a piano could be heard: turgid rumblings in the lower octaves followed by descending chromatic thirds.

“Do you have an appointment?” asked the maid.

“No.”

“Herr Aschenbrandt does not like to be disturbed.”

“Indeed,” said Liebermann. “But this is a police matter.”

The maid knocked timidly on a single-paneled door at the end of the hallway-but the grumbling piano continued. After a second, louder knock, the music stopped and a muffled “Enter” could be heard. The maid turned the handle and went in. As the door opened, the pianist shouted, “What is it now, Elga?”

A few moments later the maid reappeared. “I am sorry, Herr Doctor.” She glanced down in embarrassment. “But Herr Aschen-brandt would like to see your documents.”

“Of course,” Liebermann said, removing the papers from his breast pocket and handing them to the maid.

Elga returned with the documents and he was admitted into the composer's study.

Herr Aschenbrandt turned in a perfunctory manner. He did not move from his piano stool, and gestured that Liebermann might take a seat if he wished. Liebermann chose a threadbare armchair.

The room was not large and felt distinctly cluttered, occupied for the most part by an immense Bluthner concert grand. Score sheets, showing abandoned drafts of various musical ideas, were strewn across the floor. On a long shelf, sagging under the weight of many literary and philosophical works, was a plaster bust of Richard Wagner. The decor was rather dowdy, and the curtains, because they were half-drawn, reduced the natural light, creating an impression of must and gloom. A cello case stood against the far wall, its long neck terminating next to a pen-and-ink sketch of a Gothic castle executed in the manner of Caspar David Friedrich.

“Forgive me for being impertinent, Herr Doctor,” said Aschen-brandt. “But I am currently writing a rather demanding development section. Therefore, I humbly request that this interrogation be brought to a satisfactory conclusion as soon as possible.”

Liebermann smiled. “It is hardly an interrogation, Herr Aschen-brandt. I merely wish to ask you a few questions on behalf of the security office. If you can help, I will be most grateful.”

“Then let us proceed, Herr Doctor.”

For a young man he seemed surprisingly self-assured.

“What are you composing?” asked Liebermann. “It sounded like a dramatic piece from the hallway.”

“An opera, yes.”

“Your first?”

“Apart from some juvenile music dramas-yes.”

Liebermann spotted List's novel next to the music stand.

“It is based on Carnuntum?”

“Indeed.”

“I have often wondered what it is that makes a composer choose a particular text. Because music is such an elevated art form, I would suppose that-in some small part, at least-you must resent burdening your inventions with words?”

Aschenbrandt's pale blue eyes seemed to emit a strange phosphorescent glow.

“Naturally,” he replied. “I am indeed of the opinion that music is the highest art form. Yet if a text expresses some noble sentiment, the task of marrying a melody to an appropriate verse can be deeply satisfying. As Wagner so clearly demonstrated”-he glanced briefly at the bust on the shelf-”the whole can be greater than the sum of its parts.”

“And has List provided you with such a text?”

“I believe so.”

Liebermann sat back in his chair and rested his loosely clenched fist against his cheek. His index finger uncurled so that its extremity touched his temple.

“I must confess, I am not familiar with List's writings.”

“Carnuntum is a masterpiece,” said Aschenbrandt. “An inspiration: the tale of a beleaguered, courageous people overcoming a mighty foe. It is a work of great clarity-and insight-although…” He craned forward, and seemed to be inspecting his visitor more closely. “Not to everyone's taste. There are some, inevitably, who cannot appreciate its depth.”

Aschenbrandt's nostrils flared: a subtle but nevertheless discernible expansion and contraction. It left Liebermann with the disconcerting impression that he had just been “sniffed out.” His finger gently tapped against his temple.

“I recently attended a performance of your quintet at the Tonkunstlerverein.”

“Did you?” The composer recoiled a little.

“Yes-The Invincible. Why did you call it that?”

Aschenbrandt's expression hovered somewhere between surprise and contempt.

“Because of the prophecy, Herr Doctor.”

“The prophecy?”

“As you are not conversant with Carnuntum, I daresay”Aschenbrandt's upper lip curled-”that you cannot be expected to know of List's more scholarly works.”

“The Invincible is the title of a book?”

“The Invincible: Basics of a German Weltanschauung. It was published a few years ago.”

“And the prophecy, Herr Aschenbrandt?”

“Der Unbesiegbare-The Invincible-the strong one from above.”

Liebermann raised his eyebrows, tacitly requesting further elaboration.

Aschenbrandt sighed. “Herr Doctor, I wish to continue with my work. What is the purpose of your visit?”

Liebermann chose to ignore the composer's question and persisted with his own. “The prophecy, Herr Aschenbrandt? I didn't realize your quintet was programmatic.” Liebermann leaned forward, affecting surprise and great interest. Aschenbrandt-perhaps weakened by flattery-found it difficult to resist responding.

“It is not programmatic in the sense of following a narrative. It merely seeks to embody the spirit of the prophecy.”

“Which is?”

“That the German people will be tested, and finally redeemed, by a great leader-the Invincible. The prophecy goes back to Eddic times.”

“You said strong one from above: do you believe that Guido List is a kind of… Messiah?”

“No, of course not!” Aschenbrandt spat out the words, but then fell into a strange state of abstraction. “However,” he added in a distant voice, “List may be preparing the way…”

The composer's right hand drifted to the keyboard and found three ethereal chords. It was as though his thinking had been accompanied by imagined harmonies and he had been overcome by a need to hear them.

Liebermann coughed to regain his attention.

“Herr Aschenbrandt… you wrote a rather scathing attack on Director Mahler for championing Mozart.”

The musician looked up, his blue eyes gleaming. “These are serious times, Herr Doctor. The Opera House should be performing more substantial works.”

“Is not Don Giovanni a substantial work?”

“No, Herr Doctor-it is a burlesque.”

“Really?”

“Cosi Fan Tutte is a shallow comedy. And as for The Magic Flute…” Aschenbrandt shook his head, allowing a curtain of platinum hair to fall across his eyes. “It is so whimsical, so incoherent, so utterly lacking in merit-I can hardly believe that Director Mahler is still in his post.”

“Herr Aschenbrandt, when did you first hear The Magic Flute?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Was it when you were a child?”

Aschenbrandt removed the curtain of hair by tossing his head. There was something equine and precious about the mannerism.

“Yes, I suppose it was.”

“When, exactly?”

“I must have been about eleven or twelve. My father took me-we saw it in Salzburg.”

“Did you enjoy good relations with your father?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Did you get on?”

“Well enough…”

“And did you enjoy it-this particular performance of The Magic Flute?”

“Well, as it happens I did. But that is my point… It is an entertainment for children. It is not acceptable to use the world's greatest opera house-with the exception of Bayreuth, of course-as a children's theater. The Viennese public deserve better than a string of popular songs and nursery rhymes.”

“I am no expert, of course, but it is my impression that Mozart's undeniable lightness-the incomparable transparency of his scoring-can mislead. Mozart addresses lofty themes, but he does so with an extraordinary deftness. There are subtleties in Mozart that might escape the attention of those whose senses have been blunted by listening to more bombastic music.”

Aschenbrandt leaned forward.

“Herr Doctor…” He could barely believe what he had just heard. “Herr Doctor, am I to understand… Are you suggesting that the music dramas of Richard Wagner are-”

“Perhaps the fault is mine,” said Liebermann, interrupting. “But I have always found Wagner's music rather crude. Overblown. And it has never spoken to me personally, as it were.”

Aschenbrandt's pale skin colored a little. “Well, with respect, Herr Doctor-that is hardly surprising.”

“Oh?”

“You are a Jew.” Aschenbrandt turned to the keyboard. “Wagner did not write his music for your kind. And how can you suggest that Wagner's music is unsubtle, when he wrote this…” His fingers found the plaintive opening of the Prelude to Act One of Tristan and Isolde. The lonely melody rose and fell, supported by harmonies that refused to resolve, tormented by uncertainties and a sense of anxious anticipation. “I must be candid, Herr Doctor,” Aschenbrandt continued. “I do not believe your race can appreciate German music. You have your own culture.”

“Yes, Jews do have a separate musical tradition,” said Liebermann, sitting up. “But we are perfectly capable of appreciating German music. The opening bars of Tristan are exquisite, I agree. So much so that I found your rendition somewhat disappointing. You neglected to play the D sharp in the interrupted cadence…” Aschenbrandt looked startled and glanced down at his fingers. “It is absolutely necessary to include the D sharp to achieve the effect that Wagner intended.” With that, the young doctor smiled and stood up. “Thank you for your time, Herr Aschenbrandt, and good day.”

The composer appeared confused. “But you said you had come on behalf of the security office. A police matter?”

“I did.”

“Then what about the interrogation?”

“It is over, Herr Aschenbrandt-and you have been most helpful.”