Herr Köenig came forward to kiss her plump, soft hand – possibly the most kissed hand in Vienna – and was informed that Brigitta expected not less than twelve curtain calls, and for herself alone – not the beanpole from Hamburg who was singing Musetta.
Herr Köenig blanched. Twelve curtain calls, yes – but for her alone? The soprano from Hamburg was said to be very good. On the other hand, Seefeld was not singing again till her Rosenkavalier at the gala in four weeks’ time. For the ordinary Viennese who could not afford gala prices, tonight was effectively her last appearance of the season. Looking into the diva’s appealing blue eyes, he was driven to rashness.
‘You shall have them,’ he declared grandly – and could be seen, as he reached the street, striking his forehead and cursing his stupidity.
At five-thirty, Ufra prepared the dog. Combing the long, silky hair of the little Tibetan terrier, binding his topknot up in scarlet ribbon, took almost as long as dressing Brigitta’s golden curls, but the public expected Puppchen on his red lead, as they expected the sable stoles, the jewels, the famous smile.
‘In Armenia we would have eaten you,’ said Ufra as he wriggled and moaned.
At six-thirty the procession set off down the Augustinerstrasse watched by the shopkeepers, the man in the tobacco kiosk and those fortunate tourists who had been tipped off that Seefeld was en route to the evening’s performance.
Arriving at the stage door, Brigitta was extremely gracious to the doorman, considerably less gracious to the tenor who was singing Rodolfo, and not gracious at all to the beanpole from Hamburg, who should have stayed where she was even if she did happen to be married to a Jew.
But the performance went well. The voice – that capricious Gestalt almost as external to herself as the tiresome little dog that Marcus had given her – had behaved itself, and Herr Köenig had kept his word. There were twelve curtain calls, and the other singers, relieved that Brigitta would be absent now for nearly a month, allowed her to take a substantial number of these alone.
Afterwards there was another smattering of applause as she crossed from the opera house to Sacher’s, the hotel where she was accustomed to dine after a performance. There were roses on the table especially kept for her, and more hand-kissing, more bowing as she was greeted by the maître d’hôtel and her dinner companions rose to their feet.
‘You were superb, Liebchen,’ said Count Stallenbach, her current ‘protector’, a man sufficiently stricken in years to make few demands on her person.
Julius Staub, extinguishing his cigarette, added his congratulations. A pale playwright with an enormous forehead, who wandered about in a pall of cigarette ash like an extinct volcano, he had written the libretto of an opera about Helen of Troy which only lacked a composer to be a perfect vehicle for Seefeld.
But the man she most wanted to see had not yet arrived: Benny Feldmann, her agent and business manager, who had just returned from the United States.
‘He phoned to say he’d be along in half an hour. The train was delayed and he’s just gone home to change.’
Brigitta nodded, but as she chose her dishes and sipped her champagne, she could hardly conceal her impatience.
It had begun over a year ago, her desire to find Marcus von Altenburg again. She had been furious with him when he withdrew his violin concerto in that melodramatic way. To lose the chance of a Berlin premiere for a little Jew like Meierwitz was absurd, and she had written to tell him so. Music was above politics.
But if Marcus had been labelled as a person not welcome in the Third Reich, there were other countries, seemingly, which did want him. The French had just performed his First Symphony, the Songs for Summer had been recorded in London, and the Americans had invited him back on generous terms to conduct. He was rumoured to be over there now, negotiating.
‘He hasn’t been so stupid,’ Benny Feldmann had told her before he left for the States. ‘The future is over there, Brigitta. More and more people are going.’
Brigitta had no intention of leaving Vienna; she was Viennese through and through. But the news from Germany was bad: more and more Wagner operas staged for the Führer, more and more influence exerted by the Bayreuth clique. She was a lyric soprano: Wagner did not suit her voice. If Hitler’s hand of friendship to Austria became a takeover, might it be wise to consider alternatives?
‘Why don’t you get Altenburg to write an opera for you? You’d be welcome anywhere in the world then,’ Feldmann had said, as he was leaving. He was half joking. Men like Altenburg did not write operas for people – they wrote them or not.
But Brigitta had leapt at the idea. Altenburg understood her as no one had ever done. He had a devilish temper and had never quite lost his air of emerging from a forest in a bearskin, but the time she had spent with him had been like no other. It was he who had persauded her to take on the role that had become her most famous one: that of the Marschallin in Rosenkavalier – the lovely, worldly aristocrat who gives up her young lover to an ingenue of his own age.
‘I’m too young,’ she’d said – and so she had been then: thirty-two to his twenty.
‘But that’s the point don’t you see, to make the sacrifice while you are at the height of your beauty – Strauss wrote it like that. It’s not about some middle-aged woman making the best of a bad job; it’s a supreme act of wisdom and renunciation.’
The boy had been right. She had been sensational in the role; her performance in what Richard Strauss called his ‘Mozart Opera’ had become legendary. It was because of Marcus that she was singing in four weeks’ time before the President and the crowned heads of several European states.
And that was the trouble – that was why she was so desperate to find him now. The opera could wait, but not the gala. It was three years since she had sung the Marschallin: her fortieth birthday was behind her – rather more behind her than she admitted – and she felt suddenly terrified and stale. There were things badly wrong with the production, and Feuerbach, who was conducting, lacked the authority and presence to impose his will on the orchestra. Some of his tempi were absurd; she couldn’t take the Act One monologue at that speed, and the girl who was singing Sophie lost no opportunity to put herself forward.
It had all been so different when she was with Marcus. He had been an amazing répétiteur and coach, and the orchestra listened to him. Even when he was twenty they had listened, and now . . . Marcus could make Feuerbach see sense, she was sure of it. There would be people at the gala longing to find fault with her – rival divas from Berlin and Paris; officials from the Met.
‘Here he is!’ said Staub as Benny came towards them, his black eyes lively in spite of the long journey.
Brigitta could only just give him time to sit down before she began: ‘Well, what’s the news? Did you find him?’
Benny shook his head. ‘No I didn’t. No one in Philadelphia had any idea where he was. The Director of the Sinfonia’s been trying to get hold of him but he seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. They thought he was in that place of his in the forest but letters haven’t been answered.’
‘But that’s absurd. He must be somewhere.’
Staub cleared his throat. His libretto was without doubt the best thing he had written. Seen from the point of view of a Greek soldier disgorged from the wooden horse who encounters the fabled Helen, huddled in a doorway of the burning city, it should interest Altenburg with his well-known concern for the common man. And Marcus might persuade Brigitta to huddle – a thing that he himself did not feel equal to.
Now he said: ‘I think perhaps he may be here. In Austria, I mean. Brenner said he saw him down in Carinthia, driving with Professor Steiner. He didn’t see him clearly but he’s pretty sure it was Altenburg.’
‘Steiner? That old folk-song collector?’
‘Yes. I thought he must be mistaken because Marcus was in America but now I wonder. He and Steiner were friends, if you remember; Marcus stayed with him in Berlin.’
Brigitta fro
wned. The Professor belonged to that group of musicians – Meierwitz was another one – who had allowed themselves to become entangled in politics.
‘But what could he possibly be doing down there? And why hasn’t he been in touch?’
Staub shrugged. ‘Brenner may be wrong but he was quite close to him; the van stopped at a level crossing and he tried to wave but Altenburg just stared him down.’
What could it mean? thought Brigitta. Was he hiding himself away to work? And if so . . . if he was writing music for someone else? A rival? Oh, why did I send him away? she thought. I must have been mad. He’d said he wouldn’t come back, and he hadn’t, except as an acquaintance when their paths happened to cross. She’d only wanted a few months to sort out her affairs and really it was his fault, refusing to sell his wretched trees to pay for the sables she’d set her heart on.
‘Where in Carinthia? Where did Brenner see him?’
‘Hallendorf. They were driving away from the lake.’
‘Hallendorf?’ she repeated. ‘Of course, that’s the place with that dreadful school.’ The headmaster had had the nerve to write to her asking her to attend some musical performance of the children’s a couple of years ago. She hadn’t even answered . . . but might it do as an excuse to make enquiries?
‘Is there anywhere decent to stay down there?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t we go and look for him?’
Staub agreed at once but Benny hesitated. He had not yet told Brigitta, but he had decided to emigrate and was going to transfer his business to New York. If Brigitta did choose to follow him, there was little he could do for her: America was flooded with Lieder singers escaping Hitler, and the Met had their own stable of sopranos.
But Altenburg was a different matter; Benny had been surprised at the high value the Americans put on him. If Brigitta could really get Altenburg to write an opera with a part for her, the combination could be sensational. The old ‘affaire’ might be over, but a little carefully placed gossip could add savour, and where better to put that about – if Marcus could be persuaded to attend – than at the gala?
‘Why don’t you all come?’ repeated Brigitta.
Benny made up his mind. ‘All right,’ he said, nodding. He hated the country but he could manage a few days.
‘And you, Liebchen? asked Brigitta, a shade anxiously, turning to the count.
Stallenbach patted her hand. ‘I think not,’ he said, smiling. His role as Brigitta’s ‘protector’ was a conventional one; his family for generations had supported singers or dancers, enjoying their favours and their company. But Stallenbach was in his sixties and had, moreover, a secret in the form of an abiding and deep enthusiasm for the company of his wife. A few quiet weeks without Brigitta were very welcome: nor was he worried about being usurped by Altenburg. The count knew rather better than Brigitta just how many women had thrown themselves at the composer.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I have a cousin who has a villa near there. It’s empty, I believe; I’m sure she’d lend it to you.’ He was rewarded by Brigitta’s famous, but genuinely lovely, smile.
‘Of course he goes off suddenly like that. Of course he doesn’t even bother to say goodbye. I could tell at once that he was no good,’ said Tamara pettishly.
Bennet was silent. Marek had in fact said goodbye and told him why he was going and what had been his reason for coming to Hallendorf. He had explained that since Leon and Ellen now knew who he was, he could not risk any further involvement by anyone in the school. ‘Knowing things can be a dangerous business nowadays,’ he said.
Bennet had agreed. Ellen could make her own decisions, but Leon was a child for whom he was responsible.
‘We shall miss you,’ he said – and indeed it was extraordinary how much he minded losing this man whom he had trusted instinctively from the start.
‘And Derek is making a complete mess of the play,’ Tamara went on. She was the only person who used FitzAllan’s Christian name. ‘I’ve told him exactly where my ballet should go and he continues to misunderstand me.’
Bennet looked with reluctant pity at his wife. He knew exactly where Tamara’s ballet would go in the end. FitzAllan had already shortened it and put it behind gauzes. The next stage – total exclusion – was only a matter of time. On occasions like these, the Russian ballerina vanished and Bennet found himself looking into the desperate, sallow face of Beryl Smith from Workington. And against his better judgement, he smiled at his wife and gave her arm an affectionate squeeze.
Too late he realised his mistake. Tamara swivelled round, seized him by the shoulders and kissed him hotly on the lips.
‘I will wait for you upstairs,’ she said hoarsely.
Oh God, thought Bennet, even as he gave a polite nod. Tamara claimed her rights so very rarely now – not more than a few times a year – and always after some blow to her pride. When she did expect him to make love to her the routine was one that never ceased to alarm him: the incense sticks which smoked out his bedroom, the record of the Polovtsian dances, to which Tamara undulated naked . . . and afterwards the floods of tears because Toussia Alexandrovna had found the sexual act so very, very sad.
But there was nothing for it. Bennet went to the cupboard where he kept his whisky and poured himself a large tumbler full. Then he took down the Shakespeare sonnets and turned to Number 116. Number 18 was beneficial too in moments like this, and Number 66 . . . but after Number 116 it was impossible not to feel love for someone, and with luck it could be channelled in the direction of an avid wife. First, though, for no reason he could find, he went along to Margaret Sinclair’s office. Though it was late, she was as usual working at her typewriter.
‘There’s a letter from Brigitta Seefeld – the opera singer. The one we invited for the play two years ago. She thinks she might come.’
‘A bit late, I fear,’ said Bennet. ‘Abattoir is hardly her style. Still, tell her she’ll be welcome any time.’
He looked round Margaret’s office: at the neatness, the quietness – and at Margaret herself, putting the cover on her Remington. A plain woman – plain as in bread, as in the hands of Rembrandt’s mother, thought Bennet, who was a little fuzzy from the whisky.
The office looked out on to the courtyard. In the dusky light they could make out Ellen sitting on the rim of the well. She was holding something in both hands, seemingly talking to it.
‘What is it?’ Bennet asked.
‘It’s the tortoise,’ said Margaret, coming to stand beside him.
‘Ah yes.’
Ellen was spending rather a lot of time with the tortoise. I hope it’s not too late, thought the headmaster, and made his way slowly upstairs towards his apartment. The Polovtsian dances had passed the languorous phase and reached the barbaric and shimmering middle section during which Tamara usually paused to cover herself in Bessarabian Body Oil.
‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds . . .’ murmured Bennet, and opened the bedroom door.
It was not exactly too late. Marek’s absence did not blot out the world for Ellen, though it took a little more concentration than formerly to become one with the skimming swallows, the stars crowding the night sky outside her window. It was not his absence that grieved her so much, for she had known he would not stay; it was the way that they had parted. Bennet had taken her into his confidence; she knew now just how dangerous was the work on which Marek was engaged, and that she had sent him away yelling like a fishwife was hard to bear. She had gone over the next day to apologise but Steiner’s house was shuttered, the door locked and the van gone.
Fortunately there was so much to do that she had little time to brood. Both pupils and staff were throwing themselves into work for the play but the atmosphere was stormy. The director removed the tambourines from the girls in the Salvation Army on the grounds that they were too cheerful; children fell off the stage, dazzled by the searchlights that played on the capitalist oppressors; and the tiny, curly-haired Sabine from Zurich was forgotten in the dark
ened theatre, left hanging in a muslin bag to represent a side of pork after FitzAllan had tried out the disposition of the meat hooks.
The staff fared little better. Hermine had been reproached by the director for being too emotional.
‘But for me it is emotional . . . to feel the pre-slaughtering fear . . . the twitching of the limbs . . . the flow of blood,’ said poor Hermine, whose baby, while perfectly willing to bite into a ham sandwich, showed absolutely no inclination to be weaned.
It was Chomsky, however, about whom the greatest anxiety continued to be felt. With Marek gone there was no one to help him with the welding of the three-tiered struts and the first attempt to lift them on to the stage had been disastrous. From swimming three times a day, Chomsky now swam four and since the weather had turned cool and cloudy, Ellen became seriously concerned for his health.
Aware, perhaps that Abbatoir was not proceeding quite as smoothly as he had hoped, FitzAllan now came to Bennet to tell him that he thought it essential that those children taking part in the play should visit an actual slaughterhouse.
‘There is a certain lack of authenticity in some of the performances which I’m sure could be put right by total immersion in the mise en scène,’ said FitzAllan.
‘I’m afraid that would be an expensive business – we’d have to hire a bus for a start,’ said Bennet, ‘and I have to point out that we already have an increase of thirty per cent in vegetarianism since rehearsals began.’