The Keeper of Hands (26 page)

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.

‘K
limt, it’s marvelous! However did you finish it so quickly?’

Berthe was in Klimt’s studio near their flat in the Josefstädterstrasse. The oil painting rested against the single-ply wall of the small studio built in the courtyard of an old apartment house. A cat twined around her legs as she examined the portrait. The woman was seated, wearing a soft chiffon dress in a wonderful shade of light blue – Berthe was unsure what to call the color. Not sky blue; paler. And not baby blue. Somewhere in between. A graceful portrait. The face of Marie Louise von Suttner, the troublesome niece, stared back at her, quite lifelike. The very image she had captured with the Brownie camera.

‘Waste not want not,’ Klimt said, smiling. ‘It is quite good, no? One would never know the identity of the actual sitter.’

Klimt gave Berthe a sheepish look. ‘Her husband was not well pleased to discover his wife was sitting for me. Gossip, you know.’ In other words, Berthe understood, Klimt had slept with the lady in question, then her husband had found out and cancelled the commission. Marie Louise’s head had been superimposed upon the body of the original subject.

‘Fortunate they have the same body type,’ Berthe said.

‘Do they?’ Klimt glanced at the painting now, appreciating his own work, or perhaps regretting that he was unable to paint Marie Louise in the flesh. Quite literally, for it was said that Klimt painted his female sitters in the nude and then later painted on layers of clothing.

‘This will serve the purpose perfectly, Klimt. You are a genius.’

‘Yes, so I’ve been told. Now, how about some coffee and cake?’

No Prokop or Meier today, Werthen noticed, as he sounded the bell on Schnitzler’s flat. Gross stood next to him, surveying the ornamental plasterwork over the door: putti draped in what appeared to be grapes.

Werthen heard the brass plate on the peephole on the other side of the door slide back and saw the lens go dark as an eye was put to it. Then came the rattle of unbolting and unchaining, and the playwright himself opened the door.

‘Herr Advokat! How good to see you. I rather thought you had given up on my hopeless case.’ He looked from Werthen to Gross with a question in his eyes.

Before Werthen could answer, Schnitzler rushed on. ‘Ah, that must be it. I have been rather remiss in sending payment. I do apologize.’ He continued to look at Gross as if trying to place him.

‘I assure you, Herr Schnitzler, that is not the case. This is my colleague, Doktor Gross. If we may come in, I can explain the purpose of our visit.’

‘Please,’ Schnitzler stood aside, sweeping his left hand towards the hallway. ‘I was just having coffee in the study. Perhaps you would like to join me?’

The walk from the Upper Belvedere to the Ninth District had done little to cut through the heavy meal they had enjoyed courtesy of Franz Ferdinand. ‘That would be good,’ Werthen said. As they entered the flat, the scent of hyacinths greeted them, from a bouquet in a crystal vase on a side table by the coat and hat rack.

‘I am honored to be host to the eminent criminologist,’ Schnitzler said, closing the door behind them.

‘And I,’ Gross said, turning to face him, ‘am equally pleased to finally make the acquaintance of the famous playwright.’

‘Hardly famous,’ Schnitzler said. ‘Outside Vienna, that is. But let me tell cook to bring more coffee. I was in my study, but we can . . .’

‘The study would be fine,’ Werthen said.

They followed Schnitzler as he quickly ducked into the kitchen to give instructions, and then led them past the sitting room where they had met previously and on to double doors deeper in the apartment. Schnitzler was moving well and seemed to have gotten over most of his injuries. Apparently he had also gotten over his fear of further attack, if the absence of Prokop and Meier signified.

They went into a large and rather dark room; heavy drapes partially concealed floor-to-ceiling windows, a massive Persian carpet covered much of the parquet, and a bear skin sat under a large desk in the center of the room, its teeth bared at Werthen. Two walls were littered with framed photographs of friends, theater bills, and lithographs of foreign capitals. Another wall was completely covered by a bookcase that held leather-bound volumes of German and French writers from Goethe to Balzac.

Before they had a chance to sit down, the door opened behind them and the cook, a shy little woman with the shadow of a moustache on her upper lip, brought in a porcelain coffee pot and matching cups. A ring-shaped
Gugelhupf
cake accompanied this. Gross patted his stomach as if readying it for battle.

‘Thank you, Martha,’ Schnitzler said as the cook set it down on the desk. ‘We’ll serve ourselves.’

‘Very good,’ she said in a raspy voice.