Vienna Blood (25 page)

“Well, we're here!” said Jacob.

An attendant approached the carriage, pulled down the folding step, and opened the door. One by one the Weiss family emerged, enjoying the attention of a small crowd of well-dressed onlookers.

Liebermann paused beneath a tree of gaslights. He had been to the

Opera House many times before, but he had never noticed—before that moment—that the lamp's feet were cast in the form of four winged Sphinxes.

For some inexplicable reason he was transfixed.

Secrets, secrets, secrets …

“Come on, Max,” said Clara. “What are you staring at?”

“Oh, it's nothing.”

He took her arm and they entered the building.

After visiting the cloakroom and purchasing their programs, the Weiss family assembled at the foot of the grand marble staircase. Liebermann looked up into the vastness—the wide-open dizzying expanse above his head. It was so immense: the chandeliers and wall lights seemed like whole worlds, suns, planets, softly glowing in the void. Massive round arches surrounded the central space and, through these, other arches could be glimpsed. On tall square pillars stood seven statues representing personifications of architecture, sculpture, poetry, dance, art, music, and drama. They were like custodial gods, marshaling the glowing worlds through the infinite. And beyond the guardians, columns, and balustrades was an artificial sky of transverse vaulting, enlivened by the colors of shadowy frescoes—white, blue, and vermilion.

Clara was leaning toward Rachel and whispering something behind a fan.

“What is it?” Liebermann asked.

Her stare darted to the left, where a portly man was standing with two women wearing thick fur stoles.

“Hammerstein,” she whispered.

“Who?”

Clara's eyes rolled upward. “The cigar manufacturer. They say he's as rich as an archduke.”

Liebermann was not a great lover of the opera. He did not like the
fact that most people—including Clara—attended not for the music but to participate in a social event. Also, the music itself was usually not to his taste. He found it too rich, too excessive, too melodramatic. He much preferred the simplicity of lieder, the intimacy of a string quartet, or the abstract purity of a symphonic work. Even so, he was eager to hear
The Magic Flute
again. The reviews had been exceptionally positive. Even the critic Theodor Helm—in the traditionally anti-Semitic
Deutsche Zeitung—
had praised Director Mahler's new production. The director had reduced the size of the orchestra and encouraged them to play in the style of a chamber group. Liebermann was convinced that he would find this treatment of the work particularly rewarding.

The family ascended the grand staircase.

Clara drew Liebermann closer to her. For the first time all evening, their gaze met in privacy. Liebermann found the moment troubling. She was so very pretty. Whenever he saw her face turned up toward his, he wanted to smother it with kisses. But was this enough? Was the sweetness of her breath and the softness of her pale cheeks sufficient to sustain a union supposed to last forever?

“Are you happy, Max?”

It was an innocent question but it resonated so deeply with concerns and doubts that he could barely acknowledge—let alone face up to—that his collar tightened and the words he tried to speak came out sounding half-strangled.

“I haven't seen
The Magic Flute
in years,” he uttered costively, trying to smile. “I'm sure it will be a delightful evening.”

Now he understood why he had been transfixed by the quartet of Sphinxes. He too was the keeper of a terrible secret. The engagement ring on Clara's finger weighed heavily on his conscience—as if each diamond was a millstone hanging around his neck.

Jacob Weiss led the group to their box, where two bottles of
champagne awaited them in a bucket of ice. Champagne flutes were arranged on a small folding table, next to a tray of white chocolate truffles. While Konrad poured the champagne and Rachel offered around the chocolates, Liebermann gazed out into the auditorium.

A massive chandelier, like a girdle of stars, hung from the center of a fabulously decorated ceiling. Below the emperor's box—a cave of tantalizing shadow—was an area reserved for individuals who had lined up for cheap tickets. This “standing enclosure” was divided by a bronze pole. One half was reserved for civilians, the other half for soldiers. These two divisions had started to fill with roughly equal numbers of men.

The orchestra, mostly string players and a few woodwind, had begun to appear in the pit.

Rachel arrived with the tray of truffles and circled it under Liebermann's nose—as if to waft the enticing fragrances. The sound of a clarinet, doodling in the low registers, produced a pleasant, liquid accompaniment.

The young doctor smiled.

“Have you spotted anyone famous?” asked Rachel.

“To be honest, I wasn't looking.” He took a chocolate and bit it in half.

“Yes, you were—you were trying to see if there was anyone in the emperor's box.”

Esther overheard the challenge and cried out, “Rachel! Don't be impolite!”

The girl's cheeks burned.

Liebermann glanced at Esther, and waved his hand as if to say
It was nothing.
He then returned his attention to Rachel. “In fact, I was looking at the standing area.” Rachel's blush subsided. “You see? Where the soldiers are gathered?”

Rachel peered over the edge of the box.

“Where do the women stand?” she asked.

“They don't—women aren't allowed in there.”

“Why not?” she persisted.

“I'm not sure,” said Liebermann, electing to give an uncomplicated answer. “Perhaps their dresses take up too much room.”

He popped the remains of the chocolate into his mouth and took his seat. Clara passed him a champagne flute, and settled next to him. She produced a pair of opera glasses and began to systematically scan the five rows of boxes on the opposite side of the auditorium. Occasionally she would whisper a society name. “Baroness von Ehrenstein … Hofrat Nicolai.” Then, more animatedly, “Countess Staray!”

Strings—the tinkling of a glockenspiel—the hollow, soft thunder of the kettledrum.

Although Liebermann found this incessant naming mildly irritating, he could not deny that the presence of so many luminaries was certainly contributing to the atmosphere. The volume of conversation grew steadily louder, until eventually he could no longer hear what Clara was saying.

The musicians were tuning up. Liebermann took his spectacles out of his top pocket and curled the wire arms around his ears—he wanted to examine the scene more closely. The stalls were now full—a veritable crowd had gathered in the standing area—and clusters of white oval faces hovered like ghosts above the rim of every balcony. The lights began to dim. There was movement in the pit, and suddenly Director Mahler's wiry frame materialized on the podium. The audience applauded and some of the officers at the back rattled their sabres. Liebermann felt a sense of relief. He was eager to lose himself in the evening's music.

Mahler turned, raised both hands above his shoulders, and thrust his baton at the orchestra. The sound that emerged from the pit had a
wonderful organic quality: a divine progression of chords, each swelling and opening up, as if the music were actually blooming like a flower. This sublime unfolding was followed by passages of extraordinary delicacy. The scoring was pellucid, suffused with a quality of exquisite airy lightness.

The curtain rose to reveal a desert landscape of wild rocks and isolated trees. Huge mountains loomed on either side of a round temple.

Clara clutched Liebermann's hand. The audience gasped. A giant serpent was emerging from the backstage shadows. It was huge, like a Chinese dragon. The musical accompaniment became agitated and stormy as the creature reared up above a tiny human figure.

“Help me,” sang Prince Tamino. “Or I am lost.”

“There is no escape from this serpent.”

The beast circled the desperate prince.

“Closer and closer it comes.”

“Someone help me.”

Clara squeezed Liebermann's hand.

It seemed that the prince was about to meet his end. He swooned and fell to the ground. Above him the snake's massive head swung from side to side. Its great jaws opened, revealing terrifying long fangs. At the point when all seemed lost, the gates of the temple opened and three veiled ladies appeared.

“Die, monster,” they cried, “by our power.”

They raised their arms and called down from the heavens a magical nemesis.

The beast lashed its tail, writhed, squirmed, and snapped its jaws. Then, rearing up one last time, the serpent seemed to cry out before collapsing in a twisted heap.

“Victory,” sang the mysterious trio of women. The music became triumphal. “The heroic deed is done.”

They approached the unconscious prince and praised his beauty. Then, after expressing regret, they took their leave, in order to report to their mistress—the Queen of the Night.

The next scene was comic.

The prince awoke and, somewhat confused, concealed himself behind a rock. Then a man in a plumed costume appeared, carrying some pipes and empty cages. He was attempting to catch birds, singing a jolly song as he set about his business. At the end of the song the prince made himself known to the bird catcher, who mischievously allowed the prince to think that it was
he
who had slain the monstrous serpent with his bare hands.

The three ladies returned and identified the bird catcher as Papageno. It was apparently Papageno's custom to offer the ladies birds in exchange for wine and cake. On this occasion, however, the three ladies did not honor their tradition. Instead of wine they gave him plain water, and instead of cake they gave him a stone. And to prevent Papageno from lying again, they sealed his mouth with a golden padlock. …

Liebermann loosened his hand from Clara's grip and leaned over the edge of the box.

The drama continued to unfold and new characters appeared: the Queen of the Night, who explained to Tamino that her daughter Pamina had been abducted by the evil Sarastro. Three boys—or genii—who entered the drama in a flying chariot, to guide Tamino on his quest. Slaves, Princess Pamina herself, and finally the lascivious Moor, Monostatos.

Liebermann became increasingly agitated.

There were
definite
parallels.

He could hardly believe what he was seeing. It seemed too extraordinary, too strange.

Clara tutted as he fidgeted in his seat.

When Monostatos the Moor appeared, Liebermann's agitation turned into excitement.

The experience was like vertigo. The box felt insecure, as though it might tip and deposit him and all of the Weiss family into the stalls below. His heart felt engorged and banged violently against his ribs as if seeking to escape its bony confinement.

He leaned toward Clara. Her soft hair tickled his lips.

“I have to go,” he said.

She turned and drew back, her expression confused and disbelieving.

“What?”

Surprise had amplified her voice. Herr Weiss craned his head to see what was going on.

Liebermann drew her closer again and whispered into her ear.

“It's important. I have to go—I'll explain … I'll explain tomorrow.”

Clara grabbed his arm, stopping him from getting up.

“What are you talking about? You can't just go.” Her voice was conspicuously loud.

Liebermann removed her hand from his arm and stood up.

“I'm sorry.”

The entire Weiss family was looking at him. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and left.

44

T
HE 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.