two carved mirrors, fawn trimmings (with matching silk lace), French door handles, andmost unusually-an electric bell to capture the driver's attention. The exterior was even more impressive: olive-green panels, thick rubber tires, wide fenders, and two massive silver-plated headlamps.
“This is such a beautiful carriage,” said Clara, stroking the shiny green leather. “Now, wasn't it the right thing to do-wasn't I right, Father? We couldn't have arrived in our old trap, we just couldn't have.”
Jacob Weiss looked over his spectacles at his daughter.
“Yes, my dear,” he said indulgently. “You were right. And this is a splendid carriage. An electric bell! Who would have thought it? I am sorely tempted to press it again.”
“No,” said Esther. “You've already troubled the driver twice for no good reason-a third time will be inexcusable.”
Jacob Weiss shrugged, and patted his wife's hand.
“Will the emperor be there?” asked Rachel.
“No,” said Clara.
“You don't know. He might be,” said Weiss.
Clara ignored her father and continued to instruct her younger sister. “There will, however, be many other important people: politicians, diplomats, the Rothschilds, the Wittgensteins-”
“The Lembergs,” added Bettina.
“I don't think so, not this evening,” said Clara.
“Why?” Bettina asked.
“Haven't you heard?” Clara said. “They say that young Lemberg was killed in a shooting accident last week. But everyone knows that it was really a duel.”
“How terrible,” said Bettina.
“I don't know what's wrong with young men these days,” said Jacob. “What possesses them? Such a waste, such a pointless waste.”
“Anyway,” continued Clara, “there will be many important people at the opera-which is why we must look our very best.” Then, turning toward Liebermann, she added, “Oh, I almost forgot-I saw Frau Trenker yesterday, and she is still suffering from very bad headaches. Her doctor said she should wrap her head in a cold wet towel for an hour a day, but it isn't doing very much. I said I would ask you for some advice.”
“Tell her to take aspirin,” said Liebermann.
“Aspirin?” repeated Jacob Weiss. “It works?”
“Yes,” said Liebermann.
The carriage began to slow down, and joined a short line just outside the Opera House. Eventually, the vehicle passed through the archway under the grand balcony and came to a halt. The driver knocked the handle of his whip, discreetly, on his box.
“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
