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.”
55
LIEBERMANN SWALLOWED HIS SLIVOVITZ and stared through the empty glass at his friend.
“Where was I?” asked Kanner.
“You were telling me about Sabina.”
“Ah yes… Sabina.”
Kanner lifted the bottle from the table but his grip was weak and it slid through his fingers. A small quantity of plum brandy spouted from the top, producing a circle of yellow spots on the white tablecloth.
They were sitting in one of several private dining rooms situated behind a restaurant in Leopoldstadt. It had no windows, and contained only four pieces of furniture: a small table, two chairs, and a green sofa. The latter was a standard feature (private dining rooms being more commonly reserved by married men for clandestine meetings with barmaids, shopgirls, and dressmakers).
The food, although not imaginative, had been very wholesome: sliced-pancake soup, boiled beef with vegetables, followed by germknodel-yeast dumplings served hot with melted butter, sugar, and ground poppy seed.
Liebermann rotated the empty glass, and his inebriated friend fragmented. Kanner's bright red cravat and embroidered vest shattered into shards of kaleidoscopic color. A swift reverse movement-and Kanner was reconstituted. As Liebermann repeated this procedure, he was troubled by a doubt concerning the psychological report he had written for Rheinhardt. Had he mentioned that Aschenbrandt had first seen The Magic Flute in Salzburg? The question hovered in his mind for a few moments but soon lost its urgency, eventually sinking to some inaccessible depth.
“Have another slivovitz!” Kanner cried, decanting an eccentric quantity of plum brandy into Liebermann's glass. He loosened his cravat and scratched the stubble on his cheek. In the flickering gaslight, Kanner appeared disreputably handsome. “It's always the way,” he groaned. “You fall in love, you become intimate… for a short while you are in paradise… but then things start going wrong. I thought I really loved Sabina-and I was sure she felt the same way about me.”
“Did you quarrel?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
“I don't know.”
They had both smoked far too much; however, the asphyxiating atmosphere in the windowless room failed to discourage Kanner from lighting the last of his Egyptian cigarettes.
“I was walking her home, one night last week,” Kanner continued, “and we stopped to admire a pretty little square. I'd never come across it before: a little church, a water fountain, and a string of arc lights… It was very peaceful. There was a bench, and we decided to sit down for a while. Sabina was quite tired. We had been to the theater. I turned to kiss her… and she drew away.”
