Red Heaven

by Nicolas Rothwell

  Ady gave him a steady look. ‘How fast you jump!’ she said: ‘You really mean to change my husband? Transform him: into a sound on a record, not a presence on the concert stage?’

  ‘I didn’t come to dispute with you, Madame Novogrodsky—it’s not in my thoughts: it’s certainly not what I want.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. The truth is you’ve come to us with a plea—haven’t you?’

  ‘An idea—a proposal—a strong proposal. One that should overcome any concerns the Maestro has about his studio work.’

  ‘A proposal that you need to take back to New York agreed and accepted,’ said Daru.

  ‘A proposal that you told me would be welcome, Stephane.’

  Ady raised an eyebrow at this.

  ‘Welcome, naturally,’ said Daru in a hurried way: ‘But only if it meets the Maestro’s guidelines.’

  Frolich gestured towards Ady. ‘And naturally it’s true that it would help me, madame, if you could give me some sign of your support.’

  ‘You’re forgetting something,’ Ady said: ‘You promised Stephane a document—you left me endless messages about it while we were in Salzburg—and we still don’t know what’s in it.’

  Frolich touched the folder before him. ‘It’s here. The idea’s original: unprecedented. But can I be sure of one thing? That the details stay between us—that no word of this will travel?’

  ‘You can be sure of us. Can we be sure of you?’

  ‘Of course, madame!’

  ‘I have a confession to make to you at this point, dear Frolich,’ said Ady then, in her most honeyed voice: ‘I have to tell you. An anxiety afflicts me. I’ve heard stories from your boardroom—stories I find hard to believe.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Frolich, uneasily: ‘And what are those stories?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ said Ady: ‘The tales you’ve told them all: how my husband’s firmly in your grasp; how you’ve won us over through poor, pliant Stephane—how safe your deal is: how Novogrodsky will record for you—and soon.’

  Frolich started to speak; he hesitated.

  Ady reached her hand across the table, and took his for a moment. ‘You’re embarrassed. You don’t need to be. We understand—isn’t that so, Stephane? We know there’s a place for subterfuges in your world: little truth improvements to boost collective confidence.’

  She turned to Daru and gave him a quick glare.

  ‘Of course, madame,’ he said.

  ‘And we don’t mind, do we? Not too much, anyway: we’ve come almost to expect it. But it makes us wonder: what can it possibly be that you want my poor husband to do for you? Fly into outer space and record the music of the spheres?’

  ‘No, madame,’ said Frolich: ‘Not that—but something as remarkable: a complete Mahler cycle. All the symphonies and all the songs!’

  Ady burst out laughing. ‘That’s what all this was for! All the build-up: the suspense. That’s why you flew to see us from New York: for Mahler—that poor afflicted man? That victim overwhelmed by his own avalanche of sound? I couldn’t have imagined that. You surely realise that Novogrodsky’s never conducted Mahler—not a single work?’

  ‘She knew,’ said Elista to me at once in her low, confidential voice: ‘She knew already—what his offer was!’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Everything about her: her manner—her tone. When she seems spontaneous she’s at her most rehearsed. And hear how sharp she is now? She has her prey—the scene’s coming to its crescendo—and its end!’

  ‘Another argument in favour of our project,’ Frolich was saying to her: ‘And let me reassure you. Promise you, in fact. For the Maestro: anything. Complete control: free choice—among all our artists—anyone he wants to work with, any studio or auditorium. As much time as necessary—no limit. We believe it should be done. A modern Mahler—clear, and cleanly read—for Mahler’s sake, and for the Maestro’s too. And it seems fitting to tell you all this here, right here.’

  ‘And why is that, Frolich?’ asked Ady: ‘Because Mahler spent his final summers here?’

  ‘Exactly so—in this valley, nearby. His last pieces were composed in these mountains, close to where we are today, thinking of him, remembering him.’

  ‘And you want me to present this case for you?’ said Ady: ‘Seriously? To my husband? Isn’t it obvious to you why he’s never gone to Mahler?’

  ‘We thought it would be a natural pairing. They have a common background, after all—they’re almost fellow countrymen.’

  ‘Countrymen from nowhere, you mean: perfect cosmopolitans—figures with no home.’

  ‘There are other things they share—they’ve conducted the same ensembles—in the same opera houses and concert halls.’

  ‘Novogrodsky won’t conduct other conductors,’ said Ady, folding her arms: ‘And for him that’s what Mahler was—that’s all Mahler was: a composer of orchestral noises—a composer with a conductor’s tricks. When my husband hears a Mahler symphony he’s afraid the whole auditorium’s going to dissolve in sentiment.’ She turned to me. ‘Treasure—you know all about Mahler, don’t you? The kind of music that one hears in films; you would have gone to see his birthplace—it’s not that far away from Prague.’

  She gave me a questioning look.

  Daru leaned forward. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Mahler symphonies—all sentiment, pure sentiment.’

  ‘But popular,’ said Frolich: ‘Very—especially in Manhattan.’

  ‘And this is an argument?’ Ady’s voice rose: ‘Novogrodsky’s turned down other projects of this kind: complete works, months in the studio, complete this, complete that. Surely you know why?’

  ‘It’s a mystery to us,’ said Frolich: ‘What we hear now—that he prefers live performance to the studio: why? It’s madness—he’s limiting himself.’

  Ady assumed her most regal manner. ‘Frolich,’ she said: ‘I’m surprised to hear you think that way. Perhaps I can shed some light.’

  She glanced at me again. ‘Treasure—listen carefully. Elista—pay attention too.’

  ‘But I always pay attention, madame,’ said Elista, sounding nervous.

  ‘When you’re not complaining about my faults and weaknesses.’

  ‘Madame!’

  ‘It’s normal,’ said Ady to her: ‘And without significance. We’re human—we’re all full of flaws and shortcomings. Just remember—I know what you think before you even have the thought. And here we all sit, with the master of a musical conglomerate—a man who’s decided how my husband should live his life. Who believes a studio session can be made perfect. Nowadays, it seems, perfection can be captured on a disc of vinyl: it can endure forever, we can be immortal through it—engineer our own Elysium.’

  She turned from us; she fixed her eyes on Frolich. ‘But for Novogrodsky, it’s different, Frolich—very,’ she said to him, her voice turning sharp: ‘And I think you know that. For him, to record a work’s to kill it. For him, music only comes to life between performer and listener: it’s made from nothing—made new every time. The orchestra’s nothing, the conductor’s nothing, his art’s a thing of nothing—built from silence—from the dark. There’s no blueprint, no ideal version to be preserved forever. And if a conductor believes there is one, if he ever thinks he knows a piece of music, or holds its secrets in his hands, then he’s a dictator at the podium—a tyrant, parading his own glory on stage.’

  ‘So extreme, madame,’ said Frolich to her: ‘I find it hard to believe you mean the words you say.’

  ‘Is my tone ambiguous? I seem so uncertain?’ She looked across at Daru. ‘Stephane?’ she asked.

  ‘You make your meaning very plain, madame.’

  ‘Novogrodsky’s meaning. His! He says when he conducts, he feels a current passing through him: it comes from elsewhere—it’s made from harmony, from dissonance. It’s not from here.’

  ‘Madame,’ said Frolich then, ‘you know I worked alongside the Maestro once—I booked his concerts, I arranged his tours, I
travelled with him: I never heard him say such things. And if he thought them, that didn’t stop him recording in the studio—until now, that is—until now.’

  ‘Perhaps his ideas weren’t clear to you—or he didn’t confide in you. Perhaps you never really understood him.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe as well, madame.’

  ‘Of course you do. And you know better than him, don’t you? You know what my husband should be doing. You’ve decided what he should devote himself to, and where, and how.’

  ‘Madame, I only wish the best for the Maestro—and for you.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Ady, quite amiably, ‘I’m sure you wish the earth would open and swallow me up.’

  Frolich spread his hands before him and shook his head. ‘We all have to live in the age of recorded music, madame. Even the purest artist must bow before technology.’

  ‘That’s it: how well you say it! You want Novogrodsky on his knees. You want him as a trophy—a name for your collection—your back catalogue. But you knew he’d never agree to your proposal—that’s why you came to us, through Stephane—with all your inducements and your promises.’

  ‘Madame—this way the Maestro would live on. It would be his legacy.’

  ‘Frolich, we realise you want to make him profitable after his death—we know that very well.’

  ‘He’s profitable for us already—of course. This is for him—for you—as much as for us.’

  Ady turned back to Daru. ‘Stephane—would you advise me to take this message to my husband? Say to him: Dear one, you’re going to die soon, we all know it—so do as Frolich says and he’ll make sure that you survive in memory—survive as long as his kingdom lasts. Should I carry those words back with me? A message from the board of directors—conveyed by Nathan Frolich—your old and trusted friend? Or shall we place a call to him, Stephane? Call him now: right now—call him at the hotel in Salzburg: why not? And tell him what his friend Frolich thinks—that I’ve changed him since our marriage, that I’ve manipulated him, that he’s a poor, lost creature, under my spell—trapped in my net. That’s what you believe, after all—isn’t it, Frolich?’

  This was said in a calm voice.

  Frolich looked back at her: ‘If I thought so,’ he said eventually, ‘it would be an observation, not a judgement.’

  ‘And now the time’s come, hasn’t it, Frolich?’ Ady said to him: ‘The time for you to leave us. This amusement’s run its course.’

  ‘Please,’ he said: ‘Another moment.’

  ‘You don’t think our talk’s at an end?’

  ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘Oh, Frolich—you shouldn’t have!’

  ‘Not a gift: a letter. Our formal offer. Don’t you want to cast an eye over it—before you make your decision final?’

  He reached into the folder before him, extracted a sealed envelope and handed it across the table. Ady stared at it as if it was contaminated. With the tip of one finger she pushed it across to Daru.

  ‘Stephane,’ she commanded: ‘Take a look. See what it is our guest wishes us to know.’

  Daru opened the letter; he glanced at its contents. ‘A few polite sentences, madame. Some specifics, the outline of a contract.’ He paused.

  ‘Go on,’ said Ady: ‘What?’

  ‘A sum of money’s mentioned,’ said Daru then: ‘The sum’s significant.’

  Ady turned to Daru. ‘Give it back to him.’ She gestured towards Frolich.

  ‘Take your note,’ she said: ‘Take it elsewhere. Take it to Abbado, or Bernstein—take it to someone who might want to receive it—take it away from here.’

  With that, she stood up, and placed her hands on the table for a second. ‘And now, goodbye, Frolich. Our thanks for the kindness of your visit. I doubt we’ll be seeing each other again.’

  She looked in our direction. ‘You two—come with me—there’s nothing more to keep us here.’

  She swept into the hotel. We chased after her.

  Daru came hurrying in her wake. ‘Madame,’ he said: ‘What now? Is it really over?’

  Ady sighed. ‘Talk to him, of course—like yesterday. Come to an understanding with him. You know what we want from them. What we spoke about.’

  ‘Concerts only?’

  ‘Yes, propose it—but stealthily—go step by step. Talk around it—let him think it’s his initiative, seem unpersuaded, hesitate. He has to go back with an agreement: you can hear it in his voice—it’s in his face as well. Why am I instructing you? You’ve done this before: many times. You used to be a diplomat.’

  ‘Diplomacy’s not always like that, madame.’

  ‘Stance, appearance, seeing into the heart of your adversary—seeing what he only half-suspects himself: what else is there in diplomatic relations? In life?’

  ‘Those are the skills of a mind-reader, madame. You’d have made a good poker player.’

  ‘I play often, as it happens, Stephane,’ she said: ‘But only with marked cards.’

  ‘Truly?’ said Elista.

  ‘How shocked you sound! Of course not—did you believe me? It’s just a line I heard once in the movies—years ago. I’ve longed to use it ever since.’

  ‘It’s not a strange time for joking, madame?’ said Elista.

  ‘There’s nothing more serious than humour: it only has its place when heartache’s drawing near. Come—treasure: such a scene—did it reach you? Was it interesting—worth keeping in your thoughts?’

  ‘Did it go the way you expected it to?’ I asked her.

  ‘Of course it did. Elista—you stay with Stephane.’

  ‘Madame—where are you going?’

  ‘It’s not a secret, exactly,’ said Ady: ‘But it’s something between the two of us.’

  She stretched out her hand to me. ‘Come,’ she said again, in a soft voice: ‘Back into Merano with me. It’s time.’

  She led the way: across the river, past the Kurhaus, into the mazy old town: the streets were quiet.

  ‘How did all that seem to you?’ she said, and then, without waiting, answered her own question: ‘It was an exercise in bad faith. Could you tell? The purest duplicity.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘That man: he’d been to Vienna—before coming here. He went behind my back. He met with Muscatine: he had a contract in his hands: the same one he just waved before us.’

  ‘Mr Frolich? How do you know?’

  ‘Muscatine’s not disloyal. He told me the whole story.’

  ‘But you didn’t say anything—at the hotel.’

  ‘I didn’t—but by the end Frolich realised: he could see I knew.’

  We had made a circle along the arcades and streets; we were at the promenade again, close by where Egon had been sitting the day before.

  ‘There’s a story I’ve been saving up,’ said Ady then: ‘You already know that, don’t you? And you know I’ve waited until now.’

  She smiled at me. Suddenly her face seemed full of sadness. ‘It’s what I saw here; what happened here—and that’s why we made the journey here from Zürich: that’s the only reason—but now I find it hard to tell you—I don’t even know how to begin.’

  ‘You could tell it as if you were talking to a stranger,’ I said: ‘Or like a story you heard somewhere—from someone else—not something that involves you—at all.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said then, and paused, and looked round.

  We were by the entrance to a palm-tree garden above the riverbank; there were steep pathways; the slope plunged down beneath us: the noise from the rapids surged and fell.

  ‘Somewhere you remember?’ I asked her.

  ‘The very first day we spent in Merano I found this place,’ she said: ‘The river was higher then, it flowed faster, it was even louder, it had a hundred different notes in it: I could hear whole symphonies inside its sound. I used to come here with my governess—after lessons, every day—we walked all through the gardens, and on, further upstream, as far up as San Zeno. And
every autumn when we went home to the city I drew pictures of this garden, and dreamed of coming back—then, one year, we came for the summer, my father and I, and never left.’

  ‘And he thought you’d be safe here?’

  ‘We were safe—for a long time. Behind our mountains, far away from everything. I lived in books—in stories: that was how I hid away. Our apartment was close to here, on the Sandplatz: it had a roof terrace. I spent hours by myself there, whole afternoons on end—reading—daydreaming.’

  ‘Reading what?’

  ‘Oh—the kinds of books young girls in those days were told to read: romantic books, wistful books: Stifter, Hoffmann, books you’d never hear of now. And we went to concerts at the Kurhaus, too, my father and I. When we were first here it was all still the Viennese—Mozart, Schubert, Haydn—but once the war came that changed—everything was Italian then: the pianists played sonatas by Scarlatti; the quartets were always Boccherini: one night the orchestra played a Respighi tone poem: I thought that was the last word in elegance. But if we stayed at home the nights were quite different: no music. I’d sit with my father in his study and we’d listen to the radio broadcasts: there were days when we could pick up foreign stations very clearly; we heard their reports and bulletins—there was a map of Europe open on the table, and we’d follow where all the different armies were, advancing, retreating: it was like an evening drama that went on forever: we never spoke about it in the day.’

  ‘But everything was quiet here, in the valley—there wasn’t any fighting?’

  ‘Not until the end came near. Merano was a hospital town: for a long time we saw the planes flying far above, and the patrols high up, near the frontier passes—that was all.’

  ‘And you never went up into the mountains—you never went exploring there?’

  ‘Once. With one of my tutors: her name was Pavlikova—she came from the Tatras, from Késmárk: I liked her very much. She took me with her on a trip to the guesthouse in the hills above Sankt Martin: there was a steep path—nearly to the snow line. We were looking for chamois—and we saw them, we came close to them: a whole family, standing still: we watched them through binoculars—then there was some sound—a detonation in the distance—from a quarry, or maybe from manoeuvres, far off—I watched them springing away, all together, without a sound, as if they were soaring through the air. “I wish I could run away like that, almost flying,” I said. Miss Pavlikova glanced down: “Poor Mademoiselle Adela,” she said to me: “Don’t you see—how the mountains keep you and your kind in? There’s no way out for you here in this valley: you’re in a cage.” That was the first time anyone had said something like that to me. I remembered it.’