Vienna in Violet

“Just before the music began, I noticed Eugénie in deep conversation with Thomas Bellingham.”

  “Thomas Bellingham?”

  “Thomas, Lord Bellingham.”

  “Ah, one of the Englishmen.”

  “At the time, I thought nothing of it. Thomas and Eugénie were old friends, and I supposed they wanted to reminisce. At any rate, she did. In fact, it amused me to see Eugénie struggling to maintain his attention. His eyes kept wandering towards me.”

  “How flattering.”

  Zdenka again emitted her almost feral laugh. “Nonsense, Herr Doktor. Thomas is no great student of chivalry, but he knows better than that. I realize now that he was only interested in what I was doing.”

  “And that was…”

  “Tending to my charges. You see, I know a smattering of Russian. Herr Himmelfarb asked me to help him.”

  “Help him in what manner?”

  “Communicate with Pyotr Tagili. He’s Russian, you understand. Tagili has some French along with his native tongue, but Himmelfarb speaks only German. They discovered their difficulties only when they introduced themselves to each other, using up every bit of the English they knew. It was most diverting. You men! Utterly helpless without us.”

  Nordwalder let the comment pass. “And did you help?”

  “As much as I could. Himmelfarb wanted to discuss numbers. He kept asking ‘how much, how much?’ I kept telling him ‘how much’, but the concert began before they came to any agreement.”

  “And you don’t know what the numbers referred to?”

  “I don’t. I wasn’t interested,” said Zdenka. “Perhaps they were discussing prices. I presume that platinum, like everything else, can be bought.” This last remark was punctuated with one of Zdenka’s most devastating smiles, a particular display employed only when absolutely necessary.

  “Quite so, Contessa.”

  “Now that I have answered your questions, Herr Doktor, will you answer one for me?”

  “If I can.”

  “Do you know how I can get a hold of the composer who was there that night, the little pianist?”

  “Franz Schubert?”

  “Yes, that’s his name. You see, I found some of his tunes rather pleasant, and I may host a gathering here one of these days.”

  “His current abode is certainly listed at the ministry. I’ll send it home with your husband the next time he stops by.”

  “I’d prefer that my husband know nothing about it,” said Zdenka. “Don’t look so shocked, Doktor. He will turn fifty next month and I want to surprise him. That’s all.”

  Nordwalder permitted his face to relax to show the countess that he understood, but Zdenka had made a serious miscalculation. Nordwalder’s current position at Hager’s right hand depended on his thorough knowledge of all the people he dealt with, not merely those whose activities excited the attention of the ministry. He, too, cared to remain informed about his own associates and subordinates. Kurt Merlinbeck’s forty-eighth birthday occurred last November.

  Suavely, Nordwalder offered, “I see. The matter requires some discretion. Perhaps I could bring Schubert’s address over to you myself.”

  “I’d like that,” Zdenka said, offering another glimpse of her perfect teeth. “May I not persuade you to have some refreshment before you go?”

  “The offer is most tempting, Contessa, but tonight I must decline. I’ll return soon enough.”

  “I hope so,” said the countess, extending her arm in order to ring for a servant.

  Alone in the salon, Zdenka languidly poured herself another cup of coffee and reflected. Until Nordwalder’s visit, her clearest course for a return to power was through control of one of the two Germans, Himmelfarb or Barenberg. Deciding that as a pair they were permanently ineffectual, she planned to latch onto one, whoever proved to be the stronger, and groom him for her purposes. Now, however, such tedious and possibly fruitless effort might not be necessary. She relaxed on her settee, entertaining visions of receiving Doktor Nordwalder in the future—and of learning more of the unimposing, but perhaps vitally important, little composer.

  Chapter Thirty

  Shortly after noon on Saturday, Schubert put down his quill to exchange weary gazes with Franz Schober, who had stopped by von Schwind’s on his way home. Schubert tried to summon the energy to go out. For reasons of his own, each had passed a virtually sleepless night. Schober was accustomed to nocturnal wanderings and looked better, but Schubert felt better. Three hours of intense, productive work on his new piano piece obscured his inner glow. Schober simply felt the last vestiges of some strongly fortified spirits.

  “So, Schwammerl, your masterpiece progresses?”

  Schubert stifled a yawn and nodded.

  “Mine too, but like yours, it is unfinished. Behold Ulysses!” With a swing of his arm across his breast, Schober struck a noble pose.

  “What’s that, Franz?”

  “Last night I drifted by the home of my Penelope. Amidst feasting and revelry, I was turned away betimes and forced to seek the solace of sirens. Now, though exhausted by my labors I, in service to King Alfonso, prepare to set out on the perilous voyage to the unknown land of Theatricus Wiennius, where the giant Carlissimus von Weberississimus resides. Will my loyal crewmates Franzl, Petra, Bertel, Butschel, and the irreplaceable Volker the Minstrel join me on the perilous voyage?”

  “We all refuse!” said Schubert with a laugh at the catalogue of his nicknames.

  “All?”

  “Every one of me,” said Schubert.

  “‘Et tu, Schwammerl? Then fall Schober’. I’m going home to sleep.”

  “Very wise of you, Franz.”

  Schober, despite his reprieve from another day in the cold, balked at his friend’s casual surrender in the fight for Alfonso. “Do you mean to let our opportunity pass?”

  “On the contrary, gallant Ulysses. I have succeeded where you have failed.”

  Such an event was rare in Schober’s experience. “Pardonnez moi?”

  “I have seen the great Weberissimus, and …”

  “Weberississimus,” said Schober.

  “He iss not as big as all that,” said Schubert, enjoying his friend’s ill humor.” He limps, as you know. So please, don’t interrupt. I saw the man last night, and—”

  “What did he say?”

  “To me, nothing. Stop interrupting me, Franz. Von Weber only passed me in the street. We didn’t exchange a single word.”

  “Then—”

  “Ein moment, Franz. I came back here crestfallen, as you can imagine, only to discover on the sideboard a letter from Salieri. We are going to St. Stephen’s tomorrow,” Schubert announced with pride.

  “What of it?”

  “We, along with von Weber, are going to hear a new composition of Friedrich Schneider. I’m not sure if it’s a traditional Mass or an oratorio. So you see, I have outdone both you and Vogl. I tossed and turned half the night, wondering what to say to him.”

  “I can help you there,” said Schober.

  “I must do this solo,” Schubert responded, “considering how Salieri is now.”

  “You’ve told me many times.”

  “He won’t remember you, so he won’t receive you.”

  “At least I can go to the concert.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon at four.”

  “Look for me in the left portion of the transept.”

  “Danke, Franz.” On that note Schubert rose from his seat, and after his usual series of fits and starts, headed out to spend the afternoon working in the more congenial surroundings of the Café Lindenbaum.

  Gert Timmerich picked Schubert up as he left the house and dutifully followed him. This time his routine varied slightly. At the end of the street, Timmerich stopped and clapped his hands together twice. Any uninvited observer would suppose that he was acting against the cold. But the one who was waiting for the gesture understood.

  Five minutes after the composer and Schober parted, a second functionary
knocked on the rear door of Schubert’s abode. A couple of florins passed from this man’s hand to the kitchen maid who opened the door, and, by her shy smile, seemed to recognize him. By the time Schubert arrived at the coffee house and Timmerich positioned himself outside, Schubert’s room and papers had been searched thoroughly. The mysterious man left the house empty-handed, looking glum, without so much as a word to the kitchen maid.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Clouds dissipated, causing the temperature to drop precipitously during the afternoon, and Saturday evening was bitter cold. Nowhere was the chill more pronounced than in the dining room of the inn housing Jurgen Himmelfarb and Johannes Barenberg. The two metallurgists glared at each other across a table. Cups of chocolate lay untouched in front of them.

  “So, where were you, Jurgen?” Barenberg asked, his voice not masking his malice.

  “I am not accountable to you,” Himmelfarb said, with greater volume and equal malice.

  “I worry about your well-being,” Barenberg lied. “When a man leaves his lodgings at an ungodly hour, he must be in trouble.”

  “You were sleeping. I wasn’t going to wake you.” This was true. Himmelfarb didn’t want Barenberg to know anything about his journey. “If you must know, I needed time alone to think. I hate it here.”

  “The situation will resolve itself soon.” Barenberg adopted a low, mellow tone, presumably meant to sooth. “But Jurgen, we must work together. Neither of us will succeed without the other.”

  “When it comes to platinum, I agree,” said Himmelfarb, “but I don’t need to consult you before taking a walk.”

  “A walk in the cold before dawn?”

  “What about it? I’m accustomed to the cold of Silesia. I’m trying to reconcile myself to staying in this horrible city. I like it better with fewer strangers about.” This remark was true to some extent, but Himmelfarb was withholding some key information. His travels had a specific destination, as Barenberg suspected. “I hope you’re satisfied, Johannes.”

  “My satisfaction is not relevant. I’m concerned for your safety, Jurgen, and for Prussia’s faith in us.”

  “Safety? Pah! I can break any Austrian dog in half.”

  “Dogs sometimes travel in packs,” Barenberg said quietly.

  “Then the next time I go out, follow me.”

  Barenberg planned to do just that but temporized with, “Before doing anything rash, take precautions.”

  “It’s you who should be careful, Johannes. If I catch you behind me, I may break you in half.”

  Silence reigned for a considerable time. Finally Barenberg said, “I’m going upstairs to work out our final estimate. Meet me for breakfast.”

  “Jawohl, Mein Kapitan!” Himmelfarb mocked.

  “Oh, stop it, Jurgen. We’re stuck here, so we might as well be civil. Don’t forget, tomorrow we go to St. Stephen’s.”

  “St. Stephen’s?”

  “The concert.”

  “Of course. In this stupid city music trumps everything. Why can’t the Viennese just keep quiet?”

  The two Germans retired upstairs. Both had been less than candid. Barenberg went to his room, but only to change coats. Ten minutes later, stopping only to listen for his partner’s snoring, he slid out of the inn for his own private walk. Himmelfarb stopped his feigned snoring and saw Barenberg through the window of his room, traveling in a direction he expected. He chose not to follow. He knew where Barenberg was going. All he cared about was when Johannes came back, which was gratifyingly soon.

  The Germans had a new experience in common. Both felt the sting of the same unsuccessful mission to the home of Zdenka von Merlinbeck for a hoped-for tryst. On his sortie, Himmelfarb was told at the front door that the count was indisposed and would receive no one. Later, Barenberg went to the door Zdenka suggested only to find it locked. After circling the house twice, he sullenly trudged back to the inn.

  Through all the Germans’ comings and goings, Zdenka kept to her room. She hadn’t slept so soundly in years.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The only aspect of his preparation for meeting Carl Maria von Weber that did not cause Schubert anxiety was the decision what to wear. Aside from selecting the cleaner shirt, the better trousers and the less frayed coat, he had no choice. On the way down the stairs his friend and host, Moritz von Schwind, accosted him.

  “Surely, Franz, you’re not going to meet the master looking like that.”

  “What do you mean, Moritz?” Instinctively, Schubert’s hand went to his face. Did his receding cold make his nose too red?

  “That brown neckerchief—hardly appropriate for the composer of grand opera. Besides, there’s a spot on it.” Von Schwind the artist had a true painter’s eye.

  “But it’s all I have. My white ones are even dirtier, and the black has a hole in it.”

  Von Schwind proposed a solution. “Here. Take mine.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of taking—” but before Schubert could complete the protest, von Schwind removed his pale blue neckerchief and grabbed for Schubert’s throat.

  Schubert stepped back and almost fell on the stairs. “Well, if you insist,” he said.

  During the ensuing exchange von Schwind explained. “Brown is the color of earth, good for laborers and builders, good in the summer when you walk in the forest. Artists receive inspiration out of the ether. To show you’re an artist, use ethereal colors. Here, take this too.”

  Von Schwind extended his hat. It was two inches taller than Schubert’s and showed less wear.

  Schubert didn’t complain this time. “You’re very kind, Moritz.”

  “Just make sure to invite me to the premier of Alfonso.”

  They left the house together.

  Gert Timmerich hated standing around doing nothing while his quarry did nothing. He hated the reason they gave him—to help solve the murder of a useless countess he had never met. He feared Count von Neulinger as much as he hated him because of his title and only grudgingly accepted Doktor Nordwalder’s assurance that the man had value to the Austrian state. As far as Timmerich was concerned the count belonged in hell with all the rest of them. Actually, thought Timmerich, the fires of hell would be too good for them.

  Timmerich hated the cold, which reminded him of Austerlitz. Nearly every day of every winter evoked in his mind that one foul morning when he excitedly embarked on his patriotic duty, only to be sent in one direction after another without ever seeing the French enemy.

  In the afternoon, however, pieces of shrapnel found him as he was marching away from the fighting. When he regained consciousness, they advised him sardonically to start learning French.

  After weeks essentially on his own in the cold, he found himself back in Vienna, a changed man. Still eager to strike decisive blows for the empire, he responded eagerly to the attention of certain officers who offered him the chance. So what if the people he bludgeoned or stabbed weren’t in any army? They were enemies of the homeland. Death to all of Austria’s enemies!

  When he killed the first of the three Austrians assigned to him, a veteran of the Napoleonic wars like himself, his political understanding intensified. Everyone was a potential enemy. There were loyal Austrians and disloyal Austrians. Timmerich knew himself to be a loyal Austrian. Anyone who opposed him was, therefore, a traitor, including the fat little bug who apparently had nothing better to do but walk between his lodging and coffee houses, keeping him outside in frigid air for nearly a week now. Timmerich now hated Franz Schubert.

  Killing the simpleton would be so easy—stab him through the ribs with the bone-handled knife, an homage to the bayonet he never had the chance to use. His prey was oblivious to his presence and suspected no danger. It would be simple and so satisfying, no more difficult than killing a woman. The only challenge was where and when. Millstein and Nordwalder did not like their orders countermanded.

  He would have to act when he could deny responsibility, perhaps right at the end of his shift, or just before his
shift was to start, maybe this very moment, the instant Schubert came out the door. Timmerich could claim he saw the attack and rushed to Schubert’s rescue too late.

  Schubert’s emerging from the house with a companion pushed Timmerich from his reverie. With more energy than he had used in a while, he slid between two houses as the two men turned, as always to the right, and headed up the street.

  Three paces before passing Timmerich in his aerie, Schubert stopped abruptly.

  “Did you forget something, Schwammerl?” Schubert’s companion, Moritz von Schwind asked. Timmerich knew the man, and although he knew nothing about him, aside from his name, he despised him.

  “My pipe.”

  “You left it behind on purpose. Salieri doesn’t allow smoking in his presence, you said.”

  “Salieri doesn’t like much of anything anymore.”

  “He likes you. Otherwise he wouldn’t let you join him this afternoon.”

  “He tolerates me, but I don’t know why. He doesn’t even like my music.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “It’s true. He calls it decadent. ‘Too many modulations, not enough counterpoint. You don’t need so many melodies. Make them work with each other, not just one after the next’.” Schubert gave a passable impression of a crotchety old man whose Austrian speech featured vestiges of an Italian accent. The strange sound piqued Timmerich’s interest for a moment, although the substance of the conversation meant nothing to him.

  “Yet he always treats you kindly.”

  “Underneath his complaints, he’s actually very kind, and I do appreciate his attention. He has opened several doors for me over the years.”

  “Then don’t keep him waiting. What’s that under your arm?” von Schwind gestured to a pair of portfolios.

  “The music I’m going to show von Weber.”

  “You’re carrying the opera with you?” Von Schwind’s voice carried disapproval.

  “I thought, Moritz, just in case…”

  “It’s a mistake. Von Weber isn’t going to look at any manuscripts today. Just show him your published works.” Von Schwind indicated the other portfolio. “We’ve already been through this. You want von Weber to see you as a fellow artist, almost as eminent and in demand as himself. Imply that accepting your opera is an opportunity for him, as much as it is for you. You’re only showing him a small sample of your output to give him a sense of your skill.”