Vienna in Violet

  Beggar: O, thank you, most munificent sir! Your kindness shall not soon be forgotten. (Exit).

  Marcellus: Prince Phaedrus, was that wise?

  Phaedrus: What matters wisdom in a case like this, Marcellus? Suffering provides us wisdom of its own. A kindred spirit is as vital as a member of a kindred class.

  Marcellus: I see. I see at last! You have made the man happy. Also, you have given me cause for reflection. Oh, Phaedrus, you are good! Come, they await us at the palace.

  Phaedrus: Go along. I’ll join you in a moment. (Marcellus exits)

  Michael Vogl sighed and put down Heinrich von Neulinger’s beautifully-penned, utterly dreadful manuscript. A Turkish prince with a Latin name viewed every moment of his existence as a chance for complaint. Less than half way through the first act, ebullitions of Prince Phaedrus’ weltschmertz disrupted his dressing for the day, his breakfast, the arrival of a companion, and his first excursion into society. Undoubtedly, more doleful meditations lay ahead. Vogl comforted himself with the thought that he could honor the father’s request to discourage the son without a qualm.

  For form’s sake, Vogl thumbed through the remaining pages, pausing briefly at the end of each act to assure himself that Prince Phaedrus’ Ordeal took no unexpected turns. The author himself was due in an hour to hear Vogl’s verdict, and Vogl did not want to be caught in a lie.

  Predictably, young Phaedrus rejoiced at the end of the act, having received attention from—what was her name? Julianna!—and suitably despaired at the end of Act Two when she slighted him. All that remained (after forty-two more pages) was to discover how Phaedrus decided to “end it all!” There it was, “from the highest spire of the palace” with dozens of people, the horror/grief/or remorse-stricken Julianna among them, no doubt, observing from below.

  Vogl imagined Schultz’s reaction to “the highest spire,” after the scenes in Phaedrus’s dressing and dining rooms, the village square, the steps and ceremonial hall of the Royal Palace, the harbor, “the water’s edge”, and, of course, “the apothecary’s shop with three skeletons hanging from the rafters.” Vogl read the scene, and yes, these three “representations of man’s true essence” (to use Prince Phaedrus’s turgid words) served as the prince’s audience. A creative manager might have the bones applaud the end of the soliloquy. After indulging himself in this reverie, Vogl put the manuscript down—just another trite, grandiose, unproducible play by yet another man who would be Schiller.

  When Heinrich was announced, Vogl reminded himself to be tactful. Heinrich’s script meant a lot to him. The exquisitely legible handwriting alone proved that. Heinrich also showed some acquaintance with some works of the masters, Shakespeare and Goethe along with Schiller. More importantly, despite the impossibly magniloquent sufferings of his protagonist, Heinrich was a creature of real flesh and blood, who showed every sign of true suffering himself. His important father had wanted his son discouraged but presumably not crushed into permanent debilitating despair.

  Heinrich’s earnest unhappiness did not translate into viable stagecraft. Breaking this news required finesse.

  Heinrich entered Vogl’s sitting room. Vogl expected him to be attired all in black, if for no other reason than continued mourning for his stepmother, but here Vogl received his first surprise. The coat and trousers were black, sure enough, but his neckerchief was a surprising pale green. He held a pair of tan deerskin gloves. Perhaps underneath the Hamlet-esque forms and fashions of the day’s youth, Heinrich possessed a mind of his own.

  “Herr Vogl, Guten Morgen,” Heinrich began. Too impatient to receive Vogl’s formal reply, went on eagerly, “What do you think of it?”

  Vogl, himself forgoing formal greeting, began, “You have written some wonderful speeches—” but got no further before Heinrich interrupted him.

  “Before we proceed, please return the manuscript.”

  “Very well.” Vogl handed over the pages with alacrity.

  “The ending is far too morbid. Julianna must take pity on our hero at the last moment.”

  “That’s less conventional,” Vogl offered, but it was becoming clear that, like Phaedrus, his creator preferred monologue to dialogue.

  “It’s not a matter of convention, it’s a matter of truth. Over the past few days I’ve come to realize that there are catastrophes greater than disappointment in love.”

  A cynic might offer that success in love is the greater catastrophe, Vogl thought, but did not say.

  “Phaedrus must be truly heroic. Is it not more courageous to absorb rejection than to succumb to it?”

  “It is. But in your new scenario, the heroine no longer rejects the hero.”

  “She takes pity on him, but does not agree to marry him,” Heinrich continued with excitement. “I don’t want anything immoral. I must find a mechanism to demonstrate that her love is pure. Phaedrus will live inspired by its purity. She must get him down from that tower!”

  “Why not have him get her down?” Vogl suggested, half in jest.

  “Herr Vogl, that’s brilliant!” said Heinrich. “You understand. We see Julianna preparing to throw herself to her doom because … because … I’ll think of something. And then, casting aside all bitterness, Phaedrus scales the spire to catch her just before she falls. Phaedrus? What a hideous name. I re-christen my protagonist Flamminius. It will create a sensation. I’m going now. I must commit these thoughts to paper while they are still fresh. Guten Tag.” A hurried bow, and Heinrich, green neckerchief, deerskin gloves, and Flamminius né Phaedrus were gone.

  The painful scene Vogl anticipated passed without compromising his good standing with the playwright or his father. Heinrich’s play remained unproducible, no matter how the plot resolved. Vogl imagined presenting the script to Schmidt just to hear him rant about its scenic demands, not to mention the search for an actress brave enough to throw herself from a high tower into the waiting arms of a precariously perched “hero,” more likely to drop her than endure the threat to his own well being. In Vogl’s experience, few actors were heroes when not reciting from their scripts.

  Vogl speculated further about Heinrich’s new vision. Creating a reason for Julianna, currently no more than a cipher in the script—the insipid inspiration for cascades of self-pity, to drag herself up the highest tower might take months. During that time any number of events might cause him to abandon Phaedrus altogether. In fact, if Heinrich’s attitude of the morning remained in effect, Phaedrus’s—Flamminius’s—disappearance altogether was the likely outcome.

  For Vogl, to his great surprise, had encountered a cheerful man. In their previous encounters, Heinrich seemed morose, tormented. His manuscript conveyed unalloyed gloom. What had brought him such relief during the last few days? The aftermath of his stepmother’s funeral, which tormented the rest of Vogl’s acquaintances, evidently served as a tonic for young Heinrich.

  Enough on Heinrich the erstwhile playwright. With his critical duties behind him, Vogl directed his thoughts toward the rest of the day: a rehearsal at the Hofoper and an appointment with Schubert, ostensibly to plan recitals for the spring, but in reality, to assure himself that his friend had at least one reasonable meal that day.

  The first obstacle is out of the way. The path becomes less dangerous. No one “on the list” has the late Timmerich’s training, or the capacity to defend himself. The others will offer no resistance, will have no chance to resist, certainly not the man I follow in Timmerich’s stead.

  Still, haste is required. No shame has yet come to light. It must never come to light. Thus … disguise.

  No one has paid any heed so far. The disguise holds. Cleverness has its place in the modern world. To be remembered as someone else, if anyone remembered at all, that is reassurance enough.

  The victim a mere thirty paces ahead, walks so casually, so obliviously. Easy to track. Easy to kill. If the poor little fellow has composed a requiem, perhaps we’ll hear it at his funeral. Maybe he, Timmerich, and Eugénie will enjoy it toge
ther. All is prepared. All will be well. Exit Franz Schubert.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “The papers, Millstein?” Ignatz Nordwalder asked. To disconcert his subordinate more, Nordwalder smiled.

  Despite his military training, Millstein shifted his weight uneasily from foot to foot. “I don’t have them.”

  “You mean twenty-four hours were not enough?”

  “I thought …”

  “Ah, that’s our difficulty, Millstein. Don’t think. Act.”

  “But I did, Herr Doktor. Badenauer searched Schubert’s home yesterday.

  “Not Timmerich?”

  “I chose Badenauer because he understands music.”

  “I see. Continue.”

  “He found nothing called ‘“Die Sonne und das Veilchen”.’ I therefore assume that all papers on the subject no longer exist.”

  “Of course that’s what you assume,” Nordwalder said, adding just enough emphasis to imply that he tried unsuccessfully to mask a sneer.

  “What more can I do?”

  Nordwalder, enjoying himself now, allowed a small sigh to escape. “Where was our subject during Badenauer’s search?”

  “Where we all were, at St. Stephen’s.”

  “Oh yes. I saw him there. He wasn’t empty-handed.”

  Millstein remained speechless, permitting Nordwalder a chance to smile at him again. “Don’t feel downhearted, Millstein. You unwittingly followed my advice not to think. I’ll enlighten you. Herr Schubert held a large folder.”

  “Did he? I will find out about it. Timmerich is following Schubert as we speak. When he reports tonight, I will inquire.”

  “Good idea, Millstein,” said Nordwalder sarcastically. “You’re dismissed.”

  Millstein clicked his heels and left. Nordwalder moved on to the next item on his agenda, one even more pleasurable: drafting a letter ordering Count Merlinbeck to the town of Graz. Merlinbeck might not appreciate the summons, but Nordwalder had a powerful contact in the Ministry of the Interior under whose implacable seal the letter would be sent. The Count would be out of Vienna for several weeks, leaving his wife behind. Zdenka would have nothing to do in Graz. She would be much happier in Vienna.

  Nordwalder was considering whether Merlinbeck’s talents better suited the region’s ironworks or timberlands when the morning reports arrived and jarred him out of his complacency. The discovery of Gert Timmerich’s body, washed up on a bank near the Aspernbrücke, was utterly disconcerting, as well as infuriating.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The fate of Eugénie von Neulinger’s murderer was sealed at noon, although many hours passed before the actual dénouement. At midday, a grotesque, limping figure, clad in a long ragged cloak approached a waiter with a simple request. After receiving a perfectly appropriate tip, the waiter delivered a glass of wine to Schubert’s table.

  During these actions Schubert worked feverishly on his Wanderer Fantasie. He had ordered nothing. He did not look up when the waiter put the glass down. Had he looked up to discover his benefactor, he would have been disappointed, for the figure in the ragged cloak was no longer present. Had he ever been aware of the authorities’ interest in him, he would have been astonished to learn that for the first time in over a week, he was actually alone. No one lurked in the shadows watching him. No one searched his rooms. No one paid the slightest attention to him.

  Across town at that hour, at the Hofoper, many hostile eyes focused on Kunegunde Rosa. Again she had stumbled into the maypole. Herr Schmidt shouted, “This is a dress rehearsal, Fraülein. You are supposed to know the steps!”

  “I do,” Kunegunde protested.

  “So the pole fell on its own accord?”

  “Oh, no. I …” Kunegunde began,

  “Just missed crushing my skull,” the maiden three places to the right chimed in.

  “Frau Pászny, please allow me to handle this,” said Schmidt. “Fraülein Rosa, if you’ve caused structural damage to the scenery …”

  “Shouldn’t Hernando’s father be entering now?” came sweetly, yet stridently, from upstage center. “Katarina,” becoming impatient, fired a warning shot.

  “Ein moment, Frau Donmeyer; after I assess the damage here.”

  “Scenery can wait. I will not. The dance is unimportant.”

  Anne Marie Donmeyer had overstepped a boundary. Two or three of the village maidens lifted voices in protest. The line that became audible was “only someone past dancing utters such tripe!”

  “Ladies!” Schmidt barked, “and gentlemen,” he added quickly although no male member of the company was on stage at that time, “we will present this spectacle with all of its components, scenic, vocal and kinetic, in their proper places. No more bickering. Once I determine the extent of Fraülein Rosa’s damage, we will proceed.”

  “Then you will proceed without me,” Frau Donmeyer decreed and turned for a grand exit off right. The effect of the gesture was lost because Frau Donmeyer almost collided with Johann Michael Vogl.

  “Anne-Marie, you are right,” he said. “It is time for my entrance.”

  “You wish to contribute something, Herr Vogl?” Schmidt asked, sarcasm masking his gratitude.

  “Only that I saw how the maypole came to topple, and I assure you it was not Fraulein Rosa’s fault.”

  “But we all saw—” one of the maidens began, only to be silenced by Schmidt’s glare.

  “We all saw Fraülein Rosa stumble,” Vogl went on smoothly, “but only I saw who pushed her.”

  “Why would anyone do that?” Frau Pászny asked.

  “Jealousy, perhaps?” said Vogl softly, attracting all the maidens’ attention. Schmidt took advantage of the diversion to study the damaged scenery.

  “Of me?” Frau Pászny asked, half flattered.

  “Not this time,” said Vogl with some gallantry.

  “But the damned thing nearly fell on my head.”

  “An unintended consequence,” said Vogl. “Physical harm was not the object.”

  “But no one’s jealous of her,” Anne-Marie Donmeyer said, indicating an embarrassed Kunegunde.

  “As usual, Frau Donmeyer, you are correct. The target of the attack was you.”

  “Me? Nonsense! I am not a dancer.”

  “No. You are Katarina. Your role is essential to the success of our enterprise, so essential that if you are unable … or unwilling to perform, an understudy takes your place.”

  Two of the dancing maidens were capable of taking on the role. One of them had played Katarina before; the other was preparing the role in a production in Salzburg the following month. These women glared at each other as La Donmeyer glared at them.

  “If you left the theater now,” Vogl said, recapturing the company’s attention, “Herr Schmidt would carry on without you.”

  “But which one…?” Frau Donmeyer began.

  “Come, we have wasted enough time. The shove was probably accidental. No harm resulted, and Herr Schmidt is ready.”

  And so he was. Rehearsal went on without further displays of temperament. But beneath some calm exteriors, minds churned. Frau Donmeyer was now aware of how she had almost been duped. Outwardly she maintained her best behavior while inwardly contemplating ways to unmask her rival and gain revenge.

  Fraülein Rosa put her energy into her performance, determined not to cause her castmates any further trouble. Inside, she burned. She didn’t enjoy this first-time, first-hand exposure to backstage backstabbing.

  Both possible understudies felt conflicted. Each vacillated between shock at the effrontery and respect for the audacity of the other’s plan; each mentally catalogued the maneuver for possible future employment; each woman believed that the other had pushed Kunegunde.

  Vogl carried on with aplomb, inwardly satisfied. As far as he could tell, Kunegunde had stumbled on her own accord. He invented the alternative scenario to do precisely what it did, save the rehearsal. Such little services to theatrical art kept him on the boards. Consummate professi
onalism, he told himself. And then, a little guiltily, he wondered if his actual motive was to rescue Kunegunde. If she discussed the incident with him afterwards, he admitted he would not be disappointed. Rarely in the days since Jennie’s murder, had he felt so comfortable. Most of the time he wrestled with the feeling that his troubles were far from over.

  He received the desired outcome from Kunegunde more or less. According to his hopes, she confronted him as soon as the first act ended. “Herr Vogl, nobody pushed me.”

  “I know my dear,” Vogl said and smugly awaited an outpouring of gratitude.

  “You lied!” she said.

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “I abhor all such unscrupulous behavior. I never thought you capable of such a thing.” She turned and walked away.

  “Meine Damen und Herren, Act Two,” Schmidt announced. Vogl made a hasty, embarrassed exit to the wings. His little psychological homage to Jennie, ended as most others did, with increased misgivings alloyed with guilt.

  Doktor Nordwalder and Captain Millstein had waited almost an hour for Count von Neulinger to join them; thus the investigation into the death of Gert Timmerich began slowly. Now, in the early afternoon, Nordwalder laid out the essential facts.

  “Timmerich’s body was discovered at dawn by a thirteen year old boy and his grandfather, calling themselves fishermen. In reality they were scavengers who knew the places where flotsam comes ashore. They sent for us ‘at once’ presumably after searching the body for anything of value that we couldn’t trace.”

  The convenient notion that the two murdered Timmerich in the course of a robbery became insupportable when it was discovered that Timmerich was shot in the chest at close range before falling into the canal. No one heard the shot. Timmerich lived alone and kept irregular hours. He was never noticed at his lodgings, present or absent. Only the happy coincidence that an officer called to the scene recognized the body allowed a speedy identification.