“Ouch,” she said.
“Precisely. And I’m afraid the bus station’s not much better.” He took her arm to guide her across the square. “We’ll leave your bag in the car. You never know your luck. Herr Meyer may need a cab to take you up to the hostel.”
“Up?” In her first quick panoramic view of the town, she had looked in vain for the opera house and the new hotel.
“Yes. It’s up between the town and the castle. Now, that was ingenious of our Rudolf—you have to give it him. We’ve got conservationists now, you understand. There won’t be horrors like that bank again.” He pointed up and beyond the ugly fourstorey building to where the castle loomed high above them. “You wouldn’t think it, but there’s a valley runs sideways between us and the schloss. The whole opera complex is tucked away in there. The only place you can see it from is the castle itself, and, as our Rudolf says, if he doesn’t mind, who else could?”
“Except his descendants, perhaps? Has he any?”
“Hereditary Princelings and Princesses? Indeed he has. But here we are, and there’s the bus.” He guided her into the courtyard of a plain, arcaded building tucked away behind the Rathaus, and there, indeed, was a small green bus discharging its passengers, and, standing a little to one side, scanning them anxiously, Carl Meyer. He looked younger than she remembered, and amazingly neat, the once-shaggy dark hair cut short above an elegant grey gabardine raincoat.
She looked down anxiously at her own damp and crumpled clothes. “I look a wreck.”
“Well, no wonder, left out in the rain.” She was grateful to him for not denying it. “Now he’s beginning to sweat,” Michael went on, “and serve him right.” The last passenger had alighted and Carl Meyer had climbed in to speak to the driver.
“Watch it!” Michael’s firm hand held her back as a car zoomed past. “You look left here, remember, if you want to stay alive.”
“Which I do.” How odd, she had said it again. “Carl!” she called as Meyer emerged from the bus, his brown face wrinkled with worry. “Here I am!”
“Anne!” He came hurrying across to them, arms outstretched. “Dearest Anne!” He kissed her warmly on both cheeks. “You got here, thank God. But how?” And then, seeing Michael, “You?” Something in his tone: dislike? distrust? Or something more complex, less easily identifiable?
“Exactly.” Michael sounded amused. “I missed Signor Falinieri, alas, and found Miss Paget drowning in a bus shelter, for which I trust you are grateful.”
“I certainly am. It was crazy not to meet you at Schennen, Anne. You must forgive me. But I’ve had such a time … Such a time! You’ve no idea. Lord, it’s good to see you! Dearest Anne!” Any minute now he would be kissing her again. Had they really been on such warm terms?
“How is Alix’s throat?” she asked. And then, “I’m afraid I don’t know her other name.”
“She’s not working today. We ran through with Lotte—the understudy. A disaster! What Signor Falinieri will say! But where’s your luggage? Why are we standing here?”
“The luggage is in my taxi,” said Michael. “And we are waiting to see if you would like me to run you up to the hostel.”
“The rehearsal room,” corrected Carl. “Signor Falinieri should be there by now. He wants a run through of principals at once. God knows what he’ll say when he hears Lotte Moser. I must have Anne there.”
“She’s wet through and worn out. I’ll drop you at the rehearsal room and take her on to the hostel.”
“No, thanks a lot.” Anne shivered. “I’ll be fine. Your splendid heater has dried me off and I’m longing to get to work. Only, would it be a bore to take my case to the hostel for me? And, Carl, I’m terribly sorry; I lost my purse at Zurich. Can you pay Michael for me?”
“Pay Michael?” His bushy dark eyebrows drew together in something between surprise and anger.
“I drive a taxi, remember.” Michael sounded merely amused. “But I’ll drop your case at the hostel for free, Anne, and gladly.” He turned to lead the way back to where he had parked the taxi, and Carl took Anne’s arm to follow.
“You are wet,” he said. “I’m a brute, Annchen.” He spoke English with more of an accent than she remembered. “Would you really rather go to the hostel and rest?”
“Of course not. Only, I’m afraid I look a mess. Will you mind? Does it matter?”
“Not a bit! You’re going to save our lives—or our opera, which is as important. Besides—in a way, perhaps it’s tactful. Lotte’s a fashion-plate. Well—you’ll see. And Alix is …” A quick glance to where Michael was walking a little in front. “Alix is Alix. With all the problems that involves. You’re what we need right now.”
“I do hope I don’t let you down.” But in the face of his obvious state of nerves, she was glad she had not worried him with her own trouble.
Back in the taxi, Anne sat well forward, eagerly peering out of the window at the little town with its curious mixture of ancient and modern: an old brown beer house cheek by jowl with a garish café that advertised “Homburgers and Snaks,” tourist gift shops side by side with ironmongers and all the basic supplies of a market town. It was raining again, and a few obvious tourists prowled disconsolately about, peering into shop windows which tended to display umbrellas and raincoats prominently among the inevitable souvenirs—the “tat” Michael had described.
The car was held up for a moment at the only traffic lights Anne had seen, then Michael swung out on to the main road and, surprisingly, turned away from where Anne, now peering backwards, could still see the castle, perched high above the town. “It’s a long way round to the castle,” Michael turned to explain to her. “By road, that is. The steps are quicker, but hard work.” Once again he had to stop and wait his chance to swing the car across the traffic on to a road that angled back and up across the hill, through vineyards.
“We’re out of town!” Anne had not expected the transition to be so quick.
“Such as it is,” said Carl. “But, Annchen, tell me, quick, your voice? It’s the same as ever? What have you been doing? I’ve looked for your name so often …”
“You know Robin didn’t like me to sing,” she said. And that, like everything else she had told him, was true so far as it went. “You are going to find I need practice. But, after all, what else does an understudy get? It’s ideal for me; I’m so grateful, Carl.”
“Grateful! It’s we who should be. You don’t understand. Understudy! It will be a miracle if you don’t sing Marcus.” He cast a quick, anxious glance forwards to where Michael sat, shoulders hunched, concentrated on his driving along the now steeply zig-zagging mountain road. Alpine meadows below, dark green forest above; if only Carl would leave her alone to enjoy this breath-taking view. But he was talking again, leaning towards her. “It’s Alix, don’t you see? How can we be sure her father won’t forbid her appearing at the last moment? It’s the chance we took from the start, but then, she was so sure it would be all right. We should have known better. That mother of hers.” He was almost whispering. “And now, there’s so much publicity for the peace conference; it’s all different—he doesn’t like it, he has doubts.”
“Doubts? I don’t understand.” But she was distracted. “Oh!” she breathed. Michael had nursed the car gently round one last hairpin bend and parked it in a lay-by just before a high-arched bridge. “Come on!” He jumped out to open her door. ‘What do you think of it, Niobe?”
“Don’t call me that!” But she forgot her irritation in a gasp of pleasure as she gazed up the valley they had just entered. High ahead, dominant, spectacular, on a further range of mountains stood the castle, even more fairy-tale romantic than it had looked from the town, seeming to grow from the dark green of the high forest. Below it, nearer, to left and right, cream-coloured buildings curved down the sides of an Alpine meadow rich with the whites and yellows of spring. The road, dividing on the far side of the bridge, ran up either side of the valley, below shelving flights of steps that led to t
he buildings. Straight ahead, at the top of the valley, a classic pillared portico joined the two curving wings. And below it, a stream came plunging out of a dark crevice under the road, to flash and sparkle down the centre of the meadow and then vanish again under the bridge beside them.
“It’s extraordinary.” Anne was taking deep, reviving breaths of pine-scented air.
“Extraordinary good or extraordinary bad?” Michael asked, as Carl came round the car to join them.
“Do you know, I’m not quite sure. It’s … too much, somehow? Too good to be true?”
“A stage set,” said Michael, pleased with her. “For The Tempest perhaps. Or maybe for tragedy.”
“You’re talking a great deal of nonsense.” Carl said impatiently. “For God’s sake let’s get on up to the rehearsal room.”
“Sorry I’m sure.” Michael sketched a mock salute. “I just thought Niobe here ought to get a look at what she’s in for.”
“Why Niobe anyway?” Carl put a protective arm round Anne’s shoulders.
“She was so wet when I found her. I’m sorry.” He meant it. “I’d forgotten it was tears. I’d meant a water nymph; a nereid; you know; Sabrina fair, something like that. Forgive me, Miss Paget?”
“Oh, call me Anne, and forget it. I was close enough to tears, goodness knows, when you rescued me.” But there had been something disconcerting, just the same, about his choice of name. Had he somehow felt her state of despair? She changed the subject. “Is it really all there? The whole opera complex?”
“Yes, ma’am. The opera house is in the centre, behind that fine, fake portico. It’s cut deep into the mountain. Very hard rock we have here in Lissenberg. Administrative buildings, your hostel, all that kind of thing on the left.” He waved a hand towards a cloister where she could see people moving to and fro. “And, over there, on the right, the conference centre and the international hotel—when it’s finished. Note how much better the road is that side. We’re expecting every Rolls and Bentley in Europe in three weeks’ time.”
“Will it be ready?” Trucks and scaffolding in the cloisters of the hotel and conference centre suggested that work was still in progress there.
“Oh, I think so. Our Rudolf pays well. Has to”—Michael’s voice was sharp—“to keep the trade unions out.” He turned to Carl. “Have you asked Miss Paget yet?”
“Of course I haven’t.” He might as well have said, “Mind your own business.”
Anne turned to Carl. “Asked me?”
“You don’t belong to anything, do you?”
“Belong?” And then, understanding. “Oh, you mean Equity? No, I wish I did.”
“Lucky you don’t,” said Michael. “No trade unions in Lissenberg, Miss Paget, by order of our ruler. ‘We are all brothers working for the same cause.’” He dropped his voice to a deep rumble on the words and struck a heroic pose. “The only snag is,” he went on in his own voice, “that some brothers seem to get paid a lot better than others. And as to the sisters … well, maybe we won’t go into that now.” He opened the door of the front passenger seat for her and she felt Carl’s arm stiffen on her shoulders. But it would be rude and ungrateful not to sit beside her rescuer for this short last lap of the journey and she climbed in, ignoring a kind of strangled grunt from Carl.
“Trouble-making young sod,” he said at last when Michael had dropped them at the foot of the steps just to the left of the central portico. “I am sorry I didn’t meet you at Schennen, Annchen. That young man’s poison here in Lissenberg and don’t you forget it.”
“Poison? But why? What’s the matter with him?”
“Everything.” He took her arm and led her up the steps. “Where he is, there’s trouble. And no wonder. I can’t think why Prince Rudolf let him come back.”
“Back?”
“From abroad. I wish I knew who’d sent for him. Full of crazy ideas. Stirring things up. Well, you heard him about trades unions.”
“I happened to agree with him.” Anne paused at the top of the steps and looked back to see Michael swiftly reversing the car down hill to leave her bag at the hostel. “And I never thanked him properly either; you dragged me away so quick. What’s got into you, Carl?”
“I’m mad with worry.” He turned to face her, his arm still firm on hers so that he spoke almost uncomfortably close. “This opera is my great chance, and right now it looks headed for disaster. Everything’s gone wrong—everything. Alix’s throat. Lotte Moser. And now Falinieri’s been in some accident and turned up in a filthy mood. It was a miracle I got away to meet your bus. We must go in, Anne. We’ve wasted too much time already sight-seeing with that damned dropout. Falinieri was going straight up to the rehearsal room. Said he wanted to know the worst. And—” here he came to the heart of the matter—“said he’d never heard of you. Well, not surprising. You’ve kept so quiet. If only Alix could sing today, but she’s got this throat … If he hears Lotte first, I’m afraid he’s capable of going back to Italy, the mood he’s in, and then we’re in real trouble. I can’t do it all, Anne; I absolutely can’t.”
“Of course not. It would be crazy to try. But hadn’t we better go in, if you’re so worried?”
“Yes. No. Do you know any of the music?”
“How should I?”
“No. I’m stupid with worry. But you always did sight-read like an angel.” He looked her up and down, and she was very much aware of her shabby appearance. “Tell you what.” He let go of her arm and she felt an odd stab of relief. “I’ve got a better idea. We’ll let him hear Lotte first. Slip in the side way, sit at the back—give you time to do something about your hair, at least—and listen to Lotte. While he does.” He pushed open swing doors and led her across a lobby and down a corridor. “Shh.” Finger on lip, he opened another door and a great burst of disastrous sound hit her. A full, rough soprano was making desperate attempts to get her voice down the necessary register to the contralto part.
The rehearsal room, dimly lit, was a miniature theatre with an almost full-sized stage but a truncated auditorium where a few people were scattered, half visible on the banked seats. “We worked like hell on the acoustics,” Carl whispered as they slipped into two seats at the back.
“Much good they’re doing her!” Onstage, a luxurious golden-haired Valkyrie in a low cut model dress was baying incomprehensibly in something between German and, Anne thought, the local dialect.
“No, Fräulein Moser. No, and no, and no!” Signor Falinieri, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, was almost incoherent with rage. “E impossible …” He looked furiously round and changed languages. “It’s nuts; it’s crazy; it’s an insult; I won’t do it. Where’s this Alix? And for Christ’s sake where’s Herr Meyer?”
“Here.” Carl stood up and moved forward to climb onto the stage. “And I’ve brought the new understudy.”
“Oh you have?” Lotte turned on him. “Your precious ‘unknown.’ I may not have Italian trills and shakes to please the signor here, but what of my friends in Lissenberg? What will they say if a foreigner gets yet another part? Our great local opera, and hardly a Lissenberger in it. And who is this unknown singer? Can she sing? Has she proved it anywhere?” She burst at this point into fluent, furious and entirely incomprehensible Liss.
It was obvious that it was Anne’s own presumed character, antecedents and capacities that were being so vividly described, and it was restful not to understand a word of it. At last, after a quick check that her lipstick was back on and her short hair just curly from its wetting, Anne stood up. “Were you, perhaps, talking about me?” She let her deep voice make the most of the hall’s admirable acoustics as she moved slowly forward towards the stage, and felt a little hush among the people seated in the twilit auditorium.
“Yes!” Carl Meyer came over to meet her on the flight of steps at the right hand side of the stage. “Signor Falinieri,” he said as he helped her up onto the stage. “May I present Miss Paget, who has gallantly agreed to come to our rescue.”
&
nbsp; “But can she do it?” Ignoring Fräulein Moser, Falinieri surveyed Anne without enthusiasm. “You know the part?” he asked.
“Not a word of it!” It was marvellous to be onstage again. “But it’s my register and I’m a quick learner. Besides, just to understudy an understudy.” She turned to Lotte Moser. “It’s just the pleasure of singing it,” she tried to explain.
“Pleasure!” spat Lotte. “If that’s your idea of pleasure, you’re welcome!” She had been singing from a score and now thrust it angrily into Anne’s hands, then turned back to Carl Meyer. “They’ve offered me a job at the hotel,” she said. “Two spots a night. I told them I’d have to think it over. Well! I’ve thought! I’d rather sing in a beer cellar than be shouted at by that bastard son of an Italian-American Jew.”
“That will do,” said Carl Meyer. “You’re fired, Fräuelin Moser. Signor Falinieri, I apologise.”
“No need, I think, as between you and me. But perhaps we had better hear this understudy of yours before we decide just how much trouble we are in. The speaking voice is perfect, I admit, but what does that prove? If you don’t know Marcus, Miss Paget, what can you sing for us?”
“Orpheus’ first lament,” suggested Meyer, moving over to the piano where the accompanist had sat all the time, looking miserable on his stool. “You know it, Kurt?”
“Not well, I regret.” He spread apologetic hands.
“No matter. I do.” Carl sat down and played a few introductory notes as Anne moved forward to the centre of the stage. To sing, here on a stage, where she belonged, was to be alive again, and, singing, it was easy to ignore the slow, threatening bite of pain. Carried by the full tide of the music, she went straight on from Orpheus’ lament for Euridice to his passionate cry for reunion or death, and, silent at last, almost expected to hear the dramatic intervention of Amor, the God of Love, who would make all right. Instead, there was a little, breathing hush, and then a sudden burst of clapping from the back of the hall.
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