Aloha, Mozart

by Williams, Waimea

  Outside, she paused at the sight of people in evening clothes strolling toward the river promenade. A lady in a green chiffon gown glanced at her escort, her trailing sleeves swirling gently. Three women in daytime dirndls followed the couple like birds being fed cake crumbs. Eagerly Maile joined the crowd crossing Mozart Steg. Gentlemen in black tie trailed an aroma of citrus cologne. Ladies spoke French, Italian, Spanish, making Maile wish hopelessly that she’d been born von Regensburg, de la Givanche, di Marcosa. Soon she walked against the flow, feeling vaguely depressed. Miss Manoa from Hawaii was here simply to take a look, in a knee-length jersey dress of mustard yellow.

  Behind her a male voice intoned, “Let us go see von Wehlen.”

  She started in surprise, and turned to see Karl eyeing her with a look of glee. “Are you his baton carrier?” she snapped. “You have front-row tickets?”

  His cocky expression lost its edge. “No, but I can give you a close look.”

  She wanted to stalk off, but he held out the promise of something—not, she was sure, the slightest chance of getting into any of tonight’s premieres, let alone the main one. “A close look? I want face to face.”

  “He will melt you, Maile.”

  They followed the crowds into the depths of the Old City, threading their way through short tunnels and unlighted streets. At a gilded Baroque building a sign in four languages announced a press conference; photographers outside waved their credentials. Performance schedules covered the exterior, the names of singers in large letters: Vladimiroff, Alcazar, Du Toit, Reichenhaller. Maile stared: Vladimiroff had been a guest at the Met.

  In an adjacent room spiked with antennae, a technician adjusted dials on a bank of controls and asked in British-accented English, “Cape Town, Cape Town, do you receive? Kapstadt,” he repeated, “bitte, melden Sie sich.” She imagined her name announced to a world audience, a live broadcast to thirty countries, her voice on the Grand Stage of the Grand Festival House, picked up by hidden microphones and sent instantly to radio transmitters on the tops of mountains.

  Karl peered over her shoulder, and she sensed a sudden, eager tension in him. “You want this too, don’t you?” she said. “Every bit of it.”

  Off to the left a church bell rang, low bass tones. “Hurry,” he told her, “we only have about five minutes.”

  From a tunnel they emerged onto a wide street where townspeople stood five deep opposite the brilliantly lit entrance to the Grosses Festspielhaus. Along its front, floor-to-ceiling panels of glass were framed in bands of green Salzburg marble and bronze. Ticket holders in evening dress strolled into the foyer as ushers swept the doors open. Three men in Arab headdresses and white robes were motioned inside. A Rolls-Royce pulled up, followed by horse-drawn carriages garlanded with roses. A sleek blonde edged past Maile, her neck glittering with jewels, and remarked, “De Ribes et sa scènes, c’est de trop.”

  “Scusi,” an elderly gentleman murmured to Maile.

  She stepped aside for him and stared raptly at the crowd going in, so unlike theatergoers in Manhattan, where formal clothes had largely been replaced by bell-bottoms, Indian prints, sandals with socks. Here in Salzburg men and women of all ages were radiantly and unapologetically elegant, no bargain basement suits that sagged, no necklines slit to the waist, no leopardess makeup, the entire crowd like a magnificent school of reef fish gliding in a gentle current, the women in colors, the men in black and white. And what fun they were having! Bows, hand kisses, smiles of greeting, quiet laughter, as though they were on their way to a wonderful private party.

  “Come on.” Karl jerked his chin to the right. “The great one doesn’t mingle. It’s considered crude to get too close to him. Let’s be crude.”

  She followed him to an empty alley behind the main theater. Everything seemed strangely neat and quiet; no arriving orchestra, none of the slam-bang activity that preceded a premiere. “Is this the stage entrance?” she asked.

  Karl shook his head and led off to a high wrought-iron gate where a small group of men stood looking in. The grillwork had a lavish design of vines and gold knobs like the entrance to a consulate. On the other side was a small dark courtyard and a door. As Maile stepped up beside Karl, one of the waiting men gave her a look that became a rude stare. Karl spoke curtly to him in what sounded like dialect. The man faced away and muttered to his companions.

  Confused, she was suddenly more intrigued by what he wore, what they all wore, five white-whiskered men so alike they could have been brothers, each with a green felt hat covered in enamel pilgrim’s medals, suede vests embroidered in rich mossy shades and spanned by watch chains hung with silver coins. Filigreed silver buckles fastened their leather trousers below the knee. She eyed the men discreetly, thinking they must be from a village untouched by tourists, where people still did beautiful handiwork, raised sheep for wool. Karl’s relatives! The ones who made wooden trumpets.

  From the far end of the alley came the quiet sound of a motor. Everyone turned to look at a car entering slowly. The shiny black Mercedes had the broad grille, large round headlights, and curving fenders of a prewar model. A Festival official in a gray uniform walked along-side it. The Mercedes halted, and the official went up a tiny speaker affixed to the gate and said, “Der Wagen.”

  An overhead floodlight flashed on. Four men in dark suits stepped from the doorway into the courtyard. Light and shadow in a pattern of yellow streaks and black bars covered everybody watching outside. Maile felt as if a net had been thrown over them. The gate slid aside with an electronic hum. “Nun, jetzt,” the Festival official said, and motioned for the group of onlookers to stand back.

  Everyone except Maile did so. The four men in suits came forward, and she stared from them to the official to the harsh shadows reaching toward the black car, and thought of soldiers chasing prisoners across a field lit by searchlights: years ago, an outdated newsreel at a Kauai movie theater, people fleeing, nearly naked. “Here’s how the Nazis treat civilians,” the newsreel reporter had said. Even as a child, she’d known that the people in the film were dead by the time it reached the other side of the world.

  “Bitte,” a man in a suit said, gripping her arm as the car approached. She pulled back and he let go. The Mercedes made a smooth turn past her into the courtyard, the front fender just a meter away, then the side door. A patch of light crept over a figure in the back seat, the now familiar hair and profile. “Von Wehlen!” she said, louder than intended. His head turned sharply as if tracking the sound of a shot, and there was an instant of eye contact. Maile felt like she’d been stabbed.

  Karl stifled a laugh. “Guts,” he murmured.

  The car glided into place and the gate slid shut. The men in suits surrounded von Wehlen as he got out and disappeared into the theater.

  The bearded men spoke among themselves, then all five turned to glare at her. One had a particularly hostile expression, nose wrinkled, lips drawn back as if about to spit.

  “Samatta you,” Maile hissed at him, “I owe you money, o wot?”

  “In hoc signo,” he retorted. His right hand flew up, and he crossed himself. The others copied him.

  “You fool,” Karl blurted, “she’s an artist, a soprano.” He took Maile’s hand, muttering, “Jesus Maria, are things still that bad?”

  She let him lead off at a fast pace, her heart flipping as if on a fishing line inside her chest. Von Wehlen had looked her in the eyes, a fleeting, invisible assault. A frightening old newsreel. A stranger had nearly spit on her.

  From the alley, Karl bypassed the crowds in front of the Festival House and went farther and farther from the center of the Old City. Finally he stopped on a quiet tree-lined street. “Those kinds of men,” he said, “come out of the mountains maybe once in ten years, rustics who tap a hunchback’s hump for luck or whip a Gypsy if they find one. Their lives run according to signs and omens.”

  “What did I do?” she asked. Then with a flash of insight, “Are those your relatives?”

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p; For a moment he was silent, caught off guard. Yes, he admitted, although not exactly. They were from the same area, but wore their chamois-beard hat brushes higher than in his grandfather’s village. “If they catch sight of a Jew, or a redhead or a witch, it’s a curse worse than hunger or filth. They cross themselves to cancel the curse.”

  “Since I’m not a Jewess or a redhead, I’m a witch?” He grunted as though unwilling to confirm the insult. She decided that being a witch was outlandish enough to be comical, or weirdly glamorous. Maybe being an outsider in Austria wasn’t all bad. Terrible things had happened in this country. People who once cheered der Führer were still calmly baking beautiful pastries.

  Karl put an arm around her shoulders, but then he coughed artificially and clasped his hands at his back as if to erase his touch. “What did you tell those men? They’re not easily frightened.”

  She winced at having lapsed into pidgin—in public!—and just because someone angered her. “Oh,” she mumbled, “it’s not translatable.”

  “Try.”

  He would keep asking, she knew, and he had delivered on his promise of von Wehlen up close, and revealed more about the poverty and ignorance of his relatives than she ever intended to tell him about her own family. Explaining you-looking-me-ugly-like-I-owe-you-money would make her sound like she also came from a remote village. Instead she said, “May sharks tear your stomach.”

  Karl grinned. “I’ve heard sharks have multiple sets of teeth.”

  “Continuous teeth.”

  “I should go back and tell them.”

  She smiled, warmed by the power of a good lie, of being able to inspire fear. After all, according to Professor Jann, a fully developed artist had to understand the entire range of life, good and bad, pure-hearted and wicked.

  IT WAS PAST eleven when Maile returned to Getreidegasse after the Mozarteum’s radio room broadcast of the Beethoven premiere. The kitchen light still burned on the ground floor and Frau Metzger called out, “Ach, Hawaii-Mädchen, I have a little surprise for you.”

  Her tone was so pleasant that Maile closed the front door with a feeling of mild suspicion. The landlady was usually in bed by nine. Frau Metzger strolled into the entry hall and from her apron she pulled out an oblong strip of green paper, teasingly and slowly, like a magician with a silk scarf. “A Festival ticket.”

  Maile recognized the color and shape from the voided samples on the window of the Festival box office. She reached for it.

  Frau Metzger stepped back with an apologetic look. “I must confess, it is only for a dress rehearsal. However, you came to mind at once because the event is fully staged with singers.”

  Maile examined the ticket, tantalizingly out of reach. Small black letters spelled out RAPPRESENTAZIONE. An unpronounceable name. She had never heard of the work. Was it even opera?

  “I must confess to something else.” Frau Metzger fanned herself with the ticket. “What I love most are grand symphonies. As conducted by Herr Maestro von Wehlen. The mind is free to think of all sorts of things while listening. Fine thoughts. I used to see him playing as a boy, you know.”

  “How very interesting,” Maile remarked.

  In a hurt tone Frau Metzger said, “Salzburg diplomats receive tickets gratis. Because you made such an impression on your consul last fall, you will most certainly be attending performances.”

  Maile was stunned by the range and persistence of gossip in the city. She hadn’t told Frau Metzger about meeting Mr. Casey nine months ago, nor had she heard about diplomats getting into the Festival for free. That was probably true. So this odd ticket wasn’t a gift, just a trade, and the landlady wanted the better part of the bargain.

  Frau Metzger’s injured expression turned into a pout. “A young, important foreign artist like yourself has entrée in ways I do not. The cheapest von Wehlen concert costs five hundred schillings. For that sum I can have my kitchen painted.”

  Maile ached to see even a dress rehearsal but had no chance of repaying the favor. Being invited to a consular reception did not mean she was now part of Edwin Casey’s social circle. Would he even remember her? Besides, if anyone gave her a von Wehlen ticket, she would go herself. Yet compared to Frau Metzger she did have entrée. She imitated the landlady’s coy manner, tipping her head to one side with feigned consideration. “Herr Maestro does have a Wagner evening.”

  “Oh, yes!” Frau Metzger’s cheeks bloomed pink. “Any performance with him would be wonderful. Even opera.”

  Maile smiled to seal the bargain. “You’re so kind to think of me.” She tucked the ticket into her purse, relishing the ease of making a promise with no hope of delivering. Another instance of Professor Jann giving her permission to explore all human emotions.

  The next day passed in a veneer of studying over a core of excitement that lasted all the way to evening. Classes, food, nothing else mattered as much as being able to experience Salzburg Festspiele 1968. Maile wanted badly to wear a gown, but for a dress rehearsal she chose a smart black suit with a knee-length skirt and tiny rhinestone buttons on the jacket. Swooping her hair into a topknot, she completed the outfit with plain black high heels and a thin bracelet of black coral. Tonight she was not just a student listening to a radio broadcast. A live performance, in Mozart’s city!

  At the top of the stairs she listened for Frau Metzger, and hurried outside to avoid being stopped for inspection. The ticket gave only the name of a plaza. Maile paused at the dark end of Hofstallgasse, unsure which branching street to take, then went on, reasonably certain the plaza was not far beyond the wine cave. Soon nothing seemed familiar. Turning a corner, she found herself in the narrowest streets of the Old City.

  A small figure glided from an unlit doorway. She saw the dull glow of a red bouquet, coils of silver braid on a jacket, the whites of the man’s eyes as he approached her. “Rosen, die Dame?” he inquired.

  He smelled of something chemical. Mothballs, an odor she had always hated. His discolored black eye sockets suggested some untreatable disease. “Nein, danke,” she replied. He murmured a courtesy and moved on with silent, waltzing steps.

  She put a hand to her throat and strode off, wanting other people around, a crowd. He reminded her of childhood fears, a half-dead spirit creeping at night from a burial cave to steal souls. That was hysterical, unfair. North Shore stories, old folks talking. He couldn’t help his looks. He was harmless, an elderly flower seller who once worked at a village operetta theater.

  Ahead she saw a patch of light. Swiftly she walked toward it and stepped out onto a small plaza with a metal sign imbedded in a wall: KAPUZINER PLATZ. Men and women stood outside a large Baroque church with an inscription on white marble above the entrance: SKOLAREN KIRCHE, ANNO 1642, DEO GRACIAS. She looked at her ticket, thinking there must be a mistake—church and opera didn’t mix—but the location was correct and all other buildings on the plaza were closed.

  She got in line for an unreserved seat. Light rain sprinkled down on the crowd and people jostled forward through the wide doors. She followed them halfheartedly, sure that the evening would be a loss. Worst of all, Frau Metzger expected a von Wehlen ticket in return.

  The air inside the church was refreshing, cool but not chilly. Tall candles along the walls shed gentle light over the gathering audience and gave off the purifying scent of pine. Maile’s eyes adjusted to the dimness. She sat down and felt drawn to look up. The vast arched ceiling of the church was covered with frescoes of clouds. From their center a flock of angels spilled down the walls, gracefully suspended in flight, their gazes directed on everyone below. Far to the right and left, at the end of each pew, statues stood every few yards all the way to the altar, figures carved so true to life that they seemed to move; robes, hair, and beards flowing as though blown by a phantom wind, men and women in courtly or heroic poses, yet with expressions of compassion.

  Saints, Maile realized. Peter’s head was tilted toward her in an attitude of kindly concern, one hand curved over his heart, the oth
er extending a large key. She recalled Hawaii’s austere Congregational churches, no statues or paintings, plain pews, plain pulpit, plain altar table. Here she was in a lavish European court of the Lord.

  Streams of people came down the center aisle. Their increasing numbers surprised her, and about ten pews ahead she noticed Professor Jann. His presence seemed to imply that the performance would be worthwhile. Surely he wouldn’t waste time attending a third-rate event.

  A little girl sitting next to Maile was reminded by her mother not to applaud in a church. Of course, Maile thought, but it only added to her confusion about the performance. One-page programs were passed out. Rappresentazione di Anima e di Corpo, she read, and translated the rest. A Representation of Body and Soul, an allegory composed by Emilio de Cavalieri in 1603. Historically the first opera, preceding Claudio Monteverdi’s Orfeo of 1607. Her mood sank.

  Allegory meant prints of Virtue and Harmony in a freshman college text, the rigid image of Britannia in the Honolulu tax office. She recognized none of the soloists’ names. The stage consisted of white planks constructed over the altar, with long staircases on either side. No scenery, no curtain. Dress rehearsal.

  A brilliant fanfare came from an unseen orchestra and light flooded the stage, sending a current of expectation through the audience. Trumpets introduced a bishop who stepped out wearing a peaked mitre and gold brocade vestments. He raised his crozier and sang a stately description of the world, its glories and its snares. Slowly he swept his staff across the audience, then faded from view. The tempo changed from majestic to sprightly, and a glittering group of masked dancers paraded forward, each accompanied by a descriptive melody: a king, a knight, a courtesan, a beggar woman cradling a baby, a fat monk swigging a jug of wine. They formed a circle and danced out their stations in life, wielding a scepter, counting coins, drinking and laughing. The little girl beside Maile clasped her hands in delight.