High above the altar an archangel in a suit of armor appeared in a shaft of light. His broad wings expanded, and in the ringing tones of a tenor he proclaimed, “Behold the Wheel of Fortune.” He gestured with his sword at the dancers below. A pocket was picked, an apple eaten, gems flashed. The beauty and liveliness of the scene filled Maile with increasing wonder; everything was new and yet old, theatrical yet spiritual. The tenor’s voice soared: “Behold and beware!”
A thunder of timpani tore through the church, and the dancers ripped off their masks to reveal skulls; from the king to the beggar woman’s baby, all were corpses standing rigidly in place. The entire audience seemed to hold its breath as the low sound of a dirge crept onto the stage and the dancers formed their own funeral march and drifted away into darkness.
Scene after scene unfolded in a panorama of life on earth contrasted with heaven’s eternal rewards. Body, a young hunter, and Soul, an ethereal woman, pursued each other. Saints whose postures mirrored the statues lining the side aisles dismissed princes of the Church who accepted bribes, or lepers who abandoned hope. The little girl identified Theresa, Barbara, Cäcilia, and whispered the sacred names to her mother. The strangely archaic music switched from lyric to harsh and back, full of striking harmonies, an explosion of fantasy followed by a sense of grace. Maile’s spirits hovered between heaven and earth.
All temptations ceased when a huge figure in black leaped onto the stage, snatched up a heap of rattling skeletons, and disappeared into a pit. Processions of victorious souls in golden robes singing hymns of praise ascended the staircases above the altar. A host of angels on a balcony were joined by massed choirs throughout the church exclaiming, “Gloria, Gloria, Gloria!” Violins, flutes, and trumpets blended in a crescendo that peaked at the same instant all light was extinguished. Only the glow of the candles along the walls remained as the final chord echoed into every curve of the vast ceiling, into each side chapel, through hundreds of listeners, and finally trailed off into stillness. A warm hush enclosed the audience.
In silence people finally stood up to move toward the aisles. The high front doors opened, and the cool evening air washed in. Maile made her way out onto the plaza, still tingling. Couples around her exchanged quiet comments. A man remarked that the production could become quite a success. All unknown singers, but excellent.
As the crowd moved into the damp night air, she watched for Professor Jann, eager to discover more about an opera that made allegory so gripping. Presently he came outside deep in conversation with an elderly lady. Maile recognized her from a Festival poster, hands poised over a piano keyboard, white hair swirled into a turban. It wouldn’t be right to intrude, she knew, when they were talking artist to artist. Besides, tomorrow she had a voice lesson.
Maile walked off toward the Grand Festival House, where the audience was strolling away to dine. Beautifully dressed couples entered bright restaurants. She watched them absently, picturing the archangel with his gleaming sword, the hunter Body carrying a slain deer on his shoulders, the skull face on the beggar woman’s infant—that incredible detail not spotlighted, just there. Most wonderful of all, the entire production reflected the lives of people in Salzburg, history as they knew it, stories passed down to the little girl seated beside her, who had seen familiar saints come to life.
A short distance away she saw a police officer stop a man in a tuxedo. Cursing drunkenly in Italian, the man fumbled in his jacket and dropped what looked like a passport. His tone turned belligerent. An argument erupted and another policeman joined them. Shouting now, the man was escorted off to a patrol car.
Maile gripped her evening purse and heard the things inside it click: lipstick case, key. The little bag seemed too empty. She dug through it but knew with dead certainty that she’d forgotten her precious ID. At all times a foreigner must carry . . .
She hurried toward Getreidegasse before a policeman stopped her for any reason at all. In the dark she rushed into a cloud of scent— irises in a café window box—but couldn’t find the side street leading to Frau Metzger’s. The possibility of arrest felt real, a disaster, then it was theatrical: Maile in handcuffs; Maile wronged; Maile suffering! A Mozarteum soprano would only get a scolding from a policeman as long as she charmed him and dropped the name of an aristocratic friend. She would invent one. La-la-la. This city with its hills and castle and costumed people was a constant opera, and not far away saints were putting aside their crowns and angels were folding their wings. All those beautiful feathers. Swan feathers, brushed with gold.
THE NEXT MORNING when Maile went downstairs, Frau Metzger held out a heavy ivory-colored envelope. “This just came,” she said, her eyes wide. “A boy from Diplomats’ Row.” She handed it over and folded her arms.
On the back of the envelope Maile saw a United States seal stamped in gold, inside an engraved invitation with a handwritten message: Dear Miss Manoa, It’s been a while but I hope you’re still willing and able to give us a tune or two on July 29th. Gershwin would be great. Yours sincerely, E. Casey. This time the writing was legible. Gershwin? No problem. She smiled and left Frau Metzger seething for information.
At Professor Jann’s studio Maile went through the formalities of greeting, then mentioned hearing the new Festival opera last night. “Oh, I’m pleased you managed to go,” he said. “Wasn’t it splendid? Unusual, of course. How did the performance strike you?”
Gratefully she took her mind back to it: the opening scene with the bishop, the dancers, the archangel high above the altar, and his declaration, “Behold the Wheel of Fortune.” Then instead of a figure in gleaming armor, she recalled a knight in cardboard and tinfoil, years ago in Honolulu. Her memory locked. How proud she’d been of the costume, how deeply impressed by The Magic Flute—yet now she knew it had been nothing more than a pitiful attempt to imitate what Madame referred to as high art. Hawaii didn’t have it. If people there tried to understand opera by producing one every ten years, they had no idea. She would never catch up with Europeans. In their bones and souls they understood that music was also history and refinement. She didn’t even have the right to an opinion.
“It was beautiful,” she said quietly.
Jann gave her a look of reproach. “Such a weak response? You must learn to be a critic. By that I do not mean tearing a work to shreds.” He explained that Rappresentazione was a piece not performed for centuries, a typical stand-and-deliver series of arias interspersed with choruses. The visual monotony of this was overcome by the inspired use of mime dancers reflecting the rough medieval world as well as the aristocratic Enlightenment. Instruments borrowed from a Prague museum gave the orchestra its authentic sound.
Her sense of excitement returned as he spoke, a man eager to share what he admired. She offered comments and found that he was thrilled by the same moments in the performance. He complimented her grasp of drama and staging. She realized that she’d heard something unique, perhaps more important than a performance at the Grand Festival House. Half her lesson time slipped away. Jann glanced at his watch and said, “Conversation is good. However, I want to hear some simplicity from you.”
She took her place at the grand piano and imagined rosebushes, waist-high. A dark stage. No props. Nothing except a melody about love, not tense, coiling seduction. Love. Be still. Open your heart.
He played the gentle introduction, its rhythm like a swaying hammock. She suppressed a sigh, and pictured a man close by, her one listener, her secret audience watching from shadows in the rose garden. “Belov-ed soul,” she began in a calm tone, “hesitate no longer...” She sang to the night and the stars just appearing high above the garden. The piano received the phrase and carried it forward. She felt her lover listening. “My heart awaits . . .” A voice she hardly recognized as her own filled the room. “Come, my beloved . . . let me crown you with roses.” The last notes of the accompaniment enveloped her, and receded to a light pulse merging into the air she and her audience shared. The conductor had lowered his b
aton. The singer stood motionless. Time and space and place were bound in a memory of love.
“Continue,” Jann said softly. He turned a page. Leaves on the bushes outside his studio brushed against the window and a stray branch tapped on the glass. “Lights up!” he announced.
Figaro burst in with an outraged accusation, followed by the pageboy and the countess, Jann accompanying and singing all the roles except Maile’s. In the fast recitatives he switched from one character to another, up, down, male, female. When she joined in as Suzanna, he changed from singing the Countess in falsetto to expertly singing Figaro or the Count, and he missed nothing on the piano. In the Act Four finale they sang their way furiously through secret love notes, a jump from a window, mistaken identities—a comedy that exploded in glorious music as characters came together in duets, trios, quintets. Jann acted as orchestra, cast, and conductor, a wild effort that had him and Maile helpless with laughter when he sang an inappropriate part or struggled to play fluttering tremolo octaves to imitate a surge of violins. They kept pace with each other to the end, a full-throated celebration of love, with aristocrats and servants united and resolved to adjourn in joy to a marriage feast. All hearts triumphed.
The final phrase left them panting for breath. They beamed at each other. “Aaah,” he said, “you have the right spirit!”
She had never seen him so satisfied and happy. She wanted to throw her arms around him, but even in fun, Jann was still der Herr Professor. They would never address each other as Du. Never share gossip. Inwardly she withdrew to await his critique.
His smile relaxed. He closed the score, flexed his fingers and said, “The competition will be announced shortly, which is rather irritating because it takes place only two weeks hence. Teachers are in a hurry to submit candidates.” He showed her a paper. Kazuo, Brenda, and Jean-Paul were listed along with Karl and other Austrians. “A small affair, although it offers good exposure.” He took out a pen and added Maile’s name to the list. “Over the next few years you will progress to more important contests. Enter with a Mozart piece, not the Rose Aria, because today you accomplished that beautifully. The only remaining test is whether or not you can sing it as well under the pressure of a live performance. Give yourself a different kind of challenge.”
She hesitated, uncertain about competing against Salzburgers. In their city. With their Mozart. But a third of the participants were foreigners. Including Brenda!
“Choose a work that appeals to you,” he said, “although not the Queen of the Night, please, or the Martyrs Aria from Abduction. I share your fascination for vocal pyrotechnics, but two weeks is not much time to prepare. This list will double with entrants from Spain, France, the East Bloc countries.”
International competition. The phrase had weight and glamour.
He walked her to the door, sliding a hand under her left elbow in a refined gesture. “The winner performs at a prize concert with the student orchestra. That kind of recognition during the Festival is quite an honor. The government awards a thirty-thousand-schilling prize.”
She wished him auf Wiedersehen, felt the warmth of his hand retreat as she went out, then in the hall she mentally divided thirty thousand by twenty-five: twelve hundred dollars. And the Rose Aria “beautifully accomplished!” All that work to arrive at a statement of something simple. Of love in all its subtlety.
10
MAILE NOTICED THAT Frau Metzger’s attitude toward her was newly underlined by expectant smiles and small favors—dried mint for tea left outside her door, fresh rolls delivered one morning—although the ticket she owed her landlady was never mentioned. If Frau Metzger now had the upper hand, she also seemed aware of being dependent on her tenant’s goodwill to repay. Their relationship developed a polite façade of hints given and ignored. Frau Metzger’s new crossword puzzle magazine, conveniently displayed while saying good morning, had von Wehlen on the cover. When Maile passed in or out of the house, she heard quiet humming in the kitchen, always an easy Wagner piece like the Pilgrim’s Chorus from Tannhäuser.
She considered trying to wheedle a von Wehlen ticket out of Casey’s receptionist—and sneaking off to the performance without telling Frau Metzger. Which wouldn’t work, of course, because of her landlady’s uncanny knowledge of gossip.
On Friday a list of the Salzburg contestants was posted on the Mozarteum’s front door and Kazuo withdrew into a robotic imitation of himself. Jean-Paul became even more maniacal. Brenda experimented with different poses: frightened little girl, conceited movie star. Karl entered and left the conservatory through the basement and was rarely seen.
Marlise ran a betting pool with odds that changed daily: Jean-Paul would win with his monumental Tschaikovsky concerto; or Kazuo, who had mastered half the entire violin repertoire, which spanned centuries, an achievement no other graduate student could match. Would Karl compete with piano or horn, Beethoven or Bach? The Super-Sopran might have an edge over all three men, but singing was riskier than playing an instrument, no key to press, no string to tune, all in the throat and the mind.
The halls developed a wordless intensity as contestants scrutinized each other for hidden faults that could mar a performance. Maile avoided the Mozarteum until she had chosen an aria. In her room she read through familiar and obscure Mozart roles: peasant girls, vengeful queens, women masquerading as boys. She imagined performing to a row of judges, a tiny audience with unsmiling faces and no colored cocktails to soften their responses. Kazuo and Jean-Paul worried her; both veterans of a half-dozen important contests who considered producing music under extreme pressure the true test of their abilities. If Professor Jann believed she was a born performer, fine. He would never know about her long apprenticeship at hotels singing two-minute songs that rhymed “hula skirt” with “aloha shirt.”
Two weeks was barely enough time to memorize, get the breaths down, and live inside the character until the piece was hers. Should she be a sprightly maid, a seducible ingénue? Brenda was excellent in that genre and would flatten a soprano competitor. At times the itch of sex crept out of the piano like a lizard, snickering at Super-Sopran for singing about passion but living like a nun. Compared to New York, life in Salzburg was sexless. She considered going straight over to the conservatory basement, walking in on Karl while he was mid-phrase with Beethoven, and stripping off her blouse. He would be astonished, instantly erect! No, no, a terrible idea, something a thirteen-year-old did on a dare.
Maile turned to Titus Andronicus, rarely performed Mozart. Like Rappresentazione, the work had the grandeur and drama of past centuries. The arias were filled with rolling coloratura, wonderful for showing off, but she couldn’t think her way into a Roman ruler’s daughter who was also the rejected wife of a second Roman ruler in love with another daughter of another Roman nobleman. Perhaps she should sing a solo from one of the great masses: an angel who bestowed mercy. No, a contest was first of all about nerve. And an aria had to be based on a person, not a spiritual ideal—a baroness, a countess, a woman both vulnerable and strong.
She recalled racing through Figaro with Jann. The opera was saturated with love: Liebe, Lee-beh, solemn love, goofy love. She flipped through the comic scenes and looked for a kind of Liebe not tenderly symbolized by roses, but with passion and grief. A fierce decision to regain lost love. Countess Almaviva, Third Act.
Across the Old City the Dom bells struck the noon hour, signaling the end of apartment practicing for the morning. Silently Maile followed the black notes on the page: a slow melody beginning in a mood of distress, andantino, the tempo of longing, then a dramatic shift to allegro, and finally the conclusion: “My fidelity will triumph over his ungrateful heart!” She packed the score in her shoulder bag, uninterested in lunch or rumors about who had broken down and might drop out, needing only a practice room to see if she could really handle this piece. Technical hurdles. Emotional hurdles. Beauty all the way through. Mozart, the master of love’s intricacies.
She headed downstairs feeling
light enough to glide out the door and fly across the river. On the last step she heard a woman speaking clearly enunciated German. “But the sheets. Such a personal item.” The voice came from the kitchen. “By the Catechism, I would not touch those sheets. She must buy her own linen.”
“Oh, no,” Frau Metzger replied with a nervous laugh.
“You are too modern, Josephina.”
Sheets. Frau Metzger did the laundry, which was included in the rent, but Maile washed her own stockings and underwear, and always hung them on the washstand rather than at the window because the landlady made such a point of it.
The same woman remarked that her village church still refused burial to anyone connected with the theater. A third woman said such ostracism of the dead or the living was medieval. Musicians were chosen by God and deserved respect, although she drew the line at a dark-skinned foreigner entering her house. No Negress, even a diva or a diplomat’s wife, would ever use her chairs or china. Not to mention the toilet.
Negerin.
“I must confess to examining the sheets,” Frau Metzger said. “And I listen every day for water running in the shower. My Hawaii-Mädchen bathes more often than I do.”
A cup clinked on a saucer. “Well, she has to, doesn’t she? Do not complain when you must buy a new mattress along with sheets and towels. Everything she touches will have an odor you cannot be rid of. I have often seen her talking to your godson. We know where that leads.”
The third woman asked, “Have you heard men on the stairs at night? My Turkish cleaning girl starts wearing lipstick during the Festival. Of course, no wealthy visitor would actually marry one of them.”
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