Aloha, Mozart

by Williams, Waimea

  Every time the blade struck a concealed rock, the cutting edge lost a fraction of its bite. He used to file it automatically at the end of each row, regardless of how many stones he hit or whether he sensed a drag on his swing. Now he inspected the new blade after each clang. From his shirt pocket he took a magnifying glass, clamped it to the scythe, and began removing the gouge. His father said that only a man who needed to cut an abscess out of a cow’s eye spent that much time honing metal.

  The quiet zeet-zeet of his file gave Karl an obsessive kind of satisfaction. He was just taking a little vacation from music. Of course Maile was right that his career wasn’t over because of one contest— dear Schubert, damn Schubert.

  He returned to slashing at the ripe hay and thought about Prague. The volatile situation both inspired and depressed him. The university students’ Action Plan for the Future had been accelerated. He was assigned to keep track of expenses: train tickets to border towns; food for refugees in hiding; soap and razors for those who fled with only their clothes. Being so close to important events and yet locked out rekindled his anger. He attacked the field into mid and late afternoon, scouring stalks off the slope, the neat pattern of arches left in the stubble giving him no pleasure.

  Finally he dragged the hay into rolls he could get his arms around. Down the slope he glimpsed movement in the tall weeds. He hadn’t heard the bus arrive, not listening for it; someone walking uphill past the trees. Her small figure grew larger: the victor, the one person he wanted to see, couldn’t bear to see. With the tip of the scythe he hooked another heap of hay.

  Maile continued to the end of the path but Karl ignored her and kept working. She sat down to wait him out. After leaving Jann’s house, she had walked aimlessly along the river. The heavy placidness of the water did not still the phantom waves that pursued her. In her room she put on flat shoes, and then took the bus to the countryside without knowing what to say when she found Karl.

  At last, sullenly silent, he joined her. They sat side by side in the darkening meadow below the pond where he had played his horn on a night she could hardly recall. Felled clover and wildflowers lay around them in damp heaps. His arms were crisscrossed with grass cuts and bumpy from insect bites. His beard had grown in more and hid the off-center cleft in his chin. Now that it couldn’t be seen she missed it, a small, odd feature she hadn’t thought about for weeks, months— how long since the night they met and he compared her to Gauguin?

  All at once Karl started talking in an angry flow of words that excluded her. After a lecture about the dynamics of musical memory, he lit into Arnim, and ripped up shorn clumps of clover like a fussy gardener dissatisfied with his work. “That limp cucumber, that pathetic photo-model boy.” He leaned at her, giving off a rank odor of sweat.

  She sat back, controlling her temper. “He’s just an opera fan.”

  “Oh, Blood of Christ. He sees you as Tannhäuser’s naked Venus.”

  “Stop acting like I’ve slept with him.”

  “You’ll never marry an aristo, you know.”

  “My ancestors were ruling chiefs.”

  “Hawaiian ancestors?” Karl sniffed, affecting the droopy-eyed expression of a cartoon marquis. “Here that’s the equivalent of Gypsy royalty, nowhere near noble enough. Besides, you’re a racial mixture. No aristo will stand for that in a wife.”

  No peasant either, she realized. Not in a country where people believed that skin color ruined bed sheets. “Shut up about marriage.”

  In an abrupt shift of mood he said, “My family is killing me. Years ago they only agreed to music studies so I wouldn’t take a job in Africa working on irrigation.” He paused with a pained expression that cramped his face. “You should see them at a recital. Whether I play a Beethoven funeral march or a Mozart minuet, they have the same embalmed expressions. Respect, respect, and afterwards the same comment, ‘How nice.’” He yanked at a loose shoelace, his lips drawn back, ugly with anger. The leather strip snapped and he tossed it into the grass. “When my sister listens to a concerto she’s just relieved to sit for an hour instead of milking the goats. I can’t imagine your family. Hawaii. Jesus.” Suddenly gentle, he said, “Tell me. Please.”

  Again he was the man she had known. She told him about her mother, a cook for the army, dead at forty-two; her father, a bus driver; her eight brothers and sisters, most with children before they were out of high school; her ten years of singing at a hotel.

  Karl listened without interrupting, squinting out at the dusky sky. “At first I was sure you were rich. Perhaps we’re more alike than anyone could guess. Except—” He coughed, an artificial, stunted sound. “In Salzburg, one decent but not excellent pianist makes no difference to anybody.”

  Mentally she filled in what he had not said: Except for giving up.

  He gripped his knees. “There’s a lot more at stake in the real world. Last week four editors escaped from Prague. My university network got them here, but mental patients and criminals are also being shoved into Austria. We have to hide artists when they cross or our police arrest them as ‘undesirables.’”

  She let out a dry laugh. “Are you going to cut barbed wire on the border? Sneak past land mines? You’re wasting yourself on dreams. Where’s your other kind of nerve?”

  He sat motionless, then said in a quiet, considered tone, “You took your great risk to come here. Americans can do that. Austrians are strangled by history, tradition, the weight of it. I’m not complaining. You’re just freer than I ever was, or can be.”

  The sun had gone down behind the mountains. In the darkness his face was barely visible, but she sensed a chance for honesty between them that would slip away unless she grabbed it. “Von Wehlen wants me to audition,” she said. “Jann told me I have to make my own decision.” She started to mention standing in his front room, his embrace, his unmistakable attraction. It would sound like trashy gossip.

  “Why do they hate each other?” she asked.

  Karl groaned and lay back on the ground. A swarm of midges hovered over his face. He batted them away and described the country after the war, occupied by foreign armies, the Festival almost dead, but Jann was its leading bass and people were hungry for music. When von Wehlen was allowed back in Salzburg, he forbade mention of his Reich years, even though everyone knew he had conducted birthday concerts for Hitler. Jann asked him to make a public statement about the civic role of a conductor, the traditional moral responsibility to music’s purity—in other words, to show some regret. Von Wehlen refused. Jann came to his own Don Giovanni dress rehearsal in street clothes, handed envelopes to the soloists, and left. In each envelope was a page with one word on it. Together they made up a sentence: A WAR WAS JUST FOUGHT TO DEFEAT FASCISTS.

  “But goes back before the war,” Karl said.

  In the distance Maile saw a bright yellow flash, the headlights of the last bus from the city. Soon the driver would turn around below at the end of the route and rest briefly before making his final return trip.

  Karl sat up. “Von Wehlen’s orchestra always had Gestapo informers, but he held onto his best Jewish musicians. Then in ’45, when things were falling apart, he handed over three violinists. They escaped, got arrested here, and were hanged behind the Mozarteum. My father says the bodies were there for a week. He saw them. Everybody did.”

  She recoiled as if punched in the stomach. “Why haven’t I heard about this? The way you talk it’s common knowledge.”

  “It is. Von Wehlen’s past is an embarrassment to a lot of people. Including me.”

  A breeze brought the faint mechanical sounds of the bus. She patted the dark ground in search of her purse.

  Karl passed it to her, and with sudden athletic grace he swung himself onto his knees and loomed over her. “We’re stuck. I have to get Czechs across the border, you dream of singing Desdemona at the Festival, and Jann has an ethical streak running through him like the Salzach at full flood.” He covered her mouth with a rough kiss tasting of sweat and salt. �
��Luck to both of us.”

  VON WEHLEN’S SECRETARY informed Maile by telegram that auditions took place between eleven and one. Several hours in advance she would be notified. Until then she was not to contact the Festival House. If she canceled for any reason, the audition would not be rescheduled.

  She stayed in her room. The leather case with the Mozart locket was gathering dust and she slid it into a drawer. On her desk the embroidered angels from Baron von Gref were in danger of picking up ink stains. She wrapped the little cloth in tissue paper and put it away with the locket.

  At ten o’clock she received a hand-delivered message asking if she could sing for the conductor of Rappresentazione at noon. Her memory of the production had faded, and the risk of conflict with von Wehlen’s unknown schedule was too great. She declined with thanks, then had to justify the decision to herself: Herr Maestro’s violinists were likely not betrayed by him but by an informant. Or maybe, when the Gestapo came, he had given in to avoid a greater catastrophe.

  By twelve-thirty it was clear that her audition had to take place tomorrow, and no later than one o’clock because her prize concert was that same night. What if von Wehlen’s secretary forgot to notify her? He dealt with dozens of international stars and ongoing Festival events. Taking a walk or going outside for the rest of the day had no appeal. She washed her hair and sat with the wet strands over the back of a chair. Unconsciously she listened for the soft rush of surf against shore, the rise and break and fall of waves that went on and on and made the world whole. She cleaned her shoes, did sit-ups with her feet hooked under the bed frame. Afternoon melted into evening. She recalled that von Wehlen admired her fanaticism. The secret of music had to do with fear. Hatred interested him. She couldn’t nap, study, eat.

  At nine-forty-five, she heard Frau Metzger’s heavy tread on the stairs. A white envelope was slipped under the door. The bell at the entrance hadn’t rung, and Maile couldn’t imagine who wanted to contact her. “Herr Maestro is unavailable tomorrow,” she read. “Please be ready to audition at 10:30 p.m.”

  She dropped the note. One hour’s notice at this time of night was outrageous, unfair! She could have been at a movie, or having a glass of wine with friends. Or asleep, and not even found the envelope until tomorrow morning.

  Her voice had lost its edge. Even a brief warm-up in her room would have neighbors knocking on their walls with broomsticks. She piled up her hair and took the required three scores. Minutes later she was headed toward the Mozarteum. Waiters dawdled outside the Silver Fawn as busboys laid fresh linens for the next round of diners. She hurried through deserted streets, crossed the empty footbridge. At the conservatory she got into the basement through an unlocked door, vocalized in the dark, and went back out.

  Twenty minutes after receiving the telegram Maile arrived at the Festival House, breathless from so much fast walking. A guard led her into the foyer. A rumble of Berlioz came from the main hall. Tonight’s concert was being conducted by a von Wehlen protégé, and she figured that as soon as it concluded and the audience left, it would be her turn on the Grand Stage. That seemed unusual, even strange, but Herr Maestro made his own rules.

  A woman in a blazer and short skirt motioned to her. They went up a flight of stairs to an ordinary corridor. As they walked, the sound of the orchestra grew fainter until it seemed to be coming from a distant radio. Neither the guard nor the woman had spoken. Maile wondered if they knew who she was.

  “Mein Vorsingen?” she asked.

  “Natūrlich.” The woman stopped to open a door and gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Bitte sehr, Frau Manoa. Der Herr Maestro kommt.”

  She left and Maile stepped into a huge room with scenery flats piled against the opposite wall. A cluster of dark spotlights hung from a bare beam. Far to the left was a small platform about twelve feet high; next to it, a scuffed grand piano. No windows, no chairs. A large clock face showed the time, ten-fifteen. Instead of the Grand Stage, she had been assigned to a room used for work and storage. The world’s most famous conductor would hear her sing in a warehouse.

  A short, fat man with brilliant blue eyes and kinky blond hair came in and introduced himself as her accompanist, Egon Janowitz. At the piano they did a blitz review of tempi and rubato. He promised to pay attention to her breath marks. She sang a quick scale to test the room’s acoustics. Her voice seemed to be sucked into a hole that gave nothing back. She tried again, heard the same effect, and turned to Egon with a stare of panic.

  “Sing away from the flats,” he said. “When they’re stacked up like that, the area in front of them is a dead zone. Project toward the door.”

  Von Wehlen entered promptly. From fifteen meters away, Maile saw only a silver head of hair moving to the center of the room. His secretary called out for her to step onto the platform. Wooden blocks at the back formed steep stairs with no railing. She bent forward for balance, teetered up in her high heels, then positioned herself on a plank rectangle no larger than her mattress.

  Egon conferred briefly with Herr Maestro, returned to the piano and said, “Elvira.”

  The piece she’d managed to get Jann to approve for her concert, she thought, a dizzying transfer of allegiance. She nodded down to Egon who now sat four meters below.

  “Moment,” von Wehlen called out. He stood sportlich-elegant in a gray sweater and trousers. On a side wall his secretary flipped a row of switches, plunging the room into blackness, instantly replaced by a blue-tinted spot that enclosed Maile in a narrow column of light. She swayed and clamped her legs together to steady herself.

  “Also jetzt,” von Wehlen said.

  She felt on the edge of the pit that doomed Don Giovanni. Egon played the opening chord.

  “What monstrous excess!” she sang.

  The piano replied with a heavy, beating rhythm that mapped out a chase through twisting streets. She imagined a horse, a ghost horse behind her as she fled down alleys in the Old City.

  “What terrible love . . .” Her mind leaped ahead, a woman who could outrun man or beast. Beyond the spotlight von Wehlen’s shadowy outline paced in the cavernous interior. She accused her betrayer as he bore down, a horse that filled her with exalted vengeance and terror. The aria ended in a cry of forgiveness. She heard her final note echo and knew that her voice had not landed in the dead zone. Spain, horse. What horse? Why a horse?

  She blinked as the spot was switched off and the overhead lights came on. Her face and neck were wet with perspiration. In the distance she saw von Wehlen fold his arms, movements that made him appear to undulate like a mirage. Then he spoke firmly, but she caught only the final word: office. He walked toward the door with his secretary.

  It was over. He was leaving.

  The door to the hall swung open, and four men in dark suits entered. Von Wehlen paused with a startled tilt of his head, then he joined the men and all went out.

  “That is odd,” Egon said. He rose and shuffled her scores into a stack.

  Maile crept down off the platform. Egon kept staring at the open door. “Personal security never escorts Herr Maestro inside the house,” he added. Dully she took the scores from him.

  He walked with her toward the door, saying, “Congratulations. The key phrase is ‘Make an appointment with my office.’ Not ‘my scholar-ship foundation,’ which has thousands of applicants every year for two openings. Go first thing tomorrow morning. Now excuse me, I’m going to find out what sort of little crisis is brewing.”

  “Does ‘office’ mean a contract?”

  “That has always been the case.”

  Būro, office, she thought. Vertrag, contract. Make an appointment. Melden Sie sich in meinem Būro. A beginner’s contract for next year.

  She found her way back to the main entrance, feeling drained and yet wildly excited.

  The departing Berlioz audience was streaming outside in a warm cloud of pleasure. They exclaimed over the freshness of the evening air, perfect for saumon mousse en croute, in honor of all things French.
She slipped into their midst, wanting to take hold of glittering strangers and shout, A toast a toast a toast to von Wehlen’s new soprano!

  16

  AT THREE IN the morning, a whore passing behind the Silver Fawn told the Rosenkavalier about a rumor she’d heard from two different customers in the last hour. He hurried across the city to the train station and rapped on the watchman’s window, telling him to turn on his radio, Jetzt, wichtig ist’s! A dozing cabdriver yawned and got out to see what was worth a fuss at this hour. The men listened until the announcer repeated the bulletin, then the Rosenkavalier took five cartons of Turkish cigarettes on credit and slipped away. The few night workers who heard the news rushed home to rouse relatives, but in most of the city word spread slowly until dawn: a radio clicked on just long enough to confirm the worst, then shut off as if silence could erase what had just been broadcast into a bedroom, a kitchen.

  While theatergoers slept heavily after rich food and cognac at midnight, ordinary people with jobs awakened to the accumulating staccato of announcements in the same voice, coming from buildings along Getreidegasse, on both sides of the river, and all the way to the outskirts of Salzburg where the last houses stood. Men and women cursed under their breath and crossed themselves. As time passed, they raised their voices. On the Old City’s streets they asked each other, Who will help us? A jittery porter at an elite hotel refused to fetch luggage belonging to a wealthy couple and walked away shouting like a town crier, “The pigs’re leaving, fend for yourselves! They’re leaving!”

  The shouting porter passed under Maile’s window. She woke and wondered groggily why pigs were leaving. He walked on, his meaningless words fading, overlaid by the peculiar sound of dozens of radios, a tense drone that reminded her of tidal wave warnings, the same announcement coming through the window and the walls to the left and right. “. . . received official notice that trains may no longer enter or exit. All flights over the country are being rerouted. River traffic on the Danube east of Vienna has been halted at the frontier.” She sat up, fully awake. Radios announced in unison, “Repeat. Repeat. The Soviet aggression was launched at two this morning. Repeat, repeat. Prague is now fully occupied.”