by L. L. Holt
“I need to talk to the servant who found the Master,” said Luis firmly. The two looked at each other.
“Why?” asked the fair boy, “He’s done nothing wrong.”
“I just need to know if the Master received a package before his attack, it’s very important. My…my own…friend. The, uh, friend of my employer, yes, that is it, he sent it and urgently demanded I learn its whereabouts,” Luis said, finding it not so easy to improvise with words.
The dark servant nodded. “That was me,” he said. “Yes, a package arrived, just that day. Master didn’t open it, he threw it in the fire,” the young man said.
“What!” Luis rose to his feet, unable to believe his ears. “What! In the fire….show me that fire, show me the room!” Then realizing he was making matters worse by shouting, said, “Please excuse me, I am still upset by your Lord’s death.”
“I’ll show him, Tommy,” said the fair boy, and motioned to Luis. The pair, with Tommy walking behind, wound their way through the apartment that was in a terrible state of commotion and disarray.
“Here’s the room,” said the fair boy at last, “that,” pointing, “is the fireplace.” Luis rushed to the grate and knelt in the dust before it, unmindful of his clothing. He grabbed an iron and poked at the residue. There was nothing.
“Wait,” said Tommy, “over here!” Luis looked in a far corner of the grill, and there was a tiny piece of paper with a fragment of an address on it. He couldn’t be sure, but perhaps it was a remnant of that package.
“And here,” said Luis, starting to see what minutes before his eyes failed to detect. Another scrap to the left, having fluttered outside the fire, with an image of a person’s foot. It looked to Luis as though the package had been opened: the wrapping cast to one part of the fire, the notebooks to another. But there was no other trace. He rose to his feet and roughly brushed off his pants.
“This will have to do. I am convinced you are correct, though perhaps he did open the package first and what he saw may have caused him to toss the contents here. You have my thanks.”
With that, Luis pocketed the two scraps, and departed, with a worried look on his face. He stopped at one point, and watched from the side as the beautiful apartment of Angelo Soliman, strung with the finery of Egypt, cherished artifacts from Nigeria, and elegant pieces of Meissen and Limoges, was reduced to a dust-filled shell. Who knew who were the true dealers and estate merchants, who were tricksters making off with what they could? Was this how life ended for people with high social status, who may not have family in the immediate area? And what of his remains, where was his body now? No doubt in some funeral director’s parlor awaiting the rites of a Church he did not believe in and interment in a grave not of his own choosing.
In this latter regard, Luis was quite mistaken. In fact, a significant contingent of the home invaders he passed represented the interests of Emperor Franz II for the Imperial Court Cabinet of Natural History. Although Soliman’s daughter had returned to the city immediately upon hearing the news, her pleas with the authorities were ignored. The interests of Imperial Science must be served.
In the view of the Emperor and his Director of Collections, Soliman was not a scholar, tutor, intellectual, and cultural leader of his time. He was a curiosity. Moreover, he was a representative of a Type. The ashes in Soliman’s fireplace contained a story that now was being played out again in the world of men.
For in the weeks to come, it became known that the African’s corpse had been delivered to the Museum rather than the morgue, and fell under the knife of a taxidermist rather than of an undertaker. And in one of the most sickening acts of desecration in the history of so-called civilized humanity, the body of Angelo Soliman was gutted and stuffed, and put into a loin-cloth with beads, a headdress, and other “savage” appurtenances. Then this specimen was displayed in the Natural History collection with the similarly desecrated bodies of two other Africans, along with a lion and a tiger, in a kind of diorama depicting life forms in darkest Africa. And it would be there still had there not been a fire in the mid 19th century which destroyed it and the entire contents of the hall.
In this way, Luis, who was sickened when he heard of the mutilation of his acquaintance’s remains, saw that behind the seemingly friendly and welcoming smiles of the Viennese majority, in at least some cases, echoes of racial hatred and notions of white supremacy resounded. He looked in the mirror and wondered what shocking surprises awaited him in a city where such horror could be condoned. As long as he maintained his edge, he was ahead of the game. But one false step or unanticipated affliction…he shuddered and left his room abruptly, going for a long, vigorous walk to flush the dreadful prospects from his mind.
As his pace accelerated, it was almost as though he left the new Luis behind him; gone, at least for now, was the cocky show-off, the brash, hot-tempered virtuoso. With each faster pace, he seemed to step back in time, craving someone to confide in: Neefe, his mother, Eleanor, a friend (for all his friends, including Wegeler, had returned to the north). But sometimes, a fast walk can serve as a substitute for speaking with any friend, and so it was he slept soundly that night. During the weeks ahead, as winter approached and Luis was soon a year older, he retreated to the wisdom literature he once had loved so deeply, and the Prince noted a new seriousness in his manner.
Chapter 12
“Well,” said the Prince, “let’s not be too gloomy. Winter is bleak enough!” to which Luis frowned and said nothing. His reading now was the classics, particularly Plutarch and Homer, with the writing of Egypt and the East a close companion. It was at this time that he copied another anonymous Egyptian text from George Forster’s translation, framed it like the previously saved quotation, under glass, and set it at his writing table:
“I am that which is. I am all that is, that was, and will be. No mortal man has lifted my veil.”
What did it mean? To Luis, the answer was in its ambiguity. The deaths of Soliman and Forster had thrown him into a reflective mood, one in which he was open to classical wisdom, the possibility of a Divine Presence in the lives of men, and the tenderness of love.
As the days grew shorter, word came from Paris that General Bonaparte had returned in triumph, making republican hearts beat a little faster and causing monarchs to shift a bit uneasily in their satin slippers. Luis continued to perform and compose--premiering his Mozart variations in December, but a somber mood of “all work and no play” seemed to haunt the young pianist-composer. With no friends, other than his cheerful patron, to distract him, he became more aware of the digestive problems that had long plagued him and the annoying popping, buzzing noises in his ears. Had he simply inherited the hypochondria of his old teacher, Neefe?
Apparently not. Neefe, in the prime of life at age 49, died suddenly in Dessau that January. The news hit Luis hard, especially since he had made light of his teacher’s influence in recent years. And another blow: in April, his beloved friend Lorenz von Breuning, having successfully completed his medical studies, went to his grave at age 21. Not even spring, the season Luis cherished above all others, could heal his broken heart.
“Luis,” said the Prince, one day in late spring, at a loss as to how to cheer up his investment, “look here,” waving a newspaper, “this is a nice little concert you might enjoy. A Mozart quartet, some Cherubini. Several of my string players are going, why don’t you join them, it will take your mind off whatever dark musings have occupied you of late.” The Prince smiled, eager to inspire a good mood in his favorite. “I hear the new teacher of the Mozart children plays first violin with them and is quite good.”
What did he have to lose? Luis agreed and joined the others, but they were all delayed at dinner at The Swan (Luis preferred to eat in town rather than follow the rigid ceremonies attendant on the Lichnowsky dinner hour, which also was at the ungodly time of 4 o’clock). While the musicians ate in the dimly lit tavern, a tall young man attempted to interrupt their conversation.
�
��Excuse me, sir,” he said, addressing Beethoven, “I would love to introduce myself.”
“Go away,” snapped Ignaz, “can’t you see we’re eating?”
The young man persisted, “I tried to talk to you last week, do you remember?” Luis ignored him, and tore a fist of bread from a loaf without looking up.
“Away, away!” added Moshe, “some privacy please!” The young man bowed and backed off.
“The penalty you must pay for fame!” said Ignaz, digging into a plate of spaetzel and pork.
Luis grunted, as his mind was on other matters. “Yes,” he said at last, wiping his lips, “I do want to hear that quartet. We’re not too late, are we? Are you with me?”
“Not I,” said Ignaz, “too much good food, and I want to enjoy what I pay for!” Luis laughed, slapped Moshe and the cellist Harper on their backs, and left the tavern while it was still light. He double-checked the address, and found himself before long at the Hofrath house, where a local family hosted small musical groups.
Mrs. Hofrath recognized him immediately as she opened the door. “Mr. Beethoven! What a pleasure, we are just setting up, do come in!” the bubbly young woman said.
Luis forced a smile and entered the parlor, middle class but with above-average good taste, where she guided him to a seat just behind the first violinist’s chair. After 10 minutes or so, during which several people approached Luis to compliment him on a performance or one of his recent works, the quartet settled in, and began playing Mozart’s E-flat quartet. A number of candles were positioned around the room, though not sufficient for the musicians to see their scores clearly.
The lead violinist, a young man with excellent posture and limpid blue eyes, was clearly having difficulties seeing the notes, and had to adjust his music stand several times. But a helpful hand reached past him and turned the page, not just for the first few pages, but throughout all four movements of the work. It was as though the wind had blown into the room at exactly the right moment, page after page, so there was no break in the flow of the music and the synchronicity of the four players, who soon were playing as one.
In fact, the violinist became so used to the page turner, he did not at first think to thank the mystery person who helped him perform so beautifully. After the applause died down, though, he blushed to think of his oversight and turned around. There was Beethoven, with a knowing half-smile on his face.
“Maestro!” the violinist exclaimed and took his hand and kissed it. “Maestro, it is you!”
Now, Beethoven knew he had seen this young man, roughly his same age, perhaps a bit younger, somewhere before. There was something majestic, to him unforgettable, about his posture and height, the way he carried himself, the nobility of his gentle features, his clear eyes so blue one did not notice the deep pock marks of his complexion.
“The restaurant!” said the violinist and smiled openly. “Yes, I was the pest!”
“You’re not a local, are you?” asked Luis, a question that had been put to him so many times. What was that accent?
“Ah, my accent!” said the violinist, “it always gives me away. Sir,” he bowed low, “I am Karl Amenda, your servant, lately of Latvia and recently graduated from the University at Jena!”
“Ha!” assented Luis, nodding, “a fine school. I myself studied philosophy at Bonn. And your field?”
“Do not laugh,” said the self-effacing violinist. “Lutheran theology is my subject, and my family proposes I enter the ministry.”
Luis nodded noncommittally. “So, you play very well,” said Luis, “I have studied the violin all my life, and my playing still sounds like alley cats in heat.” They both laughed at the image. “So, you have two more selections to play tonight. I look forward to hearing you…and your colleagues,” he added, gesturing to the others who were hanging on his every word. “We can talk later.”
The quartet played beautifully in the second half of the concert, and Luis felt a strange prickling at the back of his neck. He felt something shifting, as though the city, perhaps the earth itself, was moving beneath his feet, almost imperceptibly. It was a familiar, if rare, feeling that occurred when a mood and worldview was changing, signaling a kind of sea change in his body chemistry.
Mrs. Hofrath had rearranged the candles, and a page turner was no longer required, so Luis could sit and watch and focus. At the conclusion, the four men shook hands, said what they would have done differently, and complimented each other as members of the small audience crowded around them.
Luis stood off to the side by himself, observing, especially watching the tall young man with the violin tucked gracefully under his arm. How noble his brow! How sincerely concerned he seemed with each person, no matter how humble, who spoke to him. There is dignity, which shoots up through a man or woman, imbuing their every gesture with sincerity, integrity, and grace. This dignity was Karl’s. So different than the stuffy aristocrats, coy hangers-on, and rough-and-tumble musicians Luis dealt with each day! Gradually the gathering dispersed, and as Mrs. Hofrath put the room back in order with the help of a servant, Luis waved Karl over to a set of chairs to continue their conversation. It was now quite dark in the room except for a couple of candles flickering from the movements of the mistress.
Karl was so pleased, so happy at last to meet the man who was being hailed as the next great composer of Vienna, and already a pianist without rival. Indeed, he had nothing further to say. Instead, he looked at him a long time. Luis almost blended into the blackness, with his dark skin, hair, and black coat. A pastor by inclination as well as training, Karl noticed the rough skin of Luis’s face, bathed in candlelight, in a sense like his own, scarred from a serious encounter with smallpox. In fact, the texture gave interest to Luis’s intelligent, unusual face. But mostly Karl looked into Luis’s black eyes, with a golden candle flickering and glowing in each, as though the light shot out from within his head.
“And so,” said Luis, “You want to meet me, and now you have nothing to say!”
Karl laughed. “I suppose I just want to play more music!” the violinist said.
“That sounds like a wonderful idea!” exclaimed Luis, a flood of energy sweeping over him. “Let’s do that, together. I live not far from here, do you have any other engagements?”
“Why no,” the other said. “My friend Mylich is at the rooms we share, but he will be long asleep.”
“Good! Then let’s go off to my place, I have stacks of music by all the greats, including some new works, not just mine, either.” The two men grabbed their overcoats, said good night to Mrs. Hofrath, and left the house.
The evening passed in conversation as well as music. Luis wanted to know why a pastor from Latvia was playing the violin in Vienna (he was taking time off to pursue what he most loved before committing to his career), and Karl asked why Luis was not devoting more time to composition (he was simply in greater demand as a pianist; and it certainly was better for paying the bills).
“Will your landlord complain at our playing at this hour?” asked Karl, hanging his coat and jacket behind the door. He couldn’t help but notice the mess throughout the apartment, strewn with scores, instruments, open books lying face down, a half-finished lunch.
“The beauty of Vienna!” sighed Luis, illuminating the room. “It is one of the few places in the world where one can make music every night and hear only words of praise the next day.”
He poured Karl and himself each a glass of red Hungarian wine and rooted through a box of scores until he found something suitable. The two men played, and drank, and talked the night away. Never had Luis felt so uninhibited in the company of another. Never had Karl enjoyed the company of a friend, not even those friends he had grown up with in Lippaiken. He even did the unthinkable for a theology graduate: he unloosened his neckscarf, and by sunrise, like his host, his shirt was hanging loose over his pants and his boots had been kicked sideways beside the door. The two parted with warm words, vowing to meet again soon.
Luis felt
lighter, energetic, free of pain. Fortunately, his body had the good sense to let him lapse into a deep sleep that lasted until midday.
Karl Amenda, too, was beside himself. Initially awed by the sheer weight carried by the name of the great Beethoven, he had relaxed into a comfortable relationship with the man so many called a terror.
“What a dear man, Henry,” he later told Mylich, a guitarist who had been friends with Amenda since childhood. “You would never believe a more amiable person existed!”
It was in this mood (and Amenda always was in a good mood) that he met Mr. Hofrath as he walked to the Mozarts’ home.
“Amenda!” Hofrath called. “How did you do it?”
“Do what, sir?” the musician asked.
“You have captured Beethoven’s heart!” Hofrath exclaimed.
“Is that so rare?” Amenda asked. “He is so good and noble, how could not everyone adore him?”
Hofrath just laughed. “A minority opinion, I assure you!” he said, tipped his hat, and went
on his way.
The late spring day seemed extraordinary. In every square, riots of colorful flowers, baskets of greens, mothers with squealing children, caparisoned horses in regal finery passing work horses pulling loads of merchandise to the business district around St. Stephan’s. As winter boots were replaced with lightweight footwear, the rough cobblestones took their toll on many older pedestrians. But spirits were light, and even the church bells seemed to have a brighter timbre, almost tinkling in the mild air.