Cemetery of the Nameless

by Rick Blechta

  After the unscheduled fireworks display, I made sure I didn’t stray out of bounds on the Kreisler cadenza I played at the close of the concerto. Breathing a sigh of relief as the music disappeared under me in the last few bars, it felt as if the earth was drifting away as I soared into the last measures of the solo line—the lark still ascending. Hah! Then we slammed out the last two chords that always sound to me like Beethoven saying, “That’s it!”

  The audience, even the orchestra (something that’s never done), everyone in the theatre leaped to their feet. I felt like I needed to sit down. Ebler roughly grabbed my arm (but not so the audience could tell, the old slimeball) and propelled me from the stage.

  “What do you think you are doing to me?” he hissed when we were hidden in the wings. “I will never again work with you!”

  “Suits me just fine,” I shot back as I yanked my arm from his grasp and headed back onstage for the first of many curtain calls. Scrapping what we’d prepared that afternoon (my death-defying version of Sarasate’s “Zigeunerweisen”), I tossed over several options for an unaccompanied encore.

  Ebler had to rush to catch up with me.

  “Victoria Morgan is obviously insane. Did you hear the way she played at my concert this evening? Only a crazy person would do something like that!”

  —Tobias Ebler quoted in several Viennese newspapers.

  Chapter 4

  TORY

  By the time Roddy rescued me from the crush of well-wishers jammed into my dressing room (including about half the orchestra, sans Ebler), I was shivering in my sweat-drenched gown, and an entire percussion section had taken up residence inside my head.

  With gentle forcefulness, Roddy managed to get the room clear and the door shut. The sound of the lock snicking home sounded like a little bit of heaven. Roddy remained with his back against the door, as if keeping further intruders at bay.

  “You look completely bagged, my dear,” he said gravely.

  “Stick a fork in me, I’m done,” I agreed and sat down heavily on a convenient chair. Running my fingers through my hair, I made sure all of it went down my back. Even though I felt cold and clammy, my face burned from an inner heat. “Thanks for getting the thundering horde out of here. I just didn’t have the energy. Why did I ever get rid of that secretary?”

  Roddy smiled. “You said she was a pain in the arse.” He picked up the jeans and sweatshirt I’d earlier thrown carelessly on the floor and handed them to me. “Why don’t you get out of that sodden rag? If you’re not careful, you’re going to wind up sick.”

  I went into the small bathroom, took off my gown, and after splashing some cold water on my face, took off my bra and panties as well. Nothing feels worse than soggy underwear. Opening the door slightly, I held out the gown and undies for Roddy to put into the garment bag. It took only a minute to throw on my dry clothes and come back out.

  As I sat down on a chair to put on socks and sneakers, someone knocked on the door. “Your limousine is here, Fräulein Morgan.”

  “Tell them we’ll be right out.” Roddy said.

  Even though it was very short, I actually fell asleep on the ride to the hotel. Once back in my suite, Roddy supervised the ordering of a meal while I took a much-needed shower.

  “How hungry are you?” Roddy yelled from his side of the bathroom door.

  “Have them send up a side of beef.”

  “They’re all out of sides. How does an eight ounce, medium rare T -bone sound?”

  “Great,” I shouted and continued to lollygag under the steamy water. Eventually, though, my fingers began looking prune-like and I snapped off the water. One great thing about first-class hotels is the first-class towels. I rubbed my body with the rough side until it glowed red and tingled, then put on one of the bathrobes hanging on the back of the door. Combing my hair as I came out, I said, “Thanks for the major domo duties, Roddy. I really appreciate—”

  He held up a hand. “No. A good part of this is pure selfishness on my part. I don’t want you to bugger up the rest of this tour. You haven’t been yourself since we left Canada.”

  Pulling his head down and kissing him on both cheeks, I said, “You’re a doll nonetheless,” then sat down cross-legged on the sofa to continue working at the tangles in my hair.

  Roddy took a chair near the window and stared across the room at me. I tried ignoring it, but he’s perfected a stare that could make a saint blush.

  I glared at him. “What?”

  “Victoria, what happened tonight? I seem to remember you saying at dinner that the Beethoven was under control.”

  I put the comb down on my lap, looking at it for a few moments. “You’re going to think I’ve totally lost it if I tell you,” I said, finally.

  “Try me.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, come on,” Roddy said. “We know each other well enough to be candid. I’ve heard you play the Beethoven concerto on at least two other occasions, and it’s never sounded anything like it did tonight. You played several notes out of tune, for one thing.”

  “That was all due to Ebler!” I shot back hotly.

  “From the looks you were giving each other, that was obvious. But it doesn’t explain the wild detour in the second cadenza.”

  The arrival of our meal spared me from having to answer immediately. The waiter quickly laid out our food. Roddy had ordered only a dessert for himself, but I dug into my steak and frites as if I hadn’t eaten in a week. Last up was a bottle of nicely chilled Dom Pérignon.

  “What a sweet thing to do, Roddy!”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t order any bubbly.”

  “Where did this come from?” I asked the waiter.

  “Let’s see, miss,” he answered, searching his pockets for something. “Ah! Here it is.”

  He handed over a small envelope. Inside on the same note paper and in the same hand as the previous two was a message from my mysterious correspondent:

  My dear Victoria,

  I want you to know how much I enjoyed your performance this evening, although I am not happy about what you included in the middle cadenza of the Beethoven. I will be in contact personally very soon.

  — RvH

  I put the paper down next to my plate as I signed for the meal. Roddy made a grab for the note, and I wasn’t fast enough to get there first.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked, handing the note back without any embarrassment. Roddy has taken it upon himself to protect me when we’re touring.

  Clenching my jaw, I tried to keep my voice nonchalant.“Just some fan who’s been trying to make an impression. It’s nothing.”

  Roddy kept at me all through dinner, though, and I just kept shovelling in the food so I wouldn’t be able to answer, all the while thinking madly about what I was going to tell him when the food was gone. I knew he wouldn’t let this go. Eventually, pushing my plate away, I took a sip of champagne, leaned back in my chair and came to a decision, the only one I could make since I really felt I needed some advice. “Okay. You asked for it, but you have to promise you won’t repeat a word, not one word, of what I’m going to tell you. And this is a promise you cannot break.”

  Roddy nodded, but remained silent, eyes fixed on me.

  “You mentioned this morning that you’d heard me playing something last night.”

  He nodded again. “Did you recognize anything in that second cadenza this evening?”

  The light switching on in Roddy’s head was almost blinding. “Why did you throw that music in?”

  “Because, Roddy dear, the music was by the same composer as the concerto.”

  The light switched off. “What?”

  It took quite some time to explain the whole thing to him. In the end, even the photocopies didn’t convince him that what I was telling him was possible—or true. When he’d finished cleaning my clock for yet again being so gullible, I was depressed and totally confused about what I believed.

  ***

  Next morning
, my headache was still stubbornly intact. Actually, I think it had mated with the bubbly I’d consumed and produced a large litter. Reaching out with my right hand, I grabbed the clock off the bedside table and squinted at it. 10:38. God! I felt as if I’d hardly slept.

  Roddy had not stayed long with me after he’d completed his little cross-examination the previous evening. When I’d started getting upset at him for that, he’d said his goodnight and made a fast exit, saying only one thing as he’d paused in the doorway, “Just be careful, Tory.”

  I’d gone to bed feeling dazed and confused and definitely not sure if I’d done the right thing in being so frank with him. I felt certain that only one ill-placed word could jeopardize this wonder that had been offered to me.

  Roddy and I had been on the road a lot during the previous year, so that I’d actually spent more time with him than I had with my husband. Since there wasn’t any sexual tension between us, we’d become just really good friends. I know that it’s a hackneyed phrase, but I felt like I finally had the sibling I’d always longed for. Roddy never indicated that he felt the same, but then he was the fourth of a very Catholic family of ten. We spent hours together each day, performing, rehearsing, travelling, eating, even having to share the same room once or twice, and despite my current ill-tempered outbursts, ours had been a terrific professional relationship that so far had worked just fine.

  My mind turned to the note I’d received with the champagne. The whole time Roddy had been with me, I’d kept expecting the phone to ring, but my mysterious note writer had never called—almost as if he’d known that I wasn’t alone.

  As if in answer to my thoughts, the phone rang, and I have to admit I nearly fell out of bed in shock. Get a hold of your nerves, woman! I told myself sternly as I picked up the phone. “Yes?”

  A voice, heavy on the Germanic accent, asked, “Fräulein Morgan?”

  I sat bolt upright in bed, definitely wide awake now. “Yes?”

  “This is Baron Rudolph von Heislinger. I hope that I did not awaken you.”

  “No. I was already up.”

  “Good, good. Have you considered my offer?”

  “Yes. Some...”

  “You have not mentioned me or the music to anyone, have you?”

  I couldn’t help smiling. This conversation was a little like talking with the character from a spy novel. My imagination conjured up a grey-haired army officer in a uniform with jodhpurs, and a monocle jammed into one eye. Ve haf vays uf making you talk!

  “It is no one’s business what we have been...discussing,” I lied, now feeling guilty for my moment of weakness with Roddy.

  “Of course. You will wish to see the complete score and inspect its bona fides before we come to an agreement. I do not expect you to commit yourself to our little project until you are satisfied with the concerto’s authenticity.”

  Thinking about Roddy’s warning, I said,“Back up a minute, okay? I’m confused about what’s going on here. You have to admit that this whole set-up is pretty strange: anonymously delivered notes, a mysterious piece of music, then champagne sent to my room. I know nothing about you.”

  “I am sorry, Fräulein Morgan, but everyone has their little—how do you say?—idiosyncrasies, and privacy is one of mine. Sometimes I do not consider the effect of the ways I operate on the people with whom I am dealing. Of course, you would you like to meet and discuss our enterprise?”

  “Yes. Certainly. I would be dishonest if I didn’t say that this music intrigues me very much, and if it really is Beethoven—”

  “Beyond a shadow of a doubt!” he said firmly.

  “That remains to be seen. I’m from Missouri—”

  “I thought you are from Ohio,” the baron answered, sounding confused.

  “It’s an expression we have in North America. It means that I’m not going to commit to anything until I’m sure you’re on the level. Forgive me if you find that rude, but considering some of the stunts that have been pulled on me, I have to be very careful.”

  “When can you come to my home? It is only a few hours away in the south of the country.”

  “Out of the question. Why can’t we meet in Vienna? I thought you came to the concert last night.”

  “Unfortunately, I had urgent business that required my attention, and so I was forced to return home unexpectedly. However, my car and driver will be at your disposal at nine-thirty this evening. You could be with me, playing the Beethoven barely three hours after that.”

  “Impossible!” I said, shaking my head violently. The intensity of my headache leaped up two notches. “I have to be in Moscow tomorrow, and besides, I have a performance this evening which won’t be over until at least ten p.m. You can’t expect me to walk out on that!”

  I got no response for a good ten seconds. When it came, the voice of the Austrian baron sounded infinitely sad. “Then I am afraid that you have not understood the situation, Fräulein Morgan. You are being offered something the value of which is almost beyond imagining. Most violinists would give anything to be the first to perform this masterwork. It is being offered to you. You can take it as you wish, but my offer only remains open until nine-thirty. I urge you not to let this opportunity slip through your fingers. And remember, if you tell anyone of these discussions, anyone, my offer will immediately be withdrawn. I do not want this discovery to turn into a public circus—but it will not remain a secret forever, and we have to move quickly. I cannot wait until the end of your tour, and I cannot meet with you in Vienna. A limousine will be at the stage door tonight at the appointed hour. Understand that there will not be a second time. You must decide what you wish to do.”

  The phone clicked in my ear, and I stood next to the bedside table, stupidly holding the receiver for several minutes, my brain swimming in a sea of confusion. This person I didn’t know a thing about had just asked me to do the musical equivalent of shooting myself in the foot. Artists who walk out on performances without incredibly good reasons don’t get many chances to redeem themselves. Same goes for tours, but about ten times up the no-no scale.

  And what had this baron on the phone offered in exchange? Only the possibility of being able to premiere the musical discovery of the century. Possibility... If I knew for a fact that I wasn’t being duped, it would certainly be an easier decision to make.

  In desperation, even though it might jeopardize the whole deal if this Baron Whatever found out, I dialled Rocky in Montreal. Maybe he’d be able to see his way through the muck. Oddly, the phone rang and rang. Why didn’t our damn answering machine kick in? In total frustration, I slammed down the receiver hard enough to hurt my hand, which didn’t go a long way towards improving my mood, I can tell you.

  My brain continued to flounder the rest of the day as I paced the hotel room, first with Tristan under my chin while I pretended to practise, and after I gave that up, with the haunting snippet of music cascading endlessly through my aching head. A badly-needed nap was totally impossible under the circumstances, and being cooped up in my room any longer would drive me mad. I needed to stretch my legs and do some serious thinking. Putting on my most casual clothes, jeans, a faded jacket and my favourite baseball cap, I flipped on sunglasses and headed for the streets of Vienna to find some inspiration. I hoped my simple disguise would keep anyone from noticing me. Ducking out of the hotel by its side entrance, I headed down the wide street that went past the Musikverein, where I would again be playing for my life that evening...maybe.

  Head down, I walked a couple of blocks on one of those autumn days where summer seems to be making a valiant last stand against the approaching bitter onslaught of the dark months. The breeze had a gentle warmth, raising my spirits and clearing my head a little.

  All that came to a screeching halt as I neared a small parkette. A feeling of dread washed over me as the hair on the back of my neck stood. My mamgu, who’d come to live with us in her failing years, would have looked solemn and told me that someone had walked over my grave. She was
always saying cheery things like that, but then she had “the sight” and firmly believed that it had been passed on to her granddaughter. Whether it was due to her influence or some of the truly weird things that have happened to me since, I believed. We Welsh are like that.

  I looked around to see what could possibly be causing such bad vibrations. To my right was a large stone pedestal surrounded by cherubs and a few glum-looking angels, but as my eyes rose, my gaze was caught and held by a giant statue of Beethoven in streaky green bronze, glowering directly down with an absolutely thunderous expression on his face. As if in response, clouds covered the sun and the wind turned chill. I hadn’t realized this famous statue was so close by.

  I stood for several minutes, wishing that he would communicate with me, tell me whether or not he had indeed written a second violin concerto, and if so, what had happened to it all those years ago. But aside from feeling slightly nauseous and very uneasy, I learned nothing from beyond the grave. Eventually, I couldn’t take the enmity the statue seemed to be directing at me and walked quickly away, still feeling that gaze on the back of my neck for several more blocks.

  Eventually, I found myself in another park and sat down on a bench for awhile, but I couldn’t sit still. Even though I knew it wouldn’t do my energy level any good, I walked for several more hours, past old buildings many of which were probably around in Beethoven’s time. No one gave me a second glance, including a man who was looking at my photo on the front of his newspaper.

  Try as I would, nothing brilliant came to me, no certainty that one path was the right one and the other wrong. The weather worsened, and it began to rain.

  By the time I got back to the hotel, soaked to the skin, I was no nearer to a final decision.