Cemetery of the Nameless

by Rick Blechta

  “You must forgive her,” he said. “Thekla is young and sometimes overly-enthusiastic.”

  “No problem,” I answered, putting the violin case down carefully on the piano’s lid. As I was rosining my bow, a panel at the back of the stage opened, revealing a hidden doorway. The servant who had waited on us at breakfast and the night before came through, carrying a thin leather briefcase horizontally in front of him in his white-gloved hands. This he carefully laid on the piano next to Tristan, opened it and left as silently as he’d arrived. The baron took out a large, very old folio bound around with a bright red ribbon. This he placed on the music stand and untied the ribbon.

  “Victoria Morgan,” Baron Rudolph von Heislinger said in a solemn voice, “may I present to you Ludwig van Beethoven’s Concert Rhapsody for Violin and Orchestra in F# minor.”

  My knees were actually knocking as I stepped forward to look.

  “Tory is a very special musician—and person. She has vast technical ability coupled with unending musicality to an extent that is truly rare—and the strength of character to back it up on the concert stage or in the recording studio. Beyond that, however, she’s surprisingly fragile. It hurts me no end to see advantage being taken of her—and it happens all too frequently.”

  —Roderick Whitchurch from an interview in Der Spiegel

  Chapter 7

  TORY

  Tucking Tristan under my right arm, I used my left to carefully turn the pages of the manuscript. The brown, faded pages felt as if a good breeze would turn them to dust, scattering this unheard work of genius to the four winds. In several spots, notes had been crossed out or overwritten (sometimes angrily) and the handwriting of probably the greatest composer who ever lived, quite frankly, sucked. However, what leapt off the notes on each page was an energy, a vitality that could sear your eyeballs.

  Surprisingly, the work was through composed, meaning that the movements hadn’t been delineated by stops (although it wasn’t hard to spot where they were), which made the piece, strictly speaking, not actually a concerto—and the reason why Beethoven (rightly) called it a rhapsody. The major themes popped up all over the place, played alone, one against the other, turned upside down, stretched, compressed, but with everything interwoven tightly into one continuous musical thought. The master had risen to a new level in this composition, and clearly the music world would have been set on its ear if it had ever been performed during his lifetime.

  My host came up behind me and, leaning over my left shoulder, pointed at the score. “Notice that the instrumentation is weightier than what might be expected. He uses double winds and four horns, as well as trumpets and trombones in the last section. Quite a departure, don’t you think?”

  Getting the feeling old Rudy didn’t really know what he was talking about, but had heard a couple of choice phrases from someone who did, I decided to answer as if he did know his music—just in case. “It would have been nearly impossible, considering the gut strings they used in those days, for the soloist to be heard over an orchestra of that size. Glad I won’t have to do that! Still, Beethoven was pretty careful. See how he generally uses all the winds only for accents or when the violin isn’t playing? I think he was looking for more sonority, not more volume.”

  “A good point.”

  “You have had the complete solo part extracted? I couldn’t possibly make heads or tails of it from this chicken scratching.”

  “You don’t want to look over the entire score first?” Rudy asked.

  Looking up, I smiled and said, “The first thing I want to do is play it.”

  I began tuning. With a shrug, the baron carefully closed the score and put it back into the briefcase. Next he took out two thin folios of brown leather. These contained an extraction of the solo violin part and a piano reduction all beautifully done by a copyist with a very nice hand. The first page of the extraction I recognized from the photocopy sent to me in Birmingham.

  The next five hours I spent in Violin Heaven. The piece breathtakingly swooped and soared and sang with a beauty that would pierce even the most hardened heart. The Maestro had been at the height of his powers and made nothing in the music easy or obvious, forcing the soloist to dig deeply for the necessary technique and musicality to bring his thoughts to life. Sure, I’ve played technically harder pieces, real finger twisters, but none had ever approached the musical demands of this work. Many times, I had to stop and refer to the piano accompaniment to try to figure out the framework on which my part rested, so strange was the melodic construction. Only in his final string quartets had Beethoven approached this kind of complexity. Harmonically, too, it was a stretch from what I would have expected. At times, my part sounded as if Charlie Parker had been let loose with his alto sax in Vienna during the first quarter of the 19th century. God! It was a heady experience to be the first person to feel her way through this masterwork.

  In my mind, Beethoven became my violin as I played, speaking directly to me, telling me about himself. His life had been hard; his failures tormented him. The difficulties of simply living had too often come between him and his art, and he raged at being misunderstood.

  But there were also mighty triumphs, musical highs that made everything worthwhile. His life with all its sweetness and bitterness, joy and sorrow, success and failure were laid out in the notes of this glorious music. Trying to communicate Beethoven’s innermost thoughts magnified the difficulties far more than with any other piece I’d ever attempted. What else should I have expected, though, from a composer of such vast talent?

  It had quickly become clear that the piece was written as a conversation between soloist and orchestra. Not something rare as concerti go, but I was also constantly aware that it was Ludwig van Beethoven, his soul laid bare, speaking to the world, speaking through me. When I premiered it, the audience would be hearing this music for the first time. My interpretation would be the yardstick against which all subsequent performances would be measured. The responsibility to get it right, God... My whole musical life had been leading to this point.

  The only clunker of the day was the fact that the baron stayed in the hall the entire time I was practising. It’s not like he was disturbing my concentration. Hell! I could probably concentrate through a good practice session playing butt-naked in front of a sold-out Carnegie Hall if I had to. No, it was the way von Heislinger stared at me. He said nothing. He hardly moved. He just stared.

  After a couple of hours of work, I took a break and decided to see if I could prod him into leaving. Putting Tris in his case, I went out to where Rudy was sitting. He rose as I approached.

  “You’ve been here a long time. Aren’t you getting a tad bored?” I asked.

  He had a wry expression on his face as he looked down at me. “On the contrary, my dear, I find this utterly fascinating.”

  “You like listening to phrases repeated fifty times?”

  “No. It is watching you work. The way you are threading this piece together is very intriguing. Is there anything I can have brought? Some refreshments, perhaps?”

  “Now that you mention it, a jug of water would be very nice, thanks.”

  I went back to work, and Rudy continued his solitary watching. I spent a lot of the time after that playing with my back to him.

  When I knocked off around four p.m., I had a hard time keeping a smug grin off my face as I wiped Tristan down and put him to bed under his velvet cover. That had been my first really good day of playing in months. Most people don’t realize how much slug work is involved in being a musician, even at the glamour level at which I’m privileged to exist. There’s a lot of sweat behind that flawless performance you hear down at your local concert hall.

  Stretching my arms behind me with a deep breath, I looked out through the wall with all the ornate windows and French doors at the day I’d neglected to notice while I had practised. It could have been midnight for all I knew.

  “Do you wish to examine the work’s bona fides now?” Rudy cal
led out as he stood up.

  “I suppose I should,” I answered with a shrug. “But whether this is Beethoven or not, it’s a heck of a piece of music. Why don’t I look it over while I eat? I’m starving!”

  He gave me a blank expression before answering, “Dinner will be at eight, but knowing how hungry you must be, I will have my chef make up something small. What would please you?”

  “Oh, a sandwich and something to wash it down.”

  “I will have it seen to immediately.”

  As we passed through the door, with a sudden pang of guilt, I remembered Rocky, who was no doubt back in Montreal having a baby by now. “And I really have to call my husband, too, ASAP.”

  Rudy smiled at my words. “All this will be arranged.”

  I went back up to my room for a quick shower. No new clothes had magically appeared while I’d been in the bathroom, so I had to put my sweaty clothes back on. Afterwards, I went in search of mine host, grub and a telephone, not necessarily in that order.

  Halfway down the circular, grand staircase—which reminded me of something from a thirties Hollywood movie—I met Thekla, who had been sent to fetch me.

  “The baron is awaiting you in his study, Fräulein Morgan,” she said, keeping her eyes down.

  “Thanks, Thekla,” I answered as she continued up the stairs. I touched her arm as she went by. “What’s wrong?”

  She answered in a low voice. “It is the baron. He is quite mad at me because of the way I brought your violin this morning. He thinks also that I am being too familiar with you.”

  “What would he care? It certainly doesn’t bother me.”

  “It is not the way he likes things done,” Thekla said quickly, then turned and almost ran up the rest of the stairs.

  When I resumed my descent, I noticed her boss standing at the bottom.

  “I was just asking Thekla what sort of clothes I would need for dinner this evening.”

  “It has all been taken care of,” he answered.

  I smiled charmingly. “Could I have the use of a phone, then, please?”

  We went back to the study, where a fire was again warming the room. I dialled Montreal but reached only the answering machine. That wasn’t what I really wanted, but it was a step forward from the previous night, so I quickly left my message, letting Rocky know that everything was all right. I was about to tell him why I’d done what I had in Vienna when I realized I hadn’t been given the goahead to pass on that bit of information. Putting my hand over the receiver, I looked at my host who was standing at the opposite end of the room with his back to the fireplace, studiously pretending that he couldn’t hear every word I was saying. “Can I tell my husband about the deal?”

  “I would prefer you didn’t until we conclude our negotiations.”

  I finished off my message to Rocky, promising to call with more details as soon as I could.

  After hanging up, I walked down towards the fireplace just as the same old manservant came in with another tray. This time the master of the house joined me, and we had a rather convivial meal as he told me a bit more about his family home and himself. More than an hour passed while we polished off the food and a stein of beer each. I discreetly undid the snap at the top of my jeans while he wasn’t looking. If I kept pigging out like this, I’d soon put back the weight I’d lost and then some.

  Outside, the autumn sun had begun to disappear behind the mountains, brilliantly lighting the snow on their summits with a fiery glow. Far beneath us, pines, their tops tossing in a stiff breeze, drifted off into the darkness that crept along the valley floor. No comforting smoke curled from chimneys of nearby houses. The road snaking through the trees passed no welcoming doors that I could see. Except for the inhabitants of the castle, the rest of humanity might well have been on the other side of the planet. Inside, I tried to feel warm and cozy and safe. Those woods would not be inviting in the dark.

  The baron, perhaps sensing my mood, turned his considerable charm up a few watts. With his looks, he’d probably be very dangerous to most women, but on me his whammy went wide of the mark—perhaps because I was feeling guilty over not trying harder to get in touch with Rocky. Perhaps it was chemistry—or a lack thereof.

  “Can we discuss your proposition now?” I asked.

  “But of course!”

  “You mentioned in one of your notes that I would be the first to record the concerto. I’m assuming I get to choose the orchestra and conductor for recording.”

  “I was thinking that since the concerto was composed in Vienna, we should use the Philharmonic. Does that meet with your approval? As for the conductor, we will have to discuss that. I’m sure we will be able to come up with a most suitable choice.”

  “I wonder what other violinists will say when they find out about this project? There will be several who will be quite angry you didn’t pick them.”

  The baron’s eyes, burning with an intensity that surprised me, locked onto mine. “No one plays with the fire you do! You were born to play this music.”

  I was about to reply when the manservant entered again. Leaning over the baron, he whispered something in his ear. Baron Rudy stood up immediately.

  “My other dinner guests have started to arrive. I am sorry to have to postpone our ‘negotiations’ but I must go out to greet them.”

  “Other guests?”

  “Some friends and business associates. They are going to help us properly present our musical find to the world. You certainly wouldn’t want to premiere this work on the nearest convenient street corner! Something of this import must be given the most gala of premieres.”

  I was suddenly rather uneasy. Nobody had ever mentioned a lot of hoopla, although on reflection, it did seem completely logical. Maybe I should have insisted that Marty be brought in on this since my own interests in such a large undertaking would probably need protecting.

  “So what are the plans, then, for the evening?” I asked with studied casualness.

  Rudy smiled disarmingly. “My dear Victoria, I have invited them to hear the first performance of our concerto. Didn’t I tell you we would have a small audience tonight?”

  “No, you didn’t. You only mentioned a pianist who would be accompanying me.”

  I wasn’t happy, and he knew it. I’m a great one for taking musical risks, but they’re always my decision, my risks. There was no way I felt comfortable enough with this piece yet to be able to perform it in public to the standard it demanded. The best anyone could hope for from me after only one day’s work on such a complex work was a reasonable reading of it. Real knowledge of the music was still many hours of hard practice away. After that it would take a lot of careful rehearsing to get it to fit together with the accompaniment. All of which is probably why I hadn’t been told beforehand about my command performance.

  In the middle of his quick exit, Rudy paused at the door. “We will have time to talk about our personal business again later tonight. There will also be some general discussion at dinner I am sure. Drinks will be served at seven-thirty in the drawing room, and we will be dressing formally. You would do me a great honour by wearing your gown for me.”

  “But it needs cleaning,” I told him with an embarrassed grin.

  “I have taken the liberty of having it cleaned for you. You will wear it?”

  “Yes, if you’d like. It’s either the gown or these jeans, after all.”

  I went back upstairs to lie down for forty winks before I had to get dressed. Not much happened in the sleep department. I really needed to talk to Rocky, and now that probably wouldn’t happen for a few more hours. He’d be pretty frantic by the time I got through to him, and I was dreading his reaction, regardless of my news. But even more, this whole set-up was getting a bit weird for my liking. Earlier down in the study, just when the servant had come in to clear the dishes, I’d been about to ask my benefactor a most important question: what’s in all this for you?

  ***

  The dinner guests were cert
ainly a motley crew, although I know they would’ve been highly affronted by that assessment. I don’t know exactly what I’d been expecting, but the people who greeted me when I swished down the staircase and into the drawing room in my best concert gown certainly merited raised eyebrows.

  The first person I saw was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, a traffic stopper anyplace in the world: upswept raven hair, alabaster skin, large eyes set in a perfect oval face, every detail looking as if it had been selected by a master sculptor intent on creating the most beautiful woman ever. Well, maybe I exaggerate a bit, but only out of jealousy. This was a woman to whom beauty came naturally, and she was well aware of it. On seeing her, I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t been in one of my perverse moods and come down in jeans and T -shirt. Even her height—nearly six feet if she was an inch— seemed designed to intimidate me.

  Baron Rudy hurried over. “Ah, Victoria!” he said, taking my hand and kissing it. “You look absolutely ravishing. Please allow me to introduce you to Frau Gertrud Schatzader.”

  While we shook hands, sizing each other up, I couldn’t help thinking that she surely didn’t look like any Gertrud I’d ever heard of, fancy German pronunciation or not.

  “So you are the famous Victoria Morgan,” old Gerty said in heavily-accented English. “You are not as tall as I would have imagined.” She turned to the far end of the room. “You must meet my husband. Heinrich, please come here!”

  I followed her eyes to the far end of the room, where a man stood looking out the window. When he turned around, I involuntarily caught my breath.

  Perhaps at one time he had been almost handsome, but the years had not treated Herr Doktor Heinrich Schatzader kindly. What he was a doctor of, nobody saw fit to tell me. Taller than his wife, he was also considerably older, probably sixty to her thirty-five. His head reminded me of a huge egg. The skin seemed stretched too thinly over it, as if an inadequate amount had been allocated for the job, and the top gleamed as if it had been waxed and buffed. What remained of his hair looked like a fringe of white cotton around the sides. The smile he switched on as he walked over to take my hand had all the warmth of a cobra sizing up its next victim.