Wolf Tones (Standalone Psychological Thriller)

by JJ Marsh

  “Ah, yes, just one more thing. You must wear this.” He stretched out a hand with a piece of black fabric. For a moment Rolf thought it was a bow tie and panicked. He still hadn’t learned how to tie one. Then Hofmeister stood up and came to stand behind him, pressing the silk scarf over Rolf’s eyes and tying it behind his head. The material admitted no light but somehow the darkness came as a blessing, allowing him to absent himself. He often played with his eyes closed at home, so this was familiar, in as much as the bizarre circumstances permitted.

  Rolf heard the brush of the chairman’s trousers as he returned to the armchair and the tinkle of ice cubes as he picked up his glass. He cleared his throat. “You may begin.”

  He took up his bow, blocking out everything but the notes and the sound of his cello’s voice, mournful and warm in the key of B flat, hinting at what was to come. In his head, the orchestra filled the room as his solo rose and fell over an octave, like a voice expressing an emotion which had no words. He had played for no more than three minutes when a draught caused his skin to rise into goosebumps. Hofmeister had opened the window, inviting in the cool night air to chill Rolf’s skin.

  “That’s enough. You may leave now. I will contact you regarding the details of your sponsorship after I have seen the orchestra’s first night.” A door closed. Rolf yanked off his blindfold to find he was alone and the curtains were wide open. Holding his cello against his body, he closed the curtains, his head aflame with embarrassment and confusion.

  It took less time to dress and leave the room than he had spent playing Brahms. Another man was waiting for the elevator so Rolf took the stairs, carrying his cello case. The shame at what he had just done overtook him before he reached the ground floor and he stopped, sat on the steps and covered his face with his hands. He was a puppet. Nothing more than a pathetic toy, pulled this way or that, depending on who held the strings. It had to stop.

  He hurried outside to the street, taking a lungful of fresh air. A sudden flash startled him and he blinked at the café opposite. When his eyes adjusted, he saw a woman seated in the window, holding up her phone and smiling. Leonor placed the phone on the table and patted the fingers of her right hand against her left palm. Rolf stared at her, battling mortification and fury, debating whether to storm over there and ... what? It was all over, there was no point in making a scene. Best to just go home, take a shower and curl up under Anton’s bed covers. He turned away without acknowledging her and carried his cello in the direction of the bus stop.

  19

  Timing was everything. He watched the maestro for his cue, conscious of fellow cellists raising their bows in anticipation. The violins reached a crescendo and Rolf began to play. His fingers slid up the strings and his eyes followed the score, his bow coaxing the sounds of echo, agreement and harmony from the body of his cello. The string section softened to pianissimo, like a curtain opening for the woodwind and flute to voice the characters.

  The maestro’s hands danced like birds in the air, inviting each element and guiding the whole into coherence, livening the tempo, elevating the passion and telling the story. Their role was to imbue a sense of drama, balancing tension and ease, combining skills to weave a tale. At moments like this, Rolf marvelled at the orchestra’s unity. Nothing else mattered.

  He flipped the page of his score and played three more bars until the brass section took over. His bow resting by his side, the trumpets filled him with purpose. Trumpets, more than any other instrument, seemed like a call to action.

  Two hours earlier he’d been wondering how the hell he was going to face Monday. The horrors of his subconscious washed down the plug hole during his shower. He’d woken at every sound, hoping it was the cat flap, dreading it was Leonor, resulting in an awful night. When he had finally fallen asleep, he dreamed ghastly visions of a lifeless Blue pegged to the washing line by his tail or turning over to find Hofmeister in his bed.

  In the mirror, an older, more haggard version of Rolf stared back at him. When he left the building, Blue’s bowl was still full and no feline footprints showed on the kitchen tiles. He resisted the impulse to look up at the first-floor windows.

  At the Konzerthalle it was business as usual. Other than particularly warm smiles from Trudi, Jun and the maestro, everyone was wholly focused on their upcoming performance. Rolf’s focus on delivering what was required of him obliterated all other concerns. The concertmaster seemed satisfied with most of the strings, reserving his criticisms for a double bassist.

  During coffee break, the stage door intern approached him with one of the building’s memo pads. “Message for Herr Jaro?” she said, tearing off a piece of paper.

  It was a lunch invitation to join Jurgen Wilk in the private dining room above the restaurant. Trudi and Jun exchanged significant glances but kept their banter limited to a gentle teasing about how much greater quality his food would be in comparison to theirs. Jun noticed his uncertain smile and rested her hand on his forearm.

  “He believes in you, Rolf. He just wants to know how he can help. He’s a good man, and so are you. Come on and finish your coffee, we’re the last.”

  Rolf had never been in the private dining area. It was usually reserved for patrons and sponsors and members of the board. He didn’t even know how to get there and had to ask for directions from the stage door. He took an ancient lift to the fifth floor, where a maître d’hôtel guided him to the room he required. His expectations were of a discreet restaurant with other tables occupied and some of the orchestra’s previous glories playing across the stereo system. He stopped with a start when he saw the room was indeed a private dining room – with one table, one waiter and one host. His mind skipped back to his expectations of the previous evening and wrestled with the urge to turn tail and run. Wilk was not Hofmeister, even if he was sleeping with one of the violinists.

  The maestro got to his feet and bowed. “Thank you so much for joining me, Herr Jaro. I try to lunch once or twice with every member of the orchestra during the season, and under the circumstances, it seems right to extend an invitation to you. Please, have a seat. Let us order what we want to eat first. We may be enjoying gourmet food but we do not have the luxury of time. Luis, I will take the summer salad, followed by the roasted veal. I would like one glass of red with my main course. What about you, Herr Jaro? Are you hungry?”

  One thing Leonor had taught him was not to hide his ignorance but use it as an asset. When expected to make a decision and in environment he was completely unused to, a smart person would ask for advice.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m very hungry. I’m trying to stick to a healthy diet but I would appreciate something substantial enough to stop my stomach from grumbling through this afternoon’s rehearsals. As the expert, Luis, can I ask what you would recommend?”

  Rolf listened intently to the waiter’s suggestions and ordered exactly what he advised. Gravad lax as a starter, followed by pork chops with vegetables and a glass of delicate Pommard. The exchange was civilised but also short and Rolf could see the maestro approved. Once the waiter had left the room, Wilk looked into Rolf’s eyes and nodded, offering one of his faint smiles.

  “I cancelled lunch with one of our key sponsors today because I wanted to speak to you in person, and in private. Our conversation yesterday morning was haphazard and clumsy on my part, and I hope you’ll forgive me. At my age, I don’t react well to sudden changes, and the events of the weekend delivered far too many at once.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, maestro. You were most understanding. That made a difference and enabled me to take a big decision.” Rolf took a sip of water and prepared to explain.

  “One moment, Herr Jaro. Or may I call you Rolf? We shall maintain the formalities downstairs, but when we’re in private, I hope you will call me Jurgen. I can see you have something to say but I would like to preface your speech by saying that I am here to support you. You owe me no intimate confessions or complex explanations, particularly about the past. My i
nterest is in the Rolf Jaro of today and tomorrow. Who he used to be, where he came from and what he learned is of less importance. That said, if there is any way I can support you in a personal way at this time, I would like to do so.”

  The maestro may not need to hear about the past, but one thing Rolf knew about secrets was that the longer you keep them, the heavier and harder they become. If he told the truth, just once without being judged, he might be able to jettison his baggage and fly. The waiter brought the salmon and the salad, wishing them an enjoyable meal. The second he closed the door behind him, Rolf began to talk.

  The maestro listened as he ate, his face expressing nothing more than sympathetic interest. Rolf swallowed the final piece of his cured salmon and set down his cutlery. Strangely lightheaded, he actually smiled, having dumped everything that had been weighing him down in front of his boss. He told him about the heroin, the circles of power within which he’d got lost along with many other young ones. He even alluded to the sex ring, the petty crimes, and the prostitution; but also about the joy of playing his music in the stables, of meeting Leonor, of her rescuing and mentorship of him. Of her obsessive possessiveness and violent disposition, of the recent disagreements. The information trickled out like the improvised solo of an internalised melody. The door to the kitchen opened and the waiter cleared away the starter plates. Neither spoke until he’d gone.

  “My most overwhelming feeling,” said maestro, “is of a sense of honour. I cannot tell and would not presume to guess, but what you suffered at the hands of wealthy, cynical and frankly immoral men makes me quite glad we are not eating at this current moment. As a cellist and former violinist, I assume you have encountered the phenomenon of a wolf tone?”

  The waiter returned with their main courses and their wines. They thanked him, toasted one another and began to eat. Rolf waited patiently for the server to leave and the maestro to continue.

  “The veal is quite perfect and no other wine could match this dish for lightness than a Burgundy red. Is the pork to your taste?”

  “Dangerously good. I confess, I miss the fries, but as I said…”

  “… your body is a temple?” The maestro smiled, his eyes kind.

  Rolf was devouring his lunch with an undignified appetite and forced himself to slow down and answer the question. “Wolf tones. Yes, I’ve experienced them, particularly with the cello.”

  Jurgen Wilk rested his pale gaze on Rolf’s face. “A wolf tone in a cello is a most unpleasant sound.” He cut another paper-thin slice of veal and popped it into his mouth, chewing as he extended a thoughtful pause. “However, I believe a wolf tone can arise in an individual, a relationship or even an orchestra. It happens when elements that should work together begin to clash and introduce disharmony. I can make no judgement on your personal situation. All I will say is that I would prefer it if you were removed from any potential domestic dramas for the rest of this week. Ideally, for the rest of this month, but I understand the situation will need addressing long before then. I’m going to ask you a direct question and I would like you to answer me as honestly as you can.”

  The wine had been neglected so Rolf took a sip. “Maestro, I have unrolled my whole grubby history in front of you. That’s something I’ve been trying to hide my entire adult life. You can ask me a question and rely upon the answer being the truth.”

  Ever since he’d been with the orchestra, he described Jurgen Wilk’s eyes as cold. Yet now, those pale green orbs radiated warmth to such an extent Rolf had to look away.

  Rather than take a sip of wine or dab his lips with a napkin, the maestro fixed him with an intense stare. “Are you safe, Rolf? I know you have moved into Anton Berger’s apartment, which soothes some of my concerns. Even so, your partner or manager, whatever you want to call her, in such close proximity worries me. Should this woman become angry or vengeful, she is near enough to cause you harm, whether physical or psychological. I repeat my offer of yesterday morning. I have a spare room and you would be welcome to use it. For the next week in particular, but for as long as you need.”

  Rolf stopped eating. Maybe he should take him up on it. It would make sense. But Leonor’s reaction frankly terrified him.

  The door opened and the waiter returned to check if their meals were satisfactory. They finished their wine, gave the compliments to the chef and ended the meal with coffee.

  Once there was only the two of them, Rolf replied to the maestro’s question, trying to disguise his uncertainty. “I’m touched by the offer of a refuge and will consider that over the next few days.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. It was clearly not the expected response. His tone turned colder, with an ounce of snide Rolf had never heard from the maestro. “There is a time when one needs to act, and I believe you’re currently at that time. I regret having to say this, but you are not in control of your environment. Like a pinball flipped about by external forces, at risk of falling into a hole any moment, you would be wise to accept my extended helping hand. Anything but a triumphant première next weekend is unacceptable, and for this to materialise, I need every single cog to work exactly as it should.” He leaned forward, intense determination in his eyes. “Don’t let me down, Rolf. You deserve this chance at a turning point of your adult life. But you must accept your current limitations and act responsibly. Others supported you through previous crises, so why not now? Don’t overthink things. Just do as I ask.”

  The unexpected pushiness of the maestro startled him, but he didn’t want to strain his patience any longer. All he wanted was the première to be a success. It was in everybody’s interest, even Leonor’s.

  “Then I accept with thanks,” he said eventually. “I’ll call tonight when I’m packed and ready. Thank you and please accept my apologies. It’s a strange thing to say, but I feel lighter now, even if I have future battles to face.” He would find a way to convince her it wasn’t a break-up, just an extension of the distancing she had imposed herself.

  “You’re welcome. It is I who should thank you. In trusting me you are doing the right thing. You and I both have battles to fight this week. Let us agree to be stronger together.” He glanced at his watch. “Five minutes to rehearsals. I’ve enjoyed our lunch. Let’s do it again sometime. Luis, I’d like to sign the bill now. Let’s get back to it.”

  Returning to Gerhardstrasse that evening, Rolf’s tension rose. His palms were damp and his pulse raced. He had no idea of what situation awaited him. What he found was nothing. No Blue, no Leonor, nothing. He gazed down at the garden from the balcony, wondering whether he dared go digging. The thought of what she would do if she came home and found him made him pause. Instead, he began packing the remaining items he had left behind. He was struggling downstairs with a cardboard box of books when the doorbell rang.

  When he answered the door, a smart-looking couple stood there. “Hello, can I help you?” he said.

  “My name is Juan Baia and this is my wife, Angela. We want to talk to Leonor von Rosenheim. Are you her partner, the cellist?” For some reason, the man appeared to be furious.

  “That’s right. Rolf Jaro, pleased to meet you. I’m afraid Leonor isn’t here at the moment. I don’t know where she is. Is something wrong?”

  “You could say that.” His face reddened with anger beneath his tan.

  The attractive woman at his side placed a calming hand on her husband’s arm. “Have you seen Frau von Rosenheim at all today?”

  “No. I just got home from the orchestra and this morning, I left before she got up. Did you say Baia? You’re Susana’s parents?”

  “Yes, we are,” answered the woman. “I left a message on Sunday to cancel Susana’s lesson today and say we no longer needed Frau von Rosenheim’s services as a violin teacher. But just after four o’clock this afternoon, she called Susana to ask why she was late for her lesson. Susana explained and Ms von Rosenheim became most abusive. She accused Susana of making up lies and told her to give up the violin as she had no talent. My daug
hter is extremely upset, Herr Jaro. My husband insisted we come over here for an explanation and an apology.”

  Rolf stared at them, incredulous. He shook his head in dismay.

  “It’s absolutely true, I swear!” Angela Baia’s expression was earnest.

  “I know what her temper can be like. Listen, come inside for a moment. We can use the apartment downstairs, because I’m looking after it for a friend.”

  They sat at the kitchen table but declined any refreshments.

  “I am so sorry about Leonor’s behaviour and what she said to Susana. I heard your phone message, but it’s possible she didn’t because she was away all weekend. There must have been a misunderstanding. It’s a complete untruth to say Susanna has no talent. Leonor herself told me she was exceptional and had all the makings of a future first violinist.”

  His words seemed to mollify Juan Baia and his wife even managed a small smile, which vanished fast. “Thank you for that. My husband and I are quite convinced of her ability and intend to send her to the conservatoire.” Her gaze grew solemn. “The question of lies is another issue. A friend of Susana’s …” She seemed to be unsure as to how to proceed.

  Rolf guessed and spared her. “You mean Dieter Fitz? I’m familiar with the situation.”

  “Yes.” The woman’s face relaxed in relief. “The thing is, after today’s telephone call, Susana confided in us. She said that Leonor von Rosenheim had encouraged her to say bad things about her previous violin teacher. I’m sorry about this, Herr Jaro, it must be difficult for you to hear. Nevertheless I trust my daughter completely and I know she’s telling the truth. We feel we should go to the police.”