by JJ Marsh
Rolf took a sip of water, playing for time. “Of course. Believing your child is absolutely the right thing to do. From what I hear, Frau Baia, you’re a TV presenter.”
She shrugged. “Yes?”
“A performer, like me and like your daughter. You understand how pressure affects us and the agonising intensity in the final run-up to a concert or transmission. Just as you have Susana’s interests at heart, Leonor has mine. She is my coach and feels the pressure I’m under twice over. I’ll be honest and tell you she’s bitten my head off more than once this past week.” He gave a humble laugh.
The Baias remained unsmiling.
“In the current circumstances,” Rolf said, his face open and sympathetic, “I think Leonor had a moment of misjudgement. She didn’t hear your message, got frustrated when a pupil missed an appointment and called before she had time to calm down. I apologise on her behalf.” He saw Juan Baia’s chest inflate. “But I should say two other things.”
The woman gave her husband an imploring look.
“What other things?” he growled.
“Dieter made an accusation against Anton Berger, that much is true. Whether he’s being honest or has another motive, I don’t know. No one knows.” To his surprise, Rolf realised that was the truth. The only people who assumed Leonor had coached the boy were the maestro, Trudi and Anton himself. She might be completely innocent.
“The second thing is that children can sometimes miss the subtlety of a conversation. I wasn’t there so cannot speak for my partner. But is it possible Leonor was fishing for compliments? She’s just starting out in Salzburg and may have asked the children for a positive reference. They may have perceived that as a request to criticise their former teacher. What I’m trying to say is that until we are convinced of the circumstances, involving the police would be a mistake. The same kind of hot-headed reaction Leonor had when Susana missed her lesson. Emotional impulses are rarely our best guides.” He shook his head, aware he sounded like Jurgen Wilk.
His shot hit home and they cast uncertain glances at one another.
“Herr and Frau Baia, I will talk to Leonor and impress on her what harsh words can do to a sensitive, creative soul such as Susana. Artists can be hot-headed at times, but we always apologise when we’ve calmed down. Please send my best regards to your daughter. She is an exceptional talent.”
They promised to think about it and Rolf saw them to the door. Maybe a few more compliments and an assurance they were not going to the police station could have eased his mind, but their goodbye waves appeared friendly enough.
On closing the front door, he noticed for the first time there was a deadbolt. One way to ensure Leonor did not arrive home and disturb him digging up the garden was simply to lock her out. He shot the bolt, changed into his weekend jeans and grabbed gloves and implements from the cabinet in the corridor. Trying to work fast but also carefully, he dug around each plant with a trowel and lifted it onto the grass, memorising the arrangement. Once all the plants had been removed, he took the spade from the hallway and dug deeper, turning clods of earth over along the whole crescent of the flowerbed.
There was nothing but earth, worms and a few stones. He sat back on his heels, relieved. His nagging doubt that she had killed the cat and buried it turned out to be a chimaera after all. In his defence, she’d never before shown any interest in either gardening or flowers. He replaced each plant the way it had been and brushed all the loose earth off the lawn. Then he threw the gloves into the garden cupboard and unlocked the front door. He took a quick look outside in case he hadn’t heard the doorbell, but there was no sign of her.
He sat at the kitchen table, filled with hope. He’d been convinced he’d find the body of the cat, but now he realised he was being paranoid. Blue was alive, probably shut in someone’s shed or garage. He would find his way home tonight. All would be fine again, he could feel it. He took the box of cat biscuits and tried one more time to lure him.
As he walked up the steps from the patio to the garden, a memory ambushed him. The cat coming to warn him of the approaching storm, him running inside in his boxer shorts, Anton wearing only a towel. Lost in his thoughts, his eyes on the ground, he didn’t see her until his feet touched the grass.
“Hello, stranger. How was your day?”
For a moment, Rolf was unable to speak. Where had she sprung from? “Hello. Umm, not bad. How about you?”
“Promising. Have you eaten? Only I made risotto. There’s enough for two.” She gestured at the pan on the table and gave a little laugh. “You always loved my mushroom risotto.”
His stomach replied for him. He was hungry, and this would be a chance to talk and explain, so long as they both remained calm.
“That would be great. I’ll just get a plate.”
“No need. I brought two, just in case. Sit, I’ll serve. At least it’s not tomato. Remember that place in Milan?”
Rolf remembered. Their first holiday as a couple. Yellow tablecloths and a green awning with gold lettering. The snooty waiters, the wine glasses and the rich red risotto. The first mouthful was too hot and he dropped his fork into his bowl, splattering his white shirt with tomato sauce.
He laughed at the memory, back when it was the two of them against the world. She was smiling as she spooned ladles of rice onto a plate. “And the waiter ...” she prompted.
Rolf nodded, laughing harder. “The waiter asked if he should add parmesan to the plate or my shirt!”
Leonor placed two bowls on the table. “That holiday was the best. Nothing to do but eat, see the sights and enjoy each other. Every other time we went away, we always had obligations. A concert, a competition, meeting contacts. I’m not complaining. I mean, it’s paying off now, but Milan has a special place in my heart.”
“Me too. I really liked Budapest, except for ...”
“I know. That was my mistake. Le Duc took a long time to forgive me.”
Rolf savoured a mouthful of porcini risotto. “This is delicious. Your best ever, I think. Yeah, well, that night it was the vodka talking.”
She didn’t answer for a moment, grinding pepper onto her meal. “The vodka accounted for the volume of my opinions, that much is true, but I stand by their validity. Even now, I say Schumann’s Frauliebe und-leben is outdated and fundamentally sexist. Women’s lives can and damn well should be defined by so many other achievements than marriage and motherhood. The fact Le Duc put it on the programme was inflammatory and offensive to the female performers as well as the audience.” She snatched a bite of food, chewing with a severe frown. “Le Duc knew I’d written an essay on Schumann’s wife. He was deliberately trying to provoke me.”
“He succeeded. As you told him in front of the entire after-show party,” Rolf said, softening his words with a teasing grin.
Leonor continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Clara Schumann had eight kids and still managed a career as a concert pianist and composer in her own right. She was the one who brought home the bacon and tended her husband’s ...”
“Leonor, Leonor! I know. That’s what the row was about. Le Duc thought you were parroting my opinion, which incensed him all the more. All I did was agree. You don’t need to lecture me about Schumann, sexism or unequal partnerships, OK?”
She glared at him for a second until her face softened into a smile. “He hated it, didn’t he? You and I standing together, criticising his poor taste. We were right though, even if I was a touch loud.”
“A touch? You threw a glass of champagne over his suit and asked if his next project was setting Lolita to music.” Rolf chuckled at the memory of the sneering aristocrat’s face.
Leonor burst into abandoned laughter, throwing her head back, the garden chair creaking in time with her shaking shoulders. “I’d forgotten about the champagne. What a waste.”
“I don’t know,” said Rolf, taking another mouthful of creamy risotto. “That was one of the finest shows I’ve ever seen. And I’m not talking about the concert.”<
br />
Still smiling, she resumed eating. “Thank you. I haven’t offered you a drink. But I guess you’re steering clear of alcohol until the concert. Oh!”
Rolf tensed. “What’s the matter?”
“There’s wine in the risotto! I’m sorry, I didn’t think. It was only a glass.”
His radar sent out alarm signals and he looked at what remained on his plate. She could have put anything in there to screw up his system. But she was eating from the same pot, so he shook the thought away as paranoia.
“The cooking process gets rid of the alcohol and one glass won’t kill anyone. Thanks for dinner. I needed that.”
“Clearly. Do you want a second helping?”
“Yes, but I won’t. Rice expands, and in twenty minutes I’ll be full. Save the rest for tomorrow because it’s a terrific dish.”
He threaded his fingers behind his neck and looked out at the garden. A question bubbled at his lips but he chose not to mention Blue, Anton or anything else that might shatter this moment of peace.
“It wasn’t too bad, if I say so myself. Cooking for you is always a joy. Rolf, we need to talk. Why not come upstairs with me, we’ll have a glass of tea and a chat? No drama, no alcohol, just us.”
Arms folded, he leant on his knees, his gaze on the grass. Too late, he realised his relaxed posture had curled into a defensive pose. “We need to talk, you’re right. I want that more than anything. But not now. There are only a few days before the concert and Wilk wants me to stay at his place. I’m going over there tonight. It’s only for a few days, Leonor, and it will give us some breathing space. Please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m trying to focus on one thing at a time, that’s all.”
He waited for the explosion, tempted to close his eyes.
“Breathing space is a good idea.” Her focus was on her hardly touched plate. “You and I need some time apart to decide what we want. It’s easier to refocus on our original goals when we’re on our own. Let’s call it a trial separation and maybe after the intensity of the concert, we will reconnect with each other for a grown-up conversation. If our goals are no longer what they were, so be it. Staying with Wilk, though ...” Her voice petered out.
The sun dipped below the trees, throwing shadows across the garden. The temperature cooled and Rolf zipped up his jacket.
“Staying with Wilk? What were you going to say?” he asked.
She raised her gaze to his and held out an open hand. He took it and their fingers entwined. The warmth and softness of her skin touched a part of him he could not protect. He closed his eyes, yearning for this version of her. Passionate, relaxed, sweet-natured and ready to laugh at herself Leonor was the woman he loved. He wanted her back.
“Rolf, I know you better than anyone. You are easily influenced, something I have taken advantage of myself, I admit. We don’t know these people well, so trusting them could be a mistake. Not everyone is what they pretend to be, my love. I understand your desire for a safe space before your concert. Just don’t run from the henhouse to the foxes’ den. I’ll take this inside, it’s getting chilly. Goodnight.” She kissed him on the side of his mouth, gathered the plates and went inside.
He thought about what she’d said until the sun sank below the horizon and night fell.
20
Rolf paid the cabbie and took his suitcase and cello up the impressive path to the maestro’s home. The terraced house was of a similar size to the one he had just left, but unlike that building it had not been divided into flats. This place belonged to the maestro alone. Excitement mixed with curiosity about the life of the two. Even if just for a short time, he’d get a privileged insight into the workings of another couple.
The door flew open and Jun came out to help him lug his baggage inside. She met his eyes and gave a brief concerned nod. He returned the gesture with a smile. Yes, he was OK. The smell of cooking wafted up his nose as he entered the hallway and it struck him how hungry he was. Apart from a few spoons of risotto, he’d eaten nothing since the chops at lunchtime.
“He’s cooking for us all. Udon noodles with sesame tofu. I’m teaching him how to cook like a Japanese.” She gave her distinctive tinkling laugh. “Your room is down here, at the end of the corridor.” She dragged his case indoors and led the way down hall.
The guest room the maestro had described was more of a suite. A wall of glass bricks divided the large space into two with a sitting/working area and bedroom. There was an ensuite bathroom and even a small patio accessed via a glass door. The decor was pale grey with accents of deep yellow. Its atmosphere was serious, comfortable and professional. Rolf guessed it was usually used by visiting musicians or conductors, colleagues of the great Jurgen Wilk. It had a calming effect on his turbulent emotions. Jun advised him that dinner would be ready in twenty minutes and left him to settle in.
The meal was delicious and Rolf exclaimed again and again about the combination of flavours. Jun explained a little of the theory behind taste combinations, which absorbed his attention. Somewhere between his shoulder blades a knot unravelled and he began to relax.
“Do you cook, Rolf?” asked the maestro.
“Hardly ever. It’s not one of my talents. Whenever I tried, the feedback was not positive.”
There was a moment’s silence as they ate and recognised the subject they were trying to avoid. Jun’s open, kind face tilted as she looked at him.
“Rolf, can we talk about it, or would you rather not?”
He looked down at the chilli flakes and coriander leaves floating on top of his soup. “From a practical point of view, we have to talk about it. The subsidised apartment was available to me as a member of the orchestra, and under such an arrangement I was welcome to share it with my partner. Now everything is kind of up in the air ... I hope of course we’ll find a way to overcome the differences, but I don’t know how much time we have.”
The maestro took another spoonful of soup, his expression pensive. “Nor do I. Not that it matters. This is an issue I will leave to the orchestra’s Human Resources Department. It’s a detail I can do without and I would say the same goes for you. As I said before, I am convinced that you need to distance yourself from this influence for good. But you’ll have to come to your own decision, naturally. I think you took a positive first step by seeking refuge with us. Whenever you’re ready, use the most non-confrontational means at your disposal. My suggestion is that HR informs Frau von Rosenheim that she will need to take her belongings and vacate the apartment within a given timeframe. It doesn’t require your personal involvement, that is all I am saying. One piece of good news I should mention is that the Fitz family have completely withdrawn the accusation against Anton Berger. Dieter is still in hospital and unwilling to lay the blame at anyone’s feet but his own. He says he made a mistake, nothing more.”
“So it’s all over? Anton is exonerated and comes back to work?”
“Exonerated, yes, but I spoke to him earlier. He judges, quite rightly in my opinion, that he will not be welcomed back by the board. He intends to move on. Meanwhile, you and I shall focus on our jobs. Tomorrow, we have a full dress rehearsal in preparation for Friday’s public performance. The pressure is on and we must permit no distractions.”
Jun topped up each glass of water. “I agree with you. The practicalities of the situation need not concern us. What I meant by ‘talking about it’ was more the emotional side. Then again, it might be too soon. Rolf, the maestro knows my story, and I want to say again that if ever you would like to discuss the effects of a manipulative relationship, I’m here for you.” She gave a little bow of her head.
A strange happiness buzzed through Rolf’s system. “Thank you, Jun. And thank you, maestro.” He paused, trying to articulate his relief. “There will come a time when I want to talk about what happened, and I hope it comes sooner rather than later. For now, though, that goes into the pending tray. Here with you, I feel physically and emotionally safe, and I am thankful for that. I’m also grateful f
or that incredible meal. Maybe after the concert season is over, Jun, you might give me a few lessons? You should know, I am a terrible student.”
Jun released her tonic laugh. “You sure? I can be a tough teacher. Even tougher than him!” She pointed at the maestro, who nodded with good grace.
At that moment, Rolf had a revelation. Jurgen Wilk and Jun Takei were in love. They supported each other with the benefit of their experience, enjoyed each other’s company and appreciated their time together. Half of him delighted in the depth of feeling he saw in front of him while the other half felt like an intruder into their discreet and private moments. He finished his soup with profuse thanks and offered to do the washing up.
“That’s not necessary,” said Wilk. “We’re going to drink a tea on the terrace then relax in the sauna. You are welcome to join us.”
The tension returned to Rolf’s neck. Relax in the sauna? Whatever that might mean exactly, Rolf had no plans to find out. He made an excuse about finishing his unpacking and with one more expression of appreciation he returned to his room. The first thing he did was check there was a lock on the door. There was, with a key on the inside. He shook his head at himself.
He would be here for at least a week, so he hung up his clothes, folded his underwear into the drawers and put his toiletries bag into the bathroom. It was like being in a hotel, with fresh towels, little bottles of shampoo and shower gel, a bottle of water and a kettle with herbal tea bags. He turned his attention to the following day and went through his checklist. His suit, his shirt, his shoes, his underwear, his bow tie. Without Leonor or Anton to tie it for him, he would need to use the elasticated version.
Once he had finished preparing everything he needed for the next day, he made himself a tea and sat on the patio at the side of the house. He assumed there must be a larger terrace at the rear and wondered whether Jun and the maestro were enjoying the warm evening there or if they were spending it in the sauna. A weird way to spend a summer evening, but none of his business. Inhaling the scent of peppermint, he said a prayer that this really was what it seemed – a refuge. It was hard to trust, but Rolf sensed he had reached dry land. Now all he had to do was avoid getting dragged down again.