by JJ Marsh
Three. Only three curtain calls. Rolf’s ear was attuned to the level of enthusiasm from the audience. René, Jun, Bertrand and Rolf all engendered a chorus of bravos and applause when they took their bows. They kept clapping for the maestro, but the swell of genuine appreciation was missing. After the twentieth bow, they walked off stage and headed for the dressing rooms. The applause dried to a patter and a hubbub of voices took over. Sebastian patted Rolf’s shoulder as he passed. Rolf would usually have seen the gesture as patronising, but Sebastian’s words were warm.
“You did well, young man, very well indeed. You survived the frying pan and now you face the fire. Good luck, and always remember, you are the talent.”
The after-show party was held on the terrace, where the glitterati normally ate, drank and gossiped. Catering had transformed the area from boring café to glamorous party venue with strings of white fairy lights and faux flames in the corners. White-aproned bar staff poured glasses of champagne and circulated with trays of canapés. Rolf hesitated before stepping out of the shadows. This was the part he detested. The small talk, the smiles, the praise or couched criticism all drained what little energy remained after the performance. They should judge him on his playing, not his lack of witty banter after the event. They were his employers, not his owners. For a second, Leonor’s words ran through his mind. Theirs is the same set-up as Sokolov.
He shook his head and marched out into the lights as if he was pleased to be there. First priority, to find Susanna Baia and Dieter Fitz. It wasn’t difficult. The little group was standing by the balcony in retreat from the noisier elements of the party. Rolf walked in a straight line, already waving at his targets so people would be less likely to interrupt him.
He stood in front of them and bowed. “Herr and Frau Baia, thank you so much for coming. Susanna and Dieter, it means a great deal to me that you are here tonight.”
Susanna’s father spoke first. “Herr Jaro, the fact you gave your complimentary tickets to my daughter and Dieter touched us all. We enjoyed the performance enormously. More than one of us complimented the outstanding performances from the string section. It was a privilege to attend. Susana, Dieter, what do you say? You’re the experts.”
Susanna stepped forward and gave a brief curtsey. “It was a wonderful evening! I love the concept, every single note was perfect and I’m so happy to be here with my parents and my best friend. Thank you, Herr Jaro, you are very kind.”
Rolf placed a hand on his chest and bowed to the girl, indicating his gratitude and humility. She showed no sign of her previous reticence on the bus. Rolf turned his attention to Dieter, who appeared bright and engaged with the conversation. He avoided any mention of his recent health issues. “And you, young Mr Fitz? What was your opinion of the string section? Or indeed the orchestra as a whole?”
Dieter’s eyes shone. “This is the first time I have attended a dress rehearsal, so I was not sure what to expect. I thought there might be mistakes or problems with the performance. Susanna and I are amateurs, but I can honestly say it was perfect. From the moment the maestro picked up his baton until the orchestra left the stage, I was transfixed. I cannot thank you enough for inviting me.”
Rolf bowed again, wondering how the Fitz and Baia families had managed to create such well-behaved children. “That’s very generous of you, considering the number of mistakes we made. I can assure you that your godfather will have reams of notes for us tomorrow morning.”
They all laughed, shaking their heads and refusing to accept his modesty.
Angela Baia placed one hand on her daughter’s back and another on the shoulder of Dieter Fitz. “I would not call myself knowledgeable about music, but I trust the opinions of these two young people and they both pronounced the performance … Dieter? What is it?”
The boy’s face went pale and he retreated as far as he could to the balcony wall. Rolf followed his sight line and saw Leonor von Rosenheim being escorted by Max Hofmeister onto the terrace. They stopped for the photographer and continued across the terrace, greeting friends and acquaintances.
“Mama, can we go?” Susanna was holding Dieter’s hand.
Rolf met Juan Baia’s eyes. “I didn’t invite her. God knows who did. Look, there’s a staff section behind this screen. I will swipe you through and make sure you get out of the building. It’s this way, come now.”
They followed him like a line of cygnets after a parent swan. Rolf unclipped the chain barring the public from the staff terrace and guided them into the darkness. Once he opened the security door with his pass, lights flickered on, illuminating their passage down corridors and staircases until they reached the stage door. He escorted them out into the car park and wished them a good night. Before they left, he addressed Juan Baia.
“I had two complimentary tickets for tonight. I gave them both to the kids. I don’t know who invited Leonor or why, but I can promise you that neither I nor the maestro knew she would be here. All I can say is, I’m sorry.”
Baia gave a slow nod. “I don’t know anything about your private life, Herr Jaro. But I would say that as much as Susanna and Dieter need protecting from malevolent forces, so do you. Take care. I wish you good night and good luck. Thank you for an enervating evening.”
23
There was no question of Rolf escaping the rest of the party. He had to go back. He had spoken to no one on the board and none of the sponsors, which was deemed an essential part of his duty. The only problem being he couldn’t face it right now. With a tight smile, he re-entered the building via the stage door and went directly to the dressing room, knowing it would be empty. He stood staring at the scene within. In his absence, the backstage crew had conveyed all the cards, flowers and gifts deposited by well-wishers, transforming the room from a functional place to change into a riot of colour and congratulations.
Now was not the time to read all the messages and congratulations for the orchestra. That would be something to enjoy tomorrow morning. He sat in front of the mirror and wondered how on earth he could cope with socialising when she was there. He snorted. The number of times he’d sworn it was impossible to socialise without Leonor von Rosenheim. The only thing he could do was show no one he was rattled.
A rap at the door. Rolf held his breath.
“Rolf? Are you in there? It’s Trudi. I’ve got an idea.”
Rolf opened the door and exhaled heavily. “I’m coming. I just had to get the kids away from her. Can you imagine? I gave them my complimentary tickets and promised she would not be here tonight. Do you think she was in the audience … oh, hello.”
A man moved into sight behind Trudi’s shoulder. Rolf didn’t recall ever having met him.
“Hello. My name is Otto. Trudi asked for my help.”
“Otto’s going to help us. I’ll explain on the way upstairs. Bloody hell, Rolf! Look at all those flowers and presents! At least three bottles of champagne!”
In the lift to the terrace, Trudi explained that Otto, normally an usher, would act as Rolf’s minder. His job was to move the new cellist from one group to the next, allowing no one to dominate or hog his time. His presence would deflect any unwanted attention. All Rolf needed to do if he wanted rescuing from a particular conversation or circumstance was to pull on his right earlobe. Otto would be watching and come discreetly to the rescue.
He wasn’t sure if he was being minded or directed, but chose to play along. “Thank you, Otto. And Trudi, you are brilliant for thinking of the idea. Oh hell, here we go.”
They emerged into the corridor. Trudi went first, leaving Rolf to make an entrance onto the terrace. Otto hung back but gave Rolf a reassuring nod when he looked over his shoulder.
“Herr Jaro! I was just asking the maestro where you were. I have to pay you the sincerest compliments. This evening’s performance is one of the finest I have ever enjoyed in this building.” He remembered the older lady in the wheelchair from the garden party. She hadn’t stopped talking then, either. He ducked his hea
d, attempting to accept the compliment, but she chattered on regardless. Rolf tuned out, but kept his focus on the woman and a smile plastered to his face while he used his peripheral vision to scan the room.
Lots of faces were tilted in his direction and the feelings of panic returned. He pulled his right earlobe while nodding enthusiastically to whatever the lady was saying. Two seconds later, Otto appeared at his elbow. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Herr Jaro, but the maestro would like to introduce you to someone.” He bowed apologetically to the lady and guided Rolf by the elbow across the terrace to where the maestro was surrounded by a group of portly men, all in black tie.
A visceral instinct urged Rolf to run, run away from these men, with their money and their power over his life. He jerked to a halt, causing Otto to give him a concerned look. Rolf glanced behind him at the exit and assessed the distance to his other escape route, where he had taken Dieter, Susana and her parents.
“Is everything in order, Herr Jaro?” Otto asked.
Rolf stared at the group of men and realised one of them was Bertrand. He relaxed a few millimetres, nodded at Otto and continued across the terrace. He bowed and smiled and thanked everyone for their fulsome praise. When allowed to speak, he in turn complemented Bertrand on his performance, giving his first genuine smile since returning to the terrace. Before Bertrand could reply, another group of people joined the group. Two women laden with jewels, Hofmeister, and in a shimmering white sheath, Leonor. Most of the people seemed to know Hofmeister and the two ladies, but for the benefit of the rest, he made introductions.
“A triumph, maestro, a triumph. I applaud you for your choice of musicians and repertoire. The evening was a delight. May I introduce my wife Catalina, her sister Genevieve and our good friend, Leonor von Rosenheim.”
There was no other option than to nod politely at the new arrivals, but Rolf refused to meet Leonor’s eyes. The maestro made effortless small talk and polite enquiries with practised urbanity, as if he had no reason to dislike or suspect one of the women in the party.
Listen between the lines, his friends had told him. So he paid attention to Hofmeister’s compliments, trying to comprehend the true message beneath the words.
“As we’ve always said, fresh blood makes all the difference. The cellists and the young percussionist all add seasoning to the soup. Congratulations, Herr Jaro, Monsieur de Salis and, where is that young chap? No matter, I will find him and deliver my congratulations in person. The question on everyone’s lips, maestro, is what fresh blood do we need now? Frau von Rosenheim has some very good ideas. Leonor, my dear, tell Jurgen your thoughts.”
Rolf pulled urgently on his earlobe and Otto appeared at his elbow, murmuring something in his ear. With a brief “Excuse me,” to the party, Rolf allowed himself to be guided away. Otto led him in the direction of Jun, who was watching the maestro’s group with a worried frown.
There was no opportunity to have a private conversation, as people came up to express their congratulations to either him or Jun every few minutes, although most had the good grace to say their piece and move on. Until one couple monopolised him with reminiscences about all the other superior orchestras they had seen. He pulled at his earlobe several times before looking around for Otto, who had vanished. Instead, heading directly towards him, were Leonor and Hofmeister. Their intent was clear and escaping their attentions without being rude was an impossibility. He steeled himself for whatever they were about to inflict on him. Their progress was halted by Trudi stepping into their path and addressing them. It appeared she was asking to take a selfie with the pair. Rolf seized his opportunity. He apologised to the chatty couple and ducked away into the thinning crowd.
It was a very poor show on his part, but he could take no more. Otto emerged from the staff-only section, his expression apologetic. “Herr Jaro, my apologies, I was called away. I’m sorry for leaving you to it.”
“No problem. I’m ready to leave the party anyway. Thanks for helping me out, Otto, that was decent of you. Goodnight.”
“Ah, no, you can’t leave yet.” Otto raised a hand like a traffic cop and scanned the crowd over Rolf’s shoulder. “There’s an issue at the stage door, you see. Some over-eager fans are demanding entrance to the party. I suggest waiting for half an hour until security can get rid of them. Would you like me to get you a drink?”
Rolf followed his sightline. Hofmeister was lounging with his elbows on the bar, smiling in their direction, apparently waiting for them to join him. Otto placed a hand on his elbow and guided him forwards.
“Yes, that’s a good idea. I’d like a gin and tonic, please. Make it a double, I deserve it tonight. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve been to the bathroom. Thanks, Otto.”
He didn’t wait for a reply and strode through the staff doors. Instead of going along the corridor to the nearest toilets, he waited a minute and opened the door again. From that angle, he couldn’t see the bar, but Otto was no longer lurking on the threshold. Rolf slid out of the door, behind the mini-fir trees and used his access card to enter the deserted café. The moment the door closed behind him, he ran. Rather than going to the stage door to check Otto’s story or return to his dressing room, he went out through front of house and into a bar on the other side of the road.
Breathing heavily, he sat at the window, removing his tie and shrugging off his jacket. When the waiter came to take his order, he threw caution to the winds and ordered a beer. Then he settled down to watch the entrance to the Konzerthalle. The glittering, polished and well-heeled patrons left in dribs and drabs, climbing into people-carriers or chauffeur-driven sedans. Rolf despised them all. Rich and flash with no taste or class, he resented their patronage. He ordered a second beer and a chaser. Screw them. Screw them all.
He was on his third bottle when he saw Leonor leave, on the arm of Hofmeister. They must have been among the last guests to depart. The building was closing and unless he ran over there in the next few minutes, his cello would be locked in overnight. He patted his pockets for his phone, but realised that it too was in the same place as the rest of his belongings. In his dressing room. Without it, he couldn’t send a message to the maestro or Jun or even Trudi. The lights of the venue opposite switched off and some of his colleagues departed, on foot or for the bus stop, carrying their instruments. Now was the time to pay his bill, run across the road and catch his ride home. Instead, he signalled to the waiter for another beer and why not, one last shot.
Leonor was a liar and couldn’t be trusted. Oh yes, it’s the public dress rehearsal tonight! I’d forgotten. Then she turned up at the party with Hofmeister. He shook his head, staring outside at the traffic. She was a liar, and nothing she said about the maestro, Jun or Anton could be believed. Then Trudi’s words on the inevitable departure of one or the other echoed in his ears. If tonight was a success, Jun would have to go.
If he believed Trudi. She could be part of it. After all, she was the one who said Otto would protect him. But the young usher had every intention of delivering Rolf to Hofmeister. The stage door story was bullshit, that much was clear. Trudi was just another false friend.
Another thing bothered Rolf. Why wouldn’t the maestro answer his question about Anton’s removal from the orchestra? Jurgen Wilk had evaded the issue. The victims are either cut loose or recruited as procurers. Was Anton a procurer? No, what happened between himself and Anton was genuine, he knew that. Didn’t he? No, he didn’t. He couldn’t trust any of these bastards because they were all playing him for a fool. Probably because that’s exactly what he was.
Thirty minutes later, he had lost count of the rounds of beers, enlivened by various kinds of Schnapps. Nothing was certain except one eternal truth: Rudolf Jaro was a fraud, a failure and a let-down. He had deserted Dmitry all those years ago, was now repeating the pattern with Leonor, and in a way, he’d even wrecked things for Anton. The single link between all those tragic situations was him. Selfish, driven by instinct and stupid. He couldn’t see beyond his own e
go. Whichever way one looked at it, when Rolf Jaro was part of the equation, everything fell to pieces.
Right here and now was living proof. He couldn’t hack it. The maestro, the orchestra, the crew, everyone had given their all in preparation for tomorrow’s premiere. But Rolf Jaro, after a bit of a scare at the dress rehearsal, had thrown in the towel and got drunk. Maximum damage to himself without a thought to the implications for tomorrow. He was a loser. Trudi, Jun, Bertrand and Leonor – he’d always find a way to betray those closest to him. Too late now anyway. Point of no return, my friends.
He swivelled in his chair, trying to signal the waiter and came face to face with Trudi.
“You stupid git.”
Rolf’s vision was not as sharp as usual but he sensed she was not pleased to see him. Hands on her hips, her glare was so fierce the waiter beat a retreat.
“Trudi! Come and have a drink!”
In response, she grabbed his arm and dragged him to his feet. “We’re going. Now.”
With one hand gripping his upper arm, she beckoned the waiter and paid the bill, her disgust tangible. He reached for his bottle of beer but she snatched it away, handing it to the waiter. She forced his arms into his jacket as if he were a child and shoved him to the door.
Outside the bar, she hailed a taxi as if by magic.
“You’re very capable, Trudi. I thought that forst ... I mean first ... the first time I met you.”
“Shut up, you drunken mess. Get in the cab and don’t you dare puke.”
He obeyed, too tired to do anything else.
By the time the taxi deposited them outside the maestro’s house, Rolf was dozing. It was past midnight but lights were still on downstairs. Trudi hauled him out of the taxi and he concentrated hard on walking in a straight line along the path. His keys, along with his mobile phone and cello, were still locked in the Konzerthalle, so Trudi rang the doorbell.