by JJ Marsh
The door opened to reveal Jun and the maestro standing in the hallway. Jun clasped her hands together and bent her forehead to her knuckles.
“I’m so happy you’re safe,” she whispered.
The maestro stepped forward. “Is everything all right, Rolf? We were so worried when you disappeared. Did something happen?”
Rolf opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. He didn’t know where to begin.
“He’s pissed as a rat and would have been worse if I hadn’t found him,” said Trudi. “Five large beers and at least as many Obstlers on an empty stomach. How the hell do we sober him up?”
“Let’s go into the kitchen and have some tea.” Jun placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him gently along the corridor to the kitchen, while the maestro closed the front door.
“I got drunk,” Rolf blurted. “A true professional, I ran away from the party, neglecting my duties and rather than respect my health and the fact the true first night is tomorrow – today now – I went to a bar and drank beer after beer after beer. Maybe you should just sack me now.” He slumped onto a stool and rested his spinning head in his hands for a moment.
When he pulled his hands from his eyes, Jurgen Wilk was standing opposite. “Maybe I should. You cannot imagine the number of terrifying scenarios not just in my imagination, but in the minds of your friends. We are all looking out for your best interests and trying to protect you from harm. Failing to inform us of your whereabouts is worse than rude, it’s arrogant. And to get drunk before our opening night is unforgivable. I have no words for you.” He stalked out of the kitchen and closed the door.
Rolf clutched his forehead, his stomach a pit of acid.
“Jun, I’m so sorry. I wanted to call but I left my phone in the dressing room. Even my cello! I bottled it like the loser I am. The thing is, I had to get out. I waited in a bar until I saw her leave, but couldn’t face coming back after I’d cut and run. I’m sorry. After all you’ve done for me.”
Jun placed a pot of tea on the breakfast bar and sat beside him. “Trudi and I packed your things into a laundry bag and I brought them home. Also your cello.”
“Not that you deserve it,” muttered Trudi.
Jun’s voice was soothing and calm. “Everything is safe. Including you. Will you have some tea then maybe lie down?”
“Tea is a good idea. I think I’ll take it to my room before I embarrass myself any further. Thank you both for looking after my stuff and covering for me. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“The orchestra is not required for rehearsals until midday. You can sleep in and recover.” Jun placed a tentative hand on his arm. “Rolf, we reached out a hand to help you. This kind of behaviour could jeopardise the whole première. Please don’t let everyone down.”
24
When he awoke the next morning, Rolf’s first urge was for the bathroom and his second was for copious amounts of water. He met both urges and returned shakily to sit on his bed. Assessing the damage, his physical state was bad, but far better than he deserved. The clock showed the time as 07.45 and a wave of gratitude overcame him at the recollection he did not need to be at the Konzerthalle until midday. Three more hours to knock himself into shape and apologise to Jurgen Wilk.
He looked around the room at his discarded performance suit, the empty mug of tea and large chequered laundry bag sitting in the corner. There would be messages on his phone, some welcome, others not. Either way, he couldn’t face reading them until after he’d had a shower and cleaned his teeth.
Twenty minutes later, he dug around between the bouquets and the cellophane-wrapped bottles to find his mobile tucked into a napkin along with his keys. Forty-two notifications from WhatsApp, a dozen text messages and seventeen missed calls – either congratulations or concerns as to his absence. He went through them all, his guilt and embarrassment increasing with every single one. One of the last was from Leonor, who must have sent it after she had left the afterparty. He read the message, despite his better judgement.
Your maestro is almost done with his second violinist. Next in line for Jun is the chairman of the board, or she gets the boot. Sunday morning, everyone changes partners. It’s not yet clear who gets you, but Hofmeister is bidding high. We are one step ahead! Love, Leonor.
The kitchen was occupied. Trudi was making egg rolls and singing a song in German. Rolf hesitated in the doorway. Where was Jun? Trudi spotted him and smiled.
“Good morning! How do you feel? Could you manage an egg roll?”
Rolf placed two champagne bottles on the breakfast bar. “I can’t apologise enough for last night. I feel rough and embarrassed and right now I cannot face another glass of alcohol in my entire life. So one of these is for you. Yes please, an egg roll sounds delicious.”
Trudi laughed and returned her attention to the hob. “You will change your mind, they always do. Two more minutes, and we’re ready. The maestro is in the shower.”
Rolf noted she did not mention Jun.
Trudi placed the little yellow pancakes onto a plate and brought them to the breakfast bar. “You can eat sweet or savoury, up to you. Yes, presents are very welcome, but why so gender specific? I had a lot of flowers but very little champagne. You know what I would really like? A bottle of quality single malt. Cut flowers?” She wrinkled her nose. “We should put a bouquet in every room of this house, make the place smell nice.”
Breakfast was the time for Rolf to refill his reservoirs. Not just in terms of sustenance, but friendship and support. Trudi waxed vocal about her disgust for the board, the sponsors and some of the ruder guests, while eating one egg roll after another. She made it clear where her loyalties lay and Rolf loved her for it. His discomfort grew in proportion to the maestro’s absence. He was about to raise the subject when Trudi asked a question.
“How cool was Otto?”
“Yeah, I should have stuck with him. I could have done with a minder later.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about things you cannot change. You are an idiot though, I’ll give you that.”
He could only nod.
“Talking about minders – have you checked on Anton’s cat again?”
“I’ve been to his flat every day, but no trace. I really don’t know where that cat is hiding.”
“Hm…if he’s hiding. Don’t you think it possible that she …?”
“Wrung his neck?”
Trudi said nothing.
He sighed. “It did cross my mind, to be honest. I even dug up the flowerbed.”
“The flowerbed?” She sat down at the table.
“Yeah. The day Blue disappeared Leonor suddenly decided she had green fingers and dug out a large flowerbed in the garden. It struck me as odd.”
“Why?”
“She’s not the gardening type, and certainly not into flowers. But then again, I’m not sure how well I know that woman at all now.”
Trudi frowned, her mind apparently in overdrive.
“So the cat disappears and that very day she’s digging up the grass to plant flowers. And you checked it thoroughly?”
“Yes, I did. The very next afternoon.” Something about that event bothered him. He couldn’t shake off the thought that Leonor had been spying on him while he explored the flowerbed. But where had she been hiding? He’d checked Anton’s flat first for any sign of Blue, crept up the stairs, knocked and used his key when there was no response. He looked into every room, albeit briefly, and some kind of sixth sense told him Leonor was not present. He packed his books and took them downstairs only to be interrupted by the arrival of the Baias. Could she have been hiding in the laundry room all the time? Only to emerge when they had gone, just to enjoy the view of him digging up the garden from the balcony?
Mortification overcame him at the thought of her laughing while he grubbed about in the soil. Trudi jumped up and shocked him back into the present.
“Scheisse!” she hissed. “How stupid can you get? You fell for a very old trick.”
He stared at her, the mixture of hangover and incomprehension leaving his mind a complete blank. “What do you mean? What old trick?”
“Creating the perfect hiding place, I bet you.” She undid her apron, threw it on the table and stormed out of the kitchen.
Rolf gazed at his egg roll as if that could provide an answer.
“What’s going on, Herr Jaro?” The maestro came down the stairs, his face creased and concerned.
“Good morning,” he flailed for the right form of address. “I want to apologise for last ...”
“And so you shall. But I asked you what was going on. One minute ago, my front door slammed hard enough to shake the foundations of the whole house. Do me the courtesy of explaining the latest drama you have brought to my home.”
The walls seemed to shrink and the ceiling lowered, trapping Rolf like an insect in a jar. Helpless and confused, he could find no way of framing the situation.
“I don’t know. That was Trudi and she said I was stupid and stormed off. I don’t know what she’s talking about, I really don’t.”
Wilk, wearing his black silk kimono and towelling slippers, gave an impression of softness until Rolf looked into his eyes. “You don’t know why your colleague, who found you blind drunk in a bar, would call you stupid?”
“No – I mean, yes – but it’s not that.” Rolf’s brain and mouth refused to cooperate. “She called me an idiot, I apologised and we had breakfast together.” He raised the limp egg roll as proof. “We were talking about Leonor and the house and the flowerbed and ...”
Wilk pressed his fingers to his eyes. “After a difficult dress rehearsal, a troublesome houseguest and an exhausting night, I would like coffee and clarity. Instead, I am subjected to your verbal diarrhoea. Please be silent.”
Rolf made a fresh pot without a word, wondering about the maestro’s exhausting night. Had he already switched partners, and was he now sleeping with Trudi? Where was Jun?
Wilk sat down opposite and poured himself a cup of black coffee. He did not offer any to Rolf. “It took a lot to persuade the board that you were worth the risk. More effort still to convince your fellow cellists you had the discipline and mindset to become one of them. Against all their concerns, I had faith in you. Disappointment comes nowhere near to describing how I feel today. They were right. You were not worth the risk, you do not have the mindset – and as far as discipline is concerned, you are a joke. The entire orchestra allowed for an adjustment period and gave you further leeway regarding your personal circumstances, and the day before our first night you throw everything back in our faces. Know this, Herr Jaro, it has been many years since rage last kept me awake all night.”
Rolf flicked his glance from his plate to the maestro’s face. Wilk was rigid with tension, his modulated voice hiding a volcanic fury.
“Maestro, I am sorrier than I can say.”
“I have no interest in your apologies. You had a tough start in life, I appreciate that. You are not alone. Maybe one day Jun will tell you her story, then you can ask yourself who is more worthy of our sympathy. Your past is not my problem. Unless you can assure me it will not affect your future, you have no place in my orchestra. One more thing, I work with musicians. Not musicians’ managers, partners or girlfriends. Everyone deserves a second chance, Herr Jaro, but be warned, this is your last. I expect you at the Konzerthalle at midday.”
He took his coffee and left the room. Rolf stared at his fingernails, his emotions a soup of mortification, relief and a bratty sense of rebelliousness that urged him to take his stuff and simply walk away. The sun beamed through the window, lighting coffee grains on the counter. Everyone treated him as if he was an idiot. Even Trudi. You fell for a very old trick. Perhaps he was an idiot because he had no idea what she meant.
The bus stopped outside Gerhardstrasse 112 but Rolf did not get off. Instead he watched intently for any kind of activity at the house. There were no signs of life. At the next stop he alighted and retraced his steps to the building. His eyes fixed on the windows upstairs, he walked up the path, his breathing uneven. As a precaution, he rang both bells, twice. When there was no reply, he opened the door and waited in the hallway, trying to attune himself to the atmosphere.
After several seconds of dead silence, he crept down the cellar steps and examined the laundry room again. Unlike last time, the washing line was no longer occupied by Leonor’s riding gear. The floor had been swept clean and there was no trace of any soil. His steps cautious, he ascended two flights of stairs and listened outside the apartment door. As his key turned in the lock, a hollow, echoing sound told him the place was empty. He stood in the doorway, scanning the room. Other than the furniture which had been there when they moved in, the only other items in the room were two boxes. Both bore a professional moving company’s logo and were marked with the word ‘Tip’. She had packed up their stuff and left the place. The boxes were closed, but not sealed, so Rolf opened one to see what she was throwing away. Broken crockery, the printer from the office, two chairs which belonged to the apartment and several partially burnt cushions.
He closed the box and wandered from room to empty room. In what used to be their bedroom, nothing remained. The mattress was bare and one of the curtains was missing. Rolf could think of no possible reason why she would take one single white gauze curtain and leave the other. He went to the window and looked out. Beside the flowerbed he saw a woman kneeling, digging with her bare hands. Flowers had been torn up and strewn around the lawn. Rolf wrenched open the window and leaned out.
“Trudi! What the hell are you doing?”
She didn’t turn around. “What does it look like? Come and help me, there’s something in here.”
He took the stairs two at a time, grabbed a trowel and gloves from the garden cupboard and ran outside. Trudi’s face was stained with tears and dirt and some of her hair had come loose from its ponytail, giving her a slightly unhinged appearance. A very old trick. Create the obvious grave, wait until he’d inspected it, and then bury the cat. What were the chances he’d dig up that damned flowerbed twice?
“There’s definitely something in there. Give me that!” She thrust a hand out for the trowel, but Rolf pulled it out of reach.
“Let me do it. We need to do this carefully and not damage anything. If we find Blue, we should report her to the police. Secondly, you’re a violinist, not a farmer. Look at your hands!”
Trudi looked. One nail was bleeding and there was mud up to her wrists. “Get on with it. Dig around here. That’s where it is.”
Rolf scooped several loads of earth away from the spot she had indicated, prodding the soil beneath. Something prevented further progress. He dug deeper, alongside the object of resistance, easing the dirt off so he could make out what was buried in there. Trudi’s impatience got the better of her and she took the garden gloves to continue digging, although less frantically than before. Rolf encountered some white fabric and made the connection with the bedroom curtain. He steeled himself to pull but the object was immovable. Trudi worked downwards and Rolf up until they were interrupted by a voice.
“I thought I’d find you here. Can I ask what is going on?” asked the maestro, from the French windows. His mild voice belied his worried expression.
Rolf paused in his digging but could find no way of framing a reply.
“That psycho bitch has killed Anton’s cat and buried it here, in this garden.” Trudi’s voice was a feral snarl. “I’m going to find Blue and confront ...” she trailed off. Her frustration with the cloth-wrapped lump reached breaking point and she used both hands around to yank it to the surface. Soil shifted along the entire flowerbed as if the earth was erupting. Trudi’s face was a mask of horror as she stared at what she’d hauled out of its shallow grave. Wrapped in a gauze curtain was a human body wearing a running shoe, size 42.
Someone said, “That’s not a dead cat.” The voice was his own.
The maestro acted fast, despite his shock. He ushered the
m into the downstairs apartment and called the police. Rolf took Trudi into the bathroom to bathe her hands and face. After the police took over the garden, erected a white tent around the scene and began exhuming the corpse, Inspector Weissmann accompanied them all to the station to give their statements.
Rolf spoke to a lieutenant, explaining over and over again why they had been digging up the flowerbed. It sounded ridiculous even to his own ears. The man asked him how well he knew Anton and why he had left Leonor in his apartment. He took a detailed account of where and with whom he spent the week. Rolf answered as honestly as he could. Finally he was released to sit beside Trudi in the waiting room. She looked wretched and he couldn’t think of a thing to say as he stared at her bandaged fingers.
The clock on the wall showed five to eleven. In a normal world, they would have to be at the Konzerthalle for midday. Without thinking, he asked Trudi what she thought would happen in terms of the concert.
She didn’t answer, but started to shiver uncontrollably instead. Snot and tears poured down her face.
A door opened. The maestro emerged, guided by Weissmann.
“I appreciate your co-operation, Ms Schneider and Herr Wilk. You are free to go but we may need to ask your more questions. Please remain in Salzburg where we can contact you. Herr Jaro, could I have a few more minutes of your time?”
Rolf glanced at the maestro, at his watch and back to Wilk.
“I’ll take her home and collect your cello and your costume, then we meet at the Konzerthalle.” Wilk fixed him with an intense stare, apparently on the edge of adding something, but instead he helped Trudi to her feet.
Rolf nodded and followed Weissman, the sounds of Trudi’s sobs echoing down the corridor.
The chief inspector took him to an office, not an interrogation room. Behind a simple desk littered with paper, folders and books, he sank into his chair and gestured Rolf to take a seat. For long moments, the officer looked at him, devoid of any expression. Then he spoke.