by JJ Marsh
“Leonor, did you kill Anton?”
“Would you just forget about that prick and his wretched cat? Listen to me ...”
“I found a gun in your underwear drawer a few days before. Is that what you used? Blue made his way home to Gerhardstrasse, by the way.”
Her eyes narrowed, her jaw muscles worked for a moment, then her face smoothed again. “We killed him together, you know that. You even helped me bury him. As you said, he deserved it, working for that club of abusers, trying to disunite us.”
Rolf took a step backwards. Somehow he had to get away without enraging her, but he couldn’t see how. “I’m not falling for your mind games anymore. I have a clear recollection of what happened that night.”
“Fine, believe whatever you want. The police will think otherwise when they find the gun. But you needn’t worry, my love, we’ll be in the States by then. This is a new beginning. I brought you here, to this iconic location to ask you a very important question. Rolf, listen to me. I’m the only one you can trust to guide your career and protect you from this kind of trap. We need each other. So we should make this official.” She withdrew something from her pocket. With her left hand, she opened the little box. Inside was a gold band.
“We’ve come so far together, let’s seal the deal.” Her eyes glittered with emotion and a smile of triumph spread across her face. “Will you, Rolf Jaro, consent to be my husband? Will you let me care for you, champion your career and make you the most famous cellist in the world?”
He stared at her face, ignoring the ring altogether. A white rage engulfed him like a flash of magnesium and molten lava bubbled up in his throat. “And give you control over every part of my life? You have physically assaulted me, forced me into having sex when I refused, embarrassed me in front of your family, insulted my colleagues, provoked my jealousy by flirting with your powerful connections, isolated me from any kind of friendships, tried to make me think I’m going crazy and you ... you killed Anton, for no other reason than I cared about him. You terrify me. You scare everyone I know. Why on God’s earth would I marry someone who is clearly insane?”
The trumpeters below reached a crescendo and ceased, their clarion calls replaced by applause, subsiding into silence.
Leonor’s outstretched fingers curled around the ring box, her smile fading. “Because without you, I have nothing. You are the reason I get up in the morning and my last thought before I fall asleep. Since we met, my life’s aim was to elevate us to a status we deserve. Haven’t I always said you have a spectacular future in store? Finally you’re starting to believe it, and I have become dispensable, dead wood you can cut adrift. We used to be a team, with the same goals and matching determination. Now you judge my methods, finding yourself morally superior. You’re going to leave me behind. The closest I’ll get to sharing our dream is watching you on TV, thinking about what might have been. Sorry, Rolf. After all the sacrifices I made, that’s not going to happen.”
Her face twisted into a bitter, ugly mask and she threw the ring box at his face. He jerked sideways a second too late. The box bounced off his shoulder, the gold band flew out and fell to the floor with a metallic tinkle.
Rolf’s fury had burned out like the flare of a match. He stared at the wedding ring, lying on the flagstone. Out of respect, he bent to scoop it up and hand it back.
In a move so swift he didn’t see it coming, she stamped on his wrist with her left foot, pinning him to the ground. He gasped and tried to pull away, but couldn’t release himself. His left wrist was trapped under the arch of her high-heeled shoes, a manacle designed by Jimmy Choo. Look out for your hands, Rolf! Treat them gently. They are your instruments. His peripheral vision registered her intention. She lifted her right foot, preparing to stamp her stiletto heel through the tendons of his hand. In a blind panic, he shoved her with his right forearm and tore his wrist from beneath her foot. Already off balance, she stumbled sideways, hit her thigh against the low wall and toppled over the parapet. In a split second, she had disappeared.
Rolf stared at the place where she had stood, cradling his left hand to his chest. Shocked into disbelief, he got up, his legs trembling as he peered over the crenelated wall. There was nothing but a steep drop, and far below a forest. His heart beat so loudly he could barely think, but he still suspected a trick. She couldn’t have fallen. She must be hiding, but where? The platform was empty and unless she had wings ...
From the courtyard below, a horrible scream reached his ears and someone was shouting over and over again in German ‘Mein Gott! Sie ist tot!’
Rolf squeezed his eyes closed. It was all over. With only two of them on the Gun Tower, the door locked and given their relationship history, the authorities were bound to charge him with murder. Perhaps of more than one victim. He slid his back down the rough wall to sit on the ground and placed his head in his hands.
29
The first thing Rolf did every morning was check the date. He was aware what a cliché it was, prisoners marking off their days by carving grooves into mouldy stone walls, but it was less to do with counting down his remaining sentence and more connected to maintaining a routine.
Today was Sunday, and he was due a visitor. He showered, shaved and dressed in a black jumper with a clean pair of jeans. He joined the others in his pod for breakfast and remembered it was Hanspeter’s turn to cook. Maybe he should have stayed in his room and eaten some Zwieback with jam and cheese. As it turned out, Hanspeter made edible scrambled egg with spinach and bacon. He didn’t even burn the toast. They showered him with compliments until he held up his hands, his knife clattering onto the table.
“All right, I get it. I didn’t screw up this time! Eat your food and leave me in peace.” He wiped his knife with a tissue and tried to hide his smile.
Laughter rumbled around the room and Rolf watched the new guy observing the atmosphere. His defensive posture loosened a little. He met Rolf’s eyes for a second and nodded. Told you, thought Rolf, it’s just as relaxed as it looks.
It was Sunday, so they had no rehab meetings or therapy sessions and could do as they pleased. Rolf asked the warder for permission to practise in his room. The uniformed guard looked out of the floor-length windows at the sky.
“You can if you like. Or how about playing in the courtyard this morning? It’s a beautiful day and your music usually has a mellowing effect on your fellow guests. Up to you. I’ll get your instrument.”
It really was a beautiful day, one of those early autumn mornings where the low angle of the sun throws a vivid light over the landscape, as if it were shot through a filter. The bright blue sky and verdant green of the surrounding meadows lent themselves to something bucolic and uplifting –particularly as it was Sunday. Those who were expecting visitors this afternoon would enjoy the extra lift to their moods, while those who remained alone could at least take some solace from the beauty of nature and sound.
The warder came along the corridor carrying his cello case. “Shall I take it outside for you or are you sticking to your room and depriving us all of a nice tune?”
“Give it to me,” said Rolf, with a sigh. “I’ll play in the courtyard. But if anyone throws eggs or tomatoes or anything worse, I’m blaming you.”
The warder handed him the case. “Great! I’ll get you a chair.”
The piece he had intended to practise that morning was the cello part of Fauré’s Élégie, but out in the sunshine he changed his mind. His fellow inmates were watching from their balconies, barred windows or sitting close by, depending on their level of security, but all were ready to listen. Today, he had to play something that could reach everyone, be they excited, miserable, lost or hopeful. He chose Bach’s Cello Suite No.2. The composition, played on a single instrument, acted like interior stream of thought, a soliloquy to the gods, an entire conversation reaching a point of resolution, a balm for troubled minds.
He closed off the outside world, ignored the shifting of chairs and whispers from behind bars, a
nd picked up his bow. The first few notes provoked a prickling in his nose, but he closed his eyes and embraced the emotion. If he didn’t feel it, how could anyone else? He played with both familiarity and respect for the instrument, for the composer and for his audience, releasing them to confront a demon or embrace an angel. Individual interpretation was up to them. Rolf was telling a story. Between each movement, warders and inmates clapped and whistled, some shouting comments Rolf couldn’t hear. In his mind, he heard the maestro’s voice. Herr Jaro, your timing is off and I suspect you did not tune up.
He commenced the Courante with a smile on his face and looked up at the sky. Above the Loeben Justice Centre, a red-tailed kite glided in huge sweeping circles, appearing, flying out of sight and returning as if it were a passer-by on the streets of Salzburg, curious at the sounds coming from the sunny courtyard. The scent of wild garlic wafted down from the forest behind the prison, mingling with the more mundane smells of laundry, disinfectant and cigarette smoke. Even in the shade, Rolf began to sweat as the temperature of the day rose and his movements grew sharper in the Gigue. The end was in sight. Not just of Cello Suite No. 2, but of his incarceration. His imminent release into the world imbued the final few bars with a joyous energy he could not suppress. The final stroke of his bow across his cello was triumphant.
The courtyard erupted, guards and prisoners alike on their feet, applauding and roaring their approval. Rolf bowed to everyone and reflected on the fact he had just given the best-received concert of his life.
The warder in charge of the cello made his way across the courtyard, accompanied by Loeben’s governor. All Rolf’s approaching fellow inmates, keen to enthuse, spotted the figure of authority and swerved away to disappear behind various doors.
The guard smiled and gave Rolf a nod. “Told you that was what they needed on a Sunday morning. May I?”
Rolf placed his beloved instrument in its case and handed it over. “Thank you for taking such good care of it.”
“No problem. The governor would like a word. I’ll leave you to it.”
The governor, a short man with a grey beard, stood in front of Rolf, wearing a benevolent expression. “That was a privilege to hear. You are a world-class musician, Herr Jaro. Thank you for performing for us all. It raises morale, you know. I understand you are leaving us at the end of next month. You must be elated, although I wish we could retain your skills a little longer. I wonder ...”
Rolf waited for the man to get to the point.
“I wonder if you might consider sharing the benefit of your experience with your fellow guests. What if, say, your contribution to the wellbeing of our community came in the guise of music lessons? I can see how inspiring that would be for some of our more creative colleagues. For example, for every lesson you teach, you gain two work details. Rather than cleaning windows or cooking dinner duty, you teach one music lesson for five of your colleagues and get double duty rewards. We only have access to your world-class talent for another six weeks, so we should really make the most of it. How does that sound?”
Above their heads, the red-tailed kite danced its graceful ballet, not to entertain observers, but to cover maximum ground while seeking prey. Rolf’s eyes followed its circular ascent until it disappeared from sight. He gave his attention to the governor.
“Thank you for your generous offer. The problem, as I see it, is that I am a musician, not a teacher. Music lessons for my colleagues, though, are a tremendous idea. You can see how much they enjoy it. If I may make a suggestion, contact some local teachers to see if they are willing.”
The governor’s bland expression grew sour. “While we have such a musician in house? I cannot believe you would refuse to share your skills with men you’ve lived with for almost a year.”
“As I said, I’m a musician, not a teacher.”
The governor paced away, tapping his fingers together, then turned to address Rolf from the other end of the courtyard, his voice piercing. “You don’t think your fellow inhabitants are up to your standard, Herr Jaro? Without even giving them a chance?”
“Not at all,” Rolf snapped back. “I’ve been lucky enough to attend the metalwork lessons with Richmal, learned a lot about art from Frau Berndorfer and the cookery classes with Hanspeter have changed my life.”
Snorts and laughter were audible from various doorways and open windows.
“What I’m saying is that I am no teacher. I could no more teach someone to play the cello than I could teach someone how to breathe. I say again, I’m a musician and nothing more. I am sorry, but I feel it is important to tell you the truth.” He waited for permission to leave.
The governor narrowed his eyes. “I accept the fact you cannot teach. But I do take issue with that claim to your status. You were a classical musician, Herr Jaro. After spending a year in detention for a manslaughter conviction, which orchestra would employ you now? I must go, I have meetings. Have a nice Sunday.”
Aloud, Rolf wished him the same, while silently praying he would trip in front of a passing juggernaut. Once the door had closed behind the governor, a pattering of hands echoed around the yard, an invisible accolade for a different kind of performance.
He decided against going to his room and strode off into the grounds for a walk. No longer did he have to face his audience for their praise or criticism. Performing was something he did; it no longer defined his life. After twelve months and over a hundred therapy sessions, he could face himself in the mirror. He knew who he was and accepted the truth, discarding the impostor syndrome. It had taken him far longer to face the reality of why he was here. At first, his sentence seemed too lenient, given that he was indirectly responsible for two deaths. Now he had accepted the truth. Leonor killed Anton. Leonor’s own death was an accident. When he let go of blame, the tears of relief became an unstoppable flood. So began the long painful ordeal of processing the experience.
The hardest thing to overcome was not knowing what happened the night Anton died. Various scenarios played in his mind whenever he was not consciously engaged in other activities and sometimes when he was. He kept returning to the same questions: why had Anton gone to the house that night, what circumstances led Leonor to kill him and most importantly, how did she expect to get away with murdering their neighbour? His therapist tolerated his circular thought patterns for months before making one of his rare statements. Trying to understand the rationale of a sociopath is a waste of your time and mine. The only two people who knew the truth were dead. Rolf accepted the fact that he would never know and let it go.
The bells rang out, marking midday. Rolf drew his mind back to the present. Time to face whatever Hanspeter had massacred for their lunch.
At two o’clock, along with all the other inmates expecting visitors, he waited in the atrium. Sun poured through the shatterproof glass, gleaming off the greenery on the central island. Everyone had ditched their usual sweatpants and hoodies to wear freshly washed shirts, chinos or decent jeans, ready for an hour with the people who loved them enough to make the journey.
When Rolf’s name was called, he entered the room and went to his appointed table. Jurgen Wilk’s style had not changed. In a black Japanese collarless shirt, he met Rolf’s eyes and the faint twitch of his lips broadened into a genuine smile. His amazonite eyes were warm.
“It’s very kind of you to come.” Rolf was unsure how to address him. Maestro was wrong as he was no longer a member of Wilk’s orchestra. Yet there was no way he could ever call him Jurgen.
“My pleasure. Are you well?”
“Completely fine. This place lives up to the hype. What’s the news with you? Have you found a position? How is Jun?” The electric buzz which usually made him shake and fidget with visitors lessened in the presence of his mentor.
“In a moment. First, I want to hear about you. You look well and I’m sure you’re counting down the days until your release. A mere six weeks and you will be a free man.”
Rolf dropped his gaze to his ha
nds, wondering what answer he wanted to give. A free man with a scandal hanging round his neck. Who would employ me now? He recognised he was echoing the governor and shook his head to dismiss the thought. “I’m very well. This morning, I entertained my fellow guests with Bach’s Cello Suite No.2. They seemed to like it. That’s all I have to tell you unless you want to know what I had for breakfast today.”
Wilk rested his chin on his hands. “What a wonderful choice. It’s strange, but I often listen to that on a rainy Sunday morning. It’s one of those rare pieces from which you can take whatever you want. If sad, you can seek comfort. If wronged, you can be avenged. If glorious, you can march with your chin held high. I can imagine how powerfully that must affect the incarcerated.”
They sat in silence for several moments. Rolf knew they were both listening to the same inner music.
“After I played in the courtyard, the governor asked me if I would teach music lessons between now and getting out. I said no. He wasn’t happy.”
Wilk sniffed. “His problem, not yours. Why and how could you possibly teach music in such a place? Have you ever taught music before?”
“Never. Maybe I should try. As the governor said, who’s going to employ me after a prison sentence?” He heard the whiny tone in his own voice. “Let’s change the subject. Tell me about Jun.”
“Ah, yes. I have a package from her, a letter from Trudi and something from me. I had to hand it all to the security desk, but once checked, you should receive it later today. Jun is well and filled with enthusiasm. We are planning something new.”