Requiem in Vienna: A Viennese Mystery (Viennese Mysteries) Page 4
To his surprise he obeyed, and did feel better at the end of the fifth.
He called the Mahler residence and reached the composer’s sister, Justine. After learning that Mahler’s injuries were not life threatening and that Mahler wished to see him later today, Werthen rang off, placing the receiver in its Bakelite cradle. The instrument made a jingling sound as he did so to announce the breaking of the connection.
“Better?” she asked.
“Decidedly. Will you accompany me?”
“To Mahler’s?”
“I thought we might pay a visit to the Hofoper first.”
“But my friseur is closed today.” She made comical patting motions at her hair.
“The building, not a performance.”
This silly bantering normalized things for Werthen, who was still amazed by his response to Berthe’s announcement of Mahler’s injury. Truth be told, Mahler as a human meant little to him. However, Werthen had offered his services to the Schindler girl and felt pain and embarrassment that he had done nothing to protect the composer. In fact he had notified Fräulein Schindler just yesterday that her fears regarding Mahler’s safety were unfounded. She, of course, had argued to the contrary, and he had played the wiser, older man, assuring her that everything was under control. Now he was regretting his words and his tone of smug complacency over the telephone to that young woman.
Berthe’s level-headed approach to things was exactly what was needed now; hence his invitation to join him in the investigation. She tried not to show it, but Werthen could tell that she was pleased to be included.
Five minutes later, after a further quick call to the opera administration, they were outside and walking at a brisk pace toward the Ringstrasse.
The Royal Court Opera was just thirty years old, but had the appearance and gravity of great age. Its sandstone already bore a reddish brown patina, the copper of the roof was oxidized to pastel green. Constructed in a mélange of historical styles typical of other Ringstrasse buildings, the Renaissance style held sway, especially in the loggias and porticoes jutting out the side walls. An immense building, it was built on a site of at least 150,000 square feet bordering the Ringstrasse and the fashionable Kärntnerstrasse. For Werthen, however, the one drawback of the Court Opera was the fact that it was too huddled amidst other buildings to get a full view; no broad boulevard led up to it as with the Paris Opera.
The Hofoper’s six-million-gulden price tag had been enough at the time to build at least six working-class apartment buildings, Berthe never tired of telling Werthen. Such apartment buildings would have given shelter to a few hundreds of the thousands of working poor who either rented bed space—bettgehers—when the rightful owners were otherwise engaged, or who were dependent on public charities and warming rooms for their shelter. Worse off still were the thousands more who, as a result of the fourfold increase in population in Vienna in less than a generation, had to lay their heads down on park benches or who lived like rats in the vast underground network of sewers.
Werthen, however, was not considering the perennial argument between the needs of art versus the needs of society when he and Berthe went to the ticketing window on the Kärntnerstrasse side of the building. Happily there were yet no crowds gathered at this arcaded window. A few hours from now, though, men, women, and children would be thronging the ticket office, pleading for the best seats; scalpers in patched greatcoats would be offering their tickets at exorbitant rates and would always find a fan desperate enough to pay the price.
Herr Regierungsrath Leitner, the third in command at the Vienna Court Opera behind the assistant lord chamberlain, Prince Montenuovo, and the intendant, Baron Wilhelm von Menkl, was waiting at this entrance as arranged. It had taken Werthen only a moment on the telephone before leaving his apartment to indicate that he was Mahler’s attorney and to let Herr Regierungsrath’s mind run wild with that information. An injury suit, perhaps? Werthen did nothing to disabuse the man of such an assumption.
Leitner, a senior civil servant, was, after proper introductions had been made, all smiles and condescending chatter as he led the way up the grand staircase to the main auditorium. He was a man of medium height and dressed in a black, double-breasted worsted suit and a high starched collar on this warm day. Just looking at him made Werthen, who had chosen a green linen trachten country suit, break out in a sympathetic sweat. Though it was still early June, the heat was already upon the city.
Leitner, however, showed no sign of heat sensitivity. His salt-and-pepper hair was rather short cut and looked as though he might have neglected brushing it thoroughly this morning. He wore a beard, also showing flecks of gray at the cheeks and chin, that was, like his hair, cut close. The eyes were brown, Werthen noticed once they entered the auditorium, and held one fast in their glance. Overall, he gave the appearance of one accustomed to command.
“And as I was indicating, the incident transpired in the blinking of an eye. But I assure you, medical attention was summoned immediately. . . .”
The words, calculated, fawning almost, struck a distinct discord with Leitner’s appearance. Werthen glanced at Berthe to see if she observed it, as well. However, her eyes had trailed upward, looking at the enormous space into which they had entered. Werthen’s view followed hers. He had never been in the Court Opera during the daytime before, not that any daylight reached this vast gilded hall. However, electrically lighted for the past decade, the theater came alive under the gleam of hundreds of lights in the central chandelier high overhead. A ghost light, only barely visible amidst the overhead illimination, still burned downstage center to ward off any evil spirits.
The space was indeed vast: almost three thousand seats. The central orchestra seating was surrounded by a horseshoe of boxes and galleries. The uppermost, the fourth gallery where the cheapest seats were and where the music-hungry yet impoverished aficionados were relegated, was so distant from the stage as to make the singers appear dwarflike without the aid of opera glasses. The royal box took up two levels directly opposite the stage and was infrequently at best attended by the emperor. Especially so now that the empress was dead.
Everywhere the gilt decoration sparkled and made the view even more resplendent. Werthen, who liked a rather more understated presentation, still found himself deeply moved.
“Yes,” Leitner said. “It is glorious.”
The comment called for no response, yet served to bridge an unspoken gap between them.
“Magnificent,” Werthen murmured.
Leitner nodded then rubbed his hands together.
“This way.” And he led them down the aisle between the silent ranks of orchestra seats toward the pit and stage.
“Herr Mahler was very specific about the placement of his podium. We raised and lowered the entire orchestra pit several times to get the proper elevation.”
Werthen and Berthe looked into the pit, but saw no podium, either raised or lowered.
“Herr Mahler is a great innovator,” Leitner went on. “Before his time the conductor would stand right up by the footlights. Jahn”—meaning Mahler’s direct predecessor—“was content to direct from a cane chair placed in the midst of the orchestra. But for Herr Mahler the need for precision was utmost.”
To Werthen’s ears this sounded like a complaint rather than praise.
“Finally he opted for the podium to be slightly raised and placed close to the strings. He insisted that he was conducting an orchestra and singers, not merely singers on the stage.”
“And what exactly transpired?” Werthen said, tiring of Leitner’s asides.
“It was yesterday at afternoon rehearsal. Everything was going quite smoothly. I was watching from the second box in the second tier, the administrative box—Mahler has even had a telephone installed there for communication with the stage and the pit—”
“Yes,” Werthen persisted.
“Well.” Leitner spread his hands in front of him. “Then it happened. Quite out of the blue.”
“ “Yes. The, well, the accident.”
“Did you witness it?” This from Werthen.
“I am afraid I did not. At that very moment my attention was fixed on the new soubrette we employed after the unfortunate death of Fräulein Kaspar. I heard a thumping sound and then loud gasps and shouting from the pit. I naturally ran down as quickly as I could. Herr Mahler was still on his back when I arrived.”
“The podium simply collapsed?” Werthen said.
“Apparently. At least that is the explanation Herr Blauer gave.”
“And Herr Blauer would be?”
“Siegfried Blauer, our stage manager. He is responsible for everything on the other side of the curtain.”
Werthen again looked into the pit, seeing only a vacant spot next to the strings where the podium should have been.
“Is it being repaired?”
Leitner looked perplexed at the question.
“The podium, I mean,” Werthen continued.
Leitner gave a sigh of comprehension. “No, no. Not yet, at any rate. You’ll have to ask Blauer. But Herr Richter has taken over conducting duties while Herr Mahler is indisposed. He prefers the chair amid the orchestra. And our season ends tomorrow—”
“Yes, but where is the podium now?”
Once again the outspread hands from Leitner. Werthen finally decided that outward appearances were indeed deceiving. Leitner was a bureaucrat practiced at all forms of bureaucratic deception, such as fobbing off responsibilities on others.
“Herr Blauer again?” Berthe asked, her voice had a sarcastic overtone.
“To be sure,” Leitner replied, flashing them a smile that came from the mouth only. “The other side of the curtain and all that.”
Leitner led them on a miniature tour of the building in his circuitous route to get backstage. They exited the main auditorium by a side door and took the stairs to the second tier where he showed them the administrative box where he, Leitner, was seated when the accident took place.
He looked sheepish for a moment, and then said, “I would appreciate it if you did not mention to Mahler that I was sitting up here.”
Werthen found the request odd, but was about to reply in the affirmative when Leitner charged on.
“Herr Mahler is rather peculiar about its use. We might call it the administrative box, but he takes it as his private fiefdom. If he is not using it, the box remains empty.” He pursed his lips and blinked hard at them. “I am sure you understand.”
Then he led them back to the corridor where he turned left, heading toward what appeared to be a dead end at a wall.
“A bit of secret here,” he said, attempting a winning smile. “Not to be shared with others?”
“Of course,” Werthen said.
There was a well-concealed door handle in the wall that Leitner released and with a jerk opened a small door that was otherwise quite unnoticeable. The door led directly backstage, onto a metal platform some twenty feet above the stage.
“It provides quick access to the stage and also a bit of a balcony for shouting out orders,” Leitner explained.
Beneath the platform, metals stairs zigzagged down to the stage.
Descending these, Werthen and Berthe were again confronted with a monumental space, actually larger even than the auditorium on the other side of the curtain. The backstage was several stories high and so deep they could barely see to the far end of it. Everywhere was activity: men hauling large flats by hemp ropes; others crawling about high overhead like sailors in a rigging, tying off ropes; still others were calling out where to set two-dimensional and three-dimensional scenic pieces.
“Behold the revolving stage,” Leitner said, sweeping his hand in front of him.
Only then did Werthen notice a huge circular portion cut out of the stage, at least twenty meters in diameter. One section of it jutted out beyond the proscenium, the rest was concealed backstage.
“It is mounted on an iron shaft below the stage,” Leitner explained, though there was an edge to his voice that made Werthen think he did not approve of such innovations. “The shaft in turn rests on well-oiled ball bearings, making it almost silent in operation. Electrically driven, of course. Everything must be up-to-date for Herr Mahler.”
It was clever, Werthen had to admit. He had read about the pioneering revolving stage built in Munich in 1896. The idea was that several scene changes could be mounted on the stage well before the performance, and with a simple flick of a switch the stage could revolve to expose a new scene beyond the proscenium while the other scenes remained hidden in back.
“Of course such a device is better suited to a small repertory house than to an institution like the Hofoper,” Leitner said. “The cost is prohibitive, as you can imagine. Complete sets must be built for each production if they are to fit the Chinese puzzle of the revolving stage. But cost is no problem for Herr Mahler, it seems. He simply goes over my head to Montenuovo and pleads artistic necessity.”
Werthen caught the malice in Leitner’s voice, and so, it seemed, did Herr Regierungsrath himself, for he abruptly halted his critique and cast Werthen and Berthe a cheery smile.
“But that is not your interest today, is it?”
It took them another ten minutes to find Blauer backstage. Unlike other Viennese whose workweek extended from Monday to half-day Saturday, employees at the Royal Court Opera regularly worked both days of the weekend, for performances knew no days off. Blauer was discussing the finer points of fly loft operation with a new stagehand when Leitner pointed him out.
“I will take my leave now,” Leitner said. “I assure you, the unfortunate accident was not a matter of malfeasance on the part of the Court Opera direction. If you have further questions, I shall be in my office.”
He was gone before Werthen had a chance to ask a question, let alone raise a complaint.
“No malfeasance?” Berthe whispered as the man made a hasty departure. “Perhaps Mahler simply threw himself off the podium in a fit of pique at a missed note.”
Exactly Werthen’s thoughts; he smiled at his wife, then turned to Blauer and the stagehand once again, waiting politely for their discussion to finish before making introductions. Leitner, in his haste, had neglected even that common civility.
Blauer was a compact man with spectacles, listening patiently to the stagehand, a large, florid sort with muttonchops. No one in Vienna, save the emperor, still wore such whiskers. By the sound of the large man’s accent, he was a denizen of Ottakring, a working-class district known for its beer and impenetrable dialect. The perfect sort, Werthen thought, for the mulelike work of hoisting scenery flats with rope.
As the conversation finished, Werthen and Berthe approached the two.
“Herr Blauer,” Werthen said.
“Yes.”
Werthen stopped in his tracks when he realized it was the large man who responded.
“How may I help you?” Blauer nodded for the smaller man to be about his business.
Suddenly the man’s accent was diminished, assuming more of a neutral Viennese tone, still singsong, but not as harsh or guttural as before.
“Herr Regierungsrath Leitner suggested I, we, speak with you.” Werthen made quick introductions. The mention of his professional association with Mahler made the man noticeably stiffen.
“Yes?”
“It is about the unfortunate accident with the podium. I wonder if it would be possible to take a look at it.”
Blauer looked from Werthen to Berthe and back to the lawyer, folded his massive arms over his barrel chest, and slowly shook his head.
“Afraid not,” he said.
“You refuse to allow an inspection?” Werthen said.
Another brusque shake of the man’s head. “No, not like that at all. But it’s impossible, you see. We tossed the podium yesterday. It’ll be wood chips by now in our set factory. We’re constructing a
new one.”
“Unfortunate,” Werthen muttered.
“How’s that?” Blauer cupped his ear toward Werthen; the commotion all around them had made his comment unintelligible.
“Nothing,” Werthen said. “Simply that it would have been advantageous to examine the old podium for design flaws.”
“Well, we did that, didn’t we? Nothing we could see but the usual wear and tear. I think Herr Mahler slipped off, becoming rather agitated during rehearsals.”
Not so far off the mark of Berthe’s earlier sarcastic remark.
“If that’ll be all?” Blauer said, his body already in motion. “Lots to see to this afternoon.”
“There was an earlier accident, as well,” Werthen said, ignoring the man’s question.
Blauer sighed. “Fräulein Kaspar, you mean?”
“Yes,” Werthen responded. “Fräulein Kaspar and the fire curtain. Herr Mahler came close to injury in that matter, did he not?”
“The young singer fared rather worse, I should think.” Blauer inadvertently strayed into his Ottakring accent as he said this.
“Nonetheless, two such accidents should raise concern.”
“We got rid of the stagehand responsible for that,” Blauer explained. “I was forever telling the man not to saddle a dead horse, but would he listen?”
“By that, I assume you mean one should not clamp the nonload-bearing end of a rope?”
Blauer looked impressed. “Exactly so. Have you worked as a stagehand?”
Werthen felt himself redden at the question. He caught Berthe hiding a smile behind her hand.
“No,” he curtly answered. “I am merely well read.”
Blauer ignored this. “Redl was his name. He could never get the basic concepts in his head. After the incident with the fire curtain, I let him go.”
“You’re saying that this Herr Redl was responsible for the fire curtain falling.”
“He denied it, of course. But I took a look at the cables afterward. Clamped all wrong. The man was a fool.”
“And where might one contact Herr Redl?”
Blauer blew his lips in disgust. “Nowhere near here, that is for sure. Couldn’t find a job anywhere in the empire after that. Stage gossip is the fellow made off for America where they won’t know about his work record. Worse luck for them.”