When they reached the adagio molto espressivo, Liebermann took advantage of the slower tempo to steal glances at Trezska. Her eyes were closed and her body arched backward as she drew her bow across the strings of her instrument. She had unpinned her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. Liebermann marveled at how strands of such midnight-blue blackness could also shine so brightly. His stare dropped-briefly-to her compressed cleavage, and then down to the slim girdle of her waist. In the pianissimo passages he could detect the creaking of her corset. He inhaled her fragrance, not just the clementine and mimosa of her perfume, but her entire olfactory signature. Liebermann knew that the French had a word for this sensuous bouquet-the totality of a woman's smell-but it had slipped from his memory.
After they had finished playing the spring sonata, Trezska wanted to repeat certain passages again. She was unhappy with the scherzo, and wondered whether the rondo had not been played a little too fast. She flicked the pages of the open score back with the tip of her bow.
“Allegro ma non troppo,” she said curtly.
They discussed some technical details and she asked Liebermann about the quality of her performance.
“Well,” he said, evidently apprehensive, “it was very beautiful… a very lyrical reading…”
“However?”
“You inserted a few glissandi in the adagio, which is not really how the Viennese like their Beethoven.” Not wishing to be harsh, he added, “I am simply pointing this out because Rose will almost certainly object.”
“And…?” Trezska prompted, demonstrating her percipient sensitivity: she had detected another unexpressed caveat in the cast of Liebermann s features.
“The vibrato,” said Liebermann. “Again, perhaps a little too much for Viennese tastes.”
“I see,” she said. Then, tapping the open page with her bow, she indicated that she was ready to repeat the rondo.
As they played, Liebermann thought back to what had happened two days earlier on the Prater: the tree, Trezska's prescient anxiety, and the lightning strike. In the carriage, driving back to Landstrasse, Trezska had at first been preoccupied, but by the time they had crossed the Danube canal, her spirits had rallied. She had grasped Liebermann's hand, squeezed it affectionately, and thanked him for a wonderful day. It was as though the lightning strike had never happened-and, strangely, they had not spoken about it since. Before they parted, he had invited her to his apartment to practice the spring sonata, so that she might be better prepared for her lessons with Rose. “Yes,” she had said. “If you don't mind-that would be very helpful.”
When they had finished the rondo, Trezska tuned her violin, and put more rosin on her bow. She played a few scales and, between these, the fragment of a melody. It was so exotic, so distinct, that it immediately aroused Liebermann's interest.
“What was that?”
“A folk song: did you like it?”
“Yes. It sounded rather… unusual.”
Trezska played another angular phrase. “I learned it from a peasant woman. It had been taught to her by her mother, who had learned it in turn from her mother-the woman's grandmother. The song is called The Reaper — and it has been passed down, so she said, from mother to daughter, for countless generations. I asked her how old it was and she replied, ‘As old as the world.’
Trezska drew her bow across the lower strings and produced a primitive, haunting melody. It was based on a simple modal figure- but was executed with excessive and wild ornamentation. The meter was irregular, changing every few bars. It was a sound that conjured an image of people working the land, engaged in perpetual back-breaking toiclass="underline" it suggested great plains and an overarching sky-the scorching summers and bitter winters of an infinite steppe.
“Quite extraordinary,” said Liebermann.
“The real music of my country,” Trezska said proudly.
“Would you play some more?”
“No, not now. Another time. We have work to do.”
“Of course.”
They played some more Beethoven, and a few Mozart sonatasincluding the little E minor. In due course, Liebermann raised his wrist and pointed to his watch. The law decreed that music-making in Vienna had to cease at eleven-and it had just gone half past ten.
“It is getting late-and, sadly, we must bring our music-making to an end. Besides, you must be tired. Shall we find you a cab?”
Trezska smiled, and shook her head. “That won't be necessary. I have no intention of returning to Landstrasse.”
She glanced through the open double doors and across the landing, to what she clearly hoped was Liebermann's bedroom.
44
Gerold Sommer peered out of his window. He was grateful that the sky had cleared and the moon was shining brightly. A lamp at this hour would be conspicuous on the grounds of the school. He put on his coat, picked up a paraffin lamp and a box of matches, and hopped down the corridor on his crutches. Thankfully, Lang was a heavy sleeper. Sommer turned the key carefully and pushed the front door open. The air was freezing. He thought of returning to his room to get some gloves and a hat but decided against it. Too much noise.
The path sparkled with frost and was easy to follow. It took him to the front of the school. He passed the statue of Saint Florian and entered the courtyard. It was much darker beneath the cloisters, and it was at this point that he lit his lamp. He adjusted the wick so that it provided just enough illumination for him to find his way-but no more.
Once inside the school, he progressed to the back of the building and with great difficulty descended a flight of stairs that led to a large damp basement room, one wall of which was covered in lockers. They were arranged in alphabetical order. Sommer lowered the lamp, and read the names: Zehrer, Zeigler, Zelenka. He pulled the wooden door open and waved the lamp around, attempting to illuminate the shadowy recess.
Nothing.
He placed the lamp on the floor and thrust his hand inside the locker, frantically exploring the space with his fingertips.
Still nothing.
He cursed under his breath.
“Looking for something?”
It was a young voice-one of the boys.
Sommer started and swung around.
On the other side of the room the speaker struck a match. The flame slowly rose to meet the end of a cigarette and cast a yellow light over the distinctive features of Kiefer Wolf. “It's no good, sir,” said the boy, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “All Zelenka's possessions were removed. Well… with the exception of one item.”
Sommer swallowed.
“What… what was it?”
“The only thing that I thought was worth taking: a rather fine dictionary.”
“Give it to me.”
“Why should I?”
“It's of no use to you.”
“True. But it's clearly of considerable use to you!”
As Wolf drew on his cigarette, his face reappeared-infernal, in the red incandescence.
“What do you want, Wolf?”
“Only that you continue to honor our arrangement.”
“I've already said that I would. I'll keep my word… You don't need that dictionary as well!”
“Have you read much Nietzsche, sir?”
“What?”
“Nietzsche-the philosopher.”
“I know who he is, boy!” said Sommer, suddenly angered. “According to Nietzsche,” said Wolf, “you can never have enough power.”
45
Liebermann was unfamiliar with Zielinski’s-but it was where Trezska had insisted that they meet: a small, dilapidated coffeehouse, close to her apartment in Landstrasse. He had chosen to sit at the rear of the coffeehouse on one of several quilted benches, arranged in pairs, with an oblong table between: a small velvet drape increased privacy by partitioning the heads of adjacent patrons.