She interrupted me. “Not to mention Clara Schumann, of course?” She gave me a knowing smile, the kind of smile born of womanly intuition.
I pretended not to comprehend. “Meaning what?”
Helena heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. As though speaking to herself, she said, “Men are so terribly boring when they pretend to be stupid.” She looked at me again. “Meaning, Hermann, that men instantly become enchanted with Clara Schumann even before her fingers settle on the keyboard. Are you going to sit there and claim to be the exception?”
“My interest in this case is purely professional,” I insisted. “So, can I count on you to help me?”
“Help you how?”
“First, say yes; then I'll explain.”
Looking anxiously over her shoulder, she said: “Oh dear, my goulash must be ice-cold by now. Ask the waiter to take it back to the kitchen and heat it up, Hermann.”
Knowing Helena, this was her way of saying yes.
Chapter Five
There was a firmness in my step as I walked to my office at the headquarters of the Düsseldorf Constabulary. I felt fueled by a new and different sense of purpose. And yet, in one of those rare moments of introspection that plague an otherwise single-minded sleuth, I asked myself: Was Helena right? Was there some ulterior motive driving me to pursue this case?
Of course, I was genuinely moved by the plight of Robert Schumann. Who wouldn't be, witnessing the state he was in?
But as for Clara Schumann? Well, yes, I was intrigued. More than intrigued. Captivated!
Although my hours of work were long and erratic, what spare time was available to me I chose to spend in recital halls, art galleries and libraries. Among my colleagues in the Constabulary I was looked upon as a bit of an oddity, no doubt because I preferred a solitary hour in a bookshop to the after-hours camaraderie of a beer hall.
These extra-curricular interests of mine put me in touch with a number of eminent people in the cultural life of Düsseldorf. One of the connections I'd made was Georg Adelmann, a journalist of note who wrote extensively about music and musicians for newspapers as well as for academic publications, and who I knew to be writing a monograph on the life and work of Schumann. Though he travelled widely gathering information for his articles and treatises, Adelmann returned to his apartment in Düsseldorf to write his pieces, and I was aware that he was in the city at this time. Before meeting again with Schumann, I was determined to gain as many details about his background as I could. What better source than Georg Adelmann?
I immediately dispatched this note to Adelmann:
Dear Dr. Adelmann:
I understand you are working on a monograph on the life and works of Robert Schumann.
My close friend, the cellist Helena Becker, is about to make her debut as a solo performer. The work she has chosen is the Maestro's Cello Concerto in A Minor. Helena feels that in order to do justice to so passionate a work, she must acquire the deepest possible understanding not only of the music itself but of the man who created it.
Knowing that you and I are acquaintances, and being herself almost painfully shy about approaching you directly, Miss Becker has prevailed upon me to speak to you on her behalf. I would be enormously in your debt if you and I could chat-perhaps over lunch-so that I may in turn give Miss Becker the benefit of your insights concerning Schumann, the man as well as the composer.
Most respectfully,
Hermann Preiss
Chapter Six
It was billed in the local press as a gala event, the highlight of the new concert season in Düsseldorf. Robert and Clara Schumann would present an all-Schumann program, he conducting his Fourth Symphony, she performing his Piano Concerto. There would follow a reception sponsored by the Music Society, which meant that the cream of the city's upper class, brimming with Champagne and high-society gossip, would retire afterward to their mansions to speculate deliciously on how long a mis-matched couple like Robert and Clara Schumann could be expected to remain husband and wife. After all, he was nine years her senior, now forty-four but looked sixty-four thanks (as I was soon to learn) to heavy bouts of drinking, and the steady consumption of pills for a variety of aches and pains, most of which were rumoured to be imagined rather than real. She was a very different story. Now in her thirty-fifth year, Clara Schumann exhibited an effortless radiance.
The concert was sold out, and I was unable at the last minute to purchase a ticket. Apart from the desire to hear the music, I was eager to watch the Schumanns “in action”, so to speak, before my next encounter with the composer himself. A long line of disgruntled people were being turned away outside the hall, told that there was no longer even standing room. One of the privileges of my office, however, was that I was able to gain entrance simply by presenting my credentials to the manager of the box office. Somehow, an aisle seat only six rows from the stage materialized. I took my seat and settled back, anticipating two thrilling hours of music.
The overture, also composed by Schumann, went well, and he seemed pleased with the enthusiastic applause.
The piano concerto went even better. But I thought the Maestro ought to have done the gallant thing and allowed his wife to take solo bows for a performance whose success was largely attributable to her playing. Instead, the two stood side-by-side to acknowledge a standing ovation that I felt was meant for her alone. When an usher emerged from the wings to present the pianist with an enormous bouquet of carnations, I detected a slight frown on Schumann's face, as though it was he who should have received the floral tribute.
During the intermission, I mingled with that segment of the audience who, occupying the orchestra and box seats, were entitled to occupy the luxuriously appointed mezzanine lounge. The comforting aroma of hearty good living perfumed the air, thick and tangible, like the scoop of whipped cream that crowned my slice of Black Forest cake. And there were other things in the air, half-whispered remarks. “For a man who looks as though he's been to hell and back, he still knows how to deliver a good tune…” “Can you imagine that young woman having to go to bed every night with a man who looks old enough to be her father!”
It was just as the ushers were beginning to announce the conclusion of the intermission that I happened to catch sight of Georg Adelmann hastily downing a demitasse of coffee at the refreshment table.
“What great good luck, Preiss,” Adelmann said, giving me a cheerful pat on the shoulder. “This will save us exchanging notes. Are you free for lunch tomorrow, say, twelve noon at my club?”
“Twelve noon sounds splendid,” I said, “but what club are you referring to?”
“Why, the Düsseldorf Arts and Letters Club, of course.”
“But Dr. Adelmann,” I said, “you are doing me a favour, and therefore it is I who should be hosting our luncheon.”
An admission here: I was merely being polite. The truth was that I had never before set foot in the premises of Düsseldorf's exclusive and prestigious culture centre, a place reputed to serve some of the finest food and rarest wines in the country, all consumed by men of distinction and wealth. An opportunity to be a guest there was not lightly to be passed up.
To my dismay, Adelmann said, grinning jovially, “Very well then, I agree to be your guest, since you insist.”
I had hardly insisted, but now was faced with taking the famous journalist for what would surely be an expensive meal at one of the city's better cafés, one that would seriously strain my budget. My mother had warned me about this kind of thing. “Hermann,” she would say, “the rich get richer by saving, the poor get poorer by spending.” She cited my father as the perfect example of that adage.