Nonsense! I thought. Journalists thrive on gossip. Scandals are the condiments that add spice to a journalist's trade, but for the time being I would have to let him pretend he was above spreading such stories. “You are perfectly right, sir,” I said, “and I respect your insistence on being discreet in such matters. Nothing would be more unjust than covering a distinguished couple like Robert and Clara Schumann with a blanket of scandal.”
I had used the word “scandal” deliberately, waiting to see if Adelmann would rush to deny that there was anything scandalous in the air concerning the Schumanns. That he did not do so sent me an important message. At some point, and soon, I would have to subject myself to a second expensive meal with Georg Adelmann in order to delve into what he called “these tales about the Schumanns themselves”.
But for now I would have to be content to learn more about the composer's past rather than his present.
“Schumann's childhood and early youth were blessed on one hand because of his talents,” Adelmann said, “but on the other hand were over-burdened with his parents’ ambitions for him and their expectations of him. This ‘on-one-hand-and-on-the-other-hand’ pattern applied to everything in Schumann's growing and developing years. He had a close relationship with his father and his three older brothers, which fed the masculine side of his life; but he was also closely attached to his mother and to her more feminine interests. At times, he was a very sociable and outgoing child; at other times, he was anxious and withdrawn. When he was fifteen, his older sister Emilie committed suicide by drowning. Soon after, his father died suddenly. Schumann was devastated by both losses. So much happiness at times, so much tragedy at other times. Schumann's cheerfulness as a child vanished almost overnight. He became taciturn, daydreamed a great deal and, by his own admission, was unsure of himself in social settings.”
Dr. Adelmann paused. Somehow he had managed to consume his plate of food while talking (the tablecloth bearing increasing evidence of this feat) and nodded now with approval as I refilled his wine glass for the third time. For a moment he turned his attention to the whereabouts of our waiter, which I took as a signal that he was ready for one of the desserts that stood tantalizingly on display on a nearby trolley. To my dismay, he selected not one but two-a large bowl of trifle and a generous slice of apple strudel.
Watching Georg Adelmann pitch with gusto into his desserts (he paused only long enough now and then for a noisy sip of his coffee), I was beginning to think that the price I was paying far exceeded the value of the information he was yielding. Wasn't it the same for everyone? I asked myself: friends and relatives come and go, prosper and fail, live and die. I began to fear that the Schumann monograph would prove about as fascinating as a railway schedule and only half as useful.
But just as I was about to consign this luncheon to the wastebasket, Dr. Adelmann redeemed himself.
Studying a large forkful of strudel, he said in a casual way, “You are aware, are you not, Preiss, that some years ago-when he turned twenty-one, to be precise-Schumann conceived the idea that he had produced twin companions, companions of the mind, so to speak? He called one ‘Florestan’, the other ‘Eusebius’. Florestan represented Schumann's outgoing masculine side, the social being, the man of action.”
“You mean Florestan, the hero in Beethoven's opera Fidelio?”
“Exactly. Eusebius, on the other hand, was named after the Christian saint, of course, and represented martyrdom, suffering, submission. The two ‘spoke’ to Schumann, or so he revealed to intimates. They provided a kind of balance to his life and his artistic endeavors, gave him a sense of direction, he claimed. Still claims, in fact.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, Adelmann said, “And as if that were not enough, the poor fellow was much too preoccupied with sex. Obsessed is more like it.”
I wasn't certain I wanted my guest to go on with this particular topic, not at Emmerich's Restaurant des Artistes. God knows I wasn't prudish about the subject of sex. As a police investigator, I had come across just about every kind of sexual activity known to the human species. Still, there were limits to what one discussed openly. “If I may be frank, Dr. Adelmann,” I said, speaking as politely as I could, “I would prefer to hear about Schumann's sexual problems in a more private venue.”
“Come, come, Preiss!” said Adelmann. “I take it, sir, that you are a man of the world and not some naïve country bumpkin. Word has it that between over-indulgence in sexual intercourse with a variety of young women, and presumably an excessive amount of pleasuring himself, Schumann's most private part-his penis, to be specific-is in dreadful condition. You know, Preiss, one cannot be cavalier about where one deploys one's ‘soldier’. The trenches are perilous, and grievous wounds are too often suffered for the sake of instant gratification.”
Pompous ass! Besides, given his obvious dedication to his stomach, my guess was that his “soldier” seldom if ever saw active service in “the trenches”.
“Several highly respected physicians,” Adelmann continued, “have speculated-privately to me, you understand-that he probably contracted a form of venereal disease as a young man. How has this affected his marriage? Well now, there's a choice topic for speculation, eh?” Adelmann gave me a wise wink.
As we rose to leave the restaurant, he suddenly tugged at my arm. “I suppose you've heard about Schumann's house guest? Very interesting young man. Composer and pianist. Hails from Hamburg. Been on a concert tour. Apparently stopped over in Düsseldorf. I understand they are very taken with this fellow. You know: kindred spirits, lovers of the romantic movement in music. Like the proverbial peas in a pod, so I'm told. I was introduced to him recently. Quite handsome, even dashing. Tall, blond, eyes like sapphires.”
The description immediately brought to mind the stranger in the conductor's lounge the previous evening. “I believe I may have seen the young man you describe last night, after the concert. Do you recall his name?”
“Of course,” Adelmann said. “Johannes Brahms. I can tell you, his is a name to remember!”
Chapter Eight
Early the following morning-a Tuesday-I arrived at my office wanting nothing more than to close my door, sit back in my chair with my feet propped up on my desk, and catch a half hour's sleep without disturbance. I had spent the previous night and early morning hours in a cell-like bedroom, the walls and ceilings of which looked as though they had been painted crimson by some shamefully inept decorator. The “painter” clearly was the same man who had left similar souvenirs of his artistry in two other bedrooms in this lower-class section of Düsseldorf in recent weeks. The victims, all young prostitutes, had their throats cut after suffering multiple stab wounds. As the investigator in charge, I was under orders from the Commissioner of Police to spare no effort in the search for the killer.
But somehow the eagerness and the energy that, up to now, had flowed so unflaggingly in me, seemed to have leaked through my pores, as though through a sieve. Making my way from that bedroom to the Constabulary, I experienced a weariness far beyond anything physical. Face it, Preiss, I lectured myself, this is what you do to earn your living-and not too bad a living it is-so put your heart and soul into it!
The lecture was falling on deaf ears. Over the course of my stroll back to police headquarters-I passed up a carriage ride, wanting some time to myself-I pondered the reasons for this sudden and uncharacteristic lethargy.
In my heart of hearts, as my career went on, there was this feeling, weak at first but steadily gaining in strength, that there was a tiresomeness about crime that inevitably made the investigation of crime tiresome.