The Mephisto Mysteries
Terence O’Grady
Copyright 2012 Terence O’Grady
Cover images courtesy of Justyna Pszczolka, Ekaterina Naimushina & dreamstime.com
Cover by Joleene Naylor
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is a coincidence.
Table of Contents
Preface
Franz Liszt, perhaps the greatest pianist/composer of the nineteenth century, was not only a brilliant musician but possessed an extraordinary, even magnetic personality. His pianistic technique seemed so vastly superior to that of his competitors that there were frequent whispers suggesting some sort of collaboration with Mephistopheles. Could any living soul play with such incredible skill without in some way being in league with darker forces? Modern scholars refuse to take such ideas seriously, of course, but in the 19th century, many music lovers—and many of Liszt’s competitors— were not so sure. Liszt’s students worshipped their teacher and more than one attempted to wield the same incredible powers as their master…by any possible means.
Prologue
Rome, 1842
My Dear Liszt,
I received your most recent letter with the greatest pleasure. That a great man—a great composer such as you—should honor me with such a communication is almost beyond my comprehension. I have no words to express my gratitude.
To have been your student—however briefly—has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. To think that you would deign to bestow on me, not only your priceless instruction in the exalted art of music, but also your unsurpassed wisdom and the secrets of your power, moves me beyond measure. For your power is unequalled, not only among the immortals of music but among the greatest men of the century.
I can only hope that you will continue to entrust me with the great secrets that only you fully understand.
Your devoted servant,
Count Sebastian
Chapter 1
More than anything else in the world, Elizabeth McDermitt wanted to find a coffee house that didn’t have WiFi. Honestly, she thought, the college students camp there for hours and look at you like you’re encroaching on their sacred territory the minute you enter the room.
At twenty-three, raven-haired Elizabeth didn’t look much older than the college students herself. But she had no interest in checking in on her Facebook page or downloading tunes. All she really wanted was a little time to herself without a piano keyboard in front of her. She had been in Vienna for a week now and had spent the vast majority of that time playing exercises on one of the grand pianos in the oldest wing of Vienna’s grandest conservatory. For the time being, anyway, she had had enough of the piano.
In fact, there had been more than one occasion when she wondered whether it had been a good idea to devote her summer to an international piano competition in Vienna. It was a wonderful city and she enjoyed what she had seen of it, despite her woeful German. But of course she had seen very little of it. That was the problem, or at least one of them. Stuck in the practice room for hours a day, she had little chance to expand her horizons and or absorb the glories of Vienna.
Originally, it had sounded like a great idea. She was thrilled—and surprised—when she won the North American semi-finals for the Radovsky Prize. She had never won anything that important in her life and the whole thing seemed exciting and glamorous.
But the excitement had faded all too quickly. Now, coming to Vienna to compete with young artists from all over the world for the Radovsky Prize, her life had become a grind. She felt guilty if she didn’t practice for six to seven hours a day. Her piano teacher had told her to lighten up, insisting that too much practice would make her stale, tighten up her wrists. Elizabeth was beginning to realize that her teacher was probably right. But it didn’t matter. She knew she had to work at it harder than anyone else in order to succeed. And the first performance in the competition was just a few days away.
Just as she was about to give up and trudge back to the practice room, she saw a likely prospect—a small coffee shop on the corner that seemed too “old-world” for WiFi. It probably has it, she thought, but has the good sense not to advertise it. As she reached for the door handle, she heard someone rapidly approaching her from behind.
“This is almost miraculous!” said David Currant, putting his hand lightly on her shoulder. “You’ve actually managed to escape from the practice room.”
Elizabeth smiled weakly at David, a tall, sturdily-built young man a year or two older than her. She didn’t exactly dislike David. They had hit it off well when they first met and on some level she still found his earnestness attractive. But he seemed a little clingy. Of course, he was alone in a new city just like she was, being the American alternate in the Radovsky competition. Being an alternate, he would probably not get a chance to play, not unless Elizabeth took ill or was for some reason unavailable. And she certainly didn’t intend to let that happen. So David, although obligated to keep practicing and stay ready, was probably going to spend the whole festival on the sidelines. At least he seemed fairly cheerful about his situation and she admired him for that.
“I see you’ve managed to take a little time off from the piano as well,” she told him as she entered quickly into the coffee shop ahead of him.
“Absolutely necessary for mental health,” he said cheerfully, following closely after her. “Where shall we sit?”
Elizabeth took a seat near the window and David quickly pulled up the chair next to her.
“Elizabeth!” he said, gazing intently into her face. “You look horrible! You need a lot more sleep.”
She sighed. “Nice to know chivalry is alive in Vienna. No, I don’t need more sleep. I need more practice.”
“Haven’t you been practicing six hours straight? You’ve got to eat. You’ve got to sleep. You look terrible!” said David, shaking his head slowly.
“Well, as you can see, I am taking a break. But it can’t be a long one. I’ve got to…”
“What’ll you have?” David asked her brightly as the waitress came over to the table.
“Oh, just a cappuccino, I guess.”
“I’ll have the same. Two, Miss.”
“Nice little place,” she said, staring out the window at the passerbys, dressed warmly against the brisk wind.
“Absolutely!” said David eagerly. “But seriously, Elizabeth, if you don’t get out of that practice room more often, you’re not going to survive. You’re not a machine, you know. And if you don’t get enough sleep, the muscles won’t perform and your brain won’t function properly.”
“My brain is simply going to have to look out for itself,” she said wearily. “It’s going to have to keep up with my hands and that’s all there is to it. At this point, things are not going quite as well as I’d like.”
“If you’re struggling right now, that’s all the more reason you need a break. You’re playing a Liszt piece, right? It’s great music, but everybody knows that you have to take frequent breaks when doing battle with Liszt.”
“Everybody knows that?”
“Everybody I know knows it,” David said, cracking a slight smile.
“That’s because you don’t like Liszt,” Elizabeth replied.
“Not at all,” he said, reaching into his wallet to pay for the two cappuccinos. “All I’m saying is that you don’t have to kill yourself with over-practicing. Take it easy. Enjoy life a little. See the city with me.”
“Look, David,” Elizabeth said, shifting in her seat to look him squarely in the face. “Nobody ever said that winning the Radovsky Prize was going to be easy. It wouldn’t be easy for anyone, and it certainly won’t be easy for me. I’m an unknown pianist from a small town in Iowa. Everybody was shocked when I beat five other pianists to win the American semi-finals. How many people thought I’d be here—in Vienna—four months later competing in the international finals?”
“Well, don’t sell yourself short. I’ve always told you that you were a great piano player. If you just do your best…that’s all that matters.”
“You know, that’s true for a lot of things in life, but not here. Here, winning is what matters.”
“Well, sure…but you’ve got to enjoy the ride. Just competing at this level is…”
“No, David. I am not simply thrilled to be here. Just being here is nothing. I’m here to win and I’ll accept nothing less than that.”
David smiled and shook his head gently as the door to the small coffee shop opened again and Frederico, a dark, wiry young man with curly locks flowing to his shoulders, appeared in the doorway, smiling broadly.
“Ah, my two favorite Americans in Vienna! I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” piped Frederico cheerfully, twirling his substantial black mustache as he swung a chair over from another table to join them.
David smiled. “I’m pretty sure that we’re the only two Americans you know in Vienna.”
“Well, you’re certainly the only ones who matter…the only two Americans competing with me for the Radovsky Prize. And what could be more important than that?”
“I’m actually just an alternate…” David began.
“And now that we are all here,” interrupted Frederico. “What shall we talk about?”
Elizabeth forced a smile. “I was just about to get back to practicing.”
“Nonsense!” said Frederico. “Your practice schedule is ridiculous. The best thing you could do would be to stop using your hands and use your head for a while.”
“Strangely enough,” Elizabeth murmured, “I thought I was using my head along with my hands.”
“Well, I think you’re wrong,” snapped Frederico, flinging himself over a nearby chair. David cracked an amused grin.
“You practice at the keyboard…always at the keyboard…so that means you’re not using your brain…only your hands.”
Elizabeth gave Frederico a disgusted look. “That’s ridiculous. I analyzed this piece right down to the smallest detail before I played a note. I know this work forward and backward.”
“Ah, but now you play, play, play…play by the hour as if you can force the music to stay beneath your fingers,” insisted Frederico, still beaming broadly. “Sometimes you need to step away from the piece and do something completely different for a few hours and then come back to it.”
“Thanks for your opinion, but…”
“Don’t you see that you have to take some time off to get a new perspective?” interrupted Frederico.
“Stop it!” demanded Elizabeth. “The piece is coming along. In fact I’m pleased with my progress—more or less. At least I was before the two of you showed up to distract me.”
“Temper, temper now, Elizabeth,” said Frederico, wagging his finger dramatically. “Moody artists perform no better than cheerful ones and they’re much less fun at our Radovsky Festival receptions.”
“Ah, the famous receptions,” interjected David. “Elizabeth and I haven’t had that pleasure yet.”
“You’ll get your chance,” replied Frederico. “The first one is tomorrow night. And don’t believe it for a moment when they tell you that attendance is optional. It’s likely that at least two of the judges will be there—Madame Troussant and Mr. Bertini—and they do like it when the competitors socialize with each other. So grit your teeth and enjoy it—or at least pretend that you don’t hate it.”
“You’ve been to these things before, I suppose,” said Elizabeth.
“Of course. Don’t forget that I’m a veteran of this competition,” Frederico announced proudly. “I was a finalist last year as well. I know the ins and outs.”
“I had forgotten,” said David quietly. “I’m sorry if….”
“It doesn’t matter,” Frederico shot back brightly. “Not one of my most successful adventures, I’ll admit. I didn’t do particularly well in the final concert, but…so what? I am back once again this year…older and wiser…and with a few new tricks up my sleeve.”
“New tricks?” asked Elizabeth encouragingly.
“Absolutely! Tomorrow, before the reception, I go on my yearly pilgrimage to the Church of St. Boniface. It’s one of Vienna’s most fascinating little churches with this great little library attached. It’s really quite amazing, although almost no one knows about it. It has a small collection of manuscripts—tiny, really. There are some Beethoven scores—not real compositions of course—but some teaching scores. Scores he marked for some of his students. I sit and gaze at them for hours…absorbing the master’s spirit you know.”
“Really?” asked David eagerly. “They let you really get that close to them?”
“Absolutely, you can even handle them, if you’re careful,” replied Frederico.
“That’s amazing” said David.
“The church itself isn’t that pleasant to look at. It’s dark and damp as a tomb this time of the year. But the library has a little old man who brings you the scores and then simply leaves you alone. St. Boniface doesn’t get that many tourists, you know, so if you walk in the door and sound like you know what you’re doing, the librarian will assume that you really do and just leave you alone. So what do you say, my friends? Who would like to accompany Frederico on his pilgrimage?”
“Absolutely,” David chimed in quickly, casting a furtive glance in Elizabeth’s direction.
Elizabeth sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve really got to…”
“Enough with the fingers!” demanded Frederico. “It’s time for a break. The library even has a few Liszt manuscripts if memory serves me right. Nothing really big, you understand. Mostly some exercises he prepared for a student he taught briefly, a Count Sebastian. Years ago Sebastian’s heirs donated all of his compositions and piano scores to the library. I guess no major research library was even interested.”
“It actually has some Liszt manuscripts?” asked Elizabeth eagerly.
“Now don’t get your hopes up, Elizabeth. I told you this was minor stuff…a few exercises perhaps. Although I really don’t know why you care. Liszt was a horrible composer and a very strange man at that.”
“Not exactly strange,” said David. “More mysterious than horrible if you ask me.”
“I don’t care what either of you think. I’ve got to see those Liszt scores, if they really exist,” Elizabeth said firmly, standing up and gathering her bag.
Frederico beamed eagerly. “Wonderful! Meet me at 11:00 tomorrow morning on the church steps and I’ll be your guide!”
Elizabeth paused on the steps of the old church, eyeing the faded gray edifice warily. Frederico was right. The church wasn’t much to look at, even in the bright morning sunshine on a lovely, early winter’s day. The façade was unremarkable at best—blocky and blunt with no interesting lines or details. The tourist literature would no doubt describe it as “formal” and “austere,” but the truth was that it was just plain creepy. But even though she hated to admit it, she was glad to get away from the practice room for a while. Maybe she was practicing too much. Frederico and David meant well, even if both of them could be a nuisance once in a while.
Elizabeth saw Frederico, who had arrived a few seconds after her, bound up the steps quickly, entering the church through the heavy wooden doors that seemed designed more to intimidate visitors than to invite them in. David, right behind Frederico, hesitated at the top of the steps for a moment, clearly waiting for Elizabeth to catch up with him. She dawdled at the bottom of the steps, pretending to study the architecture. Seconds later, David joined Frederico inside the church and Elizabeth climbed the steps slowly. Let’s hope the church is more interesting on the inside than it appears to be from the outside, she thought.
It wasn’t. The stained glass windows let in remarkably little light and the occasional candle did nothing to brighten the dingy interior. The statuary that adorned the three altars in the front of the church was covered with decades of dirt and grime. Clearly, St. Boniface was not making much of an effort to be a tourist attraction, thought Elizabeth.
She saw Frederico gesturing to her vigorously from a side door near the left front of the church. David was beside him, also signaling for her to come ahead. She smiled faintly and walked quickly to meet them.
“It’s here, off the main sanctuary,” said Frederico. “You have to go through the church itself to get to the library.”
Frederico and David disappeared through the narrow door to the library and Elizabeth followed a few seconds later. The library was not overly large but still looked impressive to Elizabeth. The ceilings were higher than expected and the space had a certain grandeur that was oddly missing from the sanctuary itself. There was little general lighting but there were four or five large tables, each equipped with large, green-shaded lamps for examining the library’s collection.
“There are no stacks?” asked Elizabeth hesitantly, scanning the dimly lit room.
“No casual reading here,” said Frederico, smiling broadly. “The only reason anyone ever comes here is to examine some part of the library’s ‘special collections.’ Come on. I’ll negotiate with the ancient librarian. My German is far better than yours.”
Frederico quickly led the way to a small desk centrally located in the room. He greeted the elderly librarian courteously, explaining his needs in a quiet voice. The old man nodded silently and disappeared through an ornately carved door at the far end of the library.
“This may take a while,” said Frederico. “I explained that I needed to look at the Beethoven teaching scores and that the young lady wanted to see the entire collection of Count Sebastian’s materials.”
“And exactly how much material is that?” asked Elizabeth, her eyes widening.
“I have no idea whatsoever,” replied Frederico, “although I should say that the old man seemed a bit surprised by my request.”
“I guess that means that there aren’t many people interested in Sebastian’s archive,” said David quietly.
“I have no idea why he gave me that funny look,” shrugged Frederico. “Perhaps we’ll know more when Elizabeth takes a look at it.”
The three had drifted through the library for several minutes when the librarian returned, pushing a small, creaky cart that contained two separate boxes of papers and scores. Both Frederico and Elizabeth were asked to sign the library’s enormous ledgers. Then they each hefted their pile of materials from the cart and deposited them on one of the library’s long tables.
Frederico quickly ploughed into the pile of Beethoven scores, choosing one and holding it up proudly. “Aha!” he whispered triumphantly to David and Elizabeth. “My bookmark is still in place from my last visit. Apparently this library gets even fewer visitors than I thought.”
After a quick glance, in Elizabeth’s direction, David sat silently beside Frederico and began to examine some of the other scores.
Elizabeth sat quietly in front of her slightly smaller pile of papers for a few seconds. As she began to leaf through the cover sheets listing the various documents, she was somewhat surprised that the collection included what appeared to be a notebook with daily entries—perhaps a diary of some sort—and a ledger book as well as a pile of scores. She quickly glanced through them. Count Sebastian’s scrawl would not be easy to decipher. Elizabeth pushed the diary and ledger book over to the side and began to search for the Liszt autograph score that Frederico had mentioned. The index listed three sheets as “studies” and “teaching materials,” all supposedly by Liszt. She worked her way quickly to the correct portfolio and opened it slowly.
Frederico had been right. She was gazing at authentic Liszt manuscripts—not a doubt in the world about it. Elizabeth had never actually handled a Liszt autograph before. She had studied plenty of facsimiles and microfilms, but she had never before touched a paper that Liszt himself had handled. She paused, put the manuscript down gently, and took a deep breath.
Liszt had fascinated Elizabeth since she was a child, just beginning her first, halting steps as a pianist. Her early piano books had portrayed the dynamic virtuoso almost as a matinee idol—his long, flowing locks swept back by the ferocious energy of his playing. The popular illustrations of Liszt reproduced in her music books and on the wall of her piano teacher’s studio, showed an intensity that was almost eerie. At the keyboard, Liszt was transformed into an almost demonic concentration of power and determination. Liszt seemed truly possessed while at the keyboard, the fire inside him exploding from his fingers and his eyes—those eyes that could stare directly into a person’s soul.
Her piano teacher had often spoken of Liszt’s charisma. Here was a man who had fraternized with Chopin and the famous author George Sand, whose scandalous love affairs were notorious. Liszt could thrill and manipulate audiences—particularly the ladies—with little or no effort. Because of the sense of power and mystery that hovered around Liszt, some people had murmured about a “pact with the devil,” suggesting that Liszt, like the famous nineteenth century violinist Paganini before him, had somehow sold his soul to the devil in order to acquire his fantastic skills. In later years, when Liszt embraced the church and spent a great deal of his time writing religious music, many knowingly shook their heads and said that there would never be enough time for a penitent Liszt to erase his wicked past.
But Elizabeth didn’t care about such stories. It was Liszt’s music she loved, not his reputation, and she couldn’t get enough of it. There were only a few pieces by Liszt that she could play as a young pianist but, as her technique improved, she talked her teachers into letting her explore his music more and more. They hadn’t been all that eager, many of them urging her to play more conservative nineteenth century composers. But with time, even her teachers had to admit that she seemed to have an instinct for Liszt and was able to penetrate the spirit of Liszt’s music in a way that was unusual for a young student. Her current teacher, Professor Jamison, believed that Elizabeth’s interpretations of Liszt’s music were remarkably sensitive—even profound in their own way. It was her performances of some of the Liszt Transcendental Etudes that had made her the winner of the American semi-finals and allowed her to come to Vienna to compete for the Radovsky Prize, the most prestigious award for young pianists in the world.
And now, sitting in a small church in Vienna, Elizabeth found herself gazing on an authentic autograph manuscript written by Liszt himself. The music wasn’t much, just some conventional counterpoint exercises that he had written out for the benefit of his pupil Sebastian—but the notation was clearly in his hand. There was also some writing at the top of the page and in the margins. It appeared to be Liszt’s handwriting but it was more difficult to tell. She would have to look more closely to be sure.
Elizabeth glanced quickly around the room. The old librarian had again left his desk. Frederico and David were locked in animated discussion only a few feet away, their eyes glued to the Beethoven manuscript in front of them. There was no one to see her.
Elizabeth slowly moved her oversized canvas handbag to the top of the table. It was almost miraculous that she had not been required to check her bag at the desk. But the library received so few visitors.
After stealing another furtive glance around the room, Elizabeth gently placed a group of manuscript sheets into her bag.
Chapter 3
It was almost an hour and a half later when Frederico sighed loudly and announced that his brain was full. “I have absorbed as much of Beethoven’s spirit as any man dares to in a single day. Besides, I’m starving. Let’s get lunch.”
David nodded quietly, as did Elizabeth, straightening out the papers in front of her.
Outside, on the church steps, Frederico began to list the nearby restaurants. Elizabeth hesitated, and then expressed her regrets. Unfortunately, they’d be on their own today. Her head ached and she had to get back to her apartment at the conservatory. David remained silent as Frederico looked hopefully at him. No, David explained, he also must get back to his apartment. Frederico shrugged, wished his friends well, and hurried off to lunch while the other two walked off together in silence.
A block later, David spoke quietly. “I saw you, you know…take the manuscript. I’m pretty sure that no one else did.”
Elizabeth took a short breath. “I thought you were preoccupied worshipping at Beethoven’s shrine.”
“I was, but I happened to glance over. What made you do a thing like that?”
“I’m just borrowing a few sheets for a couple of days. They’re unimportant studies…as Frederico said.”
“But they’re Liszt manuscripts…”
“Yes, they are. And that’s what makes them interesting to me. I just want to look at them more closely. I want to figure out what they’re actually saying. They seem to be just a couple of counterpoint exercises but the writing is hard to read and I…”
“You couldn’t do that at the library?”
“No, I couldn’t,” Elizabeth snapped, stopping in her tracks. “I need time to study them—with a piano in front of me. And in case you didn’t notice, there was none available in the library.”
“I realize that, but…”
“Look. I don’t need a father figure in my life just now,” said Elizabeth firmly, her hands going to her hips. “I did no harm by borrowing a few pages of manuscript paper. As Frederico said, no one ever goes into that library anyway. How many people do you think are really interested in the worthless papers of an obscure Count Sebastian?”
“Well, if there’s one, there may be more,” said David, shaking his head gently.
Elizabeth paused, looking down at the ground between them. “Look, David. I’m not even sure why you’re here in Vienna in the first place.”
“I’m here as a pianist…same as you.”
“You’re here because you’re an alternate in the competition? The only way you’re going to play is if I get sick and can’t perform. You don’t really think that’s going to happen, do you?”
“Okay, so I’m just an alternate. Finished right behind you in the North American semi-finals as you may recall,” David replied flippantly.
“But,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head, “you told me the other day that your wrist is in such bad shape, you couldn’t play if you wanted to.”
“Sure, it would be difficult.”
“And once the first performances begin—which is in just a couple of days— the original finalists can’t be replaced by an alternate anyway.”
“Very true.”
“So David, why are you here? You know you’re not going to play a note in Vienna.”
David smiled. “I’m here to see the sights, what else? And I’m here to help out if you need it.”
“But I don’t need it, David. Can’t you see that? I don’t have to be directed, and I don’t have to be coached. I don’t even have to be encouraged. I’m fine. I know what I’m doing.”
“Okay, you’ve made your point.”
“Have I? The problem is, David, that you just assume I need your help…or want your help. I’m sorry if I sound cruel. I do appreciate your concern but…”
“But you can do without it at the moment. I understand perfectly. You need your space and, as it turns out, I have a number of errands to run at the moment.” David gave an exaggeratedly low bow and walked back in the direction of the church.
Chapter 4
Elizabeth sagged back into the only comfortable chair in her apartment. My God, this place is depressing, she thought, gazing sadly at the peeling walls and water-stained ceiling. Not exactly the luxurious accommodations she had expected from the famous Radovsky competition. She closed her eyes. Her headache, which had started in the library, had gotten even worse. She should grab something to eat and head back to the practice room. But, right now, she just didn’t have the energy.
All of this had been more difficult than she thought it would be. When she had been declared winner of the North American semi-finals for the Radovsky competition, she was naturally elated. That victory—unexpected and hard earned—had been the most thrilling experience of her life. She told herself that no matter what happened from that point on, she had proven herself to be a serious artist—an important artist—and that was all she had ever hoped for. Just competing in Vienna with many of the greatest young pianists in the world was reward enough for her hard work. How could she ask for more?
And yet, upon arriving in Vienna and spending the first few hours in the dimly lit practice rooms of the oldest wing of the conservatory, it soon became clear that just competing was not enough. She now felt that anything less than a first place prize would be a defeat—a devastating defeat that would destroy the confidence she had so carefully built up over the years.
She knew her competitors—many of them at least—by reputation. Four of them had won important “young artist” competitions previously. She was by far the least heralded of the group with no major awards to her name. And yet she was grimly determined to succeed against the odds. She knew she didn’t have the technical skills that some of the others had. Having heard recordings of several of the other pianists, she knew that their technique was in many cases remarkable. She knew she would not be able to surpass her competitors in terms of sheer pianistic virtuosity. If that were all a particular judge cared about, he probably wouldn’t be impressed with Elizabeth’s playing.
And yet, she believed she had an advantage. As Professor Jamison had explained to her, it wasn’t enough to play with speed and power. It wasn’t enough to be clean and precise in terms of touch and articulation. A performer must make the music meaningful to the listener. Every piece had its own story to tell—a musical story, not necessarily a descriptive or programmatic one. This is where she thought she might be able to surpass the others, getting to the essence of a piece of music and communicating it to the listener. All of her really perceptive teachers had recognized that quality in her and praised her for it. She was sure that it was her power to communicate—her ability to convince the sensitive listener that her interpretation was precisely what the composer had intended—that made her stand out. And she had always felt especially attuned to Liszt. She believed that she came as close to tapping into Liszt’s musical soul as any other young pianist in the world. A lot of other pianists avoided Liszt’s music entirely. It was too difficult, too demanding. But she had always felt a connection with Liszt, now more than ever.
And now she had in her possession one of his manuscripts—actually written in Liszt’s hand—touched and handled by the master. This modest manuscript would draw her even closer to Liszt’s spirit.
She supposed it had been silly—dangerously silly—for her to have to taken it. But she saw no reason for David to be so sanctimonious about it. No harm was done to anyone. She would look at the manuscript briefly, play through a few of the counterpoint exercises contained in it, and make another attempt at deciphering Liszt’s sketchy handwriting in the margins and between the staves. Then it would go back to the library, without anyone ever noticing it had been missing.
But even if she couldn’t possess the manuscript for long, it was important for her to be able to hold it in her hands for a little while… especially now, when her playing had to be at its best and most sensitive. Her ability to play Liszt’s music had gotten her into this competition and, if she were to have a chance to win, she would have to see even deeper into Liszt’s soul.
Elizabeth slowly reached down into her bag and gently pulled out the pages of manuscript. Now in her apartment, the pages somehow seemed larger…heavier. Apparently she had grabbed more from the file than she had intended to. No matter. The Liszt manuscripts were the only important things and she had to look at those with a piano in front of her.
She moved to the old upright piano in her apartment. Unlike her practice room piano, this piano was almost junk. It was unusable for any serious playing, but it would be good enough to play through the simple exercises that Liszt had written for his student.
Elizabeth placed the first of the three manuscript sheets on the music rack. She sat down gingerly at the piano and flicked on the piano light, projecting a yellowish glow on the faded pages. Still, the score seemed dark. She pushed the head of the lamp closer to the music, leaned forward and squinted. Not only was the musical notation—the cantus firmus upon which Count Sebastian had written his counterpoint—clearly in Liszt’s hand, but some of the writing in the margins did appear to be Liszt’s as well. Elizabeth closed her eyes for a few seconds and rubbed them gently. She opened them and once again squinted at the tiny handwriting. “Mostly Liszt is just pointing out Sebastian’s errors,” she said softly to herself. The Count was obviously not a great student; there were a number of mistakes in the part-writing.
Elizabeth’s hand drifted down the page. Suddenly she paused, her finger dropping away from the manuscript. She shook her head quickly and peered even more deeply into the manuscript. Then she gave a short gasp.
Chapter 5
David sighed, his steps slowing as he began to hear the cheerful voices in the room ahead of him. He had dreaded this for a couple of days. As an alternate for the competition, he certainly had a right to come to the opening Radovsky reception, probably even an obligation. But he still felt out of place. Alternates were chosen for each regional semi-finals competition, but the recognition was really no more than an “honorable mention” for the runner-up. Alternates never actually replaced the finalists for the competition in Vienna because the finalists never missed a chance to be at the competition themselves. The Radovsky Prize was, simply put, the most coveted honor a young pianist could hope to achieve. The finalists would come on crutches if necessary, but they would come and compete. No alternate ever found a place in the competition and most never showed up.
So why was he here? Unfortunately, it was both obvious and painful to Elizabeth that he had come, at least in part, to follow her. They had known each other casually for two years before the American semi-finals but had really made a connection only there—at the semi-final competition. They had talked music for a week straight—meeting every night after each concert and conversing passionately about their likes and dislikes late into the night, moving from one Boston coffee house to the next. He had been amazed how quickly and completely they had connected.
When Elizabeth’s turn to perform came, he felt she had played brilliantly. There was no doubt in his mind that she deserved to win, but he was nevertheless surprised when she did. There had been other pianists in the semi-finals who had been flashier, whose technique had sparkled more dazzlingly. But the judges had heard a spark in Elizabeth’s playing of Liszt’s Transcendental Etudes that they could not deny. The best musician in the competition, the head judge had claimed as she handed Elizabeth the certificate. Of course the votes had been split and there was some semi-public grumbling on the part of two of the judges who had been outvoted. But the prize was Elizabeth’s and no one deserved it more.
And he had finished second, the American alternate to the international Radovsky finals to be held later than year in Vienna. He was as surprised by his own second place showing as he had been by her first place award. His left wrist had started to bother him weeks before the competition. By the night of the second concert, the pain was excruciating and he knew that he was forcing his left hand to obey him—stiffening his wrist in such a way that he knew would affect his tone. Although the audience’s applause had been impressive that night, he could see two of the judges consulting after his performance and he knew that his already slim chances were diminishing fast.
And yet, he had somehow managed to finish second to Elizabeth. That had caused a bit of an uproar as well, and it would have caused even more if anyone really thought that the alternate position had any importance. Nevertheless, he clearly felt snubbed by several of the other pianists at the final reception and even the congratulations offered to him by some of the others that evening had been lukewarm at best.
In the end, he felt he was able to finish second more because of the freshness of his repertoire than his playing. He was the only pianist to play Mozart and Scarlatti, throwing in an early Brahms sonata for its “Sturm und Drang” brazenness. No Chopin. No Liszt. Not even Beethoven. He had been told that this strategy would never work. “Give the judges what they want to hear,” he had been warned. But he didn’t, and somehow he had managed to place second, even though he knew he hadn’t played up to his potential. Still, there had been surprisingly little joy in his accomplishment. He felt much more exhilarated by Elizabeth’s success than by his own, in part because he knew his own second place finish would lead to nothing, and her first place finish entitled her to move on to one of the most important competitions for young pianists in the world.
But, when the winner of the American semi-finals was finally announced, and he had rushed up to Elizabeth to express his heart-felt congratulations, she had reacted rather stiffly. She seemed increasingly embarrassed by his interest in her. Rather than wanting to share her sense of pleasure and satisfaction with him, she withdrew within herself. Although she had let him take her out to dinner to celebrate her triumph, she remained distant—her mind already projecting ahead to the challenges of Vienna. It hadn’t been a satisfactory evening for either of them.
Seeing her again months later in Vienna, David had hoped he could rekindle what he had taken to be an initial spark of interest on her part. But it now seemed unlikely. Their early conversations had been cordial, but increasingly he was made to feel superfluous. And then, after he had questioned her about taking the manuscript—an episode that still puzzled him greatly—she had become almost hostile. Of course he realized now how stupid it had been of him to say anything about it. But he had been surprised by her actions and felt a need to understand them. Predictably, his objections had only served to reinforce the wall that had formed between them. So now, as he marched slowly down the hallway to the reception room, he felt a burning desire to avoid the only person at the Radovsky Festival whom he felt he could really talk to.
At the half-open door, David paused briefly and sighed.
“David! David Currant! Don’t hang about out there like some medieval ghost.” The voice was Frederico’s, booming heartily as usual as he gestured broadly for David to join him in a group of four others. “Come in, join the party!”
David smiled slightly and strode briskly into the reception room. The walls, covered by dark oak paneling, were well lit, showing an almost lustrous glow. But most of the energy in the room clearly came from Frederico, chatting noisily with his group of friends.
“Yes, yes!” he bellowed. “Right over here! Don’t be shy. I’ve some people here for you to meet.”
David came forward, his hand extended to Frederico’s. “One and all!” announced Frederico,” I am pleased to introduce to you my American friend, David. Well, actually my other American friend. We mustn’t forget Elizabeth, of course.” He bowed gallantly to Elizabeth, who had just walked up to join the group. She smiled back.
Frederico quickly turned back to David. “This fellow is the only one of us who isn’t painfully nervous. Since he’s an alternate, he will not be performing in the opening round of the competition in three days’ time. Therefore—as you can see—he looks happy, well-rested…even, one might say, emotionally stable.”
The four other guests surrounding Frederico laughed politely.
“David is an excellent pianist, of course,” Frederico continued cheerfully. “He finished second to Elizabeth in the North American semi-finals and has been kind enough to grace us with his presence for the Radovsky competition. So if any of you would like the opinion of a truly unprejudiced musician—not one who is secretly hoping that you fall on your face every time you approach a piano—then by all means, talk to David.”
The group responded to this with a nervous titter. Frederico grabbed David by the arm. “First of all, David, I’d like you to meet Ms. Sung Lee Kim, a most charming young lady who plays Debussy as if in a state of suspended animation, floating gracefully over the notes that the rest of us have so much trouble with.” David stepped forward to take Kim’s shyly proffered hand. “And now, Mr. Allen—Geoffrey Allen—the pride of Great Britain. And yet it is his playing of Mendelssohn and Schumann—two great German composers—that has made him famous.” David and Geoffrey Allen, a tall if somewhat thin and pale-faced young man, shook hands heartily, exchanging smiles and nods.
“I’m Juan Peirera. It’s a great pleasure to meet you,” offered a short, affable young man to Allen’s right as he reached out for David’s hand.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of Mr. Peirera, David,” said Frederico enthusiastically. “Winner of the South American finals and already possessed of an excellent reputation for his performances of Villa-Lobos.”
“But here, for the Radovsky Prize, here I play Chopin, Bach and Ravel. I am partial to the French modernists,” Peirera said, beaming broadly.
“I too am a devotee of Chopin,” said Ernst Deiner eagerly, stepping forward to clutch David’s hand.
“Ernst is our German representative,” said Geoffrey Allen. “And an astounding performer of the Scherzos among other things.”
“Of course,” continued Frederico eagerly. “And finally, Mr. Vaclav Rajki, the pride of Bratislava and winner of regional awards too numerous to mention.”
Rajki, a large young man, darkly complexioned with staring eyes, stepped forward to take David’s hand. “But as yet, no international conquests,” he said, smiling slyly. “And that, of course, is why I am here.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said David. “What, if you don’t mind me asking, is your specialization?”
“I play everything,” said Rajki smugly. “Everything that is worth playing. I have little sympathy for the noise that is contemporary music. I consider my heritage to include both German music and the great Bohemian tradition. I am here to represent both traditions—and I am here to win.”
“Yes, of course, Vaclav…” interjected Frederico quickly. “Now then, David, I believe that’s everybody.”
“I don’t believe so, Frederico,” interrupted Rajki as he turned toward Elizabeth. “I don’t believe we’ve all had the pleasure of being introduced to your charming young American friend…Miss…”
“Oh yes, of course,” said Frederico, turning to face Elizabeth with a broad smile. “This is Ms. McDermitt…Elizabeth McDermitt. Winner of the North American semi-finals and a wonderful pianist.”
“Indeed,” said Rajki somewhat coldly. “And what, may I ask, is your passion, Miss McDermitt?”
“I’m a musician,” replied Elizabeth stiffly. “My repertoire focuses on the late Romantic.”
“She means Liszt, of course,” Frederico interjected good-naturedly.
“Ah,” said Peirera, smiling broadly. “So we do have a Lisztian among us. Are you going to play any of the nasty stuff for us? One of the Mephisto Waltzes perhaps?”
“Absolutely!” said Frederico, increasingly carried away with his own enthusiasm.
“I don’t personally find it that amusing, Frederico,” said Rajki. “It’s better not to play around with such stuff.”
“Oh, please!” Allen interjected quickly. “It is too early in the evening for fairy tales.”
“Yes,” said Peirera, his head nodding vigorously. “Please explain yourself, Rajki.”
Rajki shrugged. “What is there to explain? Some Liszt is harmless enough, but the Mephisto Waltzes? Why play with fire?”
“Am I missing some joke here?” asked Allen, turning his attention back to the group after wandering away to hoist a glass of white wine from a nearby waiter’s tray. “Are we afraid of Liszt now? Those damn octaves can be murder but…”
“We are not discussing the technical difficulties of Liszt’s music, Geoffrey,” replied Rajki, “we are discussing its…its moral significance.”
“Oh! Then I have missed a joke!” Allen said brightly.
Rajki frowned and turned to face Allen. “Liszt’s Mephisto Waltzes are no laughing matter, no matter what an Englishman might say.”
“I say,” replied Allen, snorting indignantly.
“How about the Germans, Rajki?” said Deiner, shaking his head slowly. “Do we understand your precious Liszt well enough to laugh at him?”
“Liszt was a Hungarian. Not a German,” protested Rajki.
“A Hungarian who never spoke a word of the language!” spat Deiner.
Rajki turned slowly to face Deiner. “His soul was Hungarian and that is all that matters.”
Allen grimaced. “His soul, Rajki?” Strange. I thought you were implying that he had no soul. And how about your soul? Is your soul Hungarian as well?”
“It is not,” replied Rajki coolly, “but it understands the Hungarians. I know Liszt. Liszt attempted to channel forces that no man should…”
“And the Germans don’t know Liszt?” demanded Deiner.
“They know his virtuosity,” replied Rajki angrily,” but they don’t understand what was in his soul or his creative spirit. They attempt to make his music merely romantic…merely pretty.”
“Whereas Liszt’s soul was too ‘black’ and corrupted by diabolical influence to make any ‘pretty’ music. Is that it?” said Peirera, a slight smile crossing his face. “It is an intriguing story, of course, but who can take it seriously?”
“It may be risky to ignore the power of the Mephisto Waltzes, my friend,” replied Rajki.” They represent a side of Liszt that is not completely understood by anyone.”
“Except by you, of course,” sneered Allen.
“Speaking of Liszt channeling diabolical forces, Elizabeth was trying to channel Liszt just the other day,” David interjected quickly. “We went to the old Church of St. Boniface. Marvelous little library attached to it. Elizabeth found an actual Liszt autograph manuscript. Not much to it, actually, just some counterpoint exercises written for an errant student. But in the master’s hand. With a few words of encouragement written along the margins…am I correct, Elizabeth?”
“There was not much to the manuscript,” she said haltingly. “I saw it only briefly.”
David looked away from her, gazing briefly down at his feet.
Rajki threw back his head with a forced laugh. “Of course it is Liszt for you Americans…always Liszt. No healthy German music? No Haydn? He will clarify your mind. Some middle period Beethoven perhaps? Let his struggles inspire you—he comes by them honestly and surmounts them by the sweat of his brow—it is honest music…but Liszt? I still say that he is more dangerous than you think. Americans are drawn to Liszt but they can never understand him. You should stick to the Germans.”
Elizabeth stared into Rajki’s eyes coldly. “Liszt was German…every bit as much as Beethoven.”
“Ah, but as our dear Vaclav has pointed out, his soul—if he had one— was Hungarian,” Frederico quickly inserted. “He was one-half a gypsy in his heart. Listen to Danko on this subject some time. They say Danko is Russian but his people are pure Roma. He can tell you about Liszt.”
“Speaking of Danko, where is Mr. Sulek this evening?” asked Allen. “I thought he intended to come.”
“Ah, but that is just the point,” said Frederico, nodding knowingly. “Danko announces he will come to the reception tonight. Therefore, you can be sure that he will not come.”
“I’m not sure that being unpredictable is such a great asset in a piano competition,” Deiner said softly.
“Ah, but who can say for sure?” Frederico asked mysteriously. “Look at those judges,” he said, nodding his head toward a grouping of six or seven people congregated in a far corner of the reception room. The others shot a glance in that direction. “The judges…they speak to each other…they speak to our wealthy sponsors…but do they speak to the performers? No, never!”
“We’re supposed to communicate through our playing,” said Allen. “I see nothing wrong with that.”
“And I’m happy that there are wealthy sponsors with whom they can speak,” added Deiner, chuckling gently. “The money has to come from somewhere. All of us here have achieved honors for our artistry, but none of us have competed for a huge cash prize of the sort the Radovsky Festival promises. Not to mention the management contract that goes with it.”
“Yes, of course you’re correct,” said Frederico, sighing softly. “But just once, wouldn’t you like to get inside their heads—the judges’—and find out once and for all what they really think about?”
“I dare say they’re thinking about how they themselves would play the pieces they hear,” said David smiling slightly, “assuming they had the talent to perform on that level.”
“I don’t think it can be that simple,” Kim offered quietly. “Certainly they must be open to alternative interpretations of the music. These great works invite it—they demand it.”
“Perhaps,” replied David sympathetically. “But I sometimes wonder if they don’t simply live out their own aesthetic fantasies in our playing…and reward those pianists who come closest to the way they’d play the pieces themselves.”
“Our stalwart executive director, Mr. Johann Wurtler, is said to have his favorites,” said Rajki, nodding almost imperceptibly to a white-haired gentlemen in his sixties who was rapidly making his way around the large room, clasping every hand in sight. “I wonder if he ever bends the ear of any of the judges.”
“Really now…” began Allen.
“Enough, Enough…” Frederico interjected quickly. “There are no answers to these questions and we’re all getting tired. Let us thank our hosts heartily for this pleasant little party and be off to our night’s rest.”
Moments later, Frederico was leading the guests merrily through the main hall of the conservatory, approaching the grand stairway that led to the main floor lobby.
“I insist that we all have pleasant dreams tonight,” Frederico demanded playfully. “I’ve no doubt that once the judges hear the wonderful music that each of us will produce in the upcoming concert that the rules will change and we’ll all be given the first prize and riches beyond our wildest dreams.”
“From your fantasies to the judge’s ears,” murmured Peirera.
“But wait—gather around now—we must all make a pledge,” Frederico said mock-earnestly as he paused at the head of the grand staircase, the six gathering around him. “Whatever happens in the next week, we must pledge to help each other in our careers from this day on. There can be no enemies here—only friends who love music.”
Some members of the group chuckled softly and there were two or three murmurs of assent. “Very well,” said Frederico, undaunted, “on to the promised land.”
Frederico bowed low and swept his arm beneath him as the group began to descend the grand staircase. Seconds later, a voice called, “Look out!” and Allen, his arms thrown out wildly in the air, stumbled and missed a step. As several members of the group screamed, Allen lurched forward, falling head-first down the long, marble steps of the gilt-edged staircase.
“Oh, my God!” cried Rajki. The others looked on in shocked disbelief as Allen finally jolted to a stop, twisted and groaning at the bottom of the stairs.
Early the next afternoon, Ernst Deiner, Sung Lee Kim and Mario Peirera sat quietly around a table at The Garret, a modest coffee shop down the street from the contestant’s apartments.
“It was no accident, you know. He was pushed.” Ernst Deiner spoke softly, hiding his mouth behind his cup as his eyes darted restlessly from one side of the dimly lit room to the other.
Sung Lee Kim hesitated briefly, then picked up the small pastry in front of her. “Really…I don’t know why you should say such a thing.”
“Don’t be naive,” Deiner snapped. “He was a strong competitor. He had been playing particularly well lately. It would be very convenient to have him out of the way.”
“Convenient for whom?” sneered Juan Peirera, glowering from across the table. “I’m sorry, but I have a difficult time believing in conspiracy theories.”
“No one’s asking you to,” replied Deiner coolly. “Not unless you believe in a conspiracy of one. Allen was leading the way down the stairs but there were a number of individuals—three or four—right behind him. Any of them could have reached out and given a gentle shove.”
“If it comes down to that,” Peirera smirked, “there were at least five or six people who could have done it—including Vaclav’s teacher and probably even two or three judges who were close by. But that doesn’t mean …”
“Geoffrey was being very careless,” Kim interjected quietly. “He was looking over his shoulder, trying to talk to three people at one. It’s a tragedy, but it’s not surprising that…”
“A tragedy?” Deiner turned his seat quickly to face Kim, a grim smile crossing his face. “Are you saying that you’re not secretly pleased that Allen is out of the competition?”
“I don’t want anyone out of the competition because they have a broken arm,” said Kim, returning his gaze unflinchingly. “My God, Ernst, what kind of person do you think I am?”
“I think you’re somebody who wants to win this competition as much as I do.”
“Nobody wants to win that badly,” insisted Peirera, shaking his head.
“Are you so sure?” asked Deiner, his eyes widening. This competition can launch a career—you know that. Might somebody use desperate measures to accomplish that goal? Sure they might. My agent would probably frame his grandmother for murder if he thought it would guarantee that I would pick up the Radovsky prize.”
“But your agent wasn’t there,” said Kim.
“No, he wasn’t, but you get my point.”
“So I suppose you have some likely suspects in mind?” asked Peirera casually.
“Sure,” said Deiner. “Somebody who wants it just a little more than anyone else. I’m not sure who that is yet. But they’ll reveal themselves. It’s just a matter of time.”
Chapter 8
“Good lord! This is not an assignment I would have chosen for myself, Inspector Fischer,” said Max Hermann, shifting his rotund body uncomfortably in his chair.
“Nonsense, it’ll be good for you,” responded his senior colleague cheerily.
“But how about young Schmeltzer?” urged Hermann hopefully. “Wouldn’t this sort of thing be more in his line? I’m told that his wife takes on the occasional piano student.”
“That’s not really the chief qualification here, Max,” Fischer replied, obviously enjoying himself. “What I need for this investigation is someone with a certain level of sophistication…someone with a cosmopolitan outlook.”
Hermann groaned, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “But that’s just the thing, sir. I’m not a man who enjoys culture all that much…you know what I mean. I like jazz and not much beyond Oscar Peterson. I’m not really the one to interview a bunch of fancy pianists.”
“Nonsense,” barked Fischer heartily. “Do you a world of good. Get you out of this dark depressing office and expose you to the artistic perspective. I’m sure you’re quite capable of handling this.”
“But sir, has there actually been a crime to investigate? A man takes a wrong step and goes tumbling down the stairs and everybody gets into an uproar! I mean, sir…accidents can happen to anyone.”
“Look, Max,” said Fischer, leaning over and adopting a conspiratorial tone. “I have no idea if we’re looking at a simple accident here or an attempt at mayhem. All I know is that people are talking. Maybe they’re all just neurotic artists. Maybe they know something that we don’t know. But this is a significant cultural event and it must go smoothly. And we certainly can’t be seen as being passive when it comes to the success of a major music competition held in the middle of Vienna.”
“But sir,” protested Hermann, shaking his head wearily, “I’m not sure I can even talk to these people. The officers who wrote up the complaint admitted that nobody could get their story straight.”
“My God, Hermann, they’re artists…they’re young pianists from all over the globe. They’re not alien space creatures,” replied Fischer, his face serious for the first time. “You can deal with this. I know you speak some French and a little English. Get some help if you need it, but get to the bottom of this. The organizers of the competition have been promised a full report and a full report they shall get.”