Sophie nodded and sped off-and Ellen went to shut the door of the scullery in which Frau Tauber was washing up.
“She knows you, of course.”
“Yes.” He was biting his lip. She could see the effort he was making to control himself.
“Well then, we must hide you,” she said, fetching a roll of plaster and some lint. She bound up the finger, thinking. Then: “Didn’t you offer to stand in for David Langley at the rehearsal?”’ And as he nodded: “In that case, our troubles are over. You’ll be as safe as houses there.”
Brigitta’s route towards the headmaster’s study, escorted by Leon and followed by Ursula and Janey, was unfortunate. Unaware that she had been spared Chomsky’s appendix scar, she shuddered as the biology teacher, virtually naked, ran past her with his net, searching for dragonfly larvae in the mud. An uncouth boy with dirty feet dropped from a tree, bumped into her, swore and disappeared.
“That’s Frank,” explained Janey helpfully. “His father’s a famous philosopher and he’s been through five psychoanalysts.”
“I’ll wait outside,” said Ufra firmly, and led the dog away towards the kitchen garden.
As she passed the open doors of classrooms and rehearsal rooms, Brigitta’s certainty that she had found Marcus’ hiding place began to evaporate. In one a sinewy female in a leotard was exhorting a group of sulky children to give vent to their viscerality; in another a mustachioed woman in flannels was demonstrating the Primal Scream. A child lay on the floor in the corridor, reading a book and eating a banana. Surely even Marcus with his passion for freedom and tolerance, would not be able to work in this kind of bedlam?
But when she reached Bennet’s study she became more hopeful again. The headmaster was a cultivated and good-mannered man who spoke excellent German and was properly dressed. His walls were lined with books, and the bust of Shakespeare encouraged her; Marcus had set six of the Sonnets for tenor, strings and percussion when he first came to Vienna, boring her with eulogies about the verse.
“I am Brigitta Seefeld—”’ she began-and frowned angrily as the boy who had put himself forward all along, had the impertinence to interrupt her.
“Madame Seefeld has come because she thinks Herr Altenburg has been here,” he said quickly. “I’ve told her he hasn’t, but—”’
“Leon is right, Madame Seefeld. There has been no one here of that name,” said Bennet with perfect truthfulness, giving Leon a reassuring nod.
There was a brief knock at the door and Sophie entered with Ellen’s message, “She won’t be more than ten minutes, she said.”
Bennet nodded and sent the children away. “Ellen is our matron-and in charge of the kitchen too. An excellent woman.”
That Marek would want his stay in Hallendorf kept secret even now, Bennet was certain. Only three people knew his identity: Ellen, Leon and himself, and it was clear that the boy could be trusted.
Meanwhile he was in effect looking at a kind of Toscanini’s Aunt. Brigitta Seefeld was known all over Europe as a brilliant singer, a doyenne of the operatic stage. Two years ago when Franz Lerner had produced an opera based on The Pied Piper he had written to invite her to Hallendorf and she had not even troubled to reply. Now she was here and all he had to show her was Abattoir. But was it “all”? Was he being unduly pessimistic? A premiere of a Brecht play directed by a man who had studied with Meyerhold and Stanislavsky…
Motioning her to his slightly disintegrating leather armchair, he set himself to be charming and flatter her.
“As you can imagine, this is a great honour for Hallendorf. If you’d given me a little warning we could have shown you some of the workshops in progress. Unfortunately our music is at present our weakest point. Our excellent music teacher has gone to fight in Spain and so far we’ve not found a replacement.”
“I understand Professor Steiner lives across the lake.” Brigitta was still suspicious. “We called at his house but he seems to be away. Couldn’t he help you?”’
“I wouldn’t trouble a man of such eminence,” said Bennet truthfully. “Or of his age. Some of the children here are a little… untutored.”
“Yes, I see that. But Altenburg has been seen with Professor Steiner. I find it hard to believe that he never came here. He is interested in working with children.”
Bennet gave a wi/l smile. “I assure you, we would have welcomed any help of that sort with open arms.”
A knock at the door interrupted them, and Ellen entered bearing a silver tray, a coffee pot, and a plate of biscuits.
“Ah-Vanilla Kipferl! I think you won’t do better than these even at Demels,” said Bennet.
Ellen set down the tray and smiled at the woman described so fulsomely in Kendrick’s concert programme. Seefeld seemed middle-aged to her; there was a puffiness under the eyes and in Ellen’s opinion she was not so much voluptuous as fat. But the eyes themselves were a bright periwinkle blue, the hair under the turban still golden-above all Seefeld had the assurance, the presence, that comes from years of fame. That the collaboration between her and Marek had been “fruitful” in all senses of the word, seemed all too likely.
Brigitta in her turn examined Ellen with sudden interest. The girl was remarkably pretty; the careless curls, the big gold-brown eyes and soft mouth-and for an instant she thought that maybe she had found the reason for Marcus’ sojourn in the neighbourhood. But that was absurd. She was a below stairs person, she worked in the kitchens. He might have flirted with such a girl but that she could seriously interest him, that he could write music for her was absurd. Even Marcus did not write music for cooks.
The coffee however was excellent, the Vanilla Kipferl delicious. When they were finished, Bennet invited her to the theatre where a rehearsal for the play had just resumed.
“The theatre was built at the same time as the castle-in 1743. It’s a remarkably pretty one; the work of Grunwald von Heilgen…”
He elaborated, and Brigitta suppressed a yawn. “Very well. But I should like to look over the school first. I should like to see everything.”
That Marcus, for no reason she could imagine, was concealed in the building, was an idea that would not entirely go away.
But when they reached the theatre and found the Abattoir rehearsal in full spate, Brigitta finally realised that wherever her former lover was it could not be here.
Chomsky’s three-tiered structure was in place at last and FitzAllan was attempting to get everyone on stage together: the capitalists on top, the Salvation Army girls in the middle and the workers on the bottom.
Things were not going well. The Salvation Army girls came on too soon, were yelled at and vanished. The capitalists, rolling their dice, looked green, contemplating the distance to the ground- and there was trouble with the carcasses. There was always trouble with the carcasses. FitzAllan had insisted that the headless cadavers, completely swathed in muslin, were played by real people who could neither see nor be seen, and the opportunities for disaster were endless.
The arrival of the famous diva brought the director unctuously to her side.
“This is an honour indeed,” he said in excellent German, bowing over her hand, and led her towards the footlights. “Carry on,” he shouted to the increasingly confused children, and a disorientated slaughterhouse worker crashed into a dimly lit side of beef, was sworn at, and veered off at an angle. “As you see, we are still feeling our way a little,” said FitzAllan.
Brigitta said she did indeed see this. She made however one last attempt before making her escape. “Who does the music-presumably there is music?”’