And as Lieselotte stepped out of the door, Marek brought in his musicians-and the pageant began.
No one who was present ever forgot it. They had rehearsed it separately in every combination, but now, coming together, it took on a life of its own. An amazed recognition, a kind of wonder at what they had made, lifted them out of themselves. Propelled by Marek’s music through the familiar story, they constantly found new meanings, new gestures, which were yet always part of the whole.
And those who had come to watch were drawn in also.
When a small hedgehog stumbled, a woman on the edge of the crowd came forward to help her, blurring the separation between watchers and participants, which was so much a characteristic of the day. Frank’s father, who had threatened to withdraw his son from school, could be seen elbowing his way to the front as they reached the grotto-the only example of bad manners to be seen all day.
Even the unexpected things, the mishaps, turned into marvels.
“Are we sinking?”’ asked Ursula, sitting in Aniella’s boat, forgetting her sore mouth.
“No.” But it was true that the rim of the brocaded canopy (the best bedspread of Frau Becker’s aunt) had dropped into the water and was slowing the boat… slowing it more and more, so that it echoed uncannily Aniella’s reluctance to go to her wedding.
Outside the church, the dustcart horse, who had a dozen times walked up the church steps in rehearsals, reared and refused-and the peace-loving greengrocer became a red-faced, furious seducer, kicking his mount with his heels as if he really was Count Alexei of Hohenstift.
The trick with the mask worked-even those who had been warned hissed with distress as Lieselotte became a wrinkled crone-and Rollo had been more than generous with the blood.
And then, like a hand reaching down from heaven (or from the bell tower, where the brave dentist was perched on a joist and the vertiginous violinist played gallantly on) came Marek’s music, a high, pure skein of sound in which all the themes reached resolution, drawing the girl up and up for her apotheosis.
And as Sister Felicity’s flowers drifted down from the heights, caught in a moment of enchantment in the spotlights, there came from those who packed the body of the church-not clapping, not cheering — but a sigh that seemed to be one sigh… and then it was done.
“We’ll do it again, won’t we?”’ they promised each other-Frau Becker and Jean-Pierre, the butcher and Freya, everyone hugging everyone else… forgetting the troops mustered on the border, forgetting the final letter from Bennet’s stockbroker. The old woman who’d said it would rain was kissing Sabine, Chomsky and the greengrocer wandered arm in arm, and the reporters from the local newspapers clustered round Lieselotte, photographing her with her bridesmaids, her animals… “This won’t be the last time,” they told each other. “We’ll do it every single year.”
There was a party, of course; the kind of party that just happens but happens rather better if there is someone in the background, putting butter on rolls, opening bottles of wine, of lemonade… fetching hoarded delicacies out of the fridge.
Ellen had excused herself from the proceedings and for an hour or more had been sending plates of food up to the terrace with its strings of fairy lights, and the music playing on the gramophone now so that everyone could dance. The dentist was dancing with Ursula; Chomsky with Frau Becker’s aunt — and Leon’s father with Sophie.
“And if her mother and father had come it would have been a miracle, I suppose,” Ellen had said to the headmaster, watching Sophie’s vivid face, “and there aren’t a lot of those.”
“No. But it might work out best like this. Leon’s parents have invited her to stay in London; they’re good people. She may be someone who has to get her warmth from outside the family.”
Later Bennet had taken her aside and said: “We owe this to you, Ellen. If you hadn’t befriended Lieselotte and made the links with the village, none of this would have happened.”
She had shaken her head-yet it was true that some of what she had imagined that morning by the well and spoken of to Marek, had materialised this day. People had come from everywhere… had received with hospitality what was offered… the lion, just a little, had lain down with the lamb.
Children came to the kitchen, offering to help, but she only loaded them with food and sent them upstairs again. She was content to be alone and glad to be out of the way, for she knew all too well what was happening-not on the noisy terrace, but in the hastily erected marquee in the jousting ground where Bennet, with the assistance of the landlord and chef of the Krone, was entertaining the most extraordinary collection of Toscanini Aunts ever assembled in Hallendorf.
It had been the most amazing and unexpected thing: now, when Bennet had abandoned all hope of interesting anyone in the significance of the school, Aunts-and indeed Uncles-of the highest stature had appeared from everywhere. The director of the Festspielhaus in Geneva had been seen lumbering over the muddy boards at the lake’s edge, scrambling for a place in the lighter which would take him to the boat. The manager of the Bruckner Theatre in Linz, to whom Bennet had written vainly two years before, had puffed his way up to the grotto, writing in his notebook- and Madame Racelli, of the Academy of the Performing Arts in Paris, had cantered in her high heels and silver fox stole across the meadows, so as to miss no moment of what was going on.
The kitchen door opened and Lieselotte came in. She had changed into her dirndl, but the flush of happiness was still on her cheeks.
“I’ve come to help,” she said, reaching for her apron and tying it round her waist.
“No, you haven’t. You’re going straight back up to dance with all your suitors and be the belle of the ball. This is your night, Lieselotte, and I don’t want you down here.”
Lieselotte took not the slightest notice. She had taken up a knife and begun to slice the rolls. “We need more of the salami ones- Chomsky’s eaten three already.”
“Lieselotte, I am your supervisor and I order you to go back and dance,” said Ellen. Lieselotte put down her knife.
“Yes, you are my supervisor, but also, I think… you are my friend? And I want to be with you tonight.”
But this was a mistake. Ellen’s defences crumbled; tears gathered in her eyes-and nothing could be sillier, for she had known-everybody knew — that Marek was leaving the following day, that his boat sailed in a week-and that Brigitta Seefeld, the mightiest and most redoubtable of the uninvited “Aunts”, had come to fetch him.
Marek’s abrupt departure from Vienna had infuriated Benny and Staub, puzzled the musical establishment, and caused Brigitta to erupt into a series of violent scenes.
“How dare he treat me like that?”’ she raged. “He begs to spend the night with me and then goes off as if I was a plaything!”
Then, about a week after his disappearance and shortly before he was due to sail, Benny called at Brigitta’s apartment in an obvious state of excitement.
“Do you know where he is?”’ he asked her, shooing away the masseuse.
“Where?”’
“In Hallendorf. Where they all swore they’d never heard of him. And do you know what he’s doing?”’
“What?”’
“Writing music for a local pageant. For some obscure saint called Anabella or something.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. I had it from Ferdie Notar at the Central who heard it from the clarinettist of the Philharmonic who heard it from the director of the Klagenfurt Academy.”