“Fräulein Novak?” Liebermann added.
“Who did you say?”
“Fräulein Novak.”
“I'm sorry” said the concert master, shaking his head. “You must have been misinformed. I have no pupil called Novak.”
It was the answer that Liebermann had expected: but he wanted to make absolutely sure that later there would be no room for doubt in his mind.
“A Hungarian lady” he persisted. “She recently sought your advice on the spring sonata?”
Rosé shook his head again—this time more vigorously. “No, my friend. You really do have the wrong person.”
“So it seems.… Forgive me.”
Liebermann bowed, and the two men walked on. Mahler immediately began talking.
“I've agreed to the guest engagements—and Salter has confirmed that at least one of my works is to be included in every program.” In spite of his severe features, the director spoke cheerily.
“And the fee?” asked Rosé.
“I said I wouldn't accept less than two thousand kronen.”
“Two thousand,” repeated Rosé, impressed.
As they receded, their voices faded beneath the clatter and thrum of the Ringstrasse traffic.
Liebermann's attention was drawn upward. A dark cloud was floating over the roof of the opera house.
73
EICHMANN PLACED THE LETTER in front of him—a carefully executed, fastidious movement. He took care to ensure that the upper horizontal line of the paper was exactly parallel with the edge of his desk, let his finger run over the embossed seal, and took a deep breath.
“From the minister of education.”
Gärtner took a swig from his hip flask. “I see.”
“He is going to attend the next meeting of the board of governors. He wishes to raise a number of issues.”
“Issues?”
“The minister makes several allusions to the emperor's desire to create a more inclusive military—and he writes of the moral obligation incumbent upon educational institutions to respect His Majesty's wishes. The implications, I'm afraid, are all too clear.”
“Headmaster? Are you suggesting that…”
“I will almost certainly be asked to tender my resignation. And so—I am sorry to say—will my closest allies.”
“We must fight them!” said Gärtner. “We must argue our case.”
Eichmann leaned forward and ran his finger down the margin of the letter.
“Listen to this: Young minds are easily misguided, and great care must be taken to ensure that any philosophical instruction given in military schools is concordant with, the emperor's vision. It is over, my friend.”
Gärtner took another swig. “The ingratitude, headmaster.”
“I have given the best years of my life to this school.”
Gärtner pulled his gown around his shoulders, as though he had suddenly felt the temperature drop in his old bones.
“Was it Wolf?”
“He wrote a letter to his uncle—the commissioner of the security office.”
“And have you spoken with him? The boy?”
“He sat where you are now, straight-faced, explaining to me how he felt he had been manipulated, corrupted. How he had been mesmerized in your special tutorial group—made to believe things through relentless repetition—that he now understands were disloyal to the emperor… not in sympathy with the spirit of an empire comprised of so many great and proud nations.”
“Disgraceful. And he seemed such a receptive boy—so full of promise. Did we teach him nothing?”
Eichmann smiled: a humorless display of teeth.
“No. You are mistaken, old friend,” said the headmaster. “I fear we taught him too much.”
74
THE CIRCLE OF TREES looked different by daylight, and Drexler was uncertain whether he had brought the constable to the right place.
“Just a moment,” he said, pausing to consider the landscape.
Drexler went over to a large gnarled trunk, and ran his fingers over the rough surface.
“What are you doing?” the constable called out.
“Looking for something.”
The face was less distinct than Drexler had remembered—but it was there nevertheless. An old graybeard, trapped in the timber: two knotty projections serving to create the illusion of a pair of weary, anguished eyes.
“Here,” said Drexler, pointing at the ground. “I buried him here.”
The constable marched over, swinging the shovel off his shoulder. He stamped the blade into the ground and angled it back, raising a wedge of turf. The ease with which the soil came up was conspicuous, suggesting recent disturbance. The constable grunted, and set about his task with renewed conviction. He was a strong, big-boned youth, and he tossed the earth aside with mechanical efficiency.
“Why did you do it?” he asked Drexler.
“It was an accident,” Drexler replied. “We were playing with a revolver… and it just went off. I didn't mean to do it.”
“If it was an accident, why didn't you tell the headmaster? Accidents happen…”
“I don't know. I panicked, I suppose.”
“And you carried him—the dead boy—all this way on your own?”
“No. I stole a horse and trap and got as far as the road.”
“That's odd. None of the locals reported a theft.”
“It belonged to the school. I returned the trap before anyone noticed it was missing.”
The constable shrugged, took off his spiked helmet, and handed it to Drexler. Then he wiped his brow and continued to dig. Gravid clouds had begun to gather overhead, and Drexler felt the first faint chill of rain on his cheeks. The hole deepened—but there was no sign of Perger's jute shroud.
“How far down did you bury him?”
“Not that far,” said Drexler, perplexed. “You must have just missed him.… Try here.” He pointed to another spot.
The constable sighed, moved a little closer to the tree, and began to dig again. He interrupted his task to look up at the malignant sky.
“We're going to get soaked,” he said, swearing softly under his breath.
The shovel's blade met some resistance, and the constable caught Drexler's eye. However, the next downward thrust produced a loud clang that identified the obstruction as nothing more than a rock. Soon the constable had dug another hole, equal in depth to the first.
“I'm sorry,” said Drexler. “It was dark. It's difficult to judge distances when it's dark. But I can assure you, I buried him somewhere around here. I remember this tree. You see, it has a face in it… an old man.”
“An old man, eh?”
“Please, try here.” Drexler took two paces away from the tree and stamped his feet.
“I tell you what,” said the constable, handing Drexler the shovel. “Why don't you dig for a while?”
The young man recovered his helmet and stomped off to seek shelter under the thickest bough he could find.
Drexler began to dig frantically.
Nothing.
Clay, earthworms, stones, roots…
He started to dig another hole. Nothing. And another…
The drizzle had been succeeded by a persistent saturating downpour.
“All right,” the constable called out. “You've had your fun.… I suppose you and your friends think this sort of thing is very funny. Well, you won't be laughing after I've given you the good hiding you deserve.”
“What?” said Drexler.
“Come here,” said the constable, beckoning with a crooked finger.
“This isn't a joke.… This isn't a joke, you… you…”