We both laughed, but the truth was, as we approached the door to Schumann's room, I had an increasingly uneasy feeling about what I would find there.
Whatever fears I had vanished the moment the door opened. Schumann's bedroom, it turned out, was flooded with sunlight that poured through a generous pair of windows. Facing south and east, they offered a fine landscape, with mountains along the Rhine forming a backdrop. Opened wide, they permitted a gentle breeze to enter the room. The furnishings-a small writing table, a chest of drawers, several chairs, a bed with a handy night table-though modest, were almost pristine. Altogether these quarters were a far cry from the accommodations I had seen from time to time in my visits to asylums supported by the state, institutions whose long, dark corridors reeked of overcooked food and unemptied chamber pots and teemed with grotesque men and women milling aimlessly about, some muttering, others screaming, the air filled with hopelessness.
As I stepped into Schumann's room, I found him standing at one of the windows taking in the view, his back to me. Dr. Richarz called out “Maestro, you have a visitor.” Then, in a whisper, he said to me, “I'll leave you two alone; I'm sure you have much to talk about. Do take your time, Inspector.” I thanked him, watched him make his exit, quietly closing the door behind him, then called out, “Good afternoon, Maestro.”
Schumann remained standing at the window, his back still to me. “Why do I know that voice?” he called back. Then, very slowly, he turned to face me. Several times he blinked, then shut his eyes tightly, then re-opened them, like a blind man suddenly regaining his sight. His mouth twisted into a suspicious smile. “I believe I have been blinded by the sun. Or maybe you're an apparition. Is it really you, Preiss?”
“It is I, Maestro. Inspector Hermann Preiss…at your service, sir.”
Schumann let out a cynical laugh. “At my service, you say? You mean you're finally getting around to arresting me, then.”
“Good God, no!” I said. “I give you my word-”
“Your word? If memory serves, your word has a tendency to evaporate much the way a spy's ink becomes invisible. Your word, if I recall correctly, does not always stand up when exposed to air and light.”
“Please believe me, Dr. Schumann,” I said, “this is strictly a social call.”
“A social call? Inspector Hermann Preiss, one of Düsseldorf's finest, travels all the way to Endenich to make a social call, eh? Well now, I suppose we should pull over a couple of comfortable chairs, sit ourselves down, and have a nice chat about the good old days…not that there were many. Tell me, Preiss, how is everyone back in Düsseldorf?”
“You mentioned chairs, Maestro Schumann. I could use one right about now. It's already been a rather long day, you understand.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon, Inspector.” Schumann reached for a chair, offered it to me, then took one for himself. His apology, and his movements-all haste and flourish-struck me as false. “There now, that's better,” he said. “You were about to bring me up-to-date on people and events back home. Let's start out at the lowest level, in the underground tunnels and sewers.”
“You're referring to?”
“Wieck and Hupfer, of course.”
“Let me begin with Hupfer,” I said. “You may recall, Maestro, that a family by the name of Steinweg-a father and two or three sons-became well-known builders of excellent pianos in the vicinity of Hamburg. Well, the family moved not long ago to the United States of America, to New York City in fact, and established a piano factory there. Apparently, the Americans are becoming increasingly civilized, not to mention wealthy, and are fond of adorning their parlours with none but the finest instruments. The Steinwegs changed their name to Steinway, presumably to blend in better with New York high society.”
Schumann's face broke into a wise smile. “Surely, Inspector, you're not going to tell me Hupfer's working for them in America.”
“He's not only working for them, Maestro, he's their chief technician.”
“Their chief technician! Tell me more, Preiss. What of my dear father-in-law? What's that creature up to these days?”
“Professor Wieck? Not much. Apparently, he's badly crippled. Arthritis, you know. No longer able to teach, I hear. It may please you a bit to know that Madam Schumann has made it clear her father is no longer welcome in the Schumann household.”
“It pleases me more than a bit, Inspector,” Schumann said. As though speaking to himself, he said in a quiet voice, “And God fulfills Himself in many ways.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just a quotation…from some poem I came across. About Liszt…did I not hear…yes, Johannes informed me…he'd gone off to some monastery…trying to discover God, was it?”
“He supposedly found God,” I reported, “during the better part of a year spent with some holy order. I've forgotten exactly where.”
“Let me guess,” Schumann said, “it must have been at the Church of the Reluctant Virgin. Be honest, Preiss; you don't imagine for a moment Liszt has really changed.”
“Oh but he has, Maestro,” I said. “He gave a recital recently in Düsseldorf. Played mostly his own compositions. His music is now more solemn, more meditative. And he walks on stage looking like some kind of high priest from the Middle Ages. Dresses in black from neck to toe, hair white now, and longer than before, combed absolutely straight, like a waterfall down his neck and shoulders. Altogether a very spiritual effect.”
Schumann was unconvinced. “Nothing makes a woman swoon like the sight of a man who looks as though he's bearing within him all the pain in the world. Clever devil.”
There followed a long silence, while Schumann looked away from me and sat, hands tightly clasped, gazing out his windows at the distant mountains. There was a kind of vacant contentment in his expression, as though the foothills glowing green in the sun were forever out of bounds for him, and yet it was probably just as well. At least within the four walls of his room there were demons he was familiar with. Out there, who knew what fresh and terrible demons waited for him? Whatever he was thinking at the moment, I thought it best not to interrupt him, but to wait for him to resume conversation.
At last he broke the silence. “Clara does not come to visit me,” he said. His eyes were still fixed on the scenery well beyond the windows. His voice had taken on a hollow sound. “She writes…writes often…and her letters are tender…but she does not come to visit. Johannes has come a number of times, Joachim too, and occasionally they come together. They play for me-there's a fairly decent piano in the sitting room just down the hall-and sometimes I play for them. I played several pieces and songs I've written these past months, and they were very complimentary, Preiss. Johannes says they're some of my best work. But Clara? I can only imagine how painful all this must be for my poor, dear Clara. So she stays away.”
I offered no comment. What was there to say?
“My children are fatherless, Preiss…fatherless. God knows, I think of them often, and wish I could see them. But they are young; they cannot understand, can they?”
I wanted to say that being fatherless was not necessarily a bad thing; after all, during my own childhood, I recalled, the prospect of becoming fatherless held great appeal. I mumbled something banal about children being remarkably resilient, then instantly regretted it. Turning sharply to me, Schumann said, “How would you know, Preiss? You strike me as a man who has managed to insulate himself from anything that is remotely domestic. Your friend, that attractive cellist-”