At which the father scoffed; but in the end he relented, after the nobleman offered to reimburse the father for the lost labor of his son.
And so it was off to St Petersburg for young Pietr; and when leaving, his uncle slipped him a going-away gift, telling him to open it only when safely on the train. Later, as the train carried him along the coast towards Tallinn, he opened the package and discovered a beautiful knife with amber-encrusted grip and the name Wenno inlaid in silver on the bronze blade. He tucked the prized knife away in his violin case.
The first weeks in St Petersburg were miserable ones for Pietr, accustomed as he was to the rhythms of the country, not the city. He had never used a flush toilet before, never ridden a street car or seen an electric light. The modest room he was assigned in a widow’s flat seemed like a palace compared to his family home, but there was no warmth at night, no simple cheer of sitting around the open fire and sharing stories of the day’s events, or experiencing the slap-and-clap accompaniment of his family to the tunes with which he would entertain them.
And the other students at the Conservatory, most of whom came from the professional class or higher, treated the scholarship boy like a leper. When he auditioned for and won a place with Professor Auer, he thought their attitude would change. He was right: it got worse. Now they called him names not just behind his back but to his face. They accused him of being the token poor boy, better suited to playing the hurdy-gurdy. One in particular, Heimito von Kornung, said the most stinging words:
‘You’re an amber fisher not a musician, Klavan. Go back to your own kind.’
He poured himself into his studies to prove them wrong. Auer was a harsh master, focusing on both technique and interpretation. His criticisms came so fast and furious that sometimes Pietr wondered why he had accepted him as a pupil; he must be terrible to deserve such criticism. He broke down one day, while playing Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major, and voiced this sentiment. Auer, who sat across from him bow in hand, usually brooked no such emotional outbursts. But the older man looked at him kindly, with sparkling eyes.
‘It’s because you have greatness in you, Klavan. That is why I am so hard on you. You of all the students in this Conservatory are headed for a concert career. You need to be strong, supple. Learn to bend against criticism and not let it break you.’
From that day on, Pietr began to feel at home in St Petersburg and at the Conservatory.
But it was short-lived comfort.
One afternoon, as he was about to prepare for his lesson with Auer, he came upon Heimito von Kornung and three of his wealthy friends. They were in the cloakroom, huddled near his locker. They seemed to be having a great deal of fun, giggling like little girls. He approached to retrieve his violin, and then saw what was amusing them. They had opened his violin case and were plucking the embedded bits of amber out of the cherished knife his uncle had given him.
Red-hot rage overcame him and he let out an animal scream as he plunged into their midst and grappled with Heimito for the knife. The other took up a defensive posture, switching instantly from humorous vandalism to deadly intent. Pietr could see it in his eyes: Heimito wanted to kill him. And Pietr understood the urge, for he too wanted to do as much damage as he could to these animals.
Pietr had never been in a fight, but he had witnessed plenty between the men on pay-days when they had spent too much time at the local inn. As Heimito swooped at him with the blade, Pietr dodged and spun out of range, whipping off the jacket of his woollen suit and wrapping it round his left arm. He quickly surveyed the area for a weapon, but the only thing within reach was his violin. He grabbed it and began circling to the right, out of range of the knife. Heimito made a sudden lunge and Pietr was able to block his thrust with his left arm, though the blade penetrated the wool and sank into his forearm. But he ignored the pain and swung his violin into Heimito’s left temple, stunning the larger boy, who stumbled backwards, tripping over a bench. Pietr was on him now, lashing out with the violin mercilessly, hearing the crack of wood, the ping of broken strings, but not caring.
The others pulled him off, holding him by the arms. He was panting like a wild animal. Heimito struggled to his feet, blood coursing down his face. His eyes were tiny slits of hatred as he came up to Pietr, who struggled to free himself.
‘Hold him,’ Heimito ordered his companions.
And then he grabbed Pietr’s left hand, securing his little finger in a tight grip and bent it until it broke like a twig. The pain tore at Pietr, but he forced back the tears. That he did not show the pain served only to anger Heimito further. He took Pietr’s right little finger in the same grip and broke that one as well.
A scream filled the small room, and Pietr only slowly realized it came from him.
‘Now try playing the fiddle, amber man.’ Heimito spat at him and then left the room. The others followed.
The affair was, of course, covered up, for Heimito’s parents had power. The others accused Pietr of attacking them; and the administration, despite Auer’s protests, took their side.
Pietr rode the train back to his little village in disgrace, the broken violin in its case, his injured fingers splinted and bandaged, the wound on his forearm hot and sore.
It took two weeks before he finally told his uncle what had happened.
‘So you won’t be a famous musician,’ his uncle said with surprisingly little sympathy. ‘Did you fight back?’
Pietr nodded. ‘I bloodied him.’ His only regret was that he had not killed Heimito.
‘Good. In that case we will make a knight of you.’
It happened very quickly. His uncle had a word with Count von Girzwold, who used his connections in St Petersburg to obtain a place for Pietr in the officers’ cadet school. It was there an instructor saw his potentiaclass="underline" the chameleon who could be at home in the country or the city; the man of no distinguishing characteristics. A person of iron will, both ruthless and clever. Thus was born Schmidt, agent number 302.
Schmidt suddenly realized he had been standing by the same flower-bed for minutes on end, staring at the orange-red swirl of geraniums on the ground before him. He blinked hard, feeling sudden moisture in his eyes. The pollen must be getting to me, he told himself.
And then he saw his quarry, the lawyer and his older companion, leaving the Upper Belvedere and heading for the gate in the Rennweg. He did not follow immediately, however, waiting until the cornstalk man took up position behind them. Schmidt quickly took off his bowler hat and tossed it into a bin when no one was watching. He needed to alter his appearance in some way. Cornstalk had not noticed him yet, but Schmidt was a cautious man.
Then the tall watcher suddenly turned and scanned the gardens once again, his eyes flickering past Schmidt, with his changed appearance.
No more following today, Schmidt decided. Caution had kept him alive for many years now.
Besides, he had the pressing matter of Doktor Schnitzel to deal with.
His experiences at the St Petersburg Conservatory had closed Schmidt’s mind to the arts. Thereafter, they had become dead for him. He avoided mention of or contact with artists of any kind.
But now he realized such a stance was impractical. The fact that he had not known of this playwright, Schnitzler, made him less effective as an agent. His personal history had impinged on his mission. And that was something he would not let happen again.
TWENTY-ONE
‘Klimt, it’s marvelous! However did you finish it so quickly?’
Berthe was in Klimt’s studio near their flat in the Josefstädterstrasse. The oil painting rested against the single-ply wall of the small studio built in the courtyard of an old apartment house. A cat twined around her legs as she examined the portrait. The woman was seated, wearing a soft chiffon dress in a wonderful shade of light blue — Berthe was unsure what to call the color. Not sky blue; paler. And not baby blue. Somewhere in between. A graceful portrait. The face of Marie Louise von Suttner, the troublesome niece, stared back at her, quite lifelike. The very image she had captured with the Brownie camera.