“What did you shout at the people?” Mr. Witzturn whispers.
“Nothing,” Levadski whispers back, “I just banged my head in a very unfortunate way and let off a sound.”
“Hhm. If it was a noise from your mouth, I can’t see anything criminal in that. Unless of course …”
“If you are trying to say I fa…”
“That would be forgivable too.”
“If what you are trying to tell me is that I, during a concert, would, well …”
“Throw them out!” says the infuriated female with the smoky voice, which could easily have been mistaken for a pubescent boy’s. Mr. Witzturn sits up in his armchair and with an absentminded gaze concentrates on the third movement, which has just opened to the sound of two oboe instruments conducting a romantic parlando. Right into the thick of it, the genius in love staggers, sad, lonely, forsaken by God. Or maybe not forsaken by God. At least not entirely. Forsaken by God and the world, but not by hope — which suddenly wafts across the stage, a striking blast of violin air.
On the stage Levadski discovers the tubby figure of a violinist and cautiously now does take a look through the opera glasses. Where the violinist was sitting a moment ago now sits a harpist, whose gracefulness, Levadski thinks, is not even marred by her ungainly instrument. The caged little bird peers through the stringed window of her dungeon straight into Levadski’s binoculars. That’s the way I like women, Levadski thinks, tame and sweet in a cage, happy and content. A feast for the eyes beside that liverwurst on the violin. And the clarinet wobbles its head excessively. Female ambition, the curse of humanity, unfortunately also to be found in a lot of men. The conductor, thank God, appears to be totally unaffected by it. Or he has forgotten its allure in the heat of battle, more likely. After all, the fourth movement is a highly complex execution scene …
Solemn, gloomy marching sounds fill the air of the auditorium. The infatuated lover strangles his beloved and is led to the place of execution. In a moment there will be a bloodbath. Levadski steals a glance at Mr. Witzturn and is horrified to find that his lower lip appears to be taking on a life of its own.
“I love older conductors,” Levadski whispers into Mr. Witzturn’s ear, “because they are too hard-boiled to boil over and they have left the coquetry of youth behind them. This allows the heart of the music to pulsate, the idea to bud, the essence to become matter.” Mr. Witzturn agrees in silence.
Oh, he has fallen asleep again! To confirm the obvious, Mr. Witzturn’s head impishly slips to one side, and his lips begin to nibble at an invisible bundle of hay. A disgrace, thinks Levadski, if he misses the last part with the infernal Dies Irae. “Mr. Witzturn, Mr. Witzturn!”
Mr. Witzturn doesn’t want to hear anything. His head is orbiting in a sphere not unlike that of the music. He effortlessly ascends one cloud mountain after the other, gracefully, light-heartedly. As a sign of his contempt for everything earthly his snoring is soft at first, then it swells to a roll of thunder mingling with the ringing of the death bells in the Golden Hall of the Musikverein. The bells ring softer and softer for the executed infatuated lover. Mr. Witzturn’s snoring grows louder and louder. “Zzzzzz …,” and he repeats more forcefully “ZZZZZZZZ …”
Searing looks once again eat their way through the protective crust of darkness in the direction of Levadski’s ground floor box. Levadski feels naked, exposed to the most evil thoughts of strangers. But suddenly he no longer feels bothered, seated beside him is a sleeping fellow being who is even more defenseless than he is, someone Levadski has invited to a concert and whose ticket he paid for. We have a right to snore, thinks Levadski, crossing his arms in front of his chest. A knight, a servant, a vassal.
Show your power, fate! We are not masters of ourselves!
Where did he read that? In a monograph? Let the Pharisees cast their poisonous glances. Two old men in the security of their expensive box awaken the wrath of humanity which music is called upon to make fraternal. Take this kiss for all the world. Let them spit poison, the petty-minded. I am a rock in this storm and beside me — Levadski glances over at Mr. Witzturn, whose head is insensibly rocking back and forth on a thin stem in the gathering wind — and beside me a human being! The drop of the executioner’s axe, the witches’ rabble and scornful laughter are nothing but the common magic of sound, and yet I would like to know where this wind blows from. Why isn’t it sweeping the poisoned dwarves from their seats when I have to cling to my chair, Levadski thinks. In the meantime the sound of Mr. Witzturn’s snoring has reached a volume surpassing the clamorous commotion of the kettledrums and trumpets.
“What an imposition! Well, I never!”
“Throw the children out!”
“Where is the management!”
“Plebs in the audience.”
“Probably foreigners.”
Spurred on by all the attention, Mr. Witzturn is now in a snoring competition with the subterraneous stomach rumbling of the double basses. Snore in peace, my friend, Levadski thinks, I will hold the fort. I will take the enemy fire.
Levadski lies down on the floor of the box. From below, the armchairs look like tables, thinks Levadski. Mr. Witzturn is the mountain threatening to capsize onto the prophet. His snoring comes thick and fast, hesitates, falters and then assumes oratorical dimensions again. Cannonballs fly past Levadski, but he does not allow himself to be misled by them. Distant explosions rock the arch of the box. I will protect you, comrade, Levadski thinks, I will protect you … I was once ashamed that I never lay in a trench. And then, Levadski closes his eyes, and then the time came when I had to be ashamed that I’d once been proud for never having lain there. But now I am holding the fort, Mr. Wrumwitz, also lying down …
“Mr. Levadski! It is morning.”
“Morning?”
“No, I am only joking, it is,” Mr. Witzturn looks at his watch, “10:11, and the concert is over.”
“The view is odd.”
“It is odd because you are lying on the floor. Wait, I will give you a hand. You lay down when I was offering frenetic applause to the superb conductor, and to the orchestra too, of course, and the blessed composer. As I had my hands full, I could not devote myself to you, you will forgive me.”
When Mr. Witzturn seizes Levadski under the arms and helps him to his feet, Levadski can feel Mr. Witzturn’s alarmingly prominent ribcage through the cloth of his suit.
“We should eat a little something now,” Levadski suggests.
“Yes,” Mr. Witzturn agrees, fighting for breath, “I am hungry too, music makes you hungrier than sea air.”
4
Zimmer / Room 401–441
“NICE TO BE IN THE FRESH AIR AGAIN!” M.R WITZTURN’s walking stick clatters over the black, wet pavement in agreement. Two old men shuffle along beside each other for a while, on the lookout for steps and cracks in the asphalt ahead of them.
“Once I tripped over a paper cup and broke my hip,” Levadski says, breaking the silence.
“You can laugh about it?” Mr. Witzturn asks. “How is that even possible? A paper cup is not an anvil!”
“Yes,” Levadski giggles, “lost in thought, I must have taken the paper cup for something bigger. I became frightened of the thing and just before stumbling properly, I simply fell over.”
“You really are something,” smirks Mr. Witzturn, “a frightened little rabbit. Calcium and egg whites rich in phosphates is all I can say.”
“What good is that for me?”
“Bones as hard as steel,” Mr. Witzturn says, sneezing with a wild squeak into the back of a woman wearing a fur coat, who immediately hastens her step. “I know what I am talking about,” he continues, “osteoarthritis, titanium hip joint, complications and this stick.” Mr. Witzturn comes to a halt and swings his walking aid several times close to the side mirror of a parked car. “I would have been spared all this if I had paid attention to the results of medical research and to vitamin D in my diet.”