Who Is Martha? (18 page)

“Oh, excuse me, I thought …”

“That I had fallen asleep?” Mr. Witzturn asks sleepily. “It is my right, as a visitor to this noble establishment, it is my primary duty,” he prattles, “to give myself to the music as I please. So, please.” While Mr. Witzturn’s eyes close again, forming two velvet pits, his prominent lower lip swells to an obscenity.

Old crank, Levadski curses in his mind, that’s how he dares to snub me.

The second movement erupts boisterously and a little capriciously over Levadski. A ball, a ball! The love-crazed artist is dancing his feet off beside the creature he worships. A chimera leads the infatuated lover by the nose. He allows himself to be led and misled, thinks Levadski, whereas in the animal kingdom nature won’t tolerate a display of courtship for longer than necessary. But the second movement doesn’t last very long either. A ball, intoxication, a pile of broken glass.

What filthy instrumentation, the repellent harmonics almost make me want to wash myself! Levadski pulls a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and mops the three furrows of his brow. He dries his turkey neck, his eyes; filled with disgust, he wipes his mouth. In the darkness the handkerchief looks to him like it is smeared in blood. With a cry of dismay Levadski throws it on the floor.

“Quiet!” a woman’s voice hisses from the auditorium. Mr. Witzturn doesn’t stir. Levadski carefully feels his face, looking for a wound, but he can’t find anything. He gropes around between the legs of the chair for the hand-kerchief, gets a hold of it and resumes an upright position wheezing, the handkerchief trapped between two fingers. He hits his head hard on the balustrade, and while the handkerchief flutters to the floor again, Levadski, albeit briefly, without inhibition announces his pain to the Golden Hall of the
Musikverein
.

Mr. Witzturn is startled out of his dream. His scream, occurring only a split second later, joins Levadski’s wail of pain, expressing itself as a distorted echo.

“What a scandal, the two young rascals in the box!”

Levadski can feel the eyes of the concertgoers glaring with anger in the darkness of the auditorium.

“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

“N
ICE TO BE IN THE FRESH AIR AGAIN!
” M.
R
W
ITZTURN
’
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.”

“So, you believe in a healthy diet?”

“He who believes, will be blessed,” Mr. Witzturn laughs. “Oh, the revolving door won’t move!”

“Push harder. It was working when we left the hotel. Or let me have a go.” Levadski leans against the door. Nothing stirs.

“Hhm, perhaps counter-clockwise?” Mr. Witzturn suggests.

“Nothing,” Levadski sighs, “perhaps reception has closed?”

“Nonsense, it is not even eleven o’clock. Oh, someone is coming!”

“Please enter through the side door, gentlemen,” beckons the dark figure of the concierge. “Unfortunately we have a power outtage in the neighborhood.” His colleague at the reception desk is waving two greenish glow sticks.

“What are those?”

“They are glow sticks, Professor.” The green moonface belongs to the head concierge who greeted Levadski on the day of his arrival by addressing him as Gracious Sir. “Just give a quick twist here and you get five to six hours of light.”

“We are all as green as bog people,” Mr. Witzturn remarks with a sense of satisfaction, receiving his light rod.

“Unfortunately the elevator is out of service.” The head concierge softly jangles the room keys. “Perhaps the gentlemen would like to take a drink at the bar and then,” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the stairs, “go to their rooms.”

“Go or ride?” Levadski wants to know.

“We are doing what we can, Professor.”

“I didn’t know that you were a professor,” says Mr. Witzturn, following the light rod of the younger concierge in the direction of the Bar Maria Theresia.

“Well, yes,” Levadski says in defense, “what can I say …” Mr. Witzturn starts giggling again. Strange, Levadski thinks, it’s been a while since we had that sparkling wine in the intermission, he can’t be drunk. And in no time he finds himself at the bar, bathed in delicate piano music and the chatter of other hotel guests. After the concierge has greeted the piano player across the room with a nod, he wishes Mr. Witzturn and Mr. Levadski a pleasant evening. His light rod swaying in front of him shows him the way back.

“It is very warm in here,” Mr. Witzturn remarks.

“Not surprising,” Levadski shrugs his shoulders, “with all the burning candles. It’s as bright as day.”

“Almost,” adds Mr. Witzturn, clambering onto a barstool. “I never sit at the bar. The chairs are too high and dangerous for me, but today, I thought, today it feels right.”

With a death-defying balancing act Levadski seats himself next to Mr. Witzturn. “I have hung my stick on the rim of the bar,” Mr. Witzturn continues. After several failed attempts Levadski’s drinking stick stays hanging beside Mr. Witzturn’s.

“An elegant rim,” says Levadski, discreetly examining Mr. Witzturn’s stick through his magnifying glass, “padded with leather at the bottom, did you notice that? Specially for guests with worn out kneecaps.” The knob must be made of a tree root or a bulbous nose, thinks Levadski, putting the magnifying glass down on the counter, satisfied. There is no doubt that his drinking stick is more beautiful.

The barman hands the gentlemen two open drink menus. “Recommend something to us,” Levadski says.

“We’re game for anything,” Mr. Witzturn says, distorting his face into a pathetic grimace. He closes his eyes and sneezes. The hum of the hotel guests disappears for a second but the imperturbable bar pianist, who seems to be playing louder than ever at this precise moment, jumps in alarm, discounts the possibility of a shooting, and, hunching over, continues to play.

“Imperial fruit vodka would be my recommendation.” The bartender is propping himself up with both hands on the sink.

“Sounds very refreshing. It is exactly what we need in this heat, isn’t it, Mr. Witzturn?” Mr. Witzturn agrees.

“Game for anything,” he repeats, giving a wink and deliberating whether he should sneeze again.