Tempo Rubato
“Stolen Time”
by
Brendan Carroll
Copyright 1995
Tempo Rubato
"Stolen Time"
by
Brendan Carroll
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2005 Brendan Carroll
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Prelude
WEST TEXAS - Early Spring 1995
The elderly gentleman pushed back one of the bothersome locks of wispy, white hair and shook his head slowly as he opened the heavy door of the cramped glass and steel control booth. Behind him, in cool, air-conditioned silence, an intricate array of lighted electronic panels, digital displays, oscillating graphs and readouts looked like something straight out of a late night Sci-Fi movie. A gust of super-cold air rushed past his ears along with a babble of seemingly incomprehensible voices speaking French, English, Italian, German and Spanish in a cacophony of confusion. He stayed back near the door to avoid being trampled by the scurrying crowd of medics, technicians and company executives all dressed in surgical blues replete with masks and gloves. All, that is, except for one. A strikingly beautiful blonde woman standing aloof, oblivious to the activity around her, but critically attentive to the object of everyone’s concern. Her clear blue eyes betrayed just a touch of coldness in contrast to the blood red rose adorning the lapel of her perfectly tailored white suit. She could have been twenty-five, thirty-five or any where in between. No lines or creases marred her face, only her elevated position with the company and her air of complete control indicated her age to be more the latter than the former. She turned her head slightly as if the old man’s stare distracted her and nodded to him ever so slightly. He returned the acknowledgement with a stiff little bow and an unseen shudder then turned his attention to the center of the low-ceilinged room where the last reverberations of a high-pitched whine were dwindling along with the level of conversation as everyone seemed to pause simultaneously waiting for the cold fog swirling about the room to dissipate. The old gentleman squinted to see through the mist beyond the coiled rows of conduit encircling a depression in the center of the room.
All commotion ceased as a figure began to emerge slowly from the depths of the fog, awkwardly backing up a ladder attached to the inside of the conduits. At the top of the ladder, he stepped carefully over the frost-covered coils feeling his way with his booted feet on a raised metal platform where a team of masked medics waited with a surgical gurney. The man wore a long, wool overcoat and a black tricorne hat. He stooped under the weight of what proved to be the seemingly unconscious form of someone wearing what appeared to be a white nightgown. A second man’s head also adorned with a tri-corn hat appeared above the coils laboring with the gowned figure’s legs. As the threesome cleared the top of the coils, it became very apparent that their burden was not at all unconscious, but very much awake and very much unhappy with the entire situation.
The old man smiled sadly as he picked up several muffled curses directed at the two booted men. It was his native language, German. The old man edged forward, concentrating his attention, trying to see the man’s face.
Everyone in the circular room burst into a renewed flurry of activity. The medics helped to secure the man on the gurney strapping his arms and legs down with Velcro fasteners. As soon as the gurney reached the bottom of the ramp, an agitated crew of technicians, medics and doctors immediately blocked the view. The two oddly dressed men were left standing on the platform, forgotten in the melee. It was impossible to catch a glimpse of the patient. Everyone was talking at once and the old man’s ears were again bombarded with half a dozen different languages. He took two more steps forward.
“BP: ninety over forty.” A female voice called out.
“Respiration: rapid, shallow.” A different voice announced.
“Temp: one zero four point four.” A male voice intoned almost simultaneously with the last.
A tall man wearing glasses over the top of his surgical mask stood at the head of the gurney, apparently the doctor in charge. He issued orders left and right as he bent over to peer at the patient’s head. The medics shifted positions in response to the doctor’s orders to begin attaching various monitors and intravenous tubing to the patient’s arms, chest and head.
The elderly man watching the excitement brushed back the vexatious wisp of hair subconsciously and stepped closer as the undulating crowd cleared a bit exposing the patient’s face for the first time. The unhappy center of attention did not appear to be very old, at least not as old as some who had passed through this way before; however, it was impossible to accurately judge his age due to the hideous swelling and discoloration of his face. His long, blonde hair lay in disheveled strands about his head and his large gray eyes were sunken above dark circles. It was clearly evident that he was suffering from some dreadful disease, which had taken a terrible toll on his physical appearance. The old man winced; he had not expected him to look so bad even though he knew he would have been ill for quite some time.
The patient blinked at the bright lights above the gurney in confusion and fear, then suddenly turned to look directly at the old man who now stood not more than three feet away. The feverish gray eyes sent an almost electric shock through the old man causing him to catch his breath. A nurse stepped between them blocking the view momentarily. When she moved again, he saw that the patient was still looking at him and realized that the man was trying to speak to him. He could contain himself no longer.
“Stille, sag’ ich!” He shouted in German clearly angry.
The old man’s outburst startled the crew into silence as they turned to look at him in disbelief.
He raised one gnarled hand to point at the man on the gurney.
“Let him speak!” He said in heavily accented English.
The patient’s eyes were still locked on the old man.
“Wo bin ich?” His voice was scratchy and barely audible.
The medics looked at each other frowning.
“Ist’s Fantasie.” He continued with difficulty “du ich noch lebe? Sag mir, der lustiger freund, wer du seist?”
The old man smiled through tears in his eyes as he recognized the familiar words.
“Fantasie, nein. Der Vogelfanger bin ich ja...” He answered the patient’s question with the proper response.
The blonde man turned his eyes back toward the ceiling. He was actually laughing though not loudly enough to hear clearly.
“What?!” The doctor recovered his own voice and glared at the old man. “What did he say? What did you tell him?”
The old man smiled and shrugged.
“He vanted to know vere he iss and who am I.”
“Well, what did you tell him?!” The doctor demanded again.
“I tolt him he iss not dreaming and I told him that I am the bird catcher,” the old man smiled at the irritated doctor.
“Frieda!” The doctor directed his attention to the blonde woman still standing in the background. “Get this fellow out of here! I have work to do!” He nodded his head toward the elderly man.
Without further ado, the doctor went back to his examination. The old man brushed the tears from his cheeks and turned to face the woman who smiled at him and beckoned to him to join her. He walked slowly toward the doors leading from the cold, concrete room. Perhaps this one would make them sorry that they had tampered with the works of God. Perhaps this one would be the key to his own future.
“Albert?” The one called Frieda caught up with him in the brightly-lit corridor outside the chamber. “You should know better than that, my friend.”
She slipped her arm under his as they continued down the hall. He simply sighed and did not respond.
“We really should spend more time together, you and I.” She said pleasantly. “We have a lot in common, you know.”
Another shudder passed through his soul.
Adagio
PRINCETON, New Jersey - Late Fall 1997
Detective Derek Boswell sat stiffly in the leather chair in the reception area of the professor’s opulent office. He was beginning to wonder about his own sanity. The convoluted path he had followed on this case was growing more and more bizarre by the day. It had started as a routine homicide investigation, but then things had changed. It had become personal when his mother had called him from Dallas inquiring about the victim. The girl was the daughter of her friends from Vienna. What kind of twist had fate thrown him? He travels a thousand miles to get away from Texas and what happens? His mother knows his business even in New York! But his mother was like that. She had friends everywhere. And what was this business about the strange company the girl had worked for and why was the FBI and the NSA interested in his investigation? If they wanted to handle the case, then why didn’t they just take it off his hands? He frowned inwardly, supposing it was most likely due to the weird developments concerning certain missing files belonging to the company which supposedly had something to do with national security. Of course, they wanted to know everything he knew, but they wouldn’t tell him anything about what they knew. The big guys didn’t want to get involved in the homicide investigation. They wanted it handled by the local police. It didn’t make sense to him, but it was not his job to question the upper administration. Now he had come to a sorry pass, trying to identify the author of a strange letter found in the possession of the victim. This line of questioning made him feel foolish, but he had no other leads. He should have stayed with the Texas Rangers! He should have gotten a job as a crop duster! He should have…
“Dr. Perkins will see you now.” The chubby, pink-clad secretary waddled to the ornately carved oak door and pushed it open to allow the detective to pass into the professor’s office.
Derek felt uncomfortable in such stuffy surroundings. The place reminded him of a funeral parlor and brought to mind his somewhat limited education. It smelled of old furniture polish and cigars, but the man seated behind the monstrous desk surprised him. He had expected to see an old, balding gentleman in a sweater vest and horn-rimmed glasses. Instead, a small wiry man with frizzy blonde hair badly in need of Fantastic Sam’s services rose to extend a bony hand in greeting.
“Hello, Mr. Boswell.” His blue eyes danced below a curious frown. “Ms. Lightner said you have something you wanted me to see. Something ‘bizarre’ I believe was the word she used. I’m a sucker for bizarre things as you can see.” He waved one hand about the room.
Derek glanced about the office. Where he expected to find bookshelves full of dusty old volumes, he saw an eclectic collection of knick-knacks and oddments. A pickled tarantula with brilliant turquoise eyes, a musical carousel decorated with skulls and crossbones, a crystal ball with what looked like a human eye in the center, a bust of Beethoven in one corner a full sized terra cotta figure of a Chinese warrior from some ancient era.
“I see.” Derek nodded. “They told me...”
“...to expect anything.” The professor finished for him. “Please, sit down. I only have a few minutes before I have to be in class.”
Derek sat in a large leather chair in front of the desk.
“What is it exactly and what does it have to do with me?” The professor got right to the point.
“Well, sir.” Derek shuffled his feet uncomfortably on the carpet like a schoolboy in the principal’s office. The assistant curator at the Smithsonian had warned him not to bother the professor and he was beginning to wish he had taken the man’s advice. “Like I told your secretary, it’s real odd. I mean it’s actually.... well, you see.” He bent to retrieve his battered leather tote. “Better to let you see it, I guess.”
Derek extracted a document encased in a plastic sheet protector from his tote and handed it over to the doctor trying not to hold his breath. He hoped the good professor would not laugh in his face quite so loudly as the assistant curator had done earlier.
Dr. Perkins peered closely at the document.
“The curator over at the museum was not impressed.” Derek continued as the professor studied the item in question. “You may laugh, too, but I can tell you, Dr. Perkins, it’s no laughing matter. What I need to know is who might have written that thing. You know, some crackpot maybe. Reincarnation freak. Something like that?”
The professor opened the drawer of his desk without taking his eyes off the document and rummaged about before drawing out a large magnifying glass. Derek was again surprised by Dr. Perkins’ apparent interest in the letter.
“This is quite amazing.” Dr. Perkins said finally looking up at Derek after a protracted silence. “May I ask where you found this?”
“I’m investigating a homicide. The victim had it in her personal effects. I’d really like to question whoever sent this letter to her. It’s possible they could shed some light on who might have killed her. Whoever he is. I’m not at liberty to tell you much more than that. I’m sorry.”
“Hmmm.” The professor returned his attention to the letter to study the signature at the bottom of the page. “I can’t tell you who wrote it, but I can tell you that whoever it was is certainly talented in the art of forgery. He definitely has the handwriting down perfectly. Not only the handwriting, also the style, the grammar... it’s perfect. And here,” he tapped the signature “this is astonishing. Look at that ‘T’! If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was an original.”
Derek leaned to look at the specified letter, but it meant nothing to him. A ‘T’ was a ‘T’.
“So do you have any ideas at all?” Derek asked hopefully. “I mean, have you heard of anyone who might be forging stuff like this?”
Dr. Perkins seemed oblivious to him.
“This is great!” He glanced at the wall clock. “Damn! I really have to be going. Look, do you mind if I keep a copy of it!”
“I’m afraid not. The case is still open...”
“Of course, of course. Well, send one around when it’s all cleared, eh?”
“Do you think it could be real?” Derek asked again.
“Oh, no you don’t!” The professor laughed and stood up. He began to pick up a clutter of papers from his desk. “You’ll not trick me into saying anything stupid that could wind up in the tabloids. It’s a forgery all right, but it’s a good one. The man’s definitely a crackpot of some kind. Maybe, if you find him, you’ll find your killer, eh?”
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Perkins.” Derek said somewhat disappointed. “I’ll be sure to keep you posted.”
“Please do.” The professor shook his hand again and then hurried to the door before stopping and spinning about holding up one hand. “And please, by the way, if he can write music, I would like to meet him.” And then he was gone. Derek sighed and stood up. He would have to look elsewhere for answers. Maybe his mother’s friends in Vienna would have some ideas…
Etude
VIENNA, AUSTRIA - Early Spring 1999
Maria Elisse Mannheim stood in front of the class called Music History at the Conservatory of Music.
“As you know, Wolfgang Mozart was one of the greatest musical geniuses who ever lived. If you read today’s assignment, you learned that he wrote his first piano concerto at the age of four, his first symphony at the ripe old age of seven and his first full-scale opera in Italian at the age of twelve.”
A handsome young Italian student named Antonio Patrizi waved his hand at the back of the room.
“Yes, Tony.” Elisse took off her glasses.
“Dr. Mannheim, isn’t it true that you are an expert, a so-called Mozart scholar?”
“Yes, I suppose some would consider me an expert.” Elisse admitted reluctantly.
“You are too modest.” He said in Italian knowing full well that few, if any, of his classmates understood the language. Then he continued in German. “Didn’t you just resolve a long-standing dispute here in Vienna concerning the authenticity of a letter purportedly written by Herr Mozart to a friend in Paris which was only recently found in an attic somewhere in France?”
Elisse had to smile at the seemingly well-informed young man, but she tried to cut him off. “Yes, but that has nothing to do with today’s lecture. Let’s save that discussion for another time.”
“It’s a date!” He answered brightly eliciting several giggles from around the room.
“As I was saying,” Elisse continued, somewhat embarrassed by his obvious flirting. “Wolfgang Mozart was a musical genius whose talent has never been equaled, though his talent went mostly unappreciated during his short lifetime. We are going to listen to a few examples of his early works completed when he lived with his family in Salzburg and then we’ll compare them to his later works completed after he had ventured out on his own here in Vienna.”
Tony Patrizi’s hand shot up again.
Elisse sighed and put her glasses back on.
“Yes, Tony.” Her aggravation edged into her voice.
“I took the initiative to rent the movie Amadeus and I’ve watched it twice,” he announced proudly this time producing a few groans from his classmates. “I’ve come to the conclusion that Antonio Salieri could have actually been responsible for his death even though I understand that the movie was not exactly authentic in it’s representation of the composer’s life. Of course, I don’t want to implicate a fellow countryman such as Signori Salieri, but even if Salieri didn’t do it, someone else could have. Isn’t it true that Mozart, himself, mentioned that he thought someone was trying to poison him? Do you think it’s possible that he really was murdered?”
“There is no actual evidence that anything other than natural causes contributed to his death,” Elisse had heard all of this many times before and she did not want Tony to drag the class into another pointless debate.
“But, Dr. Mannheim.” Tony persisted. “What about the two men who removed him from his deathbed on the night before he died? Who were they? No one ever saw Mozart alive again.”
“What two men?” Elisse frowned at him.
“The two men reportedly sent by Dr. Sallaba, of course,” he answered.
Antonio looked down at his textbook in confusion and flipped through the pages to where a picture of a portrait of Mozart stared up at him.
“Surely you misread the lesson, Tony.” Elisse smiled. “Mozart died in his own bed in his own house. He wasn’t taken anywhere by anyone.”
Her statement caused a general stir in the classroom. Several students cleared their throats and others shuffled their books and papers while others exchanged puzzled glances.
“Pardonne moi.” One of the French students raised her hand timidly.
“Yes, Claire.” Elisse was glad for a distraction this time.
“It is here, Madame.” The girl tapped the textbook opened in front of her and then began to read in German. “Two orderlies under the direction of Dr. Sallaba took the ailing Mozart to the doctor’s home the night of December 4, 1791 in order that the doctor could more closely monitor his deteriorating condition.”
Elisse stepped down from the small dais in front of the class to the nearest desk where she spun the student’s book around to face her. There on the page, just as Claire had read, printed in black ink were the disconcerting words.
“This is wrong.” She muttered to herself. She flipped to the copyright page in front of the book. It was the very same book she had used for the last five years. Only one thing had changed. The word ‘revised’ was written under the title. The book had been revised the year before. Elisse was dumbfounded. How could this have slipped past her?
“I’m sorry.” She looked up perplexed. “I didn’t realize these changes had been made.” She turned the book over to its owner and felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment. “Let’s get on with the lesson.”
She hurried over to the stereo and punched the play button before anyone else could raise his or her hand. As the first piece began to fill the room with its enchanting melody, she sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She had a long day ahead of her.
CHAPTER I
Obbligato
Elisse arrived home at her second floor apartment near the heart of the historic district with a brand new instructor’s edition of the textbook tucked securely under one arm. She checked her mail before trudging up the stairs to her carefully restored mid-eighteenth century rooms. One thing she dearly missed was an elevator, but it was one of the sacrifices she had made to live in the past. A pleasant surprise awaited her, a large brown envelope from New York. She did not know anyone in America other than one or two students who had passed through her courses at the conservatory and wondered what could possibly be inside the package.
Once inside her apartment, she dumped the mail and made her way to what passed for the kitchen to prepare a cup of French vanilla coffee before settling down to a long night of reading. Although she loved surprises, the textbook was something more of a shock. She sat down in her chair and picked up the remote control for her stereo. She could not remember what was in the disc player so she just punched play and picked up the envelope from America as the first strands of Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet flowed from the speakers.
The envelope contained a short, but intriguing letter from a homicide detective in New York.
Dear Ms. Mannheim:
I obtained your address from one of the assistant curators at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, D.C. He said you were one of the world’s leading Mozart scholars and if I had any questions concerning the composer, you would be the one to ask. I am investigating an open homicide case. Please find enclosed a copy of a letter that was found among the deceased’s personal effects. I cannot divulge certain aspects of the case; however, I will tell you what I can. The victim was one of your fellow Viennese (misspelled?) and may have been one of your former students there at the college. I am unable to divulge her full name at this time. She was found dead (I’m sorry if this is a shock to you) in her apartment .I can also tell you that the original letter was handwritten on standard bond company letterhead with a black rolling ball extra fine point Pilot Precise V7 pen. What I am looking for is any clue leading to the identity of the author of the letter, such as someone currently passing forged documents, cult members,anything you might be able to provide would be greatly appreciated.
Sincerely yours,Detective Derek Boswell, NYPD
P.S. I have enclosed a photocopy of my ID and badge number and a telephone number.
If the detective’s letter was not mysterious enough, the enclosed document was a mystery indeed. The photocopied handwritten letter was covered front and back and addressed to someone name Karina and signed by none other than W.A. Mozart! At first, Elisse had to stifle the urge to laugh, but the gravity of the detective’s letter and the knowledge that this letter once belonged to a murdered girl made her shudder.
She took a sip of her coffee, tucked her feet beneath her and began to read the elegant, but somewhat difficult handwriting. She had no idea that she could help the detective in his quest for clues, but at least the letter was an interesting turn of events after the exasperating day at work. She was still stewing at the thought that she, of all people, had not been notified of the revision of her textbook. She had already had unpleasant exchanges with several people in the office of curriculum and fully planned to write to the publishers to inquire about the source of the new material in the book. She turned her attention to the letter.
Most beloved friend, Karina:
Concerning your most urgent request, I must answer no. I am not here by natural Laws or God’s intent. That I am here is not important. What I am doing while I am here is. I must owe my wardens at least some measure of gratitude for they have brought me from an early grave if, for nothing else, to enjoy my music. I am a slave to my music, as you well know. It is what keeps me alive.
You speak to me of freedom, yet I see that things are not changed. Freedom means one is free to starve, free to freeze in the streets, free to live under the rule of the wealthy while residing in the arms of poverty where one has to ask by-your-leave to light a stick of firewood. I have witnessed this freedom and I reject it under the circumstances. I have left everything I valued behind. There is nothing out there, but sad remembrances for me. Here I have two very fine instruments and a most splendid orchestra. What more could I ask? They were all that was truly important in the end. Now I have them back without the bittersweet burden of hearth and home into the bargain.
I am content here to know that I was beloved and furthermore, am still loved by so many. The only thing missing is the embrace of the people. If only I could meet with the people who so appreciate me now, but.... As for you, my friend, I am filled with joy for your happiness (he is a very lucky man) and leave it at that. I am with all my heart, dearest Karina, your most loving friend and admirer,
W.A. Mozart (also know that Frieda is here and it is most difficult to get this letter off)
Karina...Karina! Elisse’s heart began to thud. Whoever wrote the letter knew Mozart better than she did! The letter was written in almost perfect form, the signature was extraordinarily familiar. The flowery opening and closing lines bordered on absurdity in comparison with modern letter writing styles. How was it possible? Her first instinct was to assume that the author was insane and actually believed himself to be the long dead composer and, if so, was a prime suspect in her opinion.
She took the letter to the corner of the room she referred to as her study where an ornately decorated Rococo desk cluttered with papers and books dominated the setting. A fine reproduction of Mozart’s portrait watched her with an unflinching gaze as she shoved aside the papers and reached for her magnifying glass. She switched on a brass and crystal lamp and held the letter up to the light. Barely noticeable shading colored the paper behind the writing. The shading turned out to be big block letters spelling out the words ‘Left Field’. A thin line of copier ink ran across the top of the paper indicating that it had been cut a few inches shorter that the standard 8 1/2 by 11 inch paper. She presumed this to be where the letterhead was either folded down or removed by someone. There was no way to know if the information had been removed by Detective. Boswell or by the original author. She laid the sheet on the desk and sat back in her chair. Her mind wandered back to the name at the top...Karina. Left Field. Karina. Something was disconcertingly familiar about both, but what was the connection and what did it have to do with her?
Turning in her chair to face her computer, she clicked on the address book and typed Karina into the find section. The hard drive whirred and clicked momentarily and then a screen popped up displaying the name and address of one Karina von Arnim. The girl had indeed been one of her students at the conservatory in 1993. The memory of a bright young girl with long dark hair and laughing brown eyes flashed through her mind’s eye. Yes, yes. And had not this Karina asked for a reference letter and recommendation for employment as a linguist or something with a foreign company somewhere in the west? The memory was vague, but there was no mistaking the name Karina in her address book, there was only one, but the address was a local dormitory for female students. Hopefully, she picked up the phone and punched in the listed phone number. A few minutes later, she hung up the phone with a distinct feeling of dread washing over her. There was no record of a Karina von Arnim ever having lived there recently or at any time in the past five years. She made a mental note to look up the girl’s transcripts in the registrar’s office the following day.
Turning back to the computer, she typed in ‘Left Field’ and waited. No listing was found in her address book, but not unexpectedly. It would have been highly unlikely that she would have recorded it there for one letter. Elisse logged onto the Internet and began searching for anything using the keyword ‘Left Field’. While the computer was searching, she went to the bookcase to retrieve a copy of Peggy Woodford’s ‘Lives of the Great Composers’. She flipped through the book until she located a photograph of a letter written by W.A. Mozart to the Abbe Bullinger. The ‘t’ at the end of the signature was a close match to the flowery embellishment at the end of the Karina letter. In fact, they were almost identical with the exception of the clarity, which resulted from the obvious differences between an eighteenth century quill pen, and a modern roller ball pen. She shuddered to think of the implications of such a fine piece of forgery. With a little ingenuity, the author of the Karina letter would be capable of making her job as an ‘expert’ much more difficult.
Elisse returned to the desk and examined the two T’s more closely with the magnifying glass. It was impossible to tell the difference between the two samples. Either the author was the most adept forger she had ever seen or he was actually W.A. Mozart. Elisse laughed aloud at the notion. The letter had to be a forgery of course and as with all forgeries, there had to be differences and she was determined to find them. The revised edition of the textbook was forgotten along with the computer screen that had dutifully found several references to the word ‘Left Field’. As she settled down to study the two samples, the screen blanked and a screen saver depicting floating flowers and pixies replaced the listings.
Within minutes, she had cleared the desk completely and had taken down a blown up reproduction of one of her favorite pieces of Mozartean handwriting contained in a letter, which epitomized his singular sense of humor. She could not resist reading it through before she began her search for the telltale signs that had to be hiding in the Karina letter.
My great-grandfather used to say to this wife, my great-grandmother, and she to her daughter, my mother, and she again to her daughter, my own sister, that it is a great art to speak well elegantly, but an art perhaps no less great to stop at the right time. So I intend to follow the advice of my sister as handed down from our mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, and put an end not only to my moralistic digression, but to this whole letter.
She sipped her cooling coffee now relocated to the desk and thought seriously that she might be finally losing what was left of her mind. Her life was not going well at all. At the age of thirty-five, she found herself in a crisis. Her fiancée of two years had finally given her an ultimatum: either marry him and move to Rome or call off the engagement. When she had hesitated, he had left her flat. She did not want to go to Rome and start over. Her professorship with the Conservatory was tenured and she was not sure that she wanted to become an ‘Italian’ housewife. But that was what he wanted and that was what he expected. It was just not an option for her. That had been six months ago and now her life was falling apart. She found herself bored with her job and her future looked very lonely. Elisse was not an outgoing person, she never had been, or at least not since her mother had committed suicide when she was twenty-one. She thought ironically how Mozart must have felt when his mother had died while in his care. He had also been twenty-one at the time and his father had blamed him for his mother’s death saying that he had not done enough, soon enough to save her. At least her father had never openly blamed her for his wife’s death, but four years of therapy had never convinced her that it was not somehow her fault that her mother had killed herself. Not only had she blamed herself for her mother’s death, she also had a deep-seated guilt complex concerning her father’s subsequent marriage to a woman she could barely tolerate for more than twenty minutes at a time. Her colleagues at the Conservatory had nicknamed her the Ice Princess, a name she felt she most likely deserved.
Her work was her life now, but there was a great blank spot in the middle of it that needed to be filled. Her best and only friend was constantly badgering her to take a vacation, do something unexpected. She reminded herself of the staid librarian with the thick horn-rimmed glasses and slicked back hair even though she tried very hard to keep up with the latest styles and fashions. That she was attractive, she had no doubt, but whenever she attracted attention, she stuck her head in the sand and pretended not to notice. The most exciting thing in her life at the moment was Tony Patrizi’s crush on her and that, she thought, was pretty pathetic for someone of her age and background. It was time for her to pick up the pieces and do something, but what? Perhaps she should take that vacation. Perhaps she should do something unexpected. What did she have to lose? She could always come back to Vienna and take up her work again. She was even beginning to understand her mother’s depression and eventual suicide. One of her greatest fears was ending up like her mother. She thrust these morbid thoughts from her mind and picked up the magnifying glass to begin the painstaking task of checking every single character in the Karina letter against similar letter groupings in the reproduction of an original. Before she realized, the clock on the mantel struck three a.m. and still, she had found no errors in the penmanship of the forgery. Not even the slightest hint of a difference between the two epistles other than the more smoothly drawn lines resulting from the use of the modern pen and ink. If Wolfgang Mozart had been in possession of a ball point pen and smoothly textured paper, certainly this would have been exactly what his handwriting would have looked like in her professional opinion, of course.
By 5:30 a.m., she had drunk three more cups of coffee and was sitting on the floor by the coffee table in her living room. She picked up her cup, bleary-eyed, surveying the wreck she had made of her apartment. Books and documents pulled from her file cabinet were scattered everywhere. She had dug out every example she possessed of the composer’s handwriting to compare to the ‘Karina letter’. At one point, she had become so exhausted; she had actually found herself comparing the originals to the letter looking for mistakes in the authentic duplicates. That was when she had decided enough was enough. She leaned against the sofa and sighed. Her thoughts returned to her mother. Why, after all these years, was her mother’s ghost haunting her again so acutely? Was the realization that she had lost her fiancée and all her hopes for the future just beginning to sink in after six months? Her psychiatrist had told her time and again that she had to stop pushing her problems aside and face them. She had always denied that she did so, but now she wondered if he had not been right all along.
At seven thirty she phoned the conservatory to cancel her morning classes claiming to be ill which was not far from the truth considering the feverish intensity of her work and the depths of her depression. She immediately went back to the desk and began again. Submerging herself in her tasks had always worked before. This time she scanned the letter and parts of her collection into a special program, which would overlay one upon the other to show any over-looked discrepancies.
The clock began to count down twelve strokes of noon. The insistent bonging of the timepiece finally interrupted her concentration. Her gaze fell upon the portrait of her fiancée. Ex-fiancée! It was time to get up and do something or die. Do or die! Anything would be better than this. Socially, she was dead already. It would only be a matter of time before her body caught up to her mind. Her mother had taken the easy way. Sleeping pills. Elisse had the same prescription in her medicine cabinet. It would be so easy and she was so tired. Her mind drifted to a blank stare. The same word echoed in her mind over and over. Easy. Easy. Lots of people were dead. She would be in good company. In fact, her favorite someone was dead. If death was good enough for Mozart, then surely it was good enough for her! She looked up in confusion at the clock. It was only a matter of time and she would be dead one way or another. Why put it off? Mozart had died at the age of thirty-five. At last they would have even more in common. She jumped physically as someone pounded on her front door.
“I came by to see if you needed anything,” Tony Patrizi said immediately when she opened the door. “I was just passing by. They told me you were ill.”
Elisse opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out before he continued rapidly.
“I have made the most remarkable discovery and I was so disappointed when you didn’t come to class. I know you will love it, really.”
She could see that he was truly excited, but she was in no mood to entertain a student. Especially one such as Anthony Patrizi who reminded her of her loneliness.
“You’re so thoughtful to come by, Tony.” She smiled wearily. “But I really am busy, I mean tired. I’m really tired. Perhaps...”
“Please, Dr. Mannheim,” Tony interrupted her. “It will only take a few minutes and it will be worth your while.” He held up a compact disc and waved it in front of her face. She smiled in spite of her aggravation. Students like Tony were just hazards of the job. “Please?” He said again and clasped his hands together around the disc in awkward supplication.
“All right.” She relented. “But just a few minutes. OK.?”
“Bravo!” The boy bounded energetically into the room behind her and spun around oblivious to the mess. “Where’s the stereo?”
Elisse waved tiredly toward the wall where she only just realized the Romeo and Juliet was still playing endlessly repeating. She wondered briefly if Tony wanted a cup of coffee and then decided she did not really care. She was too tired.
Tony popped the disc into the player and manipulated the controls as if he had used her stereo all his life. He hurried across the room and plopped down on the sofa beside her.
“Just listen.” He whispered almost reverently.
The music whispered from the speakers at first and then quickly picked up tempo and volume. Violins, violas, cellos. Alluring, soothing. Elisse’s eyes felt gritty, her lids began to close involuntarily, but then the music suddenly took a swing down through several descending octaves where a piano joined in following the strings with ascending broken triads. An oboe followed the piano in a haunting echo. A bassoon quickly followed suit. The piano, oboe and bassoon played tag until they finally caught up with each other just before an arresting pause followed by a full orchestral review of the entire piece. Elisse sat straight up, listening intently now. The orchestra ended with two resounding notes in unison and the pianist picked up the melody again, this time solo. A sudden chill coursed up her spine and over her scalp. She recognized the music as surely as she recognized the handwriting she had been studying. This was Mozart at his finest and yet, she had never heard the piece before! She frowned and turned to look suspiciously at Tony. Was this some kind of weird conspiracy designed to drive her crazy? Tony was immersed in the music, eyes closed, directing the music with his right hand.
She returned her attention to the music, transfixed.
When the finale came, she sat staring, mouth slightly open, at nothing. Unbelieving. Where had this music come from?
“Well?” Tony’s voice startled her. “What do you think?”
“Oh.” She turned to look at him as if she had forgotten he was there. “It’s... it’s... extraordinary. May I ask where you found it?”
“At the bookstore on campus.” He said with smug satisfaction with her obvious approval. “It’s his latest release.”
“Whose?” She heard herself ask in a small, quiet voice.
“William Masters, the American.” He said matter-of-factly. “I’ve been trying to locate a copy of it for you ever since I first heard it at a friend’s house. I thought you would like it. It sounds so much like him, don’t you think?”
“Who?” She asked hesitantly.
“Mozart, of course.” He smiled at his own ability to discern the likeness.
“Oh.” She nodded. “Yes, it does. How strange...”
“It’s supposedly his second release.” He interrupted her again. “Can you believe it? It’s like he came out of nowhere. Like where has he been, you know?”
“Yes.” Elisse stifled a yawn and then looked around for her purse as an idea partially formed occurred to her. “Look, Tony, I don’t want to impose on your kindness, but would you sell it to me? I’ll double what you paid...it’ll cover the cost of your trouble.”
“No problem.” He shrugged. “You can have it for all I care. I just wanted you to hear it. I guess you know that I...well...I was thinking, you know, that maybe...”
It was her turn to interrupt him. She got up suddenly and swayed slightly from the sudden movement then went to retrieve her purse from the chair where she had deposited it along with the revised and forgotten textbook the day before.
“I really, really am grateful to you for this.” She said fishing her wallet from the bag. “And if you would be anywhere near the bookstore or somewhere you could find the first release, I’d be eternally grateful if you’d pick it up for me as well.” She handed him a wad of bills.
He stood to take the money from her hand and then tried to hand it back.
“No, please.” He shook his head. “I’d be glad to do it... for you.”
“I insist.” She shoved the money back in his hands. “When you find it, please give me a call.”
“Sure.” He nodded realizing he was being dismissed.
He looked very disappointed.
“Here.” She pulled out her car keys. “You know my car. Take it. Go get the disc and I’ll try to get some rest while you’re gone. Come back...oh, say...8:30? I’ll make dinner for you, all right?”
Tony’s face lit up immediately. Elisse knew she was treading on thin ice fraternizing with a student, but she needed to sleep and she needed to think. She would make it very clear to Tony at dinner that his attentions were flattering, but hopeless.
As soon as he was gone, she went immediately to her desk to take out pen and paper.
Dear Mr. Boswell,’ she wrote in English. ‘I am sorry that I have no information to share with you at this time concerning the letter you sent. I can only say that whoever he is, he is extremely talented in the art of forgery, but I have no clue as to his identity. Perhaps it is just an elaborate joke, possibly computer generated as I have not the advantage of examining the original. I am requesting that you allow me to keep the copy as I find it most interesting. You can consider it pay- ment for services rendered. Sincerely,
She signed her name, addressed a matching envelope and stuffed it in her purse to post it the next day.
Yawning again, she searched for the CD case and punched play on the remote to listen again to the remarkable concerto. Settling down at the desk once more, she turned the case over to read the fine print on the back. Her heart caught in her throat as the words leaped off the case at her. An original sound recording by Left Field Records, Ltd.
Only a pen and ink drawing of a grand piano and one red rose adorned the cover of the CD case. The fly page consisted of copyright information, technical recording company jargon, names of orchestra members, the title of the work, dates and a New York City, Fifth Avenue address. The name of the composer was listed William A. Masters. None of the usual biographical blurbs, no photos, nothing that would give any more clues about the mysterious composer Elisse had never heard of. She turned back to her computer screen suddenly remembering the search she had initiated the night before for ‘Left Field‘. She waited for the Internet link to connect impatiently and then quickly typed in ‘Left Field Records, Ltd.’. The search seemed to take forever, but finally she hit the jackpot with several listings. Left Field Records, Ltd. was a subsidiary of Left Field Enterprises, which had an extensive web-site for an international corporation with multiple interests in a virtually endless number and variety of smaller companies ranging from coal mining to textiles to banks. She wondered why she had never heard of such a large corporation, but then, lately, she seemed to be slipping sadly behind the times.
A separate link in the listings was devoted to the recording company, but she clicked on one titled Musical Productions. She went directly to the section for employment opportunities. Her exhausted mind was working apparently without her conscious acknowledgement as she scrolled down the pages past the various descriptions for sound technicians, maintenance positions, groundskeepers, until she stopped suddenly on one that caught her attention. Personal Secretary/Assistant. She pulled up the description, squinting at the screen. Must be energetic, even-tempered with good people skills. No attachments. Must have knowledge of music, be fluent in two or more foreign languages both oral and written (German, Spanish, Italian, English preferred) and be willing to relocate. A real opportunity to join a dynamic corporation at the ground level with great prospects for future promotions. Must be devoted to work and willing to put in long hours. Pay commensurate with education and experience. Elegant surroundings, housing and transportation included. It sounded wonderful, but was somewhat vague. She wondered what ‘no attachments’ meant. Certainly, she fit that requirement quite well. Elisse printed out the description and then downloaded one of the company’s on-line applications.
Elisse wandered about her apartment watering her plants and feeding her fish. Her mother’s ghost was everywhere. In the furniture, on the bookshelves, hanging on the walls. Her father had given her everything when he had moved to Switzerland. Everything, but the reassurance of his love for her. She leaned against the window of her apartment and looked down into the street below, watching the traffic and the people on the sidewalks trying to imagine what the scene would have looked like two hundred years ago. She wondered if Mozart had ever walked down that same street, possibly even glancing up at the very window where she now stood. She opened the window and pushed it outwards to allow the noises and smells from outside to enter the safety of her world. Did it smell the same? Certainly it had not smelled of car exhaust fumes. Elisse closed her eyes and leaned out the window allowing the breeze to brush her face. It would be so easy to just keep leaning…. She snapped her eyes open as sleep almost overtook her in the precarious position, ending all her troubles at once. She closed the windows and looked about the room. No! She did not want to die, but she did want to get away from the oppression of the sanctuary she had created for herself. The prison she had constructed so carefully to keep the world at bay.
She could not keep her eyes open any longer. She took the job description off the printer tray and laid it on the desk. She perused the job description again. If nothing else, perhaps she could locate Karina von Arnim and set her mind to rest that the poor, murdered girl was someone else and not her former student. Perhaps she could meet some new people. People who would not know of her reputation as the Ice Princess. Fresh faces and fresh ideas. It might also give her an opportunity to talk to someone who knew this new composer and could provide some background on his extraordinary talent. With these ideas floating in her muddled brain, she set her clock for six p.m. and went to bed.
Tony arrived at eight thirty sharp with her keys, the second disc and two bottles of wine, one red, and one white.
“I didn’t know what we were having.” He shrugged as she took the two bottles from him. He had cleaned up very well. He no longer looked like a disheveled college student in baggy jeans and tee shirt, but wore a tan shirt, blue tie and brown Dockers. Elisse was impressed. “Bet you didn’t know I could look so civilized, did you?” He smiled.
Elisse laughed and ushered him into her apartment. Her cooking skills were somewhat limited, but she had managed to produce a fairly decent meal complete with salad and dessert. She chose the red wine to go with the steak while Tony busied himself straightening her still messy living room, finishing up by placing the disc in her player just in time to sit down to dinner. They had an enjoyable meal, he talked incessantly about everything and nothing while she nodded politely pretended to pay attention. Her mind was elsewhere, listening to the music, thinking alternately about William Masters and Karina von Arnim. At nine thirty they sat on her sofa with coffee while the two discs continued to play softly in the background.
“Tony.” She said finally, interrupting his endless dialog. “I want you to understand something.”
Tony fixed his attention on her expectantly and she felt herself color slightly under his adoring gaze. This was not going to be easy.
“Tony, I truly appreciate your...friendship.” She began uncertainly then charged on quickly. “But I hope that you realize that I do not usually have dinner with my students. It is imperative that I remain on a strictly professional basis with all my students. Your enthusiasm in class is...refreshing and your concern for me is...flattering, but I’m afraid you may get the wrong impression and that would not be good for me professionally speaking of course. What I’m trying to say is...”
“I know, I know.” Tony looked at the ceiling. “Don’t get any ideas, right?”
“Right!” She agreed too quickly. She was sticking her head back in the sand.
“I hope you don’t think that I would disrespect your position, Dr. Mannheim, but I am a long way from home here and I have very few friends at the conservatory. Would you be insulted if I told you that you remind me of my mother?”
Elisse was totally taken aback. She felt her cheeks burning. Did she look that old? Why did he have to mention his mother?
“No, no! Don’t take me wrong! I didn’t say you look like my mother.” He laughed. “I just meant that you remind me of her. She absolutely loves Mozart. I grew up listening to Mozart. It’s where I learned to love classical music. And whenever you speak of Mozart, you get that same look in your eyes as she has. I guess I just felt like I knew you somehow. Forgive me if I seem too familiar with you, but I admire you a great deal and I know my mother would love you. She can talk for hours about him and his music and believe me; it’s very hard to find someone to share such an interest with in my hometown. I thought perhaps you would like to meet her when she comes to visit me next month. Honestly, Dr. Mannheim, I don’t know what I’m going to do with her for a week. I guess it would be asking too much.”
“No, not at all.” Elisse was relieved. “I’d love to meet her, but I don’t know where I’ll be...when is she coming?”
“Next week.” He told her then frowned. “What do you mean? Next week is mid semester. Where are you going?”
It was Elisse’s turn to frown. Why had she said that? Of course, it would be mid-term. Had she truly made up her mind to do something?
“I’m not going anywhere, I simply meant that I don’t know if I will have time, you know, with exams and papers to read.” She said by way of explanation. “We’ll see.”
CHAPTER II
Accelerando
The new disc had two pieces by William Masters, Symphony no. 2 in C major and Piano Concerto in D minor. With Tony out of the way, she turned up the volume as much as apartment dwelling allowed and settled back to give it her full attention. This music was as familiar as the first disc and yet, again, it was completely unknown to her. The symphony was almost melancholy, but contained a fiery little melody intertwined in the third movement that kept on playing in her head even after the piece ended. The piano concerto was absolutely sublime, full of turns, trills and appoggiaturas with the usual haunted quality of her favorite key D minor. She turned back to the cover insert and read the name of the pianist featured. Somehow it was not surprising to see that William Masters had also performed the difficult piano piece himself, but he had not conducted.
Elisse spent the rest of the evening completing the application from Left Field Musical Productions. She felt as if she were doing something illegal or at the very least, improper. They wanted a complete resume, job references, family history and a recent photograph. Elisse wondered what in the world she was doing the entire time she was rummaging about typing and searching through her personal files and address books to find the appropriate information to complete the form. She already had a job at the conservatory, in fact, a tenured career with full benefits, excellent retirement and all the perks and respect due a full professorship. How could she explain to the Faculty Administrator that she wanted to leave in order to go to work as an entry-level secretary for some corporate entity she had never even heard of before today? He would be furious if she left in the middle of the term, but she had never even called in sick before today and had not she always been there for him at every turn? Surely they owed her something. If all else failed, she could call in some favors and request a year long sabbatical. He could not deny her time off for...what? Stress! Yes, stress was a better word than depression. Certainly stress described her feelings, especially today and what else could account for her radical behavior over the past several hours, but stress or, perhaps, total insanity? And why not, she reasoned with herself. She deserved some time off from the conservatory. She had no attachments in Vienna and no attachments had been one of the requirements for the job. It would be good to get away and do something different for a while.
By one a.m. she put the finishing touches on her resume and her heart pounded as she clicked on the ‘submit’ icon. She had been careful to tailor her resume to match the specified skills and experience listed in the job description; she had not mentioned her specialty and her reputation as an authority on Mozartean manuscripts and handwriting. After all, there was no specific title attached to her name on the college registry. She was listed merely as a member of the faculty in the Music History department. Her extra-curricular endeavors were hardly known to the general public outside of the obscure circle of collectors and museums that occasionally utilized her talents to verify the authenticity of various tidbits turning up now and then in the hands of private citizens.