‘and thinks that only in Vienna do they know how to waltz.’
They were sitting at a table close to the bandstand and eventually a heavily pomaded man in military uniform appeared and brought the band to order. It began to play light, jolly music. Beneath the trees couples began to dance.
The band took a short break and then started to play again. This time it was a succession of waltzes. This was evidently what people had been waiting for because suddenly the space beneath the trees was full of couples dancing.
The lift of the music, the swirl of the dresses beneath the coloured lamps along the branches, the clink of the glasses and the laughter at the tables, the sea smell coming in and mixing with the scent of the flowers, drew more and more people to that end of the piazza.
Seymour was conscious of Hilde Kornbluth looking at him.
‘I am afraid that someone from London could not possibly match the standards of Vienna,’ he said.
‘But you could try,’ said Hilde, taking him firmly by the hand.
Seymour was not a good dancer but Hilde and the music swept him round in a manner which he thought reasonably satisfactory.
‘You like it, yes?’ said Hilde.
‘Carried away,’ said Seymour.
And, indeed, it would be very easy to be carried away. For Seymour, new to the dance and unused to the style of dancing, there was something infectious and heady about it. The closeness of Hilde’s body, the abandon and gaiety of the rhythm, the heavy scent of the flowers and what seemed to Seymour the general surrender, made it all more than mildly intoxicating.
For Hilde, however, the experience was perhaps less satisfactory and after a few turns on the floor she led him back to the table, where Kornbluth was now surrounded by a group of acquaintances.
Seymour was chatting on the edge of the circle when he felt himself tapped on the back. He turned round and saw Maddalena.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you have abandoned us for Vienna.’
Chapter Seven
’Not so,’ said Seymour. ‘I am merely dallying with Vienna. My heart remains elsewhere.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Maddalena, ‘Vienna invites dalliance. That is what the music says, Lehar’s music, anyway. But do not be deceived. The light foot can wear a heavy boot.’
She linked her arm through his.
‘I have come to take you away,’ she said. ‘I think you are in danger.’
He had expected her to lead him to the artists’ table but she did not. Instead, she took him to the top of the piazza and then out into the streets beyond it.
‘Where are you going?’ he said.
‘Home.’
‘Your home?’
‘Yes. I have one.’
Their way took him through the Piazza Giovanni, where Maddalena stopped in front of the marble figure of the composer, Verdi.
‘Shall I tell you something?’ she said. ‘This is where the Austrians wished to erect a statue of the Emperor. But the Italians here would not have it. They put this statue here instead. Not just because Verdi is Trieste’s greatest composer but because of what his music says. It speaks of protest and revolt. Nabucco is the opera of what we call the Risorgimento, the uprising, the revolt. Rebellion against Austrian rule. It puts into music everything we Italians feel. For Italians, opera is their voice, the only voice of theirs that until recently has been able to be heard. On the Emperor’s birthday we show our protest by singing Nabucco . Oh, the Austrians play other music. They have their bands, their military bands. But the sound of their military music cannot drown Verdi, because Verdi’s music is the music of our hearts.’
She gestured towards the statue.
‘I tell you this so that you will not waste your time dallying with the music of Lehar. Lehar is frivolity, escape, deception. It says that life is gaiety, all dancing beneath the trees. Forget, it says, forget the rest. There is just the moment floating like a bubble. But Verdi says: Remember. Remember, do not ever forget. Do not be tricked, do not be
They were sitting at a table close to the bandstand and eventually a heavily pomaded man in military uniform appeared and brought the band to order. It began to play light, jolly music. Beneath the trees couples began to dance.
The band took a short break and then started to play again. This time it was a succession of waltzes. This was evidently what people had been waiting for because suddenly the space beneath the trees was full of couples dancing.
The lift of the music, the swirl of the dresses beneath the coloured lamps along the branches, the clink of the glasses and the laughter at the tables, the sea smell coming in and mixing with the scent of the flowers, drew more and more people to that end of the piazza.
Seymour was conscious of Hilde Kornbluth looking at him.
‘I am afraid that someone from London could not possibly match the standards of Vienna,’ he said.
‘But you could try,’ said Hilde, taking him firmly by the hand.
Seymour was not a good dancer but Hilde and the music swept him round in a manner which he thought reasonably satisfactory.
‘You like it, yes?’ said Hilde.
‘Carried away,’ said Seymour.
And, indeed, it would be very easy to be carried away. For Seymour, new to the dance and unused to the style of dancing, there was something infectious and heady about it. The closeness of Hilde’s body, the abandon and gaiety of the rhythm, the heavy scent of the flowers and what seemed to Seymour the general surrender, made it all more than mildly intoxicating.
For Hilde, however, the experience was perhaps less satisfactory and after a few turns on the floor she led him back to the table, where Kornbluth was now surrounded by a group of acquaintances.
Seymour was chatting on the edge of the circle when he felt himself tapped on the back. He turned round and saw Maddalena.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you have abandoned us for Vienna.’
Chapter Seven
’Not so,’ said Seymour. ‘I am merely dallying with Vienna. My heart remains elsewhere.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Maddalena, ‘Vienna invites dalliance. That is what the music says, Lehar’s music, anyway. But do not be deceived. The light foot can wear a heavy boot.’
She linked her arm through his.
‘I have come to take you away,’ she said. ‘I think you are in danger.’
He had expected her to lead him to the artists’ table but she did not. Instead, she took him to the top of the piazza and then out into the streets beyond it.
‘Where are you going?’ he said.
‘Home.’
‘Your home?’
‘Yes. I have one.’
Their way took him through the Piazza Giovanni, where Maddalena stopped in front of the marble figure of the composer, Verdi.
‘Shall I tell you something?’ she said. ‘This is where the Austrians wished to erect a statue of the Emperor. But the Italians here would not have it. They put this statue here instead. Not just because Verdi is Trieste’s greatest composer but because of what his music says. It speaks of protest and revolt. Nabucco is the opera of what we call the Risorgimento, the uprising, the revolt. Rebellion against Austrian rule. It puts into music everything we Italians feel. For Italians, opera is their voice, the only voice of theirs that until recently has been able to be heard. On the Emperor’s birthday we show our protest by singing Nabucco . Oh, the Austrians play other music. They have their bands, their military bands. But the sound of their military music cannot drown Verdi, because Verdi’s music is the music of our hearts.’
She gestured towards the statue.
‘I tell you this so that you will not waste your time dallying with the music of Lehar. Lehar is frivolity, escape, deception. It says that life is gaiety, all dancing beneath the trees. Forget, it says, forget the rest. There is just the moment floating like a bubble. But Verdi says: Remember. Remember, do not ever forget. Do not be tricked, do not be
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