these days, but I understand he was once quite popular.’
‘Are you in a rush?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll look in the basement. I presume you’re only interested in piano pieces?’ Liebermann nodded. ‘If anyone needs service, ring the bell.’
Shusetka vanished through a door behind the counter. Liebermann heard a dull knocking sound as the salesman made his descent down a wooden staircase. Another customer entered and looked through the lieder collections, but departed without making a purchase.A considerable period of time elapsed before Herr Shusetka reappeared. When he did, he looked a little dishevelled.
‘You’re in luck,’ said Shusetka, offering Liebermann a slim volume of piano music. ‘I found this.’
Liebermann smiled and read: ‘Three Fantasy Pieces opus eighty-six.’
The pages were yellowing and exuded a dank fragrance. One of them was mottled with green-black mould.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Shusetka, brushing some dust from the sleeve of his jacket. ‘The basement gets damp this time of year.’
Another page was torn slightly.
Liebermann searched for the publication date and found it on the frontispiece: Vienna, eighteen sixty-two. The score was forty-one years old.
‘I’ll take it,’ said Liebermann decisively.
Liebermann walked home through the backstreets. He had not gone very far when he noticed that the stucco wall of one of the buildings had been defaced with black paint. He drew closer and the smudges became crudely executed letters. The slogan read, The money-Jews have taken our money, don’t let them take everything else . Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, Liebermann tried to clean the surface – but the paint had already dried. It occurred to him that many others must have passed this slogan, but no one – so it seemed – had attempted to remove it. He placed the handkerchief back in his pocket and continued his journey, disturbed and apprehensive.
On returning to his apartment, Liebermann hung up his coat and went straight to the music room. He sat at the Bösendorfer and sight-read through some of the easier sections of the Brosius. There were frequent tempo changes, some interesting modulations, and a fondness for canonic devices. The overall effect reminded Liebermann of Robert Schumann.
Liebermann was satisfied with his purchase. He picked up thevolume, held it close to his nose, and breathed in the ripe scent. The pages fell open again, and he noticed a dedication: To my beloved, Angelika . He remembered Frau Zollinger mentioning Brosius’s wife. What had she said? A great beauty, but superficial. Frau Zollinger hadn’t liked her. Presumably Angelika Brosius, like her husband, was now dead. That was how Frau Zollinger had spoken about her. Liebermann felt a subtle melancholy seeping into his soul. It was sad, how people passed into oblivion. Physical death was only the beginning. Thereafter began a process of slow attrition, the gradual dissolution of biographical evidence. Angelika Brosius – the talk of salon society – beauty and muse – was almost gone: a dedication at the front of an old score and a few fading recollections in the head of an old woman. What else of her remained in the world?
‘Still,’ said Liebermann out loud. ‘The music has survived.’
He placed the volume back on the stand and began to work on the first piece, this time concentrating hard to make sure he was getting the fingering right.
14
T HE LORD MARSHAL AND the emperor were seated at a large table in the conference room, on chairs upholstered with green and gold silk. A rug, decorated with a circular motif, covered most of the parquet floor. The electric chandelier had not been switched on. Instead, illumination was supplied by two candelabras which stood beneath a large oil painting. The scene depicted within the ornate frame was a famous battle that had taken place during the Hungarian revolution.
After some initial business, requiring the signing of certain
‘Are you in a rush?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll look in the basement. I presume you’re only interested in piano pieces?’ Liebermann nodded. ‘If anyone needs service, ring the bell.’
Shusetka vanished through a door behind the counter. Liebermann heard a dull knocking sound as the salesman made his descent down a wooden staircase. Another customer entered and looked through the lieder collections, but departed without making a purchase.A considerable period of time elapsed before Herr Shusetka reappeared. When he did, he looked a little dishevelled.
‘You’re in luck,’ said Shusetka, offering Liebermann a slim volume of piano music. ‘I found this.’
Liebermann smiled and read: ‘Three Fantasy Pieces opus eighty-six.’
The pages were yellowing and exuded a dank fragrance. One of them was mottled with green-black mould.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Shusetka, brushing some dust from the sleeve of his jacket. ‘The basement gets damp this time of year.’
Another page was torn slightly.
Liebermann searched for the publication date and found it on the frontispiece: Vienna, eighteen sixty-two. The score was forty-one years old.
‘I’ll take it,’ said Liebermann decisively.
Liebermann walked home through the backstreets. He had not gone very far when he noticed that the stucco wall of one of the buildings had been defaced with black paint. He drew closer and the smudges became crudely executed letters. The slogan read, The money-Jews have taken our money, don’t let them take everything else . Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, Liebermann tried to clean the surface – but the paint had already dried. It occurred to him that many others must have passed this slogan, but no one – so it seemed – had attempted to remove it. He placed the handkerchief back in his pocket and continued his journey, disturbed and apprehensive.
On returning to his apartment, Liebermann hung up his coat and went straight to the music room. He sat at the Bösendorfer and sight-read through some of the easier sections of the Brosius. There were frequent tempo changes, some interesting modulations, and a fondness for canonic devices. The overall effect reminded Liebermann of Robert Schumann.
Liebermann was satisfied with his purchase. He picked up thevolume, held it close to his nose, and breathed in the ripe scent. The pages fell open again, and he noticed a dedication: To my beloved, Angelika . He remembered Frau Zollinger mentioning Brosius’s wife. What had she said? A great beauty, but superficial. Frau Zollinger hadn’t liked her. Presumably Angelika Brosius, like her husband, was now dead. That was how Frau Zollinger had spoken about her. Liebermann felt a subtle melancholy seeping into his soul. It was sad, how people passed into oblivion. Physical death was only the beginning. Thereafter began a process of slow attrition, the gradual dissolution of biographical evidence. Angelika Brosius – the talk of salon society – beauty and muse – was almost gone: a dedication at the front of an old score and a few fading recollections in the head of an old woman. What else of her remained in the world?
‘Still,’ said Liebermann out loud. ‘The music has survived.’
He placed the volume back on the stand and began to work on the first piece, this time concentrating hard to make sure he was getting the fingering right.
14
T HE LORD MARSHAL AND the emperor were seated at a large table in the conference room, on chairs upholstered with green and gold silk. A rug, decorated with a circular motif, covered most of the parquet floor. The electric chandelier had not been switched on. Instead, illumination was supplied by two candelabras which stood beneath a large oil painting. The scene depicted within the ornate frame was a famous battle that had taken place during the Hungarian revolution.
After some initial business, requiring the signing of certain
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