pulled a couple of bills from his wallet and placed them on the table. Then he picked up his violin and hurried out.
The day didnât seem so fine to him anymore. He wasnât in the mood for strolling or sightseeing. The Altstadt had lost its charm.
The Goldener Adler used to be like a second home to him. Heâd had countless meals there, had played cards and chess and read the papers. But it had changed ownership recently; heâd heard that somewhere and had forgotten it until this moment. Now the café harbored the likes of that bastard!
He had almost achieved the composure he needed for his meeting with Marietta and now it was shot to hell. He had read about party cadres like this in the papers but had never actually seen one in action. And his listeners! How could they buy that crap? With relief, Gottfried remembered the irritated faces of some of the other customers, and the rest who were ignoring him. âStill the majority,â he muttered to himself as he rushed toward the Hochschule. âAt least in this part of the country. This isnât Bavaria.â
Now he couldnât wait to see Marietta. It didnât matter if he stammered, expressed himself awkwardly, played badly, made a fool of himself. It didnât even matter if she rejected him; he just needed to see a reasonable personâin fact, any students or teachers at the Hochschule would do right now, anyone who loved Bach and Mozart and Brahms. He turned the corner into the street where the Hochschule stood, and bounded up the stone steps that led to its massive entrance.
Above the portal were bas-reliefs of mythic figures with lyres and flutes. Heâd never paid much attention to the serene faces of the Muses and other deities depicted there, but now he stopped in the middle of his flight up the stairs to look at them for a few moments. On a side panel Orpheus was shown playing to the beasts, which were tamed with wonder at his song. On the opposite panel he was descending to the underworld, soothing the tormented spirits of the dead with his lyre. At any other time these representations might have struck Gottfried as old-fashioned or pompous or sentimental, but now he didnât care. Their familiarity, combined with the rather naïve belief in the power of music that was projected by those scenes, was of some comfort to him.
Inside, he paused in front of the same bulletin board where Ernstâs name had been crossed off the graduation program. He shuddered, didnât want to think anymore about their last conversation at the Goldener Adler. He headed toward the second floor, where most of the classrooms and practice studios were. On the way upstairs, everything that was familiar made him feel a bit safer: the broad, deep marble steps leading to the mezzanine, the dimly lit hallways where he had sometimes paced before jury examinations, the heavy double doors that insulated the studios.
As usual, strands of phrasesâclimactic moments from Beethoven or Schubert piano sonatas, Chopin preludes, Brahms intermezzosâfiltered through to the corridor despite the thickness of walls and doors. At the far end of the second floor was the orchestra rehearsal hall. Yesâit was a Tuesday afternoon, they were rehearsing. He could make out the anxious strains of the opening of Mozartâs Fortieth Symphony, mingled with the piano music coming from the studios nearby.
He slumped against a wall. His back slid slowly down the cool plaster, and he cradled the violin case against his chest. He crouched there for a moment, then with a soft thud his bottom hit the floor and he stretched out his legs.
Gottfried covered his eyes with one hand as they filled with tears. Fortunately, it was the middle of the hour: no one was in the corridor. He knew it would look strange to anyone who might walk byâa grown man sitting on the floor, like a child, with tears dripping down his cheeks.
Â
âBy now a dozen concerts
The day didnât seem so fine to him anymore. He wasnât in the mood for strolling or sightseeing. The Altstadt had lost its charm.
The Goldener Adler used to be like a second home to him. Heâd had countless meals there, had played cards and chess and read the papers. But it had changed ownership recently; heâd heard that somewhere and had forgotten it until this moment. Now the café harbored the likes of that bastard!
He had almost achieved the composure he needed for his meeting with Marietta and now it was shot to hell. He had read about party cadres like this in the papers but had never actually seen one in action. And his listeners! How could they buy that crap? With relief, Gottfried remembered the irritated faces of some of the other customers, and the rest who were ignoring him. âStill the majority,â he muttered to himself as he rushed toward the Hochschule. âAt least in this part of the country. This isnât Bavaria.â
Now he couldnât wait to see Marietta. It didnât matter if he stammered, expressed himself awkwardly, played badly, made a fool of himself. It didnât even matter if she rejected him; he just needed to see a reasonable personâin fact, any students or teachers at the Hochschule would do right now, anyone who loved Bach and Mozart and Brahms. He turned the corner into the street where the Hochschule stood, and bounded up the stone steps that led to its massive entrance.
Above the portal were bas-reliefs of mythic figures with lyres and flutes. Heâd never paid much attention to the serene faces of the Muses and other deities depicted there, but now he stopped in the middle of his flight up the stairs to look at them for a few moments. On a side panel Orpheus was shown playing to the beasts, which were tamed with wonder at his song. On the opposite panel he was descending to the underworld, soothing the tormented spirits of the dead with his lyre. At any other time these representations might have struck Gottfried as old-fashioned or pompous or sentimental, but now he didnât care. Their familiarity, combined with the rather naïve belief in the power of music that was projected by those scenes, was of some comfort to him.
Inside, he paused in front of the same bulletin board where Ernstâs name had been crossed off the graduation program. He shuddered, didnât want to think anymore about their last conversation at the Goldener Adler. He headed toward the second floor, where most of the classrooms and practice studios were. On the way upstairs, everything that was familiar made him feel a bit safer: the broad, deep marble steps leading to the mezzanine, the dimly lit hallways where he had sometimes paced before jury examinations, the heavy double doors that insulated the studios.
As usual, strands of phrasesâclimactic moments from Beethoven or Schubert piano sonatas, Chopin preludes, Brahms intermezzosâfiltered through to the corridor despite the thickness of walls and doors. At the far end of the second floor was the orchestra rehearsal hall. Yesâit was a Tuesday afternoon, they were rehearsing. He could make out the anxious strains of the opening of Mozartâs Fortieth Symphony, mingled with the piano music coming from the studios nearby.
He slumped against a wall. His back slid slowly down the cool plaster, and he cradled the violin case against his chest. He crouched there for a moment, then with a soft thud his bottom hit the floor and he stretched out his legs.
Gottfried covered his eyes with one hand as they filled with tears. Fortunately, it was the middle of the hour: no one was in the corridor. He knew it would look strange to anyone who might walk byâa grown man sitting on the floor, like a child, with tears dripping down his cheeks.
Â
âBy now a dozen concerts
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