Frau Karlsruhen had fallen. She couldn’t help but suspect that the person who would suffer most from Karlsruhen’s wounded pride was his wife.
Herr Tauber, having got over the initial shock of encountering a naked depiction of his daughter, had decided that in fact he was rather proud that Frieda had inspired such fine German art. He thoroughly approved of Karlsruhen’s style and subject matter.
‘Had you been posing for one of these idiot pornographers our imbecile arts establishment insists on lionizing, then I should have been concerned, but this is the art of a patriot and gentleman. Herr Karlsruhen, I salute you.’
Herr Tauber shook Karlsruhen vigorously by the hand, utterly oblivious to the horrible irony of his description of the man, and the crackling undercurrents flowing between the artist and his daughter.
‘In fact, my dear,’ Herr Tauber said, turning to his wife, ‘I really do think we must have this! After all, it’s not every girl who gets to be a Rhinemaiden. And I’m happy to go without my bottle of schnapps this month to get it too.’
Karlsruhen scowled at this graphic illustration of the current value of his work.
‘It’s bronze and the plinth is marble,’ he said sulkily, but his wife had already taken Tauber’s money.
‘For you, my dear,’ Tauber said, making a flourishing gesture and handing it over to Frieda. ‘I’m sure Herr Karlsruhen will admit that it is not quite as beautiful as its model but it’s a fine piece of work nonetheless and I am proud to make you a present of it.’
Frieda suspected that Karlsruhen would admit no such thing, but the sculptor merely continued to scowl and said nothing.
A New Job
Berlin, 1923
‘THAT WAS THE Sheik of Araby , ladies and gentlemen,’ Wolfgang said, emptying the saliva valve of his trumpet into the cigarette-filled spittoon at his feet, ‘fresh out of the USA! And my many thanks to our genial host Kurt Furst for bringing such a scorching new tune to my attention. Smokin’! We’ll be back after a break.’
The boisterous crowd of young men and women, their elegant evening dress in disarray, shouted for more as the sweating combo retired to the little band room at the rear of the stage behind a shimmering beaded curtain.
Wolfgang had begun working for Kurt the very day after they first met, when, true to his word, Kurt had bought the club in which Wolfgang was working.
‘Say hello to your new boss, Mr Trumpet!’ the exuberant teenager had shouted, having waylaid Wolfgang in the alleyway at the back of the venue as Wolfgang was chaining up his bicycle. ‘I told you I’d buy this joint. So welcome to the Joplin Club, the hottest hell-hole in town.’
Katharina was there too, standing in the shadows of the little stage doorway, trying to keep her coat from touching the filthy, urine-soaked walls, the tiniest smile creeping across her usual mask of bored indifference.
Wolfgang smiled also.
But nervously.
In the early hours of that very morning he’d been wiping this woman’s lipstick from his mouth and lying to Frieda that he could not recall if she was pretty or not. He had in fact recalled very well how pretty she was, and had continued to recall it any number of times that day as he mangled nappies and created amusing faces out of apples and cheese for his children.
But what could he do? Jazz musicians couldn’t turn down work because there were pretty girls attached. They’d never work at all.
‘Congratulations, Kurt,’ he said, ‘looks like I’m your new band fixer then.’
‘You betcha, Daddy!’ Kurt replied. ‘We’ll make this joint jump!’
And from the moment the three of them walked together down into the darkened cellar, breathing in the stench of the previous night’s booze and tobacco and following the morning’s toilet bleach, they did exactly that. They made the joint jump.
It was, without doubt, the best job Wolfgang had ever had.
And not just because Kurt was a ridiculously generous
Herr Tauber, having got over the initial shock of encountering a naked depiction of his daughter, had decided that in fact he was rather proud that Frieda had inspired such fine German art. He thoroughly approved of Karlsruhen’s style and subject matter.
‘Had you been posing for one of these idiot pornographers our imbecile arts establishment insists on lionizing, then I should have been concerned, but this is the art of a patriot and gentleman. Herr Karlsruhen, I salute you.’
Herr Tauber shook Karlsruhen vigorously by the hand, utterly oblivious to the horrible irony of his description of the man, and the crackling undercurrents flowing between the artist and his daughter.
‘In fact, my dear,’ Herr Tauber said, turning to his wife, ‘I really do think we must have this! After all, it’s not every girl who gets to be a Rhinemaiden. And I’m happy to go without my bottle of schnapps this month to get it too.’
Karlsruhen scowled at this graphic illustration of the current value of his work.
‘It’s bronze and the plinth is marble,’ he said sulkily, but his wife had already taken Tauber’s money.
‘For you, my dear,’ Tauber said, making a flourishing gesture and handing it over to Frieda. ‘I’m sure Herr Karlsruhen will admit that it is not quite as beautiful as its model but it’s a fine piece of work nonetheless and I am proud to make you a present of it.’
Frieda suspected that Karlsruhen would admit no such thing, but the sculptor merely continued to scowl and said nothing.
A New Job
Berlin, 1923
‘THAT WAS THE Sheik of Araby , ladies and gentlemen,’ Wolfgang said, emptying the saliva valve of his trumpet into the cigarette-filled spittoon at his feet, ‘fresh out of the USA! And my many thanks to our genial host Kurt Furst for bringing such a scorching new tune to my attention. Smokin’! We’ll be back after a break.’
The boisterous crowd of young men and women, their elegant evening dress in disarray, shouted for more as the sweating combo retired to the little band room at the rear of the stage behind a shimmering beaded curtain.
Wolfgang had begun working for Kurt the very day after they first met, when, true to his word, Kurt had bought the club in which Wolfgang was working.
‘Say hello to your new boss, Mr Trumpet!’ the exuberant teenager had shouted, having waylaid Wolfgang in the alleyway at the back of the venue as Wolfgang was chaining up his bicycle. ‘I told you I’d buy this joint. So welcome to the Joplin Club, the hottest hell-hole in town.’
Katharina was there too, standing in the shadows of the little stage doorway, trying to keep her coat from touching the filthy, urine-soaked walls, the tiniest smile creeping across her usual mask of bored indifference.
Wolfgang smiled also.
But nervously.
In the early hours of that very morning he’d been wiping this woman’s lipstick from his mouth and lying to Frieda that he could not recall if she was pretty or not. He had in fact recalled very well how pretty she was, and had continued to recall it any number of times that day as he mangled nappies and created amusing faces out of apples and cheese for his children.
But what could he do? Jazz musicians couldn’t turn down work because there were pretty girls attached. They’d never work at all.
‘Congratulations, Kurt,’ he said, ‘looks like I’m your new band fixer then.’
‘You betcha, Daddy!’ Kurt replied. ‘We’ll make this joint jump!’
And from the moment the three of them walked together down into the darkened cellar, breathing in the stench of the previous night’s booze and tobacco and following the morning’s toilet bleach, they did exactly that. They made the joint jump.
It was, without doubt, the best job Wolfgang had ever had.
And not just because Kurt was a ridiculously generous
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