7,00 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
An enthralling Sherlock Holmes-esque mystery set in Vienna from one of Austria's most highly regarded authors In the Viennese autumn of 1909, famed actor Eugen Bischoff is driven to suicide. All eyes are on Baron von Yosch, who was once the lover of the dead man's wife. The Baron has nothing to hide. But why was his pipe found at the scene of death? Could you prove your innocence, with your memory of events so confused? Then there was the girl on the phone who distinctly referred to 'the Day of Judgment' - the actor's dying words... And there were other deaths that autumn, and it became harder to track down the invisible enemy - a monster who fed off intrigue, imagination and fear. The very things that drive us. The very things we cannot control. Leo Perutz is the author of eleven novels that attracted the admiration of such writers as Graham Greene, Ian Fleming, Italo Calvino, and Jorge Luis Borges. He was born in Prague in 1882 and lived in Vienna until the Anschluss, when he fled to Palestine. He returned to Austria in the fifties and died in 1957. Perutz's Little Apple and St Peter's Snow will be published by Pushkin Vertigo in 2016.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
Whose dark or troubled mind will you step into next? Detective or assassin, victim or accomplice? Can you tell reality from delusion, truth from deception, when you’re spinning in the whirl of a thriller or trapped in the grip of an unsolvable mystery? You can’t trust your senses and you can’t trust anyone: you’re in the hands of the undisputed masters of crime fiction.
Writers of some of the greatest thrillers and mysteries on earth, who inspired those who followed. Writers whose talents range far and wide—a mathematics genius, a cultural icon, a master of enigma, a legendary dream team. Their books are found on shelves in houses throughout their home countries—from Asia to Europe, and everywhere in between. Timeless books that have been devoured, adored and handed down through the decades. Iconic books that have inspired films, and demand to be read and read again.
So step inside a dizzying world of criminal masterminds with Pushkin Vertigo. The only trouble you might have is leaving them behind.
Contents
FOREWORD INSTEAD OF A POSTSCRIPT
I have finished the job, I have told the whole story, described in detail the whole sequence of tragic events with which I was so strangely associated in the autumn of 1909. I have told the whole truth, omitted nothing, suppressed nothing – why should I? I have nothing to hide.
I found while writing that my memory had distinctly and vividly preserved a mass of detail – much of it quite trivial – scraps of conversation, ideas that passed through my mind, minor events of the day. In spite of this an entirely false idea developed in my mind about the length of time involved. I still have the impression that it was several weeks. But that is wrong. I still know the exact date on which Dr Gorski took me to the Bischoff villa to play in a quartet. It was 26 September 1909, a Sunday. In my mind’s eye I can still see everything that happened on that day. In the post that morning there had been a letter from Norway, and I tried to make out the postmark, thinking of the girl student who had sat next to me at dinner during the trip across the Stavanger fjord. She had promised to write, but when I opened the envelope it only contained the prospectus of a winter-sports hotel on the Hardanger glacier. A disappointment.
Later I went to the fencing club. On the way, in the Florianigasse I was caught in a sudden heavy shower. I sheltered in a doorway, and discovered a stone baroque fountain in an old garden that had run wild. An old lady spoke to me and asked whether a charwoman named Kreutzer didn’t live there. I still remember all that as if it were yesterday. Then the rain stopped and the fine weather returned. I remember 26 September 1909 as a day with warm wind and a cloudless sky.
I lunched in a garden restaurant with two officers of my regiment. I didn’t read the morning papers till the afternoon. They contained articles on the Balkan question and the policy of the Young Turks – it’s extraordinary how distinctly I remember all that. There was a leader on the King of England’s tour, and another on the plans of the Sultan of Turkey. The first few lines were preceded by “Abdul Hamid’s Waiting Game” in bold type. The “news of the day” sections gave details of the careers of Shefket Pasha and Niazi Bey – who remembers those names today? Overnight there had been a big fire at the Northwest station. “Huge stocks of timber destroyed”, the headlines proclaimed. An academic society announced a performance of Büchner’s Danton, the Götterdammerung was on at the Opera, with a guest singer from Breslau as Hagen. Pictures by Jan Toorop and Lovis Corinth were being exhibited at the Kunstschau, and the whole town flocked there to gaze at them in amazement. Somewhere or other, in St Petersburg, I think, workers were rioting and striking, a church had been broken into at Salzburg, and there had been rowdy scenes in the Consulta in Rome. There was also a brief item in small type about the failure of the Bergstein bank. To me this came as no surprise, I had seen it coming and I withdrew my money in good time. But I couldn’t help thinking about an acquaintance of mine, the actor Eugen Bischoff, who had also entrusted his funds to that bank. I should have warned him, I said to myself. But would he have believed me? He always regarded me as a retailer of false information. Why meddle in other people’s affairs? I also remembered a conversation I had had a few days before with the director of the court theatre, in which Eugen Bischoff ’s name had cropped up. “He’s getting old, unfortunately, I can’t help him,” the director had said, and had added some remarks about the pressure of the rising generation. If my impression was correct, there was little hope of Eugen Bischoff’s contract being renewed, and now on top of that there was the disaster of the collapse of Bergstein and Co.
The twenty-sixth of September 1909 stands out so clearly in my mind that I still remember every detail distinctly. It all makes it the more inexplicable that I should have shifted to the middle of October the date on which the three of us went to the house in the Dominikanerbastei. Perhaps it was the memory of withered chestnut leaves on the garden paths, the ripe grapes being offered for sale at the street corners and the first autumn frosts, the whole complex of unconscious memories that are somehow associated with that day, that led me astray. That may well have been the case. In fact 30 September was the vital day. I established that with the aid of notes from the time that are still in my possession.
Thus the whole sinister and tragic business lasted five days only, from 26 to 30 September. The dramatic hunt for the culprit, the pursuit of an invisible enemy who was not of flesh and blood but a fearsome ghost from past centuries lasted for just five days. We found a trail of blood and followed it. A gateway to the past quietly opened. None of us suspected where it led, and it seems to me today that we groped painfully step by step down a long dark passage at the end of which a monster was waiting for us with upraised cudgel. The cudgel came down twice, three times, the last blow was meant for me, and I should have been done for and shared Eugen Bischoff’s and Solgrub’s dreadful fate had I not been snatched back to life in the nick of time.
How many victims may this bloodthirsty monster have found on his way through the thorn bushes of the centuries, in the course of his wanderings through different ages and different countries? I now look at many past destinies with different eyes. On the inside cover of the book I found a half-vanished signature among the names of previous owners. Have I deciphered it correctly? Could Heinrich von Kleist…? No, there’s no point in searching and guessing and invoking the names of the great and famous dead. They are shrouded in mist. The past remains silent, and no answer will ever come out of the darkness.
And it’s not over yet, no, it’s still there, visions still rise from the depths and force themselves upon me, at night and in broad daylight – though now, thank heaven, they are only pale and shadowy, insubstantial phantoms. The nerve in my brain has gone to sleep, but the sleep is still not deep enough. Sometimes sheer terror seizes me and sends me to the window, feeling that the dreadful waves of that terrible light must be rushing across the sky, and I cannot grasp the fact that overhead there’s the sun, concealed in silvery mist or surrounded by purple clouds or alone in the endless blue and round me wherever I look are the old, familiar colours, those of the terrestrial world. Since that day I have never again seen that fearful trumpet red. But the shadows are there and keep coming back, they surround me, make as if to clutch me – will they never disappear from my life?
Perhaps. Perhaps the persecution is over. Perhaps I have got rid of the nightmare once and for all by writing it down. I have put my story, a pile of loose sheets of paper, behind me and said goodbye to it. What have I got to do with it now? I put it aside, as if someone else had been through all that or invented it, as if it had been written by someone else, not me.
There was also something else that prompted me to commit to paper everything that I wanted to forget and cannot.
Shortly before his death Solgrub destroyed a sheet of parchment that was covered with writing. He destroyed it to prevent anyone else from falling victim to that fearful error. But is it certain that that sheet of parchment was the only one of its kind? Is it not possible that in some forgotten corner of the world another copy of the Florentine organist’s story may exist – yellowed with age, crumbling into dust, nibbled by rats, buried under piles of rubbish in a junk shop or hidden behind the tomes in an old library, or among the carpets, khanjars, and Koran covers on the floor of a bazaar in Erzingian, Diarbekir or Jaipur – may it be lying in wait there, ready for resurrection and lusting after new prey?
We are all creatures who have disappointed the Creator’s grand design. Without suspecting it we have a terrible enemy inside us. He lies there motionless, asleep, as if he were dead. Woe if he comes back to life. May no human being ever again set eyes on the trumpet red which I, God help me, have seen.
That is why I wrote my story. The pile of sheets of paper covered with writing that lies before me now does not have a proper beginning, I am very conscious of that.
How did it begin? I was sitting at my desk at home with my pipe between my teeth, smoking shag and leafing through a book, when Dr Gorski dropped in.
Dr Eduard Ritter von Gorski. During his lifetime he was hardly known outside the circle of his close colleagues, and only after his death did he become world famous. He died in Bosnia of an infectious disease on which he was a specialist.
I can still see him standing in front of me, slightly hunchbacked, badly shaved, carelessly dressed, his knitted tie all askew, holding his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
He began by scolding me. “That damned pipe of yours again,” he exclaimed. “Can’t you live without it? That abominable stink. You can smell it all the way down to the street.”
“It’s the smell of foreign railway stations, and I like it,” I replied, and rose to greet him.
“The devil take it,” he grumbled. “Where’s your fiddle? You’re coming to play at Eugen Bischoff’s. I’ve been sent to fetch you.”
I looked at him in surprise.
“Haven’t you read the newspaper today?” I asked.
“So you know too?” he said. “Everyone seems to know except Eugen Bischoff himself. He hasn’t an inkling. It’s a bad business. I think everyone wants to keep it from him. Just when he’s having difficulties with his director, and they don’t want him to know anything until that’s been settled. You really should have seen Dina today. She stands over him like a guardian angel. Come along, baron. She’ll be glad of any kind of distraction today.”
I had a burning desire to see Dina. But I was very careful. I acted as if I couldn’t make up my mind, I must think it over.
“Just a little chamber music,” Dr Gorski said to encourage me. “I have my cello downstairs in the cab. Perhaps a Brahms piano trio, if you’d like it.”
To win me over he quietly whistled the first few bars of the scherzo in B major.
ONE
The room in which we played was on the raised ground floor of the villa, and the windows opened on to the garden. When I looked up from my music I could see the green doors of the pavilion in which Eugen Bischoff used to shut himself whenever he was sent a new part. That was where he studied and memorised it. Often he would be invisible for many hours, and late in the evening his silhouette would appear behind the lit windows, making strange gestures and movements that his role required of him.
The gravelled garden paths lay in dazzling sunshine. The deaf old villa gardener was crouching on the lawn between the beds of fuchsias and dahlias, cutting the grass with a never-changing movement of his right arm that made my eyes tired. Children were noisily playing with sailing-boats and flying kites in the next-door garden, and an old lady was sitting on a bench in the afternoon sun and feeding the sparrows with breadcrumbs from a bag. In the distance people taking a Sunday outing were pushing prams and carrying sunshades, strolling along a path through a meadow leading towards the woods.
We began at about four o’clock, and we had already played two Beethoven piano and violin sonatas and a Schubert trio. After tea it was at last time for the B major trio, which I love, particularly the first movement with its solemn rejoicing, and that was why I was annoyed when there was a knock at the door just after we had begun. Eugen Bischoff called out in that sonorous voice of his “Come in”, and a young man came in. His face immediately struck me as familiar, though I couldn’t remember where and in what circumstances I had seen it before. He shut the door by no means quietly, in spite of his obvious efforts not to disturb us. He was tall, very fair, broad-shouldered, and had an almost square head. I disliked him at first sight, and somehow he reminded me of a whale.
Dina looked up fleetingly from the piano when this belated guest came in. To my great pleasure she merely nodded casually to him and went on playing, while her husband rose noiselessly from the sofa to greet him. Over my music I saw the two whispering, and then the whale inquired, with an almost imperceptible interrogative movement of his head in my direction, who I was and what I was doing there. I concluded that he must feel very much at home here if he could permit himself such informality.
Eugen Bischoff introduced me to him as soon as we had finished.
“Engineer Waldemar Solgrub, a colleague of my brother-in-law – Baron von Yosch, who has been kind enough to stand in for Felix.”
Felix, Dina’s younger brother, heard himself being mentioned and waved his left hand, which was covered in a white bandage. He had burnt himself in his laboratory, and this prevented him from playing the violin. To make himself useful in spite of this he was turning the pages of the score.
Next came the turn of that friendly, smiling gnome Dr Gorski, but the engineer wasted practically no time at all shaking hands with him behind his cello, and a moment later he was talking to Dina Bischoff; and while he bent over her hand – which he held much longer than was necessary, which was actually painful to watch – while he stood there bending over her hand and talking to her urgently, I noticed that he was not quite so young as he had seemed at first. His closely cut fair hair was greying slightly at the temples and, though he behaved like a young man of twenty, he was probably getting on for forty.
At last he decided to release Dina’s hand and he came over to me.
“I believe we have already met, have we not, Mr Virtuoso?” he said.
I answered very calmly and very politely.
“My name is Baron von Yosch.”
The whale swallowed the rebuke and apologised. As so often happens, he said, he had not heard my name correctly when we were introduced. He had a way of spouting out the words when he spoke that reminded me of a whale spouting out its jet of water.
“But you do remember me, don’t you?” he said.
“No, I’m very sorry, I don’t.”
“Five weeks ago, if I’m not mistaken…”
“I’m afraid you are mistaken. Five weeks ago I was travelling abroad.”
“Quite right, in Norway, and we sat facing each other for four hours between Christiania and Bergen. Isn’t that so?”
He stirred the teacup that Dina put in front of him. She overheard what he had just said and looked at us curiously.
“So you two have met before?” she said.
The whale chuckled quietly and said, turning to Dina:
“Yes, but on the trip across the Hardanger fjeld Baron von Yosch was just as uncommunicative as he is today.”
“That’s very likely, that’s the way I am, I’m afraid, I seldom make friends with strangers when I’m travelling abroad,” I replied, and so far as I was concerned that was the end of the matter.
But it wasn’t the end of the matter for the whale. Eugen Bischoff, who was always prepared to attribute all sorts of talents and outstanding characteristics to his friends, made a remark of some sort about the amazing memory for faces that the engineer had once more demonstrated.
“Oh, there was really nothing very remarkable about it on this occasion,” he said, sipping his tea. “You’ll forgive me, baron, won’t you, but your face really does not stand out from hundreds of others, your resemblance to many other people is really very striking. But that English pipe of yours is an entirely different matter, its distinctive characteristics enabled me to recognise you at once.”
I found his joking rather crude, and thought he was paying me rather too much attention. I really did not know what entitled me to that honour.
“But now, Eugen, old boy, it’s time you told us all about it,” he said in loud and self-assured tones. “I see you were a great success in Berlin, the newspapers were full of it. And how are you getting on with your Richard III? Well, I hope?”
“Shall we go on playing?” I suggested.
The whale made an exaggeratedly alarmed and defensive gesture of apology.
“You haven’t finished yet?” he exclaimed. “I beg pardon a thousand times. Really, I thought… alas, I’m completely unmusical.”
I assured him with the greatest courtesy and friendliness that this had not escaped me.
He ignored this remark, sat down, stretched his legs, picked up some photographs from the table, and became immersed in contemplation of one of them, showing Eugen Bischoff in the role of some Shakespearean king.
I began tuning my fiddle.
“We just took a short interval between the first and second movements – in honour of your arrival, Herr Solgrub,” said Dr Gorski, and behind me I heard Dina whispering:
“Why are you so unfriendly to him?” she said.
At that I flushed scarlet, as I always did when she spoke to me. I turned my head, and saw the strange oval of her face and her dark eyes looking at me questioningly and in surprise, and I sought for an answer, wanted to explain to her that I was prejudiced against people who came crashing into rooms at such inopportune moments. True, they didn’t do it on purpose, they couldn’t help it, they might be the best people in the world, I was being unfair to them, as I was very well aware. But an unhappy constitutional defect made them always turn up at the wrong moment. I gladly admitted that – but I couldn’t suppress my antipathy, I just couldn’t, it was impossible, it was my nature…
No, it was all lies. Whom was I trying to deceive? It was jealousy, just pitiful jealousy, the pain of disappointed love. When I saw Dina I became her watch-dog keeping guard over her. Anyone who approached her was my deadly enemy. I wanted to keep for myself alone every word that she spoke, every glance of her eyes. Why couldn’t I escape from her, get up and go and put an end to it once and for all? It ached and burned inside me.
But hush. Dr Gorski tapped his music stand twice with his bow, and we began the second movement.
TWO
How often have the rhythms of that second movement filled me with fear and trembling. I have never been able to play it right through without succumbing to deep melancholy, though my passionate love is associated with it.
Yes, it’s a scherzo, but what a scherzo. It begins with a dreadful merriment, a gaiety that makes one’s blood run cold. Eerie laughter sweeps through the room, a wild and grim carnival of cloven-hoofed forms. That is how this strange scherzo begins; and suddenly from the midst of this infernal Bacchanal there arises a solitary human voice, the voice of a lost soul, a soul in a torment of fear that soars upwards and laments its suffering.
But the satanic laughter breaks out again, smashes loudly into the pure harmonies and tears the song to shreds. Once more the voice arises, softly and hesitantly, and finds its melody and bears it aloft as if wanting to escape with it to another world. But the devils of hell are triumphant, the day has come, the last day, the Day of Judgment. Satan triumphs over the sinful soul and the lamenting human voice falls from the heights and disappears in a Judas-like laughter of despair.
When the movement ended no-one spoke. The silence round me lasted for several minutes.
Then the gloomy, disconsolate world of shadows in which I was plunged suddenly vanished. The dream of the crack of doom, the nightmare of the Day of Judgment faded and left me free.
Dr Gorski had risen to his feet and was pacing slowly up and down, Eugen Bischoff was in a brown study, and the engineer had a good stretch as if he had just woken up. Then he helped himself to a cigarette from the box on the table and snapped the lid shut.
My eyes turned to Dina Bischoff. One’s first thought when one wakes up in the morning is often the last one had when falling asleep the night before, and all I could think of now that the movement was finished was how angry she had been with me and how vital it was for me to make it up with her, and the longer I looked at her the stronger became the need to do so. I could think of nothing else, and presumably this childish need was an after-effect of the music.
She turned her head to me.
“Well, baron, why are you so deep in thought?” she said. “What are you thinking about?”
“I was thinking about my dog Zamor,” I replied.
I knew very well why I said that, I looked her straight in the eye as I did so, both of us knew very well indeed. She knew that dog, oh, how well she knew it.
She winced, pretended not to hear, and turned away angrily. Now I had really upset her. I should not have said that, I should not have reminded her of my small dog Zamor just at the moment when that stranger, that whale, was certainly uppermost in her thoughts.
Meanwhile Dr Gorski had put his cello and bow back into its linen case.
“I think that will be enough for today,” he said. “We’ll spare Herr Solgrub the third movement, shan’t we?”
Dina threw her head back and hummed the theme of the adagio.
“Listen,” she said, “it makes you feel you’re sitting in a boat, doesn’t it?”
To my surprise the whale also started humming the theme of the third movement. He actually did so almost faultlessly, only a trifle too fast. Then he said:
“Sitting in a boat? No. I think it’s the gliding rhythm that leads you astray. At all events it puts quite different ideas into my head.”
“I see you know the B major trio very well,” I said. This remark seemed to make things up between me and Dina. She immediately started talking to me.
“I must explain to you that our friend Solgrub is by no means as unmusical as he makes out,” she said eagerly. “It’s just that he feels obliged to display a superiority to music and all the other useless arts. Isn’t that true, Waldemar, it’s what your profession demands of you, isn’t it? And he tries to persuade me that he accepts my husband as an actor only because he has seen his photo on picture postcards and in an illustrated weekly. Keep quiet, Waldemar, I know all about you.”
The whale acted as if all this had nothing to do with him. He took a book from the shelf and started looking through it. But he obviously liked being talked about and being explained and analysed by Dina.
Her brother now intervened.
“And at the same time he’s more deeply affected by music than any of us,” he said. “It’s the Russian soul, don’t you see. He immediately sees whole pictures in his mind: a landscape, or the sea with clouds and breakers, or a sunset, or the movements of a human being, or – what was it just now? – a flock of fleeing cassowaries, I think, and heaven knows what else besides.”
“The other day,” Dina went on, “when I played him the last movement of the Appassionata – it was the Appassionata, wasn’t it, Waldemar, that put the strange idea of a swearing and cursing old soldier into your head?”
