Magic Flutes

Though he traversed the paths systematically, passing Schubert’s grave and Beethoven’s sarcophagus, there seemed to be no sign of her. Then, at last, at the far end of the cemetery, he saw the small, well-remembered figure, sitting on a bench. A copper beech spread its branches over her bent head; a red squirrel played beside her on the grass. It was a scene of total silence, limned in the colours of autumn and in autumn’s essence for her sadness, like those of the sculptured angels who wept and mourned over the graves, was unmistakable.

Noting, with a dull lack of surprise, the rapid beating of his heart, Guy walked with his silent, panther gait towards her. Then his foot disturbed a pebble. She looked up, saw him and instantly, incredibly, was transformed. Everything about her: the eyes, the line of her mouth, the set of her shoulders proclaimed an uncontrollable happiness, and she rose to her feet and waited silently as he came towards her.

Guy’s face as he approached showed no answering joy but only shock. I must not touch her, I must not touch her once, he thought; not for an instant.

‘I saw what happened in the papers,’ he said. ‘It’s true, is it? You’re ruined? All the money from Pfaffenstein’s gone?’

‘Well, not quite. Not all of it . . . But they said I wasn’t of age and threatened all sorts of things. You know what lawyers are – everything that’s awful and always for your own good.’

‘Tessa, let me help you. That’s why I came.’

She shook her head and some of the happiness drained from her face. For a moment she had thought, wildly, that he was free and had come to claim her.

‘You were mad,’ he said harshly. ‘Mad to do it.’

‘You did it at Pfaffenstein.’

‘I have a great deal more money than you. And if I had retained Witzler I would have kept him on a very firm rein, I assure you. As a matter of fact I did think of using Pfaffenstein for what you once said – serving music. I couldn’t imagine that Nerine and I would want to live in more than a very small part of the castle, and anyway my work keeps me travelling a great deal. But when I found that Nerine didn’t care for music, it became absurd, of course.’

‘Yes.’ She was looking down at something she had been holding in her hand: a single, russet leaf from the beech tree above their heads. ‘When I was little,’ she said, ‘I used to try to stick the leaves back on the trees. I couldn’t bear autumn. I couldn’t bear them to fall.’

‘And now?’

She shrugged. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Look what people have to bear.’

She led him a little way down a mossy path to a plain green grave with a simple headstone.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Guy. ‘Frau Richter? Your friend?’

Together, they looked at the inscription.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF

Bertha Richter, died 1896 aged 75 years

AND OF HER CHILDREN

Hannah Richter, died 1843 aged 1 year

Graziella Richter, died 1845 aged 6 months

Herrman Richter, died 1846 aged 1 year

Brigitta Richter (Bibi) died 1849 aged 3 months

Klaus Richter, died 1865 aged 24 years

ALSO OF HER HUSBAND

Johannes Richter, 1st Hungarian Jaeger Regiment, killed in action at Königsberg, July 1886

GOD HAVE MERCY

‘Yes,’ said Guy. ‘God had better have mercy, there.’

‘When things get bad,’ she said, ‘I think of Frau Richter who just went on living and living after all those children had died. Look, she lived to be seventy-five! Think of all the Bertha Richters in here . . . you can feel their courage, somehow, coming up through the ground.’ She turned and led him slowly back to the bench. ‘These are the people I come for when I’m down, not Beethoven or Schubert. The great people are for the times when it’s good to be alive.’

‘For God’s sake, Tessa, let me help. It would cost me nothing to reimburse you.’

‘No.’ The word was bleak, unadorned and final. ‘I have to do it myself, Guy. It’s not just the mess at the theatre – it’s the aunts too. I found out that they’ve been practically starving themselves so as not to spend the money I left in trust for them. Somehow, I have to find a way out.’

She shivered a little in her cotton blouse and Guy picked up the shawl she had left on the bench and managed to wrap it round her without once letting his fingers come into contact with her shoulders, an achievement which gave him a certain satisfaction. She thanked him. Then, forcing her voice to be casual, she asked, ‘When is the wedding?’

‘On the fourteenth of November.’

‘Oh, so soon?’ She was staring down at the leaf which was still cupped in her hand. ‘I haven’t forgotten about the Lily,’ she went on. ‘I’ll see that she gets it. I promised.’

‘There’s no reason why you should. Nerine has enough jewels to sink a battleship.’

‘No . . . the Lily’s not like that. It’s special. I never cared for jewels but the Lily’s different. It’s so old, you see, so incredibly old. I can’t explain, but when you look at it you know . . . what went into its making.’

She was like a lily herself, he thought: the pale head, the slender neck, the incorrigible elegance transcending whatever clothes she wore.