Mephisto Aria (9 page)

The train crossed the Salzach River and she pressed her head against the windowpane watching the morning sun illuminate the medieval Festung Hohensalzburg, the prince archbishop’s fortress on the hill that was the icon for Salzburg on every guidebook in the world. Including the one in her hand. In the remaining minutes before arrival, she glanced through the first page.

“The Old City of Salzburg on the banks of the Salzach River can be traversed by foot in its entirety in a single afternoon. It has 16 churches (11 on the left bank and 5 on the right) and a plethora of concert halls, ecclesiastical residences, princely palaces, cloisters, and fountains and gates and monuments as would dazzle the most jaded eye. It is a Catholic city, which flaunts an extravagantly gilded Baroque Christianity. Its rooftops are patina’d domes, its gardens thoroughfares of relief and statuary, and its angels and Madonnas and Infants, its halos and coronas and explosions of flora are so laden with gold that even in the murkiest sanctuary and crypt, it shimmers. It is a supremely religious city, but its religion is art.”

Katherina smiled at the description, wondering why there was no mention of opera. Ah, there it was, on the next page.

“And even more than the eye, Salzburg beguiles the ear, for no city in Europe is more closely identified with classical vocal music than this one. Mozart was born here in 1756 and Herbert von Karajan in 1908. For over two hundred years, gorgeous music has been performed in its glittering palaces and churches, music that purported to glorify prince or deity, but was always in fact its own glory. Mozart festivals began in 1877 and the first summer festival was given in 1922, the year that the Kleines Festspielhaus was built. In 1960 the Grosses Festspielhaus was added, its anterooms fashioned out of the massive stables of the prince-archbishop, and its stage and backstage area blasted out of the stone of the Monchsberg behind it.”

A theater cut into the rocky slope. Music versus the mountain, and music won. She liked the idea.

Confirming that she had her shoulder bag, scarf, hat, and both gloves, Katherina struggled out of the taxi on the Linzergasse and blinked in the bright winter sunlight. Yes, this was clearly the historical part of the city, Mozart’s Salzburg. Hefting her suitcase, she trudged up the tiny winding Steingasse to the Pension Stein. She’d originally planned to stay at the Hilton Hotel, but when the Festspiel administration told her about the quiet pension on the Kapuzinerberg overlooking the town, she moved her reservation to the Stein. The fact that Anastasia Ivanova was also staying there might have played a role. Still, she had not considered how difficult it would be to drag her luggage up the endless stone steps to the entryway.

“Gnädige Frau.” A plump, ruddy-cheeked woman opened the oaken door all the way and stepped back. “Ich bin Frau Semmel,” she said, and offered her hand. She had the slightly flat face and the singsong lilt of the Austrian peasant. Katherina took the hand and was drawn into an entryway. The adjacent breakfast room was Alpine-cute, with whitewashed plaster walls above pine wainscoting. To their immediate left was a steep wooden stairway that led to the upper floor. As they climbed the stairs, Katherina detected the unmistakable smell of soap and wood polish.

Having reserved late, Katherina had gotten the last room available, and it was small. The few furnishings and the double bed appeared to be antique, as did the enormous wooden crucifix that hung over the carved headboard. Almost a meter in height, it held a figure whose agony was carved and painted with morbid precision. Tiny trickles of blood ran down the face and neck of the Savior, and larger streams bulged like knotted velvet cords from the side and hand wounds. The bone of one knee was exposed through an ulcerous black-rimmed wound.

She had scarcely unpacked when the phone rang, the rehearsal secretary calling, slightly out of breath and obviously relieved to have reached her. A sudden change in rehearsal plans. Could Katherina begin this afternoon instead of tomorrow?

Yes, of course she could. Katherina snatched up her cape and scarf, and reversed the path she had made scarcely half an hour before. At the end of the Steingasse, she crossed the large stone bridge and continued past shops with wrought-iron signs hanging over their doors: Amadeus Schokolade, Figaro Café. In a few minutes she was at a square where a stone balustrade marked off a large pool of water. The watering pool for the Prince Archbishop’s horses. At the rear of the pool, a wall held seven equestrian panels. Ramps led into the pool from two sides, and in its center a bronze stallion reared up over a squire who still held him by the reins. An apt image of her current state of mind, Katherina thought, one part of herself trying to gain control of the other.

Just across the street toward her left was the concert-hall complex of the Festspielhaus. A long and unimpressive concrete box of a building, it could have been a municipal structure in a middle-sized German town. Yet its three theaters were hallowed halls for aspiring opera singers, and to sing in any of them meant you had made it. She hurried through the wide foyer into the main hall.

The first act was halfway through when Katherina crept into the auditorium. Baron Ochs was handing over the rose casket with just the right balance of lasciviousness and charm. Singing the bass role, Hans Stintzing executed a marvelous rococo bow, as elaborate as a dance step. He drew a lace handkerchief from his cuff, waved it in a half circle, then blew his nose into it as he lumbered from the Marschallin’s boudoir.

Then the Marschallin began her long monologue and Katherina had time to study the stately soprano who performed her. Sybil Ruiz, a black Puerto Rican–American, had a creamy soft-grained voice that was perfect for the role. Katherina became caught up in the musings of a woman fearing age and the passing of time. Katherina was always amused by the way the soliloquy ended, with the campy observation, “Ah, but style makes all the difference.”

Suddenly the door behind the Marschallin flew open and a slender, gorgeous boy in riding clothes strode across the stage. High suede boots went up to his knees and covered the bottom of his gray-green breeches. Over a soft white shirt he wore a brocade vest that ended at mid-thigh, and over that a green riding coat. Wide cuffs were trimmed in black velvet slashes, each vertical slash ending with a brass button. Down his chest, on both front panels of the coat, rows of gold braid and stamped brass buttons ran from collar to hem. The pommel of a dress saber jutted from an opening at the hip of the coat, and whenever he turned, it swung after him.

Anastasia Ivanova was stunning in the trouser role, and Katherina was hypnotized. It was the same sensuous face she had seen on the record jacket of Berlioz’ Faust. How fascinating now, to see her move and gesture, confirming the authoritative presence Katherina had discerned on the Faust photo. But now she had a male swagger. The Slavic features were still striking, though the nose in profile was longer than expected. Although she had a rehearsal costume, she wore neither of the two wigs that would be required in the performance, and her blond hair hung loosely clipped behind her neck.

Androgynous though the role was, Anastasia did not blur the sexual identities so much as project both sexes at once. A strikingly attractive female face sang in a high, bright timbre, and it remained obvious that a woman’s body was under the breeches and coat. At the same time, every word and gesture bore masculine authority.

The idea of being on stage with this woman, singing amorous duets, suddenly excited her.

“I’m sure you’re beat from travel and then four hours of rehearsal.” Anastasia opened the door to her room at the Pension Stein. “But stop in just for a moment and see the view from my balcony.”

Katherina followed her inside. “It’s a fantastic room. Not only do you have a crucifix that’s much less gory than mine, but a balcony opening to the whole city!”

“Yes, come outside and have a look, but be careful of the step down.” Anastasia reached in front of her and opened the glass door. “It’s almost too pretty to be real, isn’t it?”

They stood side by side and looked out over the cold evening landscape. The Salzach River crawled below them, slightly silver under the blue-gray sky. Lights had gone on in places among the low houses of the old city across the Salzach, concentrations of warmth and solace against the frigid oncoming night. Among the low houses, the churches stood like shepherds watching over a flock of sheep, their domes ornamented and patina’d. Behind these, stark and grim in the falling light, the ancient fortress crouched atop its hill.

“If it would only snow,” Anastasia said. “Then Salzburg is sublime. It crouches in the mist like a phantom city. But that’s just my fantasy, I suppose. I adore snow.”

Katherina hugged her cape around her. “I don’t care much for it myself. It makes my legs stiff.”

“Let’s sit by the fire then and warm up. I’ll pour us a little port.” Anastasia retreated into the room to ignite the gas jet in the tiny fireplace in the corner. As Katherina came in behind her, she was drawing up two stools.

“Snow for me is childhood innocence,” she continued. “The quintessential image of Russia.”

“I suppose that’s why it’s on all the postcards. What city did you live in?”

Anastasia reached into a corner cabinet and withdrew a bottle of something deep red, along with two tiny glasses. “The Communists call it Leningrad, but my mother never stopped calling it St. Petersburg. For her the Revolution was just a passing phase. Insane, of course, because she married a communist. They must have really been in love.” She handed over one of the glasses and filled both of them with the crimson liquid.

“And the snow part?” Katherina sipped from her glass. The port was silky sweet and she held it deliciously on her tongue before swallowing.

“That’s from my mother, who lived in a fantasy of Old Russia. When it snowed, she lit our samovar and reminisced about her childhood under the Tsar. Her name was Olga Adrianovna Romanova Kalish, and she had some distant connection to the imperial family.”

“You have Romanov blood? I’m impressed. I guess that explains your name.”

Anastasia snorted, and the unexpected sound bursting from her elegant face was hugely comical. “You don’t know the half of it. My full name is Anastasia Olga Vasillievna Ivanova, but you have to appreciate what a joke it is. My mother gave herself those “ova” endings when in fact she was something like a second cousin to a second cousin on the female side. Anyone with real Romanov connections went into exile, and the fact that she stayed safely put in Russia tells you how thin her imperial blood actually was. In fact, her own brother, my uncle Georgi, was a hero in the Red Army during the war.”

“I suppose it would be pretty foolish to claim royal privilege, wouldn’t it?”

“Not only that, the whole idea of Romanov blood is meaningless. They were a rather dull family, whose only distinguishing trait was hemophilia, certainly not intelligence. The Romanov monarchy, for all its history, was a kind of splendid opera. All theater, with no inkling of the rumblings among their own people. Of course the most operatic of all was the end of the dynasty, with the Tsarevitch and Rasputin and the slaughter of everyone at Ekaterinburg.”

“Fabulous costumes, though,” Katherina quipped. “A shame the communists are so drab.”

Anastasia laughed softly. “My thoughts exactly. Why can’t they have their collective farms and tractor factories and still leave us a few nice outfits? I suppose that’s why I love our little operas. We get to dress up and play miniature versions of the big operas of empire and no harm is done.”

“Oh, I agree.” Katherina took another sip of the sweet wine. Was it the port or the closeness to Anastasia that was making her giddy? “But we were talking about snow, weren’t we?”

“Yes, well, the fantasy my mother built around herself and around me, little Anastasia, was right out of Russian folklore. As she got older, she suffered from dementia, so all the while we were in communist Leningrad, she was living in that postcard illusion. Toward the end, she claimed to have been at a ball at the Winter Palace. She could even describe mirrored halls, the servants, the women in long gowns and the men in smart military uniforms. There was always snow in her story, and people arriving at the palace in horse-drawn sledges. For years I had a doll called Snow Maiden, a character in Russian folklore. I suppose if anything, Snow Maiden was the symbol for our perfect world, the world of our dreams.”

For a moment, Katherina felt a stab of envy. Having a delusional mother was vastly better than having none at all. Then she remembered the hardships of Soviet life. “I have trouble imagining what it would be like to become an opera singer in Communist Russia. It must have been difficult.”

“It wasn’t, really. The education is free. If you have musical talent, the state will support you and there’s always work. After I finished Rimsky-Korsakov Conservatory, the Leningrad Symphony engaged me right away. I sang the mezzo solo in Prokofieff’s Alexander Nevsky. A couple of years later I was invited to sing with the Leningrad Opera.”

“Then the Bolshoi discovered you?”

Anastasia laughed again, her voice as creamy as the port wine. “The Bolshoi doesn’t ‘discover’ anyone. I had to audition with a dozen other singers hungry to leave the provinces. But they signed me on. In the second season I sang Joan of Arc in the Maid of Orleans. The Russians adore their Tchaikovsky.”

“When did you start singing Rosenkavalier?”

“Not until Paris. I love Octavian, but it’s a very demanding role. Not only are you on stage all the time, but the running around and the costume changes are a strain. I’m always afraid I’ll forget a sword or a glove.” She bent toward the fire to warm her hands. “And once I sang with a Sophie who dropped the rose.”

“In performance? How awful. Well, I think I can promise not to do that, but I’m still not certain quite how to play her. I find her a bit silly.”

“You don’t have to play her silly. I’d definitely welcome a Sophie with dignity. My Octavian is also a notch more introspective than usual. I think you’ll like him.”