Last Act (16 page)

After that, things went better. Adolf Stern still sang Regulus with unfortunate Wagnerian overtones, but at least his attitude to Anne had changed completely. Someone must have spoken to him, she thought. Michael's doing? In any case, now that he was working with instead of against her their scenes together were rapidly taking satisfactory shape.

Hilde, too, behaved like the professional she was, and Gertrud knew her part so well that Anne could not blame her obvious impatience with her own inevitable blunders—though it would have been easier without her ill-suppressed exclamations of
annoyance. Still, things were improving. The two weak points in the cast, as, Anne suspected, in the opera, were the Carthaginian and Roman leaders, played by an Englishman, John Fare and an Italian, Claudio Ricci. Throughout the opera, they had a kind of private musical duel, or duet, fighting, like the angels of light and darkness, for Regulus. Interestingly enough, the Carthaginian, who had come to Rome with Regulus, had become his friend, and was always on the brink of urging him not to return to Carthage, and certain death, while the Roman was his ancient enemy and, it was hinted, his wife's lover, with every inducement to get rid of him.

Two very complicated parts, and very difficult musically, and Anne could feel and sympathise with Falinieri's anxiety about them. Claudio Ricci had obviously worked hard at his part and had the voice for it, but somehow, when he came to sing with John Fare something always went wrong. “There,” whispered Hilde to Anne as they sat at the back of the auditorium and watched the two men rehearse their first duet. “He's done it again!”

“Done what?”

“Miscued him. Very subtly. Ah!” Falinieri had crashed his baton on his music stand. “He's no fool, thank God. If anyone can make this opera a success, he should.”

“You're doubtful?”

“Well, the cards do seem stacked against it, don't they? Talk about jinxes …”

When the three women emerged, well after dark, from the rehearsal room where Falinieri was still struggling with Claudio and John, Michael was waiting for them, dressed in jeans and windbreaker. “Still no luck with the lights, I'm afraid.” He produced a handful of flashlights from his pocket and gave them out. “Compliments of the management.”

“How about the opera house itself?” asked Anne.

“No luck there, either. We think there has to be a connection. The palace has been trying all day to reach the electricians who wired the place. Pity they didn't use local labour. How did the rehearsal go?” Flashlight in one hand, he had taken Anne's arm and was leading the way down the pitch-dark arcade towards the hostel.

“So-so,” she told him.

“That John Fare should be pickled in slivovitz,” put in Hilde Bernz. “Anyone would think he was trying to wreck the opera. I know he and Claudio are enemies from way back, but that's no excuse for what he's doing.”

“Which is what?” Michael asked, as they reached the hostel door and paused for a moment outside it.

“Oh, the subtlest kind of sabotage: a missed word, a missed cue; a mistimed movement. I guess Falinieri's sorting him out back there.”

“I certainly hope so.” Gertrud sounded angry. “This opera's my big chance, but the way things look right now …”

“Oh, come.” Michael pushed open the bronze door. “It's
early days yet. Come in out of the cold, ladies, and let me buy you a drink.”

“Lovely,” said Hilde. “Just what we need. Sherry for me, thanks, and something warming for Anne here, who looks tired to death.”

Death. Anne shivered, but forced a smile. “A long day,” she said. “I'm out of practice. I'll have a slivovitz please, Michael.”

“I can't imagine how you could bear to let that voice of yours go so.” Malice in Gertrud's tone? How very strange. And then, on a different note. “My usual,—thanks, Michael. I don't change my habits.” She turned back to Anne. “The way you pick up the part is amazing, Miss Paget.”

“Oh, do call me Anne.” She resisted the temptation to say, “No thanks to you.” There were enough hostile undercurrents already. And how odd to find that Michael and Gertrud were apparently old friends. But then, of course, they were both Lissenbergers … cousins, would Michael say? “Have they caught Mr Marks yet?” she asked as they settled themselves at a table in the hostel bar.

“Not a trace of him.” Michael was pulling back a chair for Hilde. “But one of the hotel taxis crossed the border just before it was closed last night. He could have been in it.”

“Unless someone local is hiding him,” said Anne.

“Why in the world should they? A stranger.” Did he sound almost too surprised at the suggestion?

“Well,” said Anne, “there do seem to be people round here who don't much like the Frenshams' plans for the country.”

It won her a very sharp look indeed as he turned away to order their drinks. Returning with them, he sat down beside her, and was starting a question, when Josef appeared. “Telephone, Anne. Will you take it in your room, or in my office? It's from the palace.”

“Then your office, if I may. Mustn't keep the palace waiting.” Grateful to him for the warning, she gave herself a moment to get settled in his office before she lifted the receiver, “Miss Paget here.” The palace staff must speak English.

She had hoped it would be Alix, but it was the Prince's rich voice that finally greeted her. “I have to thank you, Miss Paget,
for your help last night. Without you, the evening would have been a disaster.” How often that word kept cropping up. “And now, I hope I am not too late in inviting you to dine with me. Quite informally, at the Golden Cross in town. I cannot tell you what pleasure it would give me, nor how eagerly I look forward to hearing you on our opening night.”

“I do
thank
you, Your Highness.” Lord, she was grateful to Michael and the doctor. “But, unfortunately, I am under doctor's orders. He has confined me to barracks for the duration.”

“Confined? Oh, I see … But, Miss Paget, an early evening like this? A nothing. You shall be safe in bed by eleven, I promise you.” And then, as an afterthought. “You are not, in fact, ill, I do hope?”

“Oh, no.” It weakened her stand. “A bit of overstrain, that is all. But Dr Hirsch was most definite. I feel I cannot possibly disobey him the very day he gave the orders.”

This got her one of the Prince's warm laughs. “I understand, Miss Paget. That Dr Hirsch is a great bully. In a few days, when the order is less immediate, I will try again, and hope for a different answer. In the meantime take the greatest care of yourself.”

“Your Highness is too kind. I mean to do just that. Josef has promised me a tray in my room, and I intend to be asleep by ten.”

Now why had she said that? she wondered, as she rejoined the now cheerful party in the bar. Corroborative detail, presumably, intended to give substance to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.

“The palace?” Michael had contrived to meet her in the doorway as he was leaving.

“Yes. A dinner invitation.”

“Which you refused, I trust.”

“Well, of course. Doctor's orders.” Was it ungrateful to find herself irritated by the cross-examination? And why had he assumed the invitation was from the Prince? “Good night.” She moved over to join the other two women.

“Mysterious young man that,” said Hilde Bernz.

“Mysterious?” Gertrud's usually fluent English seemed to fail her.

“More to him that meets the eye, if you ask me. Always about when there's trouble. Want to bet he's at the back of it? Stirring things up. One of those students who think they can change the world, and end up making things worse for everybody. What does he
do
anyway? Aside from failing to fix our lights.”

“He used to work for the other taxi firm,” said Anne. “Not Brech's, at the hotel.”

“Right. And look what happened to them.”

“What did?” asked Anne.

“Mortgage suddenly foreclosed. End of business. Funny thing; no one seems to know who held that mortgage. But then, Lissenberg is full of funny things like that. I'll be glad when I get back to Vienna. Let's go and eat. I'm starving.”

They had reached the coffee stage when Hilde looked up. “I wonder where Josef is off to in such a hurry.”

“Good gracious,” said Anne. “I didn't think he ever took time off.”

“He doesn't much,” said Gertrud. “How should he?” She was facing the door. “Here come the men. Still arguing. I think I will say goodnight.”

“And I.” Hilde gathered up her furs. “I see Herr Stern has taken himself off. To the palace, no doubt, to make sheep's eyes at the Princess.” She laughed. “A blow for him when you turned up, Annchen. He
did
enjoy singing with her. Those fatherly pats on the head—and elsewhere. Oh, he
was
devoted to his page. I'm not entirely sure that didn't have something to do with Princess Alix's sore throat, though she doesn't seem to mind him hanging about the palace. Anyway, I'm glad to see he's stopped taking it out on you.” She turned and rose to her feet as Signor Ricci approached their table. “I trust your rehearsal went better after we left you to it.”

“A little.” He made an expressive face. “May I join you ladies?”

“I'm afraid we are just leaving. Miss Paget is under doctor's orders, you know.”

“Alas.” He held Anne's chair for her as she rose. “Take good
care of yourself, Miss Paget. We cannot do without you.”

“I can tell you someone we
could
do without.” Hilde was watching John Fare join a group of male chorus members at a large table on the far side of the room. “Well, good night, Claudio. I wish you a peaceful evening.”

“Thank you.” Another expressive grimace as he settled himself at the unused place. “Good night, ladies. Sleep well.”

“A last drink?” suggested Hilde as they paused in the lobby.

“I don't believe so, thanks,” said Anne. “I really am a little tired.”

“And no wonder. Good night, then.” She and Gertrud moved towards the bar as Anne crossed to the desk to pick up her key from the stranger who had taken Josef's place. The man said something incomprehensible to her in Liss as he handed it over.

“I'm afraid I don't understand.” It was her best German phrase, but it got her only an uncomprehending shrug. Oh well, whatever it was, Josef would doubtless tell her in the morning. She turned away and climbed the stairs slowly, aware of tiredness in every bone, and of the pain, quietly reminding her of its existence. Opening her bedroom door, she saw that someone had turned on welcoming lights, and blessed Josef before she noticed that the door to the sitting room stood open, revealing lights in there too, and, surely, a whiff of cigar smoke.

The bedroom door had locked itself behind her. She crossed the room, still carrying her coat, and met Prince Rudolf in the doorway. His arms were full of flowers, his expression a compound of triumph and apology. “Since the mountain is not allowed to come to Mahomet”—he held out the flowers—“Mahomet has taken a great liberty, and come to pay a little call on the mountain. I am glad to find I was right in thinking that anyone so alive as you would not really condemn herself to a tray in her bedroom.” And having thus neatly underlined the lie she had told him, he held out the exotic sheaf of flowers. “Do please accept these as a token of your forgiveness and my immense admiration.”

She curtsied.
(Curtsey while you're thinking, it saves time.)
“Your Highness is too kind.” She closed the bedroom door firmly behind her and moved forward into the sitting room, dropping
her coat on a convenient chair. A quick glance showed the door into the hall securely locked. She accepted the flowers and held them rather like a barrier between them. “But I must confess to surprise—”

“At finding me here? You must see, Miss Paget, that the Hereditary Prince could hardly exhibit himself hanging round in the lobby downstairs. The man at the desk quite understood my problem. He did not explain to you? I must apologise once more.”

“He did say something. In Liss, unfortunately.” Josef would not have allowed this to happen.

“Or you would have avoided me? Heartless Miss Paget. You must have seen how I have longed for a chance to tell you what I feel for you. The flowers— do put them down, Miss Paget,—are a mere trifle, a token. Here!” He reached into a pocket and produced a jeweller's box. “Here is something that might just begin to be worthy of our prima donna.” And then, impatiently—”Do, please get rid of those damned flowers and sit down.” An arm indicated a small table with canapés and a swathed bottle in a silver bucket. “Hostel food is not good enough for our diva. You and I will picnic together. But first—” He took the flowers with one hand, dumped them unceremoniously on a chair, and handed her the leather box.

“A thousand thanks.” She handed it back, unopened. “Perhaps when the opera is over—if it is a success—”

“If!” She had succeeded in enraging him and was glad. “Of course it will be a success. How can it not?” He twisted out the cork of the champagne bottle with a professional hand, filled a glass and passed it to her in lieu of the jewel box. “Very well, if you insist.” He put the box back in his pocket. “It is an unusual woman who will not even look.”

“I hope I
am
an unusual woman.” She put all the meaning into it that she could, remembering and regretting, as she spoke, that the suite of rooms was sound-proofed. What an absurd, what a maddening, what an impossible situation. “Do, please, have one of these delicious canapés.” She did her best to turn the occasion into an ordinary social one by sitting down on an upright chair and handing him the dish. “And champagne. How
thoughtful of you. I really am excessively tired.” She took a sip, felt the bubbles fizz comfortingly at the back of her nose and remembered Herr Schann. “We have been rehearsing all day. I hope Your Highness will be pleased with the results.”