Last Act (6 page)

“Cousin?”

“I told you, we're all cousins here in Lissenberg. And plenty of Lisses, too. The first one, Heinz Gustaf, who bought Lissenberg because it went so well with his family name, had practically stocked his army with his bastards, they say. One answer to the population problem.”

“Have you one?”

“I'd say. End of World War II we had 20,000. Just right for the valley. Fed ourselves—I told you. Then, tax haven and all that, it began to grow. You can imagine how. Old people who thought their pensions would go further. Well, they soon learned their mistake. Not with our cost of living, they don't. Then: tax dodgers. Statutory residence of six months a year. Food from Fortnums, wine from France, clothes from Italy. Much use they are to Lissenberg. That's when our Rudolf up there”—he pointed to the castle—“put his mind to tourism.
And
light industry. So what do we get? The scaff and raff from miles
around. Half of them wanting jobs in the factories and the chance of our social security. It's good, by the way. The other half—and I mind them more—wanting Steak Diane and egg and chips. Oh, and souvenirs, of course. You just wait till you see the souvenirs on sale here in Lissenberg. They've created a whole new industry—or we have for them—and it's meant more immigrants. We're craftsmen, we Lissenbergers; what we make, we make well. To make the—what's your British word?—to make the old tat the tourists want, we have to import tatty labour. One way and another our population's up to 36,000 now, and not all of them people I want to call cousin. And that's not racism either.” He turned on her, almost angrily. “D'you know what happened here when the war was over?”

“No.”

“Remember your history? Remember Churchill promising at Yalta that the Russians should have all their beloved sons back? And how they killed themselves rather than go? Or got killed when they arrived?”

“Yes. Horrible.”

“We didn't send ours. Little Lissenberg hung on like Liechtenstein. Most of our Russians were Russian Jews. Some of them were Polish. Everyone knew what would have happened to them. They'd got in, mostly, over the mountains from Austria, helped by our people. The kind of dangerous journey no one forgets. Well, it came up to the Diet—that's our House of Commons. There are twelve men in it. Six of them then were mountain guides; the other six were … oh well, call it war rich. The vote was even. So Michael Josef cast his; and they stayed.”

“Michael Josef?”

“You want people here to like you, don't ask that question here, not in that tone of voice. Michael Josef was the Hereditary Prince then; he had the casting vote in the Diet. They threw him out ten years ago.”

“Who did?”

“The Diet. Four of the six guides had died, see, and been replaced. By business men. Michael Josef was standing in the way of progress, they said. He didn't want light industry, and tourism on the grand scale and Steak Diane. He wanted
Lissenberg to stay Lissenberg.”

“What happened to him?”

“Nothing. Unless you call a broken heart something. He has a very nice modern flat. Oh, they offered him rooms in the castle, but he had more sense than that. He got a job and a flat that went with it.”

“A job?”

He laughed. “He's not that old. He was twenty when he gave that casting vote. Not an old man now exactly. But not a happy one either. You'll see. You'll meet him.” He glanced up at his rear view mirror. “Here comes your bus. Let's go! Stand by for your first view of Lissenberg.”

The Town Was a remarkable mixture of old stone gable-ended buildings, many with ornate wooden balconies, and drab concrete modern offices. “A muddle, isn't it?” Michael slowed the car and pointed to a mounted statue in a small flower-filled garden. “That's the first Hereditary Prince, Heinz Gustaf. He'd turn in his grave if he saw his town now. He'd planned it as a kind of
rus in urbe.
Country in town,” he translated for her.

“I know,” she said. “Girls get educated in England, too. But how exactly did he plan his country-town?”

“Every house was to have its plot of ground, for vegetables and vines. We make very good wine here in Lissenberg—you must try it. The self-supporting bit was his idea, and a very good one. It worked for years. Until after the last war, when the banks came along, bought up the vineyards, and—see!” He turned the car into a park at the bottom of a fair-sized square and pointed to a handsome gabled building at the upper end. “That's the third Heinz Gustaf's Rathaus—council chamber to you. He built it in the local stone and style when he got tired of having the Diet troop up to the castle for their meetings. And facing it we have the brain-child of the Tenth National Bank of Nebraska.”

“Ouch,” she said.

“Precisely. And I'm afraid the bus station's not much better.” He took her arm to guide her across the square. “We'll leave your bag in the car. You never know your luck. Herr Meyer may need a cab to take you up to the hostel.”

“Up?” In her first quick panoramic view of the town, she had
looked in vain for the opera house and the new hotel.

“Yes. It's up between the town and the castle. Now, that was ingenious of our Rudolf—you have to give it him. We've got conservationists now, you understand. There won't be horrors like that bank again.” He pointed up and beyond the ugly fourstorey building to where the castle loomed high above them. “You wouldn't think it, but there's a valley runs sideways between us and the schloss. The whole opera complex is tucked away in there. The only place you can see it from is the castle itself, and, as our Rudolf says, if he doesn't mind, who else could?”

“Except his descendants, perhaps? Has he any?”

“Hereditary Princelings and Princesses? Indeed he has. But here we are, and there's the bus.” He guided her into the courtyard of a plain, arcaded building tucked away behind the Rathaus, and there, indeed, was a small green bus discharging its passengers, and, standing a little to one side, scanning them anxiously, Carl Meyer. He looked younger than she remembered, and amazingly neat, the once-shaggy dark hair cut short above an elegant grey gabardine raincoat.

She looked down anxiously at her own damp and crumpled clothes. “I look a wreck.”

“Well, no wonder, left out in the rain.” She was grateful to him for not denying it. “Now he's beginning to sweat,” Michael went on, “and serve him right.” The last passenger had alighted and Carl Meyer had climbed in to speak to the driver.

“Watch it!” Michael's firm hand held her back as a car zoomed past. “You look left here, remember, if you want to stay alive.”

“Which I do.” How odd, she had said it again. “Carl!” she called as Meyer emerged from the bus, his brown face wrinkled with worry. “Here I am!”

“Anne!” He came hurrying across to them, arms outstretched. “Dearest Anne!” He kissed her warmly on both cheeks. “You got here, thank God. But how?” And then, seeing Michael, “You?” Something in his tone: dislike? distrust? Or something more complex, less easily identifiable?

“Exactly.” Michael sounded amused. “I missed Signor Falinieri,
alas, and found Miss Paget drowning in a bus shelter, for which I trust you are grateful.”

“I certainly am. It was crazy not to meet you at Schennen, Anne. You must forgive me. But I've had such a time … Such a time! You've no idea. Lord, it's good to see you! Dearest Anne!” Any minute now he would be kissing her again. Had they really been on such warm terms?

“How is Alix's throat?” she asked. And then, “I'm afraid I don't know her other name.”

“She's not working today. We ran through with Lotte—the understudy. A disaster! What Signor Falinieri will say! But where's your luggage? Why are we standing here?”

“The luggage is in my taxi,” said Michael. “And we are waiting to see if you would like me to run you up to the hostel.”

“The rehearsal room,” corrected Carl. “Signor Falinieri should be there by now. He wants a run through of principals at once. God knows what he'll say when he hears Lotte Moser. I must have Anne there.”

“She's wet through and worn out. I'll drop you at the rehearsal room and take her on to the hostel.”

“No, thanks a lot.” Anne shivered. “I'll be fine. Your splendid heater has dried me off and I'm longing to get to work. Only, would it be a bore to take my case to the hostel for me? And, Carl, I'm terribly sorry; I lost my purse at Zurich. Can you pay Michael for me?”

“Pay Michael?” His bushy dark eyebrows drew together in something between surprise and anger.

“I drive a taxi, remember.” Michael sounded merely amused. “But I'll drop your case at the hostel for free, Anne, and gladly.” He turned to lead the way back to where he had parked the taxi, and Carl took Anne's arm to follow.

“You
are
wet,” he said. “I'm a brute, Annchen.” He spoke English with more of an accent than she remembered. “Would you really rather go to the hostel and rest?”

“Of course not. Only, I'm afraid I look a mess. Will you mind? Does it matter?”

“Not a bit! You're going to save our lives—or our opera, which is as important. Besides—in a way, perhaps it's tactful.
Lotte's a fashion-plate. Well—you'll see. And Alix is …” A quick glance to where Michael was walking a little in front. “Alix is Alix. With all the problems that involves. You're what we need right now.”

“I do hope I don't let you down.” But in the face of his obvious state of nerves, she was glad she had not worried him with her own trouble.

Back in the taxi, Anne sat well forward, eagerly peering out of the window at the little town with its curious mixture of ancient and modern: an old brown beer house cheek by jowl with a garish café that advertised “Homburgers and Snaks,” tourist gift shops side by side with ironmongers and all the basic supplies of a market town. It was raining again, and a few obvious tourists prowled disconsolately about, peering into shop windows which tended to display umbrellas and raincoats prominently among the inevitable souvenirs—the “tat” Michael had described.

The car was held up for a moment at the only traffic lights Anne had seen, then Michael swung out on to the main road and, surprisingly, turned away from where Anne, now peering backwards, could still see the castle, perched high above the town. “It's a long way round to the castle,” Michael turned to explain to her. “By road, that is. The steps are quicker, but hard work.” Once again he had to stop and wait his chance to swing the car across the traffic on to a road that angled back and up across the hill, through vineyards.

“We're out of town!” Anne had not expected the transition to be so quick.

“Such as it is,” said Carl. “But, Annchen, tell me, quick, your voice? It's the same as ever? What have you been
doing?
I've looked for your name so often …”

“You know Robin didn't like me to sing,” she said. And that, like everything else she had told him, was true so far as it went. “You are going to find I need practice. But, after all, what else does an understudy get? It's ideal for me; I'm so grateful, Carl.”

“Grateful! It's we who should be. You don't understand. Understudy! It will be a miracle if you don't sing Marcus.” He cast a quick, anxious glance forwards to where Michael sat, shoulders hunched, concentrated on his driving along the now
steeply zig-zagging mountain road. Alpine meadows below, dark green forest above; if only Carl would leave her alone to enjoy this breath-taking view. But he was talking again, leaning towards her. “It's Alix, don't you see? How can we be sure her father won't forbid her appearing at the last moment? It's the chance we took from the start, but then, she was so sure it would be all right. We should have known better. That mother of hers.” He was almost whispering. “And now, there's so much publicity for the peace conference; it's all different—he doesn't like it, he has doubts.”

“Doubts? I don't understand.” But she was distracted. “Oh!” she breathed. Michael had nursed the car gently round one last hairpin bend and parked it in a lay-by just before a high-arched bridge. “Come on!” He jumped out to open her door. ‘What do you think of it, Niobe?”

“Don't call me that!” But she forgot her irritation in a gasp of pleasure as she gazed up the valley they had just entered. High ahead, dominant, spectacular, on a further range of mountains stood the castle, even more fairy-tale romantic than it had looked from the town, seeming to grow from the dark green of the high forest. Below it, nearer, to left and right, cream-coloured buildings curved down the sides of an Alpine meadow rich with the whites and yellows of spring. The road, dividing on the far side of the bridge, ran up either side of the valley, below shelving flights of steps that led to the buildings. Straight ahead, at the top of the valley, a classic pillared portico joined the two curving wings. And below it, a stream came plunging out of a dark crevice under the road, to flash and sparkle down the centre of the meadow and then vanish again under the bridge beside them.

“It's extraordinary.” Anne was taking deep, reviving breaths of pine-scented air.

“Extraordinary good or extraordinary bad?” Michael asked, as Carl came round the car to join them.

“Do you know, I'm not quite sure. It's … too much, somehow? Too good to be true?”

“A stage set,” said Michael, pleased with her. “For
The Tempest
perhaps. Or maybe for tragedy.”

“You're talking a great deal of nonsense.” Carl said impatiently. “For God's sake let's get on up to the rehearsal room.”

“Sorry I'm sure.” Michael sketched a mock salute. “I just thought Niobe here ought to get a look at what she's in for.”

“Why Niobe anyway?” Carl put a protective arm round Anne's shoulders.