Wolf Tones (Standalone Psychological Thriller) Page 2

  2

  “I shouldn’t be here,” Rolf thought as he saw him. The conductor came down the aisle of the dining car, checking the other occupants had the correct tickets. When he got to Rolf, he gave him a curious look. He spoke in German.

  “Where is your guitar?” he asked, with a faint smile.

  Rolf held out his ticket, scrambling for the right words. “Strapped into the luggage rack. For safety. It’s a cello, actually.”

  “Pity. You could have played us a tune.” He scanned Rolf’s ticket with his device and wished him a pleasant journey.

  Only then did Rolf release a long exhalation of relief. He belonged there, of course he did. The hand-to-mouth existence of the past was behind him. No more ducking and diving, faking and cheating, he was on the way up. He belonged. It would take years, he assumed, before figures of authority ceased to terrify him. Maybe he should, as Leonor had suggested on more than one occasion, seek therapy. Or maybe he should just get over himself. For people like Leonor and her friends, therapy was like having their roots done or nails manicured. They had nothing to hide.

  He picked up his knife and fork and continued to eat his Wiener schnitzel, commanding himself to focus on the future, not what had gone before. A positive mindset always worked for him. He visualised a successful outcome, handshakes, smiles, claps on the back. Why not? He knew what he was doing. He and Leonor had chosen selections from his repertoire that demonstrated quality over quantity. They had rehearsed all potential questions and she had given him critical feedback, boosting his confidence, reassuring him he could reach the moon. He was ready for them. The question should be, were they ready for him?

  He stifled a smile and opened the small bottle of red wine. If she was here she would forbid it, or point out that white suited the dish better. But she wasn’t here and he preferred red. These days, he knew when to stop. A glass, maybe two with dinner would help him relax. He had the most important audition of his life in the morning and there was no way he would imperil his performance by drinking too much the night before.

  The dining-car was crowded, not only with people occupying all the tables; there was a queue for the buffet counter, and the air smelt of frying. Rolf spotted an elderly couple near the door. They both used napkins and he poured a little bit of wine into the plastic beaker for her to taste. She sniffed it, tasted it and said something to her companion, who poured a decent measure. Rolf smiled, recognising the couple’s maintenance of their standards, even here. They knew the proper way to do things.

  That’s the problem when you’re on the outside. You don’t know that you don’t know. They do. They know in which order to use their cutlery. They know the correct form of address for dukes, bishops and the military. How they know such things is a mystery to him. Maybe it’s the schools they attend where you learn an instrument, how to ride a horse, how to speak German with an immaculate Hanoverian accent, how to make small talk and understand the meaning of black tie.

  He flushed for a second. At least that was an improvement. When he’d first realised that everyone else at the anniversary dinner was dressed in a tuxedo with a black bow tie and he had simply worn a normal suit accessorised with a black tie, he wanted to leave, lie in the gutter and die of mortification. Leonor’s grace and classy sense of humour rescued him, twisting his social faux pas into an act of rebellion, so that he came out of the event looking cool, rather than crass.

  That could have been the night he told her he loved her. Previous declarations of his admiration had been more along the lines of ‘God, you’re so hot!’, ‘I can’t get enough of you’ or ‘has anyone ever told you what a fantastic body you have?’ Those were the days when it was just the two of them, screwing each other senseless in the hay loft above the stables. Rolf knew disappointment well enough to smother any hopes that this was anything more than a steamy dalliance on her part. He could see the attraction. He may not have read Lady Chatterley’s Lover, but he knew the story. She was rich, fit, smart and experienced. She knew what she liked and taught him how to satisfy a woman.

  It was like a drug. Yes, exactly like a drug because he never knew where the next hit was coming from. That all-consuming desperation was a feeling he would never forget, no matter how many years he’d been clean. She could drop him whenever she felt like it and he would be desolate, craving her body as well as her attention. If it hadn’t been for the violin, she probably would have ended the relationship once the excitement of a new sexual partner had worn off. But then she heard him play.

  Since the first time she had seduced him one evening after the rest of the estate staff had left, they came to a tacit agreement. He arrived early in the morning and sneaked up into the hay loft. Either she would be waiting on a fur coat wearing nothing but stockings or she would climb up the ladder, whispering her intentions. Her voice, the creak of the wooden ladder and the sound of the horses snickering below as if they were applauding her audacity just about drove him crazy. Afterwards, he would work with the other grooms and gardeners the entire day, mucking out stables, oiling saddles, preparing barns and clearing leaves, blossom or snow from the yard, depending on the season. At the end of the working day, he was always the last to leave, dithering and dawdling and finding some reason to stick around.

  That’s when she would materialise with something for him. One time it was a toffee apple. Another day it was a silk tie, which they put to immediate use as a blindfold. On one occasion it was a box of moon cakes, all the way from Singapore’s autumn festival, she said. Her father had brought them back that very morning. They crept into the hay loft, fed each other sticky cakes and gave into lust. Those dusky moments as the light faded from the sky and they each recovered their breath seemed full of tenderness, in contrast to the sex, which was more like a horse race than an act of love. The horse analogy was about right, as she called him her stallion. She was joking, and he laughed along with her, but a part of him retained that image with pride.

  Early mornings and exhausting evenings meant he would arrive at his mean little room in a shared flat, eat something and fall asleep. His violin practice suffered, and when he did pick up his instrument at the weekends, his mind was full of her and his concentration was shot. Basic pieces he’d been playing since he left school became clumsy and full of errors. He berated himself for allowing an activity he loved to become stiff and amateurish simply because he was obsessed with Leonor von Rosenheim.

  He risked taking his violin to work, hiding it in the tack room for safety. The ground staff stopped for lunch at twelve to sit at a wooden trestle table in the sunshine, swearing at the weather and arguing about politics. Work resumed at one o’clock. Rolf stuffed himself with a sandwich, took his violin from its hiding place and found a quiet spot in the shade of the barn, far from his colleagues’ debates. He had no need of his sheet music as he was not learning new pieces, but perfecting those in which he was already fluent. He closed his eyes and felt his way along the neck, nestling his chin onto the rest as if touching his head on a lover’s cheek. He raised his bow and launched into his grandmother’s favourite, Vivaldi’s Spring. His calloused fingers and muscular hands took some time to adjust to the delicacy of the instrument, but as the days passed, he sensed the intuition return. As if he was not simply manipulating some horse hair, wood and catgut; as if the two of them had become one voice.

  There were moments while he was lying on his back in the hay, Leonor riding him, when he felt like a violin, coaxed into making sounds of ecstasy. His relationship with his instrument, however, was of a purer nature. What they made together lifted him above the sweat, sex, horse shit, Slovak curses and the resentment he held for his employers; these people who had far more than they deserved. When he played, all the wealth and beauty of the world were his alone.

  One day he finished the primavera movements and took his chin from its rest, his eyes still closed. A voice, deeper than his violin’s, broke the silence.

  “That was beautiful,” said Leonor, le
aning against the bar wall. “Why didn’t you tell me you played?” He looked at her face, lit with admiration, and couldn’t think of a thing to say. He stroked the warm wood of his violin, confused emotions muddling his brain. His first reaction was anger at being spied upon, tempered by his ego puffing at her words of praise.

  “I should get back to work.” He placed the violin and bow in the case and snapped the clasps shut. “This is my lunch break; I’m not shirking.”

  Her eyes strafed his body with a new hunger. “You never shirk. In fact, you go above and beyond the call of duty. You know, my mother has influence in the Bratislava music scene. Maybe she could get you an audition. You certainly have talent. When you finish today, come to the house. We will hear you play more.”

  He wanted to refuse such an imperious command. He badly wanted to say no, to walk away and snub her. She had penetrated every part of him, but his music? That was private. That was his.

  “What time?” he asked instead.

  “When you finish work, as I said. If it works out, we can relocate our trysts to somewhere more comfortable than the hayloft. Come to the winter garden. I’ll be waiting.”

  Rolf finished his dinner and returned to his seat, leaving the older couple just about to begin dessert. He checked his cello was still securely strapped into the luggage compartment and settled down to enjoy the remainder of the journey. He gazed out the window at the rapidly changing landscape and allowed himself a sense of contentment. Austria would be good for them, he was sure of that. For her, it would be an opportunity to regain stature in society. For him, a chance to reinvent himself, discard his past and become a different person. In many ways he had already changed beyond recognition, simply by escaping his own shadow. Since that warm afternoon in the von Rosenheim winter garden where he performed like a tame monkey, he had grabbed the chance to climb beyond haylofts and learned to accept not only criticism but financial support from a mentor.

  That afternoon, he had played for forty-five minutes under their unsmiling gaze. After which, Marinka von Rosenheim and her daughter discussed him as if he was not in the room. His fingering was muddy but his understanding of the pieces showed intelligence and musicianship. The instrument was poor quality. That said, the sounds he teased from it showed genuine promise. He would benefit from expert tuition. He had a distinctive talent and it must be developed.

  Leonor reached out a hand for his. Confused by this overt display of affection in front of her mother, he extended a hand as if to shake hers. She turned it over, examining his fingertips.

  “Look at these hands. There must be no more manual work for this man. We will make him our protégé and he should attend the conservatoire. But I believe his talent is better suited to the cello rather than violin. What do you say, Mama?”

  Marinka gave him a searching look. “What is your name, young man?”

  “Rudolf Jaro, otherwise known as Rolf.”

  “Rudolf Jaro, yes. My daughter is right about you. We will draw up a contract as your benefactors and you will have the best tutors. Do you play the cello?”

  “At school, I tried most of the string instruments but found myself most comfortable with the violin. I don’t think …”

  “Come with me. I have a cello in the music room. Not the conservatoire in that case. Leonor, call Jakobisku and ask him if he is willing to take on a pupil. This way, Rudolf.”

  And just like that, his life had changed overnight. He exchanged one world for another and it cost him nothing more than playing his part.

  For some reason, his spirits slumped as if the past weighed him down. He shook off the cloud and turned his eyes to the future. He had two and a half hours before arriving in Salzburg. Two and a half hours to rehearse. This time tomorrow, the whole thing would be over and he could call Leonor with good news. Yes, that was exactly how things would happen.

  He carried his cello along to the storage car, filled with crates and bicycles. He set up his camping stool, took out his instrument and played the opening notes of Josef Haydn’s Cello Concerto in D major.

  The first round of the audition was over far too quickly. There was much to improve on, Rolf knew that, but he had made no mistakes, played with passion – and vitally, shown no sign of nerves. Of course not. That was his thing. Never in his life had he suffered from stage fright, at least where music was concerned. The principal cellist, a stony-faced Austrian called Sebastian Rahn, asked him to play two pieces again, in front of other members of the string section. Dvorak and Schumann. Rolf blocked out the glances between the other cellists and focused on his fingering and bow action. Some of them had questions in English, where his confidence was far less solid. He answered slowly and deliberately, trying to recall Leonor’s coaching.

  One hulking cellist asked about his experience of a chamber quartet and if so, would Rolf join him, a violinist and a viola player for a demonstration of his skills. He agreed with enthusiasm, and although the Arensky piece was not part of his usual repertoire, he matched the others’ vigour. No one gave any indication of whether they were pleased or disappointed. The concertmaster and another first violinist went into a huddle with Sebastian Rahn while Rolf sat there like a pudding. Then they thanked Rolf for his time and asked him to return the following day. Rahn did not crack a smile or offer any enthusiasm, but one blonde violinist gave him an enthusiastic nod.

  Nearly four hours after he’d arrived, Rolf left the Konzerthalle with no particular sense of urgency, keeping his steps even and calm until he turned the corner and could be sure he was out of sight. Then he swung his cello case in a wide arc around his body, spinning with joy. He couldn’t remember feeling this good since completing his first solo recording for an indie record label. That time, he knew he’d delivered a passionate performance, but even so, he was unprepared for its success. He was the last-minute replacement of a revered cellist who had been prevented from leaving Russia when trying to board the plane. Some of Leonor’s acquaintances were involved in the sponsorship, and they wanted to make the most out of the prepaid studio time. When she learned about the drop-out and the repertoire to be recorded, she knew he’d be a good fit. They had huge arguments about what she called ‘unimportant details’, but in the end, he signed the papers and found himself in the recording studio with a seasoned quartet – for no pay. Naturally, she was right; what a lesson it had been, and what a success the recording had become, with him on the cover. One of the Salzburg audition panel had even mentioned it today, as a musicians’ favourite. Maybe that was another reason behind his summons.

  He crossed the road and found a small park, set his case down and checked his watch. Perfect. She would be on her break. As he dialled, he was already smiling.

  “Rolf! How did it go? I’ve been biting my nails all morning.”

  “They’ve asked me back tomorrow.” He pulled the handset away from his ear as she screamed. “There’s still another hurdle to jump, but today went even better than I could have expected. All my pieces flowed without a single error, even the Haydn.”

  She laughed. “How come you couldn’t do that for me? Did you meet the maestro? What’s he like?”

  His elation subsided. She had an unerring ability to find the negative side to whatever made him happy. “I didn’t see the maestro. Well, I think he popped into the auditorium while I was playing, but the interviews and assessments were carried out by the string section. Neither the principal cellist nor the concertmaster was particularly friendly, but the standard of musicianship is like nothing I’ve heard. It’s such a beautiful city and the Konzerthalle is probably the most incredible building I’ve ever seen. I already love it here.”

  “Like nothing you’ve heard? You should get out more. Listen, good luck tomorrow. Remember your posture when playing Smetana. Don’t forget to meet people’s eyes when they ask you a question. And if you do meet the maestro, remember to compliment him on the children’s opera initiative. He’ll like that. So, if you’re finished auditioning, what are
your plans for the rest of the day?”

  He ran his hand over the cello case as if it were a dog, allowing himself a flourish of confidence. “Exploring our future home. I’m going to check out the apartments the orchestra subsidises for players, nose around the city centre, sample some food and get another early night. I’ll send you some photographs.”

  “No point in doing that until we’re sure you got the job. Anyway I got a pile of marking to do this evening. Call me tomorrow, yeah?”

  “Of course.” Chastened, he wondered what to say next. “It’s strange being here without you.”

  “It’s strange being here without you.” Her voice gave no indication of emotion.

  “OK, I’ll let you get back to work and I’ll see you tomorrow. I wish you were here with me now. We would have so much fun.”

  “The fun comes later, Rolf. Use your time wisely. Forget being a tourist, get back to your hotel room and practise tomorrow’s pieces. You’ve taken the first step, that’s all. Congratulations but keep your eye on the ball. This is our future. Another thing, don’t celebrate your success by drinking wine tonight. Because it isn’t a success yet. Don’t put yourself under the additional pressure of temptation. You’ve still got a lot of work to do. There’s the bell, I have to go.”

  “I know. I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.”

  She had already gone. He sat there, his phone lying in his lap, staring at blackbirds tugging worms from the grass. Usually, he would worry and fret about such a curt end to conversation. Now was not the time. She was right. He had to concentrate. Back to the hotel, back to his practice. Tomorrow could change their future.

  3

  His high spirits as they packed up their apartment not only seemed to bypass Leonor, but to irritate her. He toned it down, and after a while he realised why it was natural for her to be subdued. The only other time she had cleared out a house to relocate was when her family lost the von Rosenheim fortune and she was forced to downsize from a mansion to a one-bedroom apartment. The act of packing must bring back painful memories. Her endurance and ability to withstand dramatic downward changes in fortune were beyond anything he’d known.