Ibbotson, Eva - Magic Flutes

Heidi Schlumberger was not only the smallest but the prettiest and sweetest of the Three Heidis, her blue eyes permanently widened in admiration of the world.

‘I’ve got a Sylphides dress that’s spotless,’ she said now, taking Tessa by the hand. ‘Come along, I’ll show you.’

‘Is it suitable, do you think?’ said Tessa, when she had slipped it on and stood looking at herself, white, gauzy and rose-embroidered in the mirror of the chorus dressing-room.

But what was suitable for the delivery of Beethoven’s waistcoat button to Sachers? – and anyway, there was no more time. Thanking Heidi profusely, Tessa ran out into the street.

Guy had spent the day before Nerine’s arrival in a kind of Odyssey, revisiting the places where he had been with her. The old hunting pavilion in the Prater where he had picked her a bunch of early scillas like little sapphire stars . . . the chesnut tree by the gates of the Academy where he had watched for her light at dawn . . . the room in the Kunsthistorisches Museum with its famed and fabulous Breughels in which Nerine – hiding from the other girls – had stood beside him to gaze enraptured at the master’s complete and all-embracing world.

Now, strolling back through the Inner City past scalloped fountains, equestrian statues and the quiet facades of palaces warm in the golden light of evening, he could almost believe that the city, like himself, was waiting for his love.

He crossed the Albertina Platz, exchanged bows with the Minister of Trade who was assisting his portly wife into a fiacre, turned down the Philharmonikerstrasse and entered his hotel.

The foyer was almost deserted, for they had begun to serve the evening meal. But at the far side, between two Venetian mirrors, he glimpsed a small figure in white backed against the red-damask covered wall. A figure imprisoned by the fat, spread-eagled arms of a bald gentleman in evening clothes, his back to Guy, who was bending over her.

Guy approached and as he did so, the anguished face of Witzler’s under wardrobe mistress appeared briefly from behind the bulk of her captor, lit up in recognition of Guy and vanished once again.

A certain melancholy settled on Guy. The man endeavouring to pin her to the wall was old, unsteady on his feet and probably quite genuinely under a misapprehension for the glimpse of Tessa, her throat and bare shoulders rising from a cloud of white, hardly suggested a respectable Viennese hausfrau waiting for her spouse. Which was a pity – for Guy, penned for weeks in the Treasury, was in the mood to do justice to a prolonged, well-matched and bloody fight.

Now he merely seized the man by the shoulder, spun him round and in tones as polite as they were menacing, said, ‘This lady is with me.’

Rubbing his shoulder and muttering angrily, the old gentleman tottered away. Guy, left looking down at Tessa’s fragile, serious little face, transcending the absurd romanticism of the costume, was more than ever inclined to exonerate her tormentor.

‘How old are you?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Twenty. Well, almost.’

Guy, who had been toying with the ‘I am old enough to be your father’ approach, abandoned it. At eleven he had not really been prepared for parenthood.

‘You shouldn’t be here alone,’ he said, his voice still harsh. ‘It’s most unsuitable, you must know that.’

‘Yes . . . I’m sorry.’ Only the ghost of a sniff, a finger pressed against the corner of one eye as if to hold back an impending tear, betrayed her recent strain. ‘I had to deliver something for Herr Witzler.’

Guy’s thick brows drew together in a frown. What did Witzler mean by exposing her to this? Was the child never supposed to eat or sleep?

‘You had better stay and have some supper. My secretary’s probably waiting in the dining-room. She’s a formidable lady, but she’s got a heart of gold. Come and join us.’

Tessa shook her head. ‘No, really, I couldn’t.’

But at that moment a service door opened somewhere at the back and lifting her head, her nostrils flaring in the manner of Baudelaire when he smelled the fleurs du mal, she said raptly, ‘Rindfleisch suppe!’

It was too much, and abandoning further protest she let herself be led to the double doors of the dining-room.

Inside, however, a reverse awaited them. The terrifying Frau Sacher, black-clad and omnipresent, came towards them, stared at Tessa and hissed angrily to Guy, ‘You cannot bring her into the public dining room!’

Fury gripped Guy. Surely the woman could see that Tessa, though dressed like a dancing-girl, was not of their kind? But anxious above all not to subject the child to a scene, he allowed himself to be led upstairs and within moments the door was opened on an image from one of Tessa’s most fervent dreams.

‘Oh!’ she breathed. ‘All my life I have wanted to dine in a chambre séparée.’

Entranced, she looked at the red plush walls, the snowy damask, the alcove with its discreetly looped curtains of gold-tasselled brocade. This was life as she had conceived it: Sarah Bernhardt, the Duse, were now sisters under the skin.

But when she had sat for a while in a chair that Guy had pulled out for her, she fell silent. A cloud passed over her face.

‘Is anything the matter?’

‘No . . . Only . . . would you mind very much if we changed places?’ Guy, following her gaze, found that Tessa was confronting the portrait of an obese and haughty lady whose plump bosom was bisected by the Order of St Boniface. Narrowing his eyes to read the title, he learned that he was in the presence of Her Imperial Highness, the Archduchess Frederica.

‘Certainly.’ Guy rose and the change was effected. ‘Your republicanism again?’ he enquired politely.

Tessa nodded. She was now staring with every appearance of pleasure at a painting of Leda welcoming with unmistakable concupiscence the attentions of the swan.

‘Yes, but this lady at least is enjoying herself,’ she said, answering Guy’s grin.

It was an agreeable meal. Someone, somewhere, had taught this waif the art of conversation. Tessa touched him with her ardent belief in art as the passport to man’s freedom and happiness, but she could be very funny about the International Opera Company’s preparations for their exciting and mysterious assignment. And she could listen. Guy, telling her about his travels in Brazil, saw her almost visibly drinking in his descriptions of that fabled, exotic land.

But as the meal drew towards its close, he noticed her small face slewing round more and more to the object only partially concealed by the half-drawn curtains in the alcove: an object which, without blazoning it to the world, was not really a couch or a sofa – was, by its width, the humped softness of its pillows . . . was, in short . . . a bed.

The waiter brought coffee and a liqueur for Guy, and closed the door with finality. Requesting permission to smoke, Guy watched, concealing his amusement, as the highly expressive face of the little wardrobe mistress registered in rapid succession a series of emotions: apprehension, followed by resolution, followed again by a flicker of despair.

‘Do people often bother you like that?’ he said, deciding to force the issue. ‘Like that old man just now?’

‘Well, a bit. It’s worse since Anita cut my hair.’ Her eyes slid back to the bed. It was awful not knowing how to behave, what was correct. That so handsome and wealthy a man – a man who clearly could have any woman he wished – should have any real interest in her seemed most unlikely. On the other hand, that so handsome a man – any man – should buy her a dinner, a three-course dinner with rindfleisch suppe and kalbsbraten which nowadays cost a week’s wages, and want nothing in return, seemed equally unlikely. Caught thus between Scylla and Charybdis, Tessa reached for her wineglass, gulped and plunged.