Below the Thunder

  BELOW THE THUNDER

  BELOW

  THE

  THUNDER

  ROBIN DUVAL

  Copyright © 2013 Robin Duval

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park

  Kibworth Beauchamp

  Leicestershire LE8 0RX, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1780887 463

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset in 11.5pt Sabon MT by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For my wife

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  The English and America

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Old men are dangerous: it doesn’t

  matter to them what is going to

  happen to the world.

  GBShaw

  Chapter 1

  If you really needed to flaunt your wealth and influence and cultural superiority – all at the same time – then this had to be the place.

  Bayreuth.

  The most exclusive music festival in the world.

  And here he was. In a borrowed dinner jacket, with a vinyl carrier bag dangling from his hand, standing on the terrace in front of Wagner’s opera house. Watching the audience promenade, and waiting for his girlfriend.

  High summer in Franconia.

  A hazy, sunless sky, as creamy as porcelain. Hot, humid, thundery…

  He still could not believe his luck.

  Naturally there were music lovers here too. It’s just that exclusivity was the festival’s defining characteristic. His own two seats had come with fierce imprecations about the penalty for selling them on the black market – the nicht autorisierte Schwarzmarkthandel. So much more threatening in German. There were tickets for sale on the internet for thousands of dollars a pair. But if they caught you at it, you could be turned away at the door. With contumely.

  Only a week ago in Salt Lake City, he had kissed his wife goodbye, and flown home for a round of catching-up visits. An aunt in Shropshire, a married daughter in Essex, old friend Dieter in Ealing.

  Which is where it all started.

  To cut a long story short, friend Dieter had a rare, inherited right – as a member of the Gesellschaft der Freunde – to attend the festival. Always with his partner, Graeme. But Graeme had died a year ago, and Dieter’s heart no longer lay in Franconia. Bryn found the two tickets for The Mastersingers propped behind a candlestick on the mantelpiece, and Dieter had impulsively stuck them into his top pocket. And made him promise to use them.

  The festspielhaus…

  The composer’s own do-it-yourself wooden theatre on its green hill, commanding the town like a citadel. The audience streaming out in a babel of languages and nations. East European, South American, Asian. A glittering parade to make all those English festivals – those lonely couples wandering damp lawns – seem like garden parties for the Third Age.

  He held his iPhone up to record the occasion for posterity. The party of Japanese posing below the balcony, each dropping out in turn to photograph the rest. Russians strolling through the multitude, fanning themselves like characters from Chekhov. A spectacular pair from the Middle East – he in flowing Arab robes and she in a sprayed on, backless, strapless gown, with the gauziest shawl to protect her modesty. From Beirut to Bayreuth.

  The Americans though. Where on earth were the Americans?

  He spotted an elderly couple standing alone at the edge of the terrace, sipping champagne. The wife had the huge and unfeasibly raven hair of an east coast matriarch. The husband was small and stooped, with an air of ancient authority. In his lapel was the blue and white Star of David of the American Friends of Israel.

  Bryn wondered what was going through their minds. Did the history of the place worry them? How did they feel about this evening? In a few hours the leading character would be urging his countrymen to beware of evil, non-German influences corrupting their country from within. And bring proceedings to a triumphant close by proclaiming the cleansing rise of a great ‘deutsches Volk und Reich’.

  No surprise that The Mastersingers of Nuremberg was Adolf Hitler’s favourite opera and that he came regularly to Bayreuth to see it. Until the end of his life, that is. Then he began to prefer the final Act of The Ring of the Nibelungs, in which the main protagonist destroys the old order in an all-engulfing, terminal cataclysm.

  Bryn’s companion emerged from the theatre – at last – smoothing down her tiny cocktail dress and skipping through the promenaders to make up for lost time.

  My God, she looked gorgeous.

  He had been staying in a Klassik Moderne industrial hotel on the north side of Bayreuth (‘convenient for the A9 motorway’) and the only establishment left with rooms at short notice. Its most attractive feature was breakfast. For four hours each morning in a hall as large as a ballroom, across a dozen serving stations, there was more food on display than in an average-size supermarket.

  ‘Breakfast’ barely hinted at it. German sekt and Italian prosecco, exotic teas, juices and mineral waters. A dozen different kinds of bread, ranks of preserved fruits, sausages, cereals and cakes. Forty minutes in this comestible cornucopia could keep a person going for the whole of the day.

  Mostly it was self-service and nobody minded a guest returning again and again to the gravad lax or the American muffins or the chariots of cheese and cold meats. The professionals only intervened if they were required to make scrambled eggs, omelettes, porridge or – for the Americans – waffles and syrup.

  Or to provide coffee. Then the procedure was for you to sit down with your laden plate at a vacant table, until a waitress arrived to pour the first cup and place a fresh pot beside you.

  Which is how he had met her.

  The conversation ran roughly on these lines:

  ‘Kaffe oder tee?’

  ‘Ein Kaffe, bitte. Grüss Gott, schönes mädchen.’

  ‘Oh you’re English, are you? Are you here for the festival?’

  ‘Yes. And you’ve got a very good accent for a German.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m Danish.’

  ‘Why are you in Bayreuth?’

  ‘The same reason as you?’

  ‘You’re going to the opera?’

  ‘Actually… no.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I h
ave not been able to get hold of a ticket.’

  She was standing over him, filling his cup. Her white-yellow hair was roughly tied in a bun on the crown of her head. Some stray fronds tumbled across her face and, every five seconds or so, her left hand would attempt to push one aside. He had never seen such eyes. They were palest blue to the point of achromic, fired by some inner light; and her gaze – when it locked briefly on his – was as penetrating as a laser.

  ‘I’ve got a spare ticket,’ he said suddenly. ‘Would you like to come with me tomorrow?’

  She pulled a face.

  ‘No, seriously.’

  The blue eyes flared.

  Time stood still.

  ‘All right then,’ she said at last.

  And so it was decided. Within a minute, at the most, they had agreed to meet before the performance, return to the hotel for a late meal, have a few cocktails and…

  But she was already on her way with another blue coffee pot to another table. He would just have to wait and see how things fell out.

  At least by the second interval of The Mastersingers he had learnt her name. Agnete. Ow-nay-tuh. And told her something about himself. His interests: history, music, America. His teaching job at the Western University of Utah. She was, however, less responsive than he had hoped. And gave very little information in return.

  At her suggestion, they left the theatre concourse and walked back up the road away from the town, past the car parks, until they arrived at a gate recessed within a long, high hedge. Beyond was a stretch of neatly mown grass and some tables, chairs and parasols.

  This was where the cognoscenti went to cool off during the sweltering hour-long intervals. Agnete knew all about it. She led him across the lawn towards a hidden, hedged-round enclave into which dinner-jacketed gentlemen were disappearing one by one, like honey bees into a hive. The object of their interest was a marble-clad, kidney-shaped pool, a foot deep in limpidly clear water fed by a bubbling stream. Wooden handrails lined the steps down into the pool, and handrails circled its centre.

  Agnete settled down on a bench below a sign listing the restorative benefits of the waters – indispensable for the production of bile, the soothing of nerves, the reduction of cholesterol – while Bryn joined the queue of paddlers. Shoes round necks, dress suit trousers hoist to knees, legs as white as milk. All calf deep in a cooling paradise.

  Through a gap in the hedge, he could see some more bashful patrons sitting under their enormous parasols, sipping flutes of sekt or – like one perspiring onlooker in sunglasses and open shirt – nursing a solitary weissbier. Nothing to match the heavenly chill now radiating through his body: this air-conditioning programmed (so Agnete assured him) to last to the end of the evening.

  It was while he was thus luxuriating – eyes closed in a kind of ecstasy – that Bryn encountered the American. Or – to be more precise – bumped into him.

  Agnete had become bored with her wooden bench. It was also possible – in spite of the subatomic economy of her clothing – that she too had begun to find the heat oppressive. At all events, she joined the line of shuffling males, and jumped in behind Bryn. She’d not bothered to remove her pretty little kitten-heel shoes. So she slipped on the marble floor of the pool, grabbed at Bryn’s arm, missed it, lurched again and finally knocked him into the older gentleman in front. A sharp wave of the icy waters shot over both of them.

  The American was most understanding. Agnete was abject – or affected to be – even offering to sponge down his satin sheen dress trousers with the hem of her dress.

  ‘That’s really not necessary, young lady,’ he said, not very discouragingly.

  He was a distinguished looking gentleman, with an immaculate helmet of steel grey hair and large, rimless glasses. He turned his attention to Bryn.

  ‘But are you alright, sir? You appear to have shipped more of the creek than I.’

  And so they fell into conversation.

  Americans abroad, in Bryn’s experience, loved the British. They were someone to talk to whose first language was their own; and a useful bridge to all those – other – foreigners. He suspected at the root of this was a belief that the British, being Europeans, were accustomed to mixing with people with peculiar languages; and, as the last great Empire builders, had a bred-in-the-bone understanding of alien races. One should never underestimate how far the old imperial role still coloured American perception.

  ‘You’re British, right?’ said the new friend, in the lazy, gravelly tones of a thousand Westerns.

  ‘I didn’t realise I was so obvious.’

  ‘Heard your wonderful accent. London?’

  He pronounced the last word with such heavy stress on the second syllable that for a moment Bryn barely recognised it. But, before he could answer –

  ‘He’s a professor in America. In Utah,’ said Agnete.

  ‘Now is that a fact?’ said the American.

  Bryn did not disguise his irritation at this unrequested revelation. Agnete responded with a quick laser stare and a shrug of her exquisite shoulders; and climbed out of the wading pool and sauntered away.

  ‘I teach history to American students.’

  ‘To Mormons? So you’re a Mormon?’

  ‘No, no. Church of England.’

  ‘What’s that? British for no religion, right?’

  An American being ironic? But he seemed interested enough and began to ask about Bryn’s background, what he did. Bryn mentioned a monograph he’d recently published about the American Civil War, and the American made him write the details down on the back of a card. He had a way of asking for things to be repeated and Bryn noticed he was wearing a tiny, probably extremely expensive, hearing aid. He guessed he’d be in his mid seventies, and gym-fit and diet-driven.

  They were back now on the main lawn and two of the sektsippers, both Frenchmen, were trying to engage Agnete in conversation. Nothing penetrated her enveloping boredom. She wrinkled her nose contemptuously and joined the queue for ice-creams.

  ‘I left Martha behind,’ continued the American. ‘She hates travelling. Anything over water. And I guess she’s not as young as she was.’

  ‘My own wife prefers to stay at home. And I could never get her to come on a jaunt like this.’

  ‘Are you sure you’d want her to?’

  He sat down at a table and shook out his trousers. They rippled down to his feet like a theatrical curtain. There was the faintest hiss of silk.

  ‘Good job,’ he added, nodding almost imperceptibly in Agnete’s direction.

  ‘Oh. She’s just a friend. I hardly know her,’ said Bryn, with a forced laugh.

  ‘Always the best way, buddy.’

  They sat together, slipping on their socks and shoes: the American’s old-fashioned, gleaming, box-fresh patent leather; and Bryn’s… he wished he’d at least polished them.

  ‘What do you make of the show?’

  ‘Bayreuth in general? The Mastersingers?’

  ‘You call it, buddy. The whole deal though. What do you think of it? I bet you know all about this stuff.’

  Bryn found himself in a familiar conundrum. It would be uncharitable to describe him as one who tries to be all things to all men. Perhaps he simply put too high a premium on social courtesy. But he was torn between a sense that the American might be a complete beginner on Bayreuth and Wagner. And the opposing fear – the worst sin – that he might end up patronising him.

  So, as he usually did when at a loss as to how to proceed, he shot off at a tangent.

  ‘Did you know Henry Kissinger came from here?’

  ‘Nixon’s Kissinger? You’re kidding.’

  A promising start.

  ‘No truly. What you need to know is that long before the Wagner family and their bosom pal Hitler – ’

  ‘Aye-dolf Hitler was a friend of the Wagner family?’

  ‘Oh yes. He used to come here every year.’

  ‘Waddya know.’

  Time perhaps for a short lecture after
all.

  ‘Well, you see, centuries ago, Bayreuth was a prosperous market town in the then independent state of Franconia. They were proud Protestants, with a famously incomprehensible dialect, and they never reconciled themselves to being annexed by Napoleon and handed over – in 1803 that would be – to the royal family of Catholic Bavaria. They will still not thank you for confusing them with Bavarians. So don’t… Well anyway, there was also a large Jewish population here and Henry Kissinger was born down the road. Another Franconian who never lost his weird local accent as long as he lived.’

  ‘I’ll be damned. Where did you find this out?’

  ‘It’s what I do. I’m a historian.’

  ‘Right. So did Kissinger ever come back here?’

  ‘Absolutely. They made a film about it once.’

  ‘Kissinger was here? With a broad, I’ll bet.’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know.’

  But of course Kissinger was here. With a glamorous new blonde on his arm. In a sprayed-on, strapless, backless gown…

  ‘I never liked the little schmuck,’ growled the other suddenly. ‘Or his goddamn brother.’

  For a moment, the conversation appeared to be over. Then –

  ‘What are you doing after the show?’

  ‘I’ll be returning to my hotel.’

  ‘How d’ya feel ’bout supper?’

  He clapped Bryn on the shoulder. Declining the invitation was not an option.

  ‘It’s my 75th birthday. Tomorrow. You can help me celebrate a day early. Bring your new girlfriend.’

  On the way back to the festspielhaus, he revealed a little more about himself. Including – to Bryn’s surprise – that he was not quite the neophyte he appeared. He even had a seat on the Board of San Francisco Opera.

  ‘Oh you know. Social obligation and business. That’s all. You don’t have to be a friggin’ opera buff. Don’t get me wrong. I love opera but, oh dear me, a little Wagner goes a long way, wouldn’tya say.’

  ‘So, if you don’t mind me asking, what exactly are you doing here?’

  The American gave the question some thought.

  ‘Well, the truth is,’ he said at last, ‘I happened to be here on business and the opportunity arose and I thought why the hell not.’