The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [88]
At the stage door, he was greeted by Hans von Bülow, the Kapellmeister of the Munich Opera, with whom he had arranged the audition. As Bülow led him backstage, they talked about Lucien’s train ride, the beautiful weather—it was now June, and much of the English Garden was in bloom—and other innocuous subjects, all of which helped distract Lucien from the task at hand. After being escorted into a rehearsal room, he recognized Wagner, who jumped up from his seat and vigorously shook his hand. “Well!” he exclaimed. “If your voice matches your build, then we should be in luck.”
Although the composer displayed a leering, adolescent grin that might have bothered Lucien under different circumstances, at present it felt closer to a relief than an affront. It gave Wagner a pedestrian quality that seemed absent in his music, and made Lucien think he could actually impress the man.
“You look familiar to me,” Wagner continued, examining him more closely. “Have we met?”
“Yes, maestro.” Lucien nodded. “I was at your reading in Paris—the one hosted by Princess Mil—”
“Yes, I knew it! How is La Codruta? Have you seen her?”
“Good, yes, I—”
Wagner interrupted him with a wink. “You wouldn’t know it to see her now, but in her youth she was—well—not to be ignored, if you catch my meaning.”
“I’m sure I do,” Lucien offered benignly. “I saw her last month in Paris, and she said to send her warmest regards.”
“I’ll make a note to write to her as soon as I have a minute to spare,” Wagner promised, but in an absent tone that made it seem as if the thought had already slipped his mind. “She was always a bright spot for me in that miserable city.”
Lucien resisted the temptation to agree with the composer and an even stronger one to disagree—it occurred to him that he was already being tested—and instead summoned the spirit of Codruta as he responded. “Maestro, I’m sure the princess would be most pleased to hear from you, just as she was overjoyed to learn about your recent success.”
“Very good,” Wagner replied. “But Herr von Bülow tells me you’re not living there anymore?”
“That’s right—I moved to Vienna a few years ago.”
“So that explains your German.”
“As with my voice, it’s been a subject of much study,” confirmed Lucien, pleased by the compliment.
There was a conspicuous throat clearing from Bülow—now at the piano—and Wagner’s expression grew stern as he stepped back to direct the proceedings. After Lucien had warmed up with a few short songs and exercises, they turned to the third act. They worked for close to an hour, a process that to Lucien felt more like a rehearsal than an audition, particularly when Wagner barked at him to repeat something. A few times Lucien lost his bearings and was unsure of exactly what the composer wanted, but any confusion did not seem to hold them back for more than a few seconds. When they finished, they stood speechless for a few seconds, until Bülow and Wagner nodded at each other and Lucien discreetly wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Oddly, he felt more nervous now that it was done, and had to subdue his shaking knees and chattering teeth as he shook Wagner’s hand and allowed Bülow to escort him back to the stage door. As much as he longed for some affirmation, he refrained from asking, knowing that doing so would make him appear weak; instead, after Bülow pleasantly thanked him for coming and allowed that Lucien should expect to hear from them soon, whatever that meant, Lucien nodded back and firmly—but not too firmly—shook his hand and said in an equally pleasant tone that he hoped he would.
BACK IN VIENNA, Lucien ignored Eduard’s advice not to think about it and gave himself fully to the torpor of the wait. He spent hours lying