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Once More With Feeling
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. © All Rights Reserved.
The journey to Bayreuth, 29 July
I don't suffer the French disease and I don't expect Milena does. It's not what worries me. What worries me is that I got carried away like that. That I fucked her without protection and I have no regrets whatsoever. We talk about it briefly when we get up, but it happened and there is not much we can do about it. It was too good to tarnish it with a long and difficult conversation.
We enjoy an extensive breakfast with other lodgers, during which everyone struggles with adjusting to everyday life again. What happened in the room yesterday stays in the room, but like Milena, some guests are rather safe than sorry and wear their masks.
Georg takes me aside for a moment and urges me to visit Marianne. A sincere request of his own, and not by Helene or Mimi chirping in his ear. He's not the man to conspire like that. The estrangement between Marianne and me was a painful affair for him as well. He is fond of his former mother-in-law, with whom he maintains a close connection. Their bond only deepened with shared grief over the death of Marianne's daughter, his former wife.
When it's time to say goodbye to Helene and Georg, Milena takes off her mask and hugs them gratefully. They are both visibly touched by the gesture as they send us off.
The carriage takes us to the station, where Cosima awaits us. She accompanied Sisi to the train earlier this morning. Sisi retired to our sleeping compartment, dealing with the after-effects of her efforts last night, and Cosima joins us in the carriage's salon. For Cosima, Milena sticks to her alias; Lara, the lady in the mask. She soon retires to one of the private cabins as well, to do some reading and writing.
The journey with Cosima alone is less unpleasant than I expected. The evening did her well. She is also happy to return to her true love and tells me all about how difficult it was to create the successful opera. It's an exciting story and I'm more interested in the result than expected, even though her husband's compositions are not my cup of tea.
Bayreuth, 29 July
Late in the afternoon we arrive in Bayreuth, where we part company with a taciturn Sisi and a lively Cosima. Despite her kind offer, I have no desire to stay with the Wagners. Milena's mask would be too much of a hassle.
Because of the success of Richards' Parsifal, all hotel suites in town are fully booked weeks in advance. We stay in the train and dine at the station restaurant, which isn't a punishment. The food is simple and good.
Milena is not a genuine fan of Wagner's work either. She attended several performances in Berlin, and the music was too bombastic for her liking, preferring the romantic style of Mozart and Beethoven. She also adores the unpolished drama of Mussorgsky, a relatively unknown Russian composer and a favourite of her grandmother.
When I recount Cosima's story about Bayreuth's auditorium, built to experience Richards' operas properly, she shares my growing curiosity after his latest work.
"Why did you persist in using your alias with Cosima?" I ask her during dessert.
"She wasn't too bad in the end, but I didn't trust her," she says.
"Which means you will have to wear a veil tonight when we visit the opera. Otherwise, she'll recognise you when we bump into her at the interval."
"I know," she says with a sigh. "Then it must be. I don't like her. Because of the remark you thought inappropriate at the party, as well."
"You can't blame her too harshly for it. In that respect, she is a child of our time. People always prosecuted Jews for being outsiders, and emerging nationalistic morals don't bode well on that front."
She plays with the last piece of her cake. "Well, my grandmother on my mother's side was Jewish and so, according to their laws, am I," she says, blushing. "I owe my name to her."
"I didn't know that." What is she ashamed of? That she is Jewish?
"Does it deter you?" she says, without looking at me.
"Of course not," I say. "Jews are people like everyone else. Their important role in finance, culture and science is more likely the result of endless persecution than a conspiracy. If being ready to flee is part of your life, you invest in things you can bring along. Skills, knowledge and money. Whether some dark Zionist plot is ever executed, I don't know, but we have ourselves to blame for it."
Her attention returns to the cake. "It deters others. When it comes up, like at the party, I keep my mouth shut and I'm ashamed of that. I loved my grandmother, and feel like I'm betraying her. Like the denial of Peter, if you will."
I lay my hand over hers. "I think your grandmother would forgive you. Whatever faith we adhere to we want the best for our offspring. Besides, you weren't in a position to defend her yesterday, were you?"
That argument seems to perk her up, because she makes short work of dessert. After a last sip of sweet white, she resumes the conversation. "What about your descendants? Why didn't you ever start a family yourself?"
I chuckle. "With my antecedents? Do you really need to ask?" I say, trying to dodge her question. Which, of course, is pointless with Milena.
"Now you could, couldn't you? I think you'd be a great dad, even if others doubt your moral values. You care about the things that matter."
For a moment, I freeze, thinking about our last time together.
"Is there something you need to tell me?" It sounds less like a joke than I intended.
