The Ann Ireland Library. Ann Ireland
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them leave and how difficult it was to land here with just the clothes on their backs.”
“My sympathies are with the ones who didn’t escape,” Toby says.
“Quite so.”
“I contain the whole range of human feelings,” he adds, unable to mask the defensive tone.
She runs her minesweeper eyes over him, then sets the puzzle piece down. “Of course.”
Why does he feel accused of something?
Leopold Hirsch tiptoed in at dawn to gaze at his sleeping children, three girls curled up on the one bed, and he listened to the raspy chest from the littlest child who would later die of pneumonia. It can be a curse to hear too much.
They step out of the haunted room into the corridor. This part of the hallway is decorated with faded manuscripts displayed behind glass, most too spotty and stained to recognize, though isn’t that the opening fragment to the adagio?
“Bathroom,” Lucy says, stating the obvious as she peers into the adjoining doorway.
A rusty streak blisters the surface of the claw-foot tub that rests on four chunks of wood, and there’s a distinct whiff of drains. Sitting on the pedestal sink is a sponge so crusty you know it hasn’t touched water in decades. That step stool must be for little Laura, pictured in the photos down the hall.
As Toby pulls back into the corridor, music starts up, gypsy violin drenched in melancholy, but when he glances around, he spots a speaker tacked in the corner where he’d hoped to see an old gent in a frayed suit, sawing away.
Hirsch adopted folk music in his compositions, wove old tunes into sophisticated new world caprices and sonatas. The violin crests and hangs in on a long fermata — and that’s when Toby hears footsteps climbing the narrow staircase. So far they’ve been the only visitors to the museum. Leopold Hirsch is a little-known figure on this side of the Atlantic. The steps pause on the landing, and through the sound of music they pick up the gasp of heavy breathing.
A stout man in his sixties pulls himself up the final flight of stairs. He wears a suit of timeless cut with shiny shoes. “Welcome, welcome,” he pants, sweat pooling on his brow. “Tell me, fine people, where are you coming from?”
“Toronto,” they chorus.
“Excellent.” He slips a pad and pencil from his pocket and writes this fact down. Toby notes his badge: the leopold hirsch society.
“You have been born there also?” the man asks.
Eastern European accent, Toby judges. “That’s right,” he says, watching as this, too, is written on the small pad.
“And you, madam?” Before Lucy can respond, the man begins to cough violently, and the visitors step hastily out of range.
This is how it begins: a propelled spray of saliva, an enclosed space.
“Pardon me, friends,” he says when he’s recovered. Then he turns to Lucy, pencil poised.
“Born in Calgary,” she says.
“And you enjoy our exhibition? Is interesting and provocative, yes?”
“Very,” Lucy assures him.
“We have restored this house for the enjoyment of musicians and followers of Dr. Hirsch. Maybe you would like to join our society. The dues are modest.” He stares at them in the gloom of the hallway. “Perhaps you have relatives in Poland or some special interest?” When there is no immediate response, he peers at Lucy’s badge. “Ah, a guitarist from the competition! Such an honour. I have been waiting for you people to come and visit our modest museum, but you are the first.” He flushes with evident pleasure and turns to Toby. “You, sir, are also one of the talented musicians?”
“I hope so.”
“Then you must follow me to Special Collections,” the volunteer insists. “An area where we allow only certain people, scholars and professional artists.” He beckons them toward the stairs, talking excitably. “We will begin with early letters sent back to his father. Perhaps you don’t know that Hirsch’s father was an eminent psychoanalyst with no less than Dr. Freud as his teacher.” He pauses, noting that the pair of musicians isn’t following. “So now we descend to the ground floor, to the special library.”
“We’ll be stuck there for hours,” Lucy whispers in Toby’s ear, seeing alarm cross his face. He’s got to get back to the dorm and practise. Time presses in.
Lucy swings her purse over one shoulder and says crisply, “I’m afraid we must dash back to the university.” She touches Toby’s arm in a wifely way.
The man seems hurt. “You must be interested in seeing these precious items — letters in his own hand to famous artists, original manuscripts, concert programs … and many personal articles.”
“I’m very sorry,” Lucy says.
“Perhaps we can come back,” Toby says brightly.
“Yes!” Lucy chimes in. “We’ll return once this is all over.”
The man’s shoulders sink, and when he speaks, it is in a resigned voice. “Yes, when it is over.”
Toby feels Lucy’s sharp tug on his sleeve. “Time to fly,” she says, foot planted on the top stair.
“Go then,” the man says, flattening himself against the wall. “A woman must never be kept waiting.”
It is the same heavy-handed courtliness that Klaus employs with what he terms “the fair sex.” Suddenly, Toby can’t get out of there fast enough. He pushes past both of them, hastening down the stairs and out the door to the bustling sidewalk where it is midday and women clip down the busy street in high heels, chattering into their cellphones.
What would Dr. Hirsch make of this new generation of urban sounds? No doubt he would incorporate the ring tones, gypsy violin, even the pneumatic drill upending pavement across the street into some aural tapestry that would first cause laughter from his puzzled audience, then worship.
“Were we very rude?” Lucy asks, joining him on the sidewalk. “I knew he’d suck us into an archival tunnel, make us examine every shoelace and grocery list.”
“Imagine reading his letters …” Toby says.
She looks at him sharply. “You read German?”
He doesn’t. Klaus tried to implant the language in his sons’ minds, but they resisted, scorning his marzipan rewards for the correct conjugations of verbs. All that remains are a few common words and a handful of nursery rhymes.
They glance up as a shadow passes: a blimp coasts across the sky, trailing a banner that advertises a common analgesic tablet. At the same time a taxi blares its horn, mimicking the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth while a kid strides past, earphones leaking hip-hop beats.
Lucy squints at him, using her hand as a visor. “Toby Hausner,” she says, “you’ve fallen for that piffle about the Receptive Cone.”
The dorm foyer buzzes with a fresh batch of conventioneers. The army cadets have disappeared, replaced by members of an international human rights organization. Delegates in jeans, saris, and suits line up before the gowned table to receive their registration kits. With jet-lagged ardour they pump hands and clap one another on the back while Lucy threads through the crowd, muttering apologies.
When she reaches the elevator that will whisk her up into the women’s wing, she calls back to Toby, “Come by at six for cocktails.”
He lifts an arm to protest. Cocktails! He must work until the sun sets and until his hands plead for mercy.
Moments later he slips into his cell. The guitar case lies across the cot, lid propped open. Somewhere far below the Metro rumbles.
Toby begins playing the trio with his fretting hand planted in seventh position, when of course he should