Death and the Chaste Apprentice by Robert Barnard Page A

so thatpeople could hear what was going on there. Gunter Gottlieb, alone of the performers, did not require sustenance or refreshment. His heavy had procured a soft drink for himself and was standing massively behind Gottlieb, doubtless to prevent a stab in the back. But Gottlieb had captured a prize: the director of the festival, who had been sitting in on the rehearsal after checking receipts at the box office. He had been hauled to the Green Room by Gottlieb with an end in view.
    â€œNext year,” said Gottlieb in his unattractive clipped tones, “we do Fidelio. People are waiting for my Fidelio .”
    â€œIt’s an idea,” said the director in a practiced neutral voice. He was a local man, but one with long experience in arts administration. “Though of course we have tended to stick with the Italians. But next year’s already tied up. We’re doing La Straniera .”
    â€œI change my mind,” said Gottlieb, putting aside La Straniera with a contemptuous sweep of the hand. “We do Fidelio .”
    â€œMy dear chap, it’s not on. Even if the committee were to agree—which I wouldn’t bank on—it’s still not on. You don’t seem to understand the operatic world. All the worthwhile singers are booked up years in advance. All the principals for Straniera have been engaged. They’d hardly be suitable for Fidelio .”
    â€œI have my cast here,” said Gottlieb, drawing a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “With alternatives if my first choices are not available. It is clear, yes? If you can get neither of them, you come back to me. Understood?”
    â€œNo, I’m sorry, old chap, it is not understood. There’s no question of our upsetting our existing arrangements—”
    It was at this point that Des bustled up.
    â€œI wonder if I could mediate. As a member of the festival committee I think we ought to try to come to some compro—”
    Gunter Gottlieb turned on him with a savage fury and pointed to the door.
    â€œOut! Out! Out!” he bellowed. “I do not take advice from taverners! Get out and do not come near this theater ever again, is understood? You come near one of my rehearsals ever again and I have you removed, thrown out on your fat bottom. Is understood?”
    Des had retreated three steps. When the heavy advanced from behind Gottlieb’s back, he spluttered back any riposte and turned to slink out.
    â€œNo offense,” he was heard to mutter.
    Gunter Gottlieb turned back to the festival director, iciness reasserting itself.
    â€œIs all your committee fools? They must learn to know their place. Now, as to Fidelio, I have a designer in mind . . .”
    â€œOh, my God,” said Peter, pushing back his chair. “This bear garden makes life with Jason Thark seem a haven of rest. I must be getting back to the Saracen.”
    â€œPeter,” wailed Natalya in Russian, “you’re forsaking me. I have that dreadful finale to get through.”
    â€œSorry, love. Duty calls. I was only given till four. They’ll probably all be crying out for some fresh and engaging humor from Peter Patterwit. . . .”
    But they weren’t, and he spent most of the rest of the afternoon and early evening lounging around, not unhappy to have escaped from the Alhambra. Gunter Gottlieb’s plans for the festival were inevitably the topic of conversation in the Shakespeare Bar that evening. Gillian and Peter went out and bought a Chinese takeaway, enduring with sweet smiles the murderous glances from Des as they marched through Reception with the little cardboard boxes. Des, understandably, was looking murderous all evening. When they had eaten their fill in Gillian’s room, they went down to the Shakespeare and found Natalya,Ronnie Wimsett, and Krister Kroll at a table together. The last named kept looking round nervously for routes of escape should Des feel impelled to