THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Read Free Page B

time of the year when the festival of Richard Wagner’s music is staged. And here amid the hoards of sightseers and journalists in pursuit of fleeting glimpses of royalty or celebrity, one can observe the many faithful devotees of the composer himself - all those handsome gentlemen in top hat and black tie, the ladies in extravagant evening gowns, walking in broad daylight or transported in horse-drawn carriages from their hotels to the Festspielhaus - that hallowed building from where, carried on the dry, gritty wind, a fanfare of brass instruments can be heard announcing the commencement of each and every performance.
    Determined not to doze again in the sunshine, she busies herself with a tiny mirror, examining her appearance. Her straw hat, with its silk band of red roses and lilac is set at a not too ostentatious slant. The waves of dark, slightly auburn hair visible beneath the broad brim is tidy enough; while the contours of the mouth with its polite, understated colour is in no urgent need of restoration. Only just the faintest dusting of fresh powder is required upon her nose and forehead; and this is swiftly accomplished with an instinctive movement taking no more than seconds before the tiny silver compact is snapped shut and replaced in her bag - and behold! - for anyone who cares to glance her way, the face that has become just a little more recognisable of late than she would have preferred - the increasingly public face of an increasingly public property: Deborah Peters - the one-time actress, society wife and now, liberated from all such encumbrances by a recent divorce, famed these days more as a gossip columnist and purveyor of clairvoyance at a suitably extravagant fee for those of wealth and discretion.
    Upon the pavement, some dry leaves swirl in restless eddies of dust about her feet and Deborah, to her surprise, finds herself wishing she could be somewhere else, away from all the noise and congestion. It makes her aware that she is certainly no longer as young as she used to be, or as tolerant. Now, approaching her fortieth year, she finds herself, just like the society around her, travelling into the end of the century with a final flourish of decadent living but also a certain foreboding. For the world is ending, or so they say, the world of elegance, courtesy and style; everything becoming more hideous and mechanical, more vulgar, dirty and cheap - wanting only for an excuse of some great, final act of self-destruction to send Valhalla on its way. And she wonders if this is the reason she should feel quite so morbid of late - that the final act has already begun.
    But there is no further time to dwell on the matter, because amid the crowds Sylvia has finally come into view, waving in her usual extravagant fashion, a vision of stunning opulence - all sparkling diamonds and flashing white teeth as she advances, and her hair, beneath a glorious, lavishly trimmed hat, a little too blond to be entirely real for one of her years.
    ‘Darling, is it really you - how marvellous!’ she declares fulsomely as she closes her parasol and bends forward to present Deborah with a rapid peck on each cheek - and in no time they are seated together in the dappled shade, sipping at coffee, devouring various pastries and cakes of rich cream and chocolate, and remarking in their customary way of how it is ‘all too much,’ ‘too rich,’ ‘too fattening,’ and so on.
    ‘I shall go on that new diet - the one they’re all talking about,’ Sylvia asserts in her lush, melodious Italian accent as she pushes the cup and saucer away. ‘I shall begin tomorrow.’
    ‘Do you really think they work, all these regimes of self-denial?’ Deborah observes, dubious from bitter experience, her eyes examining the lines of her companion’s extravagant dress of silk taffeta, speculating on its origin and upon the overall effect it has upon the ageing and increasingly rotund frame of its owner. With its elaborate motif of