“According to our records,” Kris said, “you once knew a
man whose initials were RKL; this was while you were
conducting at the Vienna Stoatsoper.” He made the double
“a” at least twice too long, as though German were a dead
language he was striving to pronounce in some “classical”
accent. “What was his name, and who was he?”
“That would be Kurt Listhis first name was Richard,
but he didn’t use it. He was assistant stage manager.”
The two doctors looked at each other. “Why did you
offer to write a new overture to The Woman Without a
Shadow, and give the manuscript to the City of Vienna?”
“So I wouldn’t have to pay the garbage removal tax on
the Maria Theresa villa they had given me.”
“In the back yard of your house at Garmisch-Partenkirchen
there was a tombstone. What was written on it?”
Strauss frowned. That was a question he would be happy
to be unable to answer. If one is to play childish jokes
upon oneself, it’s best not to carve them in stone, and put
the carving where you can’t help seeing it every time you
go out to tinker with the Mercedes. “It says,” he replied
wearily, “Sacred to the memory of Guntram, Minnesinger,
slain in a horrible way by his father’s own symphony or’
chestra.”
“When was Guntram premised?”
“Inlet me see1894, I believe.”
“Where?”
“In Weimar.”
“Who was the leading lady?”
“Pauline de Ahna.”
“What happened to her afterward?'”
“I married her. Is she . . .” Strauss began anxiously.
“No,” Dr. Kris said. “I’m sorry, but we lack the data to
reconstruct more or less ordinary people.”
The composer sighed. He did not know whether to be