The Niccodemi Variations - 6. Life After and Finally.

Memoir of Tristan von Aschenbach

It wasn't until two years later that we organized the concert in which I would play the Niccodemi Variations in its entirety. It would be the first ever performance of the complete work, and it was an exceptional historical event.

Two years, so much time it took, for Ninetto and me, to build our lives so that we would never have to be separated again.

That day in June, the very day we had met, we discovered that we loved each other. It was Furio's doing, but we never regretted that intrusion of his into our lives, nor the decision to live together forever.

Furio arranged things in his own way so that I was the rightful owner of the autographed sheet music. He arranged for letters to appear that proved their authenticity and the way I had come into possession of those papers. I could hardly tell that the ghost of Furio Niccodemi had revealed to me the existence of a secret hiding place in his room. And Furio did not bother to explain to me how he had managed to produce all those papers, in a sense, forgeries.

Ninetto's dead grandfather, brother of the first Ninetto, became the unwitting custodian of the envelope that contained the sheet music, the Rubinstein letters and even Richard Wagner's precious autograph with the Grail theme dedicated to Furio Niccodemi.

A letter of instruction accompanied the envelope and was written in Furio's nervous handwriting. It said that the scores were to be delivered to anyone who showed a letter of assignment to pick them up, drafted by Niccodemi himself. Needless to say, the letter was delivered to me the next day by a notary in Amalfi. Of course it did not state my name, but it was effective in proving that I was the rightful owner of the sheet music.

No one ever asked me where I had actually found them or claimed ownership of those documents, partly because the copyrights had run out. In later years I paid Furio's heirs to avoid further investigation.

So it was that I became the owner and especially the designated keeper of those scores. And it was then that the desire was born in me to collect all the autographed sheet music I could find in my long life. The very ones I am donating to the Smithsonian.

The first problem, perhaps the most difficult, that we faced was to explain to my mother that her task was exhausted.

In the days following what we always considered our marriage, in a sense fostered and celebrated by the ghost of Furio Niccodemi, my mother understood that Ninetto had become important to me and tried in every way to distance me from him.

We immediately clashed over this. My filial love was not enough to make me consider benevolently all the subterfuges she resorted to in the following weeks. From trying to physically remove Ninetto by ordering that he not enter the house, to proposing that I leave to reach Milan where I could give a concert together with Toscanini.

When she physically attacked an astonished Ninetto, slapping him and going so far as to scratch his face, I knew I had to take more effective action. I kicked her out of the house along with her so-called secretary and his aide, both her lovers. I shouted for them not to be seen again, but I knew they would come back. I would be ready for them.

I ordered the butler to pack the luggage of all three of them. The luggage was deposited outside at the gate of the Villa.

That evening, when they returned from the trip to Capri they had taken to calm the poor woman's nerves, I was waiting for them at the door. In front of me was the pile of their luggage. Accompanying me were two lawyers, who had arrived from Naples and whom I had hired to assist me. Along with them was the Consul General of the United States of America in Naples.

I was a U.S. citizen and had recently turned 18, so I was of legal age. Therefore, I had asked the American authorities to be present.

I coldly informed my two employees of their dismissal. To my mother, more tactfully, I explained my decision to no longer avail myself of her cooperation.

She did not welcome this news well. She was assailed by the second hysterical fit of the day, after the one in the morning during which she had physically assaulted Ninetto.

We waited for her to calm down, and when she was sufficiently herself to listen to me I explained to her that, in gratitude for her commitment and dedication to me, I would pass on to her a life annuity to be arranged with her lawyers, when she appointed any. The Consul present would vouch for my offer.

That was how I was able to get rid of it, but she didn't leave us alone right away. The lawsuit lasted a few years and cost me a lot of money.

Of course, Furio helped us and made all this possible.

At the end of the summer, Ninetto and I moved to Naples, where we found a home together. I resumed playing in public and gave a series of concerts that were enormously successful, but I still did not make up my mind to perform the Niccodemi Variations in public.

Throughout the following winter I stayed in Italy to give concerts in major cities. Audiences continued to flock to them, and the success was always great.

However, everyone was waiting with great eagerness to hear in full the famous Niccodemi Variations that had been reported to have been found. And so the requests from other European and American cities to host my recitals were becoming pressing.

Ninetto, however, had returned to study in Naples, and I would leave the city only long enough to give the various concerts. Then I would return to embrace him, impatient for him to hold me in his arms and we could show our love for each other.

I would never have accepted a separation longer than a few days, but finally in the summer of 1921, we had to make some important decisions.

Success comes to you alive only if you cultivate it carefully and make a lot of sacrifices, or if you die. And if you die, it must possibly be in a striking, violent or painful way. Otherwise you are forgotten. This is a precept to which I have always adhered throughout my long life.

In my mind Furio continued to be present, even though he was far away, because he seemed to have found his Ninetto and was fine where he was. Of course he was urging me to perform his Variations so that the whole world would talk about them.

I did not want to collapse on the piano and die on the stage at the end of the Variations, although that would have been a good way to make my performance memorable. So we began to plan my return to the European stages with a long tour during which I would play the Niccodemi Variations in their entirety.

The inaugural concert was to be held in a highly symbolic place, and it could only be at the Salle Pleyel in Paris, where Furio Niccodemi's last concert had been held. Furio agreed.

Ninetto was a promising artist, an accomplished draughtsman, portrait and landscape painter. Would he have agreed to give up his studies to follow me? I tempted him with Paris, London and Berlin, which at that time were the center of the art world. Living in those cities he would have come in contact with all the leading artists of the day.

"I will come, but only because I love you and I couldn't stay in Naples without you!" he was careful to explain.

"And I wouldn't leave Naples if I could, but I must, Ninetto! I owe it to Furio, but also to myself!"

"Promise me that we will return to Naples as often as possible!"

And so we did all our lives. Our home was always Naples, as well as New York and Paris and the rest of the world.

The inaugural concert of my tour was scheduled at the Salle Pleyel for December 21, 1921.

In the second half of the nineteenth century, the practice of the public and so-called virtuosic concert had flourished. It was a form of entertainment that allowed the soloist to perform and amaze with his spectacular performances. And that was exactly what I counted on doing to return Furio Niccodemi to the triumph he would have deserved if he had lived.

The Salle Pleyel in Paris was an institution and was a kind of sacred place for piano concerts. Many premieres had taken place there and the greatest composers and musicians of the 19th and 20th centuries had played there. Perhaps acoustically it was not perfect, nor was it particularly large, but, as I said, it was a sacred place for us pianists.

I had played there only once before the war and had gathered good success. Now I was presenting myself to that very demanding audience with a world premiere of a composition that, even before it had been heard, had entered into myth. And which no one, had yet heard in its entirety. Even of the well-known part there were few who retained memory, because it had not been performed for thirty-one years. Recordings hardly existed at that time.

That cold December evening, the Salle Pleyel was obviously packed. In fact, all the concerts scheduled on my tour were already sold out, with tickets being resold at sky-high prices. The tickets for that evening had been auctioned off and sold for crazy amounts of money. Expectation was sky high. Hysteria was certain.

The hall was fortunately lit with electric light that made the four large chandeliers on the ceiling and all the chandeliers attached to the wall shine in a triumph of lights. The barrel vault sparkled in its golden decorations.

I had demanded, in a prima donna's quirk, that the floral decorations be only of orange blossoms. I don't know where they had found the orange blossoms in Paris in December, but they did. It was my homage to the hills of Amalfi, to the Villa and to Furio who had composed the Variations by smelling the special scent of those flowers.

I'm sure many ladies accused of fainting even from the strong citrus smell as they entered, but I didn't care.

The stage of the old Salle Pleyel was raised a half meter above the hall, and the concert piano, black, shiny beyond words, shone a little shifted to the left. Two rows of chairs on which the authorities sat had been added to the right. Just to emphasize the importance and solemnity of the occasion, there were the President of the French Republic, Alexandre Millerand, His Majesty King Albert I of Belgium, Edward, Prince of Wales, other European princes, as well as some somewhat debauched Russian princes.

I wouldn't have wanted them so close, but I didn't feel it was appropriate to argue, since Monsieur Millerand was practically the host.

By the time everyone was seated we were already a couple of minutes late, and that unnerved me a little, because I have always been a stickler for punctuality. It is one of my many quirks.

Finally I was able to enter and was greeted by the predictable hurricane of enthusiastic applause and cheers, even before I began to deserve them.

This applause is for you, my friend, I said to Furio.

Just think about playing and playing well, was the reprimand he gave me. I could hear him loud and clear, a sign that he was standing right next to me. I was glad to know that he would listen to my performance.

I sat down at the stool and looked around, asking for the absolute silence that was due to that solemn and important moment. I got it with a single glance, and that soothed me. Even my eyes were becoming flaming to match the composition I was about to perform and its author. Instead of beginning to play, I pulled a paper out of my pocket, which I opened with a certain ostentatiousness.

Some theater, my friend, I said to Furio.

You are much worse than a prima donna, much more than I was. Furio was serene and that helped me a lot.

"To young Furio Niccodemi," I pretended to read, but I knew that text by heart, "I give the theme of the Grail, that he may be its keeper and put it to good use. Signed, Richard Wagner!"

At that point the second roaring applause of the evening broke out.

When, with another glance, I again achieved complete silence, I studiously placed the paper on the lectern and pretended to read it again, then began to play the Grail theme as Wagner himself had sketched it on that ancient paper.

It was a few chords and I played it twice to make sure everyone heard it and memorized it. Then I folded the paper and put it back in my pocket, while a new thunderous applause shook the hall.

I closed my eyes and waited for silence to return. This time they were silent without my having to look at them.

That has always been an emotional moment for me. The silence that a few thousand people can produce is terrifying to a performer's psyche. You know they are waiting for you. That is the moment when panic lurks and can assail you.

That evening my hands moved, my fingers grazed the keys, and I began to play the introduction to the Eighteen Variations. The Grail theme flowed and in my head the music took over all emotions.

From time to time I looked to the side where my Ninetto was sitting. I noticed that he was drawing, definitely my hands. They were his favorite subject in recent times.

Over the next few years he made a number of series of paintings and works of art that had my hands as their subject. He was also called the 'painter of hands.'

The Niccodemi Variations are a mighty work, demanding, even physically. There are no real pauses, for the Variations flow one into the other almost without pause. They constantly change in an ingenious way the tempo of the performance, the use of the pedal, an unprecedented technique of arpeggios and melodies to create ever new sounds. They are a triumph of imagination and fusion of melodies with the most exquisite technique. It was an immeasurable loss to the world that Furio Niccodemi had committed suicide at the age of eighteen. Mankind lost the future works of that genius. Piano technique would certainly have evolved differently if Furio had been able to fully express his enormous potential.

I played continuously for over an hour and came to the beginning of Variation No. 17.

There I voluntarily paused. Furio had spent the whole time in absolute silence in my head, but when he noticed that I had stopped he turned his attention to me.

Do you want to play? I asked him.

They are yours now, Tristan, make me even happier!

Variation No. 17 is the most complex because of the technical difficulties it contains, until the mysterious chord that preludes the finale. From that moment the composition turns briefly toward peace of soul and the triumph of love. I knew that Furio composed it feeling next to him the warmth, even physical warmth, of the person he had just discovered he loved.

My Ninetto and I were the only ones who knew that in the immediately following hours Furio's and the other Ninetto's dreams would be shattered. But the irresistible sweetness of those notes remained, foreshadowing the absolute peace that the music of the unreleased Variation No. 18 would manage to inspire.

Everything happened as if in a dream for me, and I am not so sure that it was me who played. It is likely that Furio guided my hands in the last chords. Certainly Ninetto's look, my Ninetto's look, sorrowed me in the extreme effort to finish the performance without bursting into tears.

When the last chord resounded, again that final F, B, D# and G# at the sound of which the whole hall seemed to stand with bated breath, my exhausted hands slowly slid to the sides of the stool and, for an infinite time, it was almost a hundred and twenty seconds, I was told later, maximum silence reigned in the hall.

It was an astonished, unusual reaction after that hurricane of music.

Furio stroked me gently, then brushed my cheek with his lips.

"Thank you, Tristan, thank you from the bottom of my heart," he whispered, "I will always be close to you, Tristan, I will be in your heart. And, when you look for me, I will come to you, but now live your life and be happy for me too, for us too!"

For a moment I thought I saw a younger Ninetto beside him compared to my Ninetto. I saw them walking away down a road that I did not know where it led. They were embraced like two happy teenagers.

The more attentive ones had recognized and counted the succession of Variations, few remained so lucid to realize that the performance had ended, but, when I finally opened my eyes again, those few attentive spectators dragged everyone else along.

For a moment I feared the ceiling would collapse, because the hall erupted in the most terrifying and memorable applause I had ever heard.

I was still with my head bowed and had closed my eyes one more time, not to shirk that triumph, but because in my mind's eye I could still see Furio embracing his Ninetto. And I understood, I imagined, that they were finally happy, wherever they were going.

I reopened my eyes and lifted my head. I was ready to face the world and make the Niccodemi Variations known to all and make them immortal. I met my Ninetto's gaze and knew that we would be happy together.

"Furio, thank you!" I shouted in my head.

"Du weisst, wo du mich wiederfinden kannst!"(1) he said to me, turning around.

Ten years ago Ninetto, my Ninetto, left me. He went to stay with his great uncle and Furio. Together they are waiting for me and I am finally about to join them, but we spend every night together. We have long talks while I tirelessly play the piano. We are happy, Ninetto still draws my hands. I enjoy speeding up the time to make it difficult for him to focus on my movements. Furio and Ninetto are always with us. Furio disapproves of some of my interpretive choices, but he smiles at me and I know he is not angry with me.

I have been playing the piano for ninety-five years. Now my arms are tired.

****

(1) "You know where you can find me still!" These are the words Parsifal addresses to Kundry at the end of Act II, as the Grail theme resounds mightily.

***

Some necessary clarifications and some background on the genesis of this story

The Niccodemi Variations, unfortunately, were never written. It would have been nice to hear them, wouldn't it? They do not exist, because Furio Niccodemi never composed them. He is a figment of the author's imagination, along with other characters who appear in this story. First and foremost is the main character, Tristan von Aschenbach, whose interpretive talents we all would have liked to enjoy. Werner Hoffenstein is also fortunately a complete invention of the author.

Villa Ginestra does not exist, unlike Villa Rufolo, which is still an important cultural center, so much so that it hosts an annual music festival.

Obviously Richard Wagner is not invented, nor is his sublime music.

***

The idea for this story came to me on a beach during the summer of 2021.

We were on vacation in Puglia, Salento. Our Villa was located right on the wonderful sandy beach, so much so that we could only reach it through a gate. Of course we were spending as much time as possible on the beach, by the sea. I noticed right away that every afternoon a group of German tourists would arrive and set up next to our umbrella. They were two boys and a girl, appeared to be in their early twenties, and were accompanied by a rather elderly, very thin, withered-looking lady. You could also easily tell that one of the boys and the girl were a couple.

Every afternoon, as soon as they reached the beach they would set up their towels, strip off their clothes and run to jump into the sea, where they would take long swims. The first one out of the water was always the old lady, who would return to the beach and almost immediately fall asleep lying on the towel. The youngsters, on the other hand, returned near the shore and stayed in the water enjoying the coolness and tirelessly playing with a ball.

They would do this for at least another hour.

When they finally got out of the water, the couple lay down for their own business on one of the towels and began to make out, without even much discretion. The other boy fell asleep peacefully on the last of the towels they had laid out when they arrived.

The lady had already been asleep for some time and appeared to be in catalepsy, for she was lying supine, with her hands composedly intertwined on her belly. It made one think more of a recomposed corpse than of a person alive and only asleep.

The boy, on the other hand, would always lie on his stomach and also fall asleep in no time. He would immediately assume that relaxed and involuntarily lascivious pose of the deepest sleep, his lips slightly parted and his face serene and languid with fatigue, his lips set in a half-smile.

The boy, who I immediately guessed was named Tristan, was tall and lanky, thin with a large mass of curly hair that was more orange than blond. He smiled easily and was in great confidence with his friends. When he slept, he seemed to be happy.

I don't know what made me think of Wagner. Maybe the fact that they were German and also that the two boys in love would have been perfect to play two roles in the Tetralogy. They were very tall, very blond and quite robust, just enough to be believable as a Wagnerian tenor and soprano, a Siegfried and a Brunhilde, a hero and a Walkiria. As for my Tristan, he could have sustained excellently the role of the tormented innocent in a horror film, one of those expressionist films that were being produced in Germany in the 1920s. Or he could have been a Tristan devoted to the ultimate sacrifice for his beloved Isolde.

I daydream easily; at my age, it is a low-stress activity to which I often indulge. That group of occasional beach neighbors immediately catalyzed my attention. And day after day I worked out a story. I immediately discarded the two boys, possible Wagnerian singers, because I do not like overtly heterosexual characters. I realize this is a weakness of mine, but I don't know what to do with it. I did not even consider the old lady in catalepsy, which served, perhaps only, to give me the idea of the undead dead person.

Tristan remained the center of my attention.

The idea that triggered the creative process was that Tristan, during that deep sleep of his, was possessed by a ghost that transmitted something to him. On the mode of this transmission I debated quite a bit and opted for something more, as it were, Apollonian and not Dionysian. If you'll pardon the quote. Even the surname I chose for Tristan should be indicative of my intention to stay true to the choice not to make the text lubricious.

And so the story was born.

Tristan became a prodigy pianist on perpetual tour. Then came the idea of the Villa, of staying in a pleasant but important place in the history of music. That was how I remembered Wagner's stay at Villa Rufolo, the inspiration he drew from it for the second act of his Parsifal.

After all, I love music, and Wagner is one of my favorite authors.

If the pianists became two, that is only the fault of my imagination over which I evidently do not rule.