9
The ‘cats’ were squalling in the pit, as the orchestra ‘preened’ itself in pre-performance warm up for its presentation of Dvorak’s opera, Rusalka, in the Wiener Staatsoper (State Opera House), when Frank Falzoni took his seat. The seat beside him was empty, reserved for his contact. He scanned the auditorium, just as it scanned all. A sibilant sea of discordant conversation flowed out from it in unceasing waves, as if by two giant sea shells held to the ears. Here before him in the fleeting glances exchanged between fluttering programmes and sweeping binoculars, was all that the ‘cultured club’ of Viennese society never tired of. From the highest wit, to the lowest gossip and impertinence of scandal.
The seat remained vacant beside Frank even when the lights dimmed.
He would normally
