A/N: thank you again for all your reviews. I know things seem unclear right now and you will most likely have lots of unanswered questions/potential theories but I promise all will eventually become clear as the chapters go on. It's a slow burner I know, so I hope you're all still with me!
CHAPTER FIVE: THE GOLDENER
Fully adorned in his tail coat and medals, Georg took a final look at himself in the mirror hanging above the fireplace. By some miracle, he'd managed to polish up rather nicely - despite the fact that only an hour ago he'd been sporting an unkempt beard and a cracking hangover. He'd lost weight, he realised - his waistcoat was a little looser than it had been the last time he'd worn it and his trousers didn't quite fit the same way on his waist. But then again, it was hardly surprising. He'd barely eaten a solid meal in the last four weeks. It was all painfully familiar...
When it'd become glaringly obvious that he wasn't going back home any time soon, he and Maria had agreed to set aside their differences for one afternoon in order to break the news - properly - to the children.
"So that's it then?" Liesl had held back tears upon hearing the truth, "you just.. don't love each other any more?"
"Of course we do darling," Maria had replied quietly when Georg hadn't been able to find any words, "we just love each other in a different way now. But the important thing to know is that we both love you - all of you - very very much."
Unable to hear another word, Georg had simply pulled Gretl into his lap and concentrated on comforting the little girl - though he'd wagered at the time that her warm presence was more of a comfort to him than the other way around. When the torture had finally ended, the children had been sent to the nursery, leaving their parents alone in the crushing silence that flooded to every corner the drawing room. Bowing his head awkwardly in farewell, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides, he'd made for a hasty retreat - but she'd called after him before he'd managed to reach the door.
"Georg?"
Turning to face her, his heart had begun beating in a steady gallop against his ribs.
"Yes?"
"The Reverend Mother is looking into teaching positions for me," she'd told him quietly, wringing her hands in discomfort, "I... I promise I'll leave your home just as soon as I have somewhere to-"
"Our home," he'd interrupted on a whisper, "It's our home Maria. Ours and the children's. They need their home and they need their mother. Please," he'd insisted gruffly, the words stuck in his throat, "please, stay as long as you need.. just make sure they're alright won't you."
She was still every bit their loving mother, he'd reasoned - in fact, she'd been a mother to them ever since the earliest days of their acquaintance, back when she'd been nothing more to him than 'number twelve'. Their separation would never change that fact. And he would no more wish to cast her out in the street - to tear his children from their mother - than he would wish to tear himself from his homeland.
Her eyes had filled with tears of gratitude then,"You're very kind.."
With a curt nod, he'd quickly turned on his heel and-
"Georg?" Her delicate bleat had the power to stop him mid-march.
"Why don't you come home?" she offered, "There's so much room here and-"
"Have you changed your mind?" He'd interjected, a little more fiercely than he'd intended. Her face marred with sorrow, she'd simply shaken her head. Without so much as another word, he'd spun on the spot and left her standing there - before the look in her eyes had threatened to bring him to his knees.
Leaving his key at the hotel reception, Georg began the short walk across town to the Goldener, asking himself for the millionth time whether he was making a terrible mistake. The last place he wanted to be right now was at a Nazi ball amongst the creme de la creme of Salzburg's aristocracy - stuffy ex-military men and simpering women who would no doubt wonder why he hadn't bought his lovely wife along with him.
There was no way around it though, he thought as he ascended the stairs of the Goldener and made his way through the lobby - whether he liked it or not he was a man of rank, a decorated officer, Austria's most coveted naval hero. It would look incredibly suspicious if he failed to make an appearance at what had been repeatedly referred to as the party of the decade. The last thing he needed was to expose himself as an opposer of The Reich this early on in the fight.
His main reason for attending however, had nothing to do with keeping up appearances. Rather, it was the fact that John needed eyes on the party's host. John rarely needed eyes on anyone, so well-informed was his endless list of connections. Max Detweiler, God love him, was not one of these connections. Easily distracted and fickle to boot, the impresario couldn't be trusted to keep tabs on anybody, unless that person just happened to be the bar keep!
As though Georg's thoughts had summoned him, the charming sponge himself appeared from the adjacent ballroom, cigar clamped firmly between his lips and a champagne flute clutched in his fist. Clearly the party was already in full swing!
"Drinking again, Max?" He called out, tutting in disapproval, "must be unhappy!"
Freezing on the spot, the impresario whirled around and did a double-take.
"Wh.. what the devil are you doing here?" He spluttered, the colour draining a little from his face.
"Well, I have to admit I thought you'd be a little more pleased to see me up and about," Georg replied in mock offence, pressing a palm to his heart, "anyone who's anyone is going to be here tonight, remember?"
His friend swallowed hard, eyes shifting nervously to somewhere over Georg's left shoulder and back again.
"Don't worry, I'm not here to cause trouble. In fact, I'm actually here to keep up appearances," Georg muttered conspiratorially, leaning closer to ensure they weren't overheard, "You were right. We need to pretend to get along with these people. And besides," he chuckled lowly, "you can't be trusted to do a competent job when there's champagne within a fifty mile radius!"
He scuffed the impresario on the shoulder but the man didn't so much as crack a smile, "Georg," he croaked, "I really need to tell you some-"
"Speaking of champagne..." Georg ignored him, scanning the vicinity impatiently for the nearest butler, "it's been an age since my last one!"
"Georg-"
"Ah ha!" he declared, snapping his fingers in triumph as he spotted the bar and the unsuspecting youth stood at the edge of it, clutching a tray of champagne flutes as though he was terrified he might send the whole lot crashing to the floor. Without hesitation, he marched in the young man's direction like a bull charging at a red flag.
"Georg, would you just wait one minute!" Max scurried after him, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to keep up with the captain's effortlessly long strides. Entirely unperturbed by his friend's urgency however, Georg had already managed to snatch up a champagne flute and take a large gulp by the time Max had caught up with him.
"Georg for God's sake!" Max hissed, grabbing him closer by the upper arm and offering a forced cordial smile to some elderly ladies who happened to be walking past.
"What is the matter, Max?" Georg rolled his eyes in exasperation, bringing the flute to his lips again.
"I have something important I need to exp-"
"You must be Captain Von Trapp..." came a deep, confident voice from somewhere behind them, its tone lilting with a hint of knowing amusement. Whirling around on the spot, Georg came face to face with a man not far from his own age, with a strong jutting chin and shades of silver peppering his sandy hairline. Sophisticated in appearance and boasting a noble profile, he seemed to radiate confidence in a way that was just shy of arrogant. To many an onlooker, he would be considered a gentleman, an individual of high standing - someone Elsa Shraeder would refer to admiringly as 'well bred.' It was the superior upturn of his mouth however - not quite a smirk, not quite a smile - and the plethora of medals crowding the breast of his uniform - that instantly gave him away.
"Colonel Landa, I take it?" Georg's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening.
"Ha!" The man barked triumphantly, "Well guessed, Captain! I just knew you'd be sharp as a tack!" He gave a bow of the head and flashed them both a charming smile, "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. You must forgive me for my terribly ill-mannered interruption just now, it's just-" his eyes flashed, "I've heard so much about you."
"Oh you have, have you?"
"But of course!" Landa beamed, "As my reputation would suggest, I'm a detective. A damn good detective. I won't bore you with the finer details of my work, but it's my business to know everything about everyone. Take Herr Detweiler for example," he rounded on the astonished impresario, who - up until that point - had been more than happy to go unnoticed, "a headhunter for the performing arts, long-standing foe of the infamous scoundrel Sacha Petrie, twice married, twice divorced - with a penchant for apfelstrudel, if my memory serves!" with a gleeful chortle, he scuffed a gawping Max on the arm, while Georg simply rolled his eyes.
"Forgive me Herr Detweiler, forgive me," Landa guffawed wolfishly at the incredulous look on Max's face, "I tease rough! As for your feats in these parts, Captain, well - they're nothing short of legendary! Or so my sources would lead me to believe."
"Such stories are nought but rumours, I can assure you," Georg muttered, eliciting another chorus of laughter from the colonel.
"I love rumours!" the man exclaimed, clapping his hands together with a flourish, "Facts can be so misleading, where rumours, true or false, are often revealing..."
Before Georg even had time to make sense of the semantics behind such a bizarre statement, the colonel was already halfway through his next sentence.
"- but alas, here I am so rudely prattling away when there's an entire dance floor of guests I am yet to individually greet. Come!" He insisted, gesturing towards the opulent double doors that led to the ballroom.
Left with little choice but to fall into step behind him, Georg followed the colonel with calculated slowness, entirely too distracted by the presence of this mysterious new foe to notice that Max was repeatedly hissing his name in an attempt to garner his attention. When the impresario resorted to tugging impatiently on his sleeve, Georg slapped his hand away as though he was being pursued by a pick-pocketing criminal.
"Behave yourself!" Georg mouthed, all too aware of Landa's proximity.
"But-"
"Shh!"
"Welcome gentlemen," Landa gestured through the doorway once they'd reached the ballroom, "do make yourselves at home. Oh, and a word to the wise- " he tapped his nose with a wink, "watch how you go with Goebbels. The old dog's had one too many!"
Bowing his head in farewell, Landa was soon lost to the endless sea of ball gowns and tailcoats that formed the majority of Salzburg's elite. Georg scanned the elegant surroundings in cold dread, wondering just how many of these traitors would happily exchange their homeland for another bottle of Dom Perignon.
"Georg.." Max's voice echoed faintly from somewhere beside him.
The whole affair screamed of unapologetic wealth - the six magnificent chandeliers hanging majestically from the gold-leafed ceiling, the waiters with silver trays weaving in and out of the crowd, the fifteen-man orchestra playing music he'd never heard of, the pocket watches, the pearls, the tiaras, the crystal, the perfume and lipstick and cigars and liquor. How could a world so full of material possessions seem so thoroughly empty?
"Georg-"
And of course, there was the inevitable display of the Swastika - hanging like an almighty tapestry from the far wall, taunting him in much the same way as the wicked gleam hidden in Landa's smile.
"Georg!"
And although he'd prepared himself for it, had known the evening would reek of the impending Anschluss and the end of his homeland, he didn't think anything could make him feel quite so sick. That was, until he spotted the familiar halo of golden hair...
His champagne flute went crashing to the floor.
"Ohhhhhh boy..." Max breathed - but Georg could hear nothing above the rush of blood pounding in his ears. It was possible, he reasoned, that his mind was playing tricks on him... it wouldn't be the first time since she'd left him that he'd conjured her up as a figment of his imagination, usually in a half-drunken stupor. She was far away after all - on the other side of the ballroom in fact. But really there was no mistaking that porcelain face, that glow of hair, those sapphire eyes - pure and real in a room of otherwise empty faces.
She was chatting with an elderly gentleman in the far corner, smiling radiantly - the slender curve of her neck and the gentle waves of her hair giving her an ethereal beauty. A stunning, floor length dress of a deep red hue clung to every curve of her figure, the backless number exposing elegant swathes of silken skin that he hadn't had the pleasure of touching in over a month - and the effect on his mind and body was immediate, alarming, overwhelming. He could do little else than stare, stunned, his mouth agape and his fists clenched - until she turned gracefully, her eyes landing on the two gentlemen appraising her from the doorway.
Her smile faltered as soon as she spotted him, the colour draining from her cheeks, but she recovered quickly - and suddenly Georg felt as though the floor was bottoming out beneath him. She was so breathtaking that he couldn't move. Even the comforting weight of Max's hand anchored to his shoulder - grounding him, steadying him - couldn't break him from his living nightmare.
"What is she doing here.." he managed to rasp, his voice a strangled whisper.
"I tried to tell you..." the impresario murmured gravely - but Georg wasn't listening. Instead he watched in silent horror as colonel Landa appeared out of the throng, moving to Maria's side and snaking a hand around her waist, whispering something intimately into the shell of her ear. Georg's shock was instant, his sudden turmoil crushing - and his heart turned over in his chest at the guilty look that his wife cast at him. It was a look peppered with shame, with pity, with discomfort - a look that turned him to ashes.
"No.." he heard himself choke in disbelief - though it felt as though he'd shouted the word, so stricken was the resulting gaze they shared. It lasted for only a second however, before she seemed to remember herself, tearing her eyes away from him... turning into the waiting arms of the colonel.
A/N: I know, I know – WHAT IS GOING ON?! But stick with me on this one. The line about rumours and 'I tease rough' are taken directly from Quentin Tarantino's Inglorious Basterds – I own nothing etc etc