‘For a start,’ Ludwig said, ‘I know of nobody whose musical judgement I trust as much as my brother’s, family issues aside. We would be honoured if you were to decide to award the concerto to Schott’s, on the basis of a reworking by an appropriate composer of my brother’s choice – one who is able to imagine himself into the head of a bygone genius. It would be a task for the finest craftsman, and we have many under our auspices.’

‘Professor Kulenkampff wishes to adapt the piece to make his own playing edition,’ said Raabe, ‘and desires it to remain exclusively his, hence unpublished.’

‘Professor Kulenkampff must of course do as he wishes. As for the performing edition that we will print, I have some ideas,’ said Willy Strecker.

Ulli noticed Ludwig kicking his brother’s ankle under the table – perhaps a glimpse of family dinners, when they were boys together in another century.

‘We have several excellent in-house editors who can begin the process,’ Ludwig said, ‘and there are fine musicians in Frankfurt we can consult, besides the composers of our catalogue. All we would ask is the freedom to do so at our discretion.’

‘Dr Strecker, you are more transparent than you realise, to the practised eye. I wonder exactly who you are planning to book, with these slippery words? You have some good composers in your catalogue. Mainly dead ones. But also, how many Jews, how many degenerates? I suggest you stop any such idea before you begin.’ Goebbels’s pinched voice grated on Ulli’s ears. Hitler’s bullying tone had spread among his subsidiaries like fungus on a bathroom wall. They wouldn’t argue. They would blunderbuss and pistol-whip. Their ideologies, Ulli considered, were so spurious that they could never win an honest argument, so they imposed their will by force; there was no other way to do it.

‘Your audacity has a certain appeal,’ Raabe remarked, sarcastic. ‘You’re a brave man, Dr Strecker.’

‘Or a very stupid one,’ added Goebbels. ‘We’re under no obligation to allow you to go home to beautiful Mainz, you realise.’

The publishers stayed silent, digesting what they had heard. None of them had uttered one name.

‘Perhaps you have a nomination of your own for a suitable composer?’ Ludwig said, keeping his head. ‘Or we might ask Professor Kulenkampff for his suggestion?’

Ulli, taking notes, felt sweat oozing up through his collar. How could he raise the issue of Jelly and the premiere in such an atmosphere? He had promised himself he would not leave without doing so.