“The chief conductor’s scores are locked away in this cabinet down here on the left,” the Phil archivist is telling me. “It’s reserved for the chief conductor’s scores. Please don’t touch or change anything. Basically, mitts off, alright?” I take notes. “Furtwängler is here in the front to the right, Karajan’s in the second section.” The room smells musty; metal braces on the windows block light from entering, and I can’t see any ventilation. Innumerable shelves are stuffed with sheet music. The two working tables are covered with tape, scissors, bindings, sharpened pencils, and piles of scores and parts. “And this is my colleague. He used to be a hornist in the Policeman’s Orchestra of East Berlin. That ended when the wall came down, so now he’s suffering with us here in the West, huh? Welcome to sheet music hell.” I like the careless consonants of her German; the man seems more reserved.
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