‘Jacj?’ one of the men said.
‘I think he means his brother Jacjer.’
‘Yes!’ I said.
‘Oh no, Msr Sussken. This has nothing to do with your brother. Not at all.’
The indicator light flared briefly as it reached the top of the array. The elevator lurched and halted – the doors slid open. Directly opposite was an open door – I glimpsed a tiled floor under a glare of fluorescent light, a row of hand-basins, towels. I was not asked again about my appearance.
We turned to the right and walked briskly along a deeply carpeted corridor towards two large metal doors. We waited while one of the officers went through a code-and-accept ritual using a microphone built into the wall. After his identity had been acknowledged, he slipped a plastic card into a slot on the door, which opened it.
He was the only one of the three officers to follow me into the room beyond. The door closed swiftly behind us. We were in an unremarkable ante-room or waiting area: a few chairs, a table, a telephone, overhead lights. A house magazine published by one of the steel factoring companies rested on the table.
‘Raise your arms, Msr Sussken,’ said the officer.
I complied, feebly, reluctantly. He patted me down expertly and swiftly, then ran a hand-held detector device across my upper body. My music case was taken from me, briefly inspected, his hands fluttering around inside, sifting my papers, my journal, my pens, then he placed it on a shelf at one side.
Another door led out of this room and again the plastic card was used to open it. This time he went in ahead of me, stamped his feet, drew himself up smartly and made a military salute. I followed him in and heard a hubbub of conversation.
‘This is Msr Alesandro Sussken, madam,’ he said loudly.
The hubbub died. The officer made a second salute and exited, his feet stamping noiselessly on the thick carpet. He closed the door behind him with a sharp but precise motion.
I was in a huge, high-ceilinged room. The area where I had entered was unoccupied, but the far end, where there was a sort of low rostrum and a display of national flags, was crowded. My entry was, by the sudden silence it caused, obviously expected. Everyone present turned towards me. Many of them were holding wineglasses. All were dressed formally – I saw numerous military uniforms and most of the women not in uniform were wearing suits or long dresses. All the civilian men were wearing business suits, and several of them had the coloured sashes that indicated ambassadorial or diplomatic status.
I stood still, stunned by what I was seeing.
There was then a ripple of applause, silenced instantly when one of the women stepped forward towards me from the crowd. She was not especially large but the splendour of her military uniform made her distinct from everyone else. She had several rows of medal ribbons on her breast, a rope sash of office, brightly shining epaulettes and many other honours and insignias attached to her upper sleeves. A large golden medal of some kind hung at her throat.
She went to a lectern which stood in the centre of the room, directly opposite to where I had halted.
I recoiled inwardly. My heart started racing. I recognized her!
She was less tall than I had imagined from the television news, or from the wall posters. Her hair was shorter, and a nondescript grey. She was stouter. Her face was paler than I had thought from photographs. I felt an habitual fear of her, a deep and instinctive dislike. The press always called her madam.
She was an antagonist who stood against everything I held dear. She had power, she was dangerous, she regulated almost every aspect of everyday life. I hated her.
‘Welcome, Monseignior Sussken!’ she said, and her voice was amplified somehow so that it filled the cavernous room. The shock of seeing her made my memory temporarily fail. What was her name? Everyone called her madam. I tried never to speak of her. She was anathema to my life, my music. If I had an enemy in the world, this was she.
Generalissima Flauuran.
She was speaking, making an announcement, reading from a card which lay out of my sight on the surface of the lectern.
‘Today it is our deepest pleasure to welcome Monseignior Alesandro Sussken, the greatest living composer in the nation of Glaund. His music is beloved by us all, and includes the following major orchestral works—’
She began to recite the names of most of my compositions, with the place and date of their principal performance. I listened, I could not help but listen, stunned by what was happening, the attending crowd, the huge hall, the flags, the armed guards. Above all, stunned by hearing this woman mouthing the names of the pieces I had written. In this place it was like glimpsing loved ones held in a punishment camp. She mispronounced many of the titles, but did not stumble or hesitate. I realized that never in my life before had I ever heard the sound of her voice. She almost never spoke in public, avoiding it somehow, allowing other members of the ruling junta to speak for her. I was amazed to hear her accent: she spoke with the rough accent, the abrupt vowel sounds, of the mountain people in the far north of the country!
She concluded the list of my compositions.
‘Monseignior Sussken,’ she went on. ‘As you no doubt know we shall be celebrating next year the tenth anniversary of the establishment of the Democratic Council of Leaders, we who have brought peace and prosperity to this great nation. There will be many festivities throughout the course of the year, both public and private, and these will be announced in due course. However, the culminating event will be a gala concert of contemporary music and it has been decided that you will be granted the honour of composing the climactic orchestral piece. Do you accept this honoured commission?’
Everyone in the room was looking towards me. Everyone, I could not help noticing, except this woman. She had not yet looked directly at me. What was happening here? The whole thing was madness. I had been dragged in from the street—
‘Do you accept the honoured commission, Monseignior Sussken?’
What could I say? What choice did I have? I had never written celebratory music in my life. I had no idea how to do it. The thought terrified and appalled me.
‘Msr Sussken, do you accept the honoured commission?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
A tumult of applause and cheering broke out from the crowd, soon silenced by the Generalissima raising a hand.
She was reading from the card again: ‘We graciously concur with your patriotic desire to celebrate our nation. What you will write is entirely within your wishes and ability. Amongst other intentions we have of you we expect you to demonstrate the full range of your creativity and imagination, totally free and under no sense of duress.’
She paused for a moment, presumably to allow this to be noted by everyone present. I was barely taking any of it in.
‘However,’ she went on, still reading in her weird regional accent. ‘It is customary for a work of national importance to conform to certain expectations and in this case we do expect that your celebratory music will include the following elements. You are free to compose them however you will.’
She then recited the list of what the music was to contain. Her words went past me, irrelevant, meaningless, ridiculous. Was this really happening? I heard her say there would be a full symphonic orchestra. A minimum of four movements. At least three major instrumental soloists had to be featured. A mixed chorus of a minimum of three hundred voices. Four operatic soloists. There was to be a triumphal march at the beginning or end (my choice, of course). Serving soldiers would troop through the hall with a display of battle colours. It was to include a sequence of peasant celebration, with performers from the Glaund National Dance. Poetry was to be recited entr’acte – the words would be supplied by the current Laureate. When she said ‘cannon effects in the climax’ I almost laughed.
Was I losing my mind?
Finally, she said, ‘And in recognition of the greatness with which you will fulfil this commission, your country offers you a single royalty. Kindly step forward, Monseignior S
ussken.’
To the sound of more cheering and applause I went towards her. She handed me a large, stiff envelope. Her hand never touched mine. Her eyes did not meet mine. I took the envelope from her and went back to where I had been standing.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, turning towards the crowd of dignitaries. ‘I shall now have a brief private audience with our honoured guest. Thank you for witnessing this important moment in the cultural life of our country.’
The crowd started to move away. I stood still. Not at all sure what was expected of me and in a mental state of confusion and distress I watched what was happening. I could not believe what had taken place. That woman, this place, those words!
Everyone dispersed with remarkable alacrity – presumably they had been told in advance what to do when they were asked to leave. There were two large doors on each side of the rear wall, and they exited through them. Someone came forward and removed the lectern. The armed guards stood alertly at each side until the last of these guests had moved into the next room, then they followed them.
The Generalissima moved back and away from me, until she was standing in front of the raised platform. A single large desk stood on this.
While her back was briefly turned, I slipped a finger into the flap of the envelope to see what it contained. There was a thick wad of pages held in a card binder, and a single slip of paper. I peered closely at the slip.
It was a banker’s draft made payable to my account number, and it had been signed by some kind of printing device. The amount was thirty thousand gulden.
It was a huge sum of money, conferring instant wealth. It was much more than I had ever earned in my life, to date, in total.
32
She stood with her hands held behind her back, squaring her shoulders. Her knees were slightly apart. What more did she want of me? The steel desk was behind her, an expanse of grey metal. It was bare of papers, books, any kind of computer equipment. A sheet of white paper lay exactly in the centre of the desktop. Other furniture stood around: I saw without paying too much attention some chairs, cabinets, smaller desks at each side, two huge windows where the rain was streaking diagonally, roofs dimly visible outside through the veil of falling rain, a grey carpet, light-grey paint on the walls, nothing unusual. Glaundian drab, but clean and recently placed there. What was going to happen to me?
On the wall behind the desk: one large photograph, five smaller ones. The smaller photos were of groups of military men and women, standing in tiers like football teams. The large photograph was of the ruling military junta: five people in army uniforms, four men and this woman, the Generalissima, at the centre. All the men were wearing dark glasses. Two national flags were mounted above the main photograph, cruciform, dark grey and deep red.
What was this private audience to be about?
I was alone with her.
Just me and this woman. It was an effort to breathe.
‘Msr Sussken, it is an honour to meet you in person. Your music is distinguished and beautiful. You are a credit to our country.’
I had no idea what to say.
‘You may relax, Msr Sussken,’ she said. ‘May I offer you a drink?’
‘I was brought here against my will,’ I said.
‘You must address me as madam.’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘You were free to go.’
I knew I had not been. If the ceremony was what it had seemed to be, why had they not issued a formal invitation? There was more to come. I said nothing, feeling my hand and lower arm starting to tremble.
She said, ‘I have a few extra matters I must raise about the agreement you have made. There is a full contract in the envelope. You must read it and abide by it. Your signature is not necessary. The prime qualities it insists on are your manner and your means. The piece of music you are being commissioned to write must be wholeheartedly patriotic. You are expected to write it from the heart. We have no wish to hear –’ and unexpectedly she pulled from her breast pocket a slip of paper, and read aloud from it ‘– we do not want irony, subversion, subtlety, cryptic statements, cross-references, allusions, knowing asides, quotations, hidden meanings. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, of course, madam,’ I said.
She put away the piece of paper, her cultural crib.
‘The other matter concerns your wife. We know your present situation of separation from each other, but you are still in fact married to her.’ (A mental image of Alynna suddenly formed: still young and delicate as she had been when we met, years ago, time lost, not gained.) ‘Your wife is to appear beside you at every function. This is non-negotiable. We do not know how you will arrange your affairs but the appearance you and she give at all your public functions must be plausible and consistent.’
The Generalissima still had not looked directly at me. She was addressing a point on the grey carpet approximately two-thirds of the distance between us.
I waited. I could not bring myself to speak to this woman.
‘Now, Msr Sussken. We know what you were planning to do today. You were intending to be at the harbourside when a troopship docked. We decided we should see you before you went to the harbour.’
I suddenly knew that my first thought had been correct. ‘So this is this about my brother?’
‘It concerns Captain Jacjer Sussken, yes. It also concerns your attempts to elicit information about him from officials. It concerns your unauthorized use of library archive equipment. We have information that you have taken a particular interest in a non-aligned territory called Dianme.’
An army captain? Jacj had become a captain? My harmless, lovely island, Dianme?
The Generalissima was dizzying me with hints at what they might know about me. And what they were suspicious about. And what measures they would take.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ I said.
‘Msr Sussken – this country is in a state of emergency. Address me as madam.’
‘Yes, of course, madam,’ I said, remembering how deeply I loathed her.
Only the week before this woman had authorized the execution of two dozen people the junta called subversives. She, Madam Generalissima Flauuran, had issued the orders. Although she would have been too young to have led the original military coup, she had emerged in recent years as the leader of the junta, a dominant and extreme personality, legendary for her ruthless control over the other generals, and her ways of ridding herself of them when they under-performed or had outlived their usefulness to her. All laws and directives were commanded from this building, or another like it somewhere else in the city. There was no civilian police force – only an armed militia, trained and regulated by the National Affairs department, answerable to the ruling military junta, answerable to this woman. Many of her enemies were in barracks or forts or hidden camps, imprisoned for life. I had nothing I wanted to say to this woman, the Generalissima, I wanted nothing to do with her.
I suddenly knew that with this enforced interview with Flauuran my life in Glaund was coming to an end. I was known, marked, identified and tagged. I was in danger. Anonymity, insignificance, were no longer mine.
Kill her! The thought came from an impulse, a shock. Kill her now! Never mind how, you are alone with her, there’s no one watching, knock her down, stamp on her, kill her. Kick her in the gut, kick her face in, kick her to death. Make it swift before they stop you. Afterwards, they would … but that’s later, worry about that later. Kill her now! Grab the chance!
I reeled inwardly, appalled by what had coursed through my mind. I exhaled breath – I had been holding it in. Never before, never ever, had I felt the urge to kill someone. I honoured life, I treasured life. No enemy was ever so loathsome that I would kill.
‘Your brother joined the 289th Battalion, we believe.’
But how would I do it? I mean, how do you actually kill someone? What is needed? I had never even struck anyone in my life. How would I kill this woman, how would I in fact do it? A fantasy of vi
olent physical attack: a sudden assault, pushing her to the ground, holding her throat, kicking her.
Me? I couldn’t do it. Not just wouldn’t do it, I could not. I had no idea how. I would fumble, mess it up, fail even to hurt her, I would damage myself instead.
I tried to expel the fantasy of practical action. Greater than that was the abhorrence. But the fantasy lingered in me, like the rise of nausea.
‘Msr Sussken. Your brother?’
‘The 289th,’ I managed to say. ‘Yes, madam.’
‘You look unwell.’ A statement without concern.
I had no idea how I looked – internally I was in a kind of panic. I felt hot, shaky, on the point of falling over.
‘May I have some water?’ I said.
And with those words, it seemed on their instant, a door opened at the end of the room, behind the Generalissima. A man in civilian clothes walked in with a tray. It bore a carafe of water and a glass tumbler. He put down a cork mat on the surface of the desk, then placed the water and the glass on top. He paused for a moment to arrange them symmetrically opposite each other on the mat.
I had to step past the Generalissima to pour the water. The man was leaving with the tray, after a curt but civil bow to the woman. How did they know I was going to ask for water? As I picked up the carafe I looked up at the walls, the ceiling. I had not noticed them before, but tiny cameras were embedded above the photographs. Another was between the crossed flags. Two more were high in the walls, close against the ceiling.
The water was cold, refreshing. I did not drink much of it – I felt better as soon as I had swallowed the first mouthful.
‘Thank you,’ I said to the woman I was fantasizing about, kicks to the head, a stranglehold on her throat, death.
‘Do you have any questions, Msr Sussken?’
I was facing her again. I left the carafe and the glass untidily on their mat.
‘I am interested only in finding my brother,’ I said, and I could hear my voice was revealingly pitched higher than normal. Already my throat and lips felt dry again. ‘Is Jacj still alive, madam? Is he unhurt?’
The Gradual Page 13