by A. B. Decker
“The restaurant opens for lunch at twelve,” the landlord mumbled grudgingly as he turned to go, clearly satisfied that his duty was done with these words. And Frank was left to ponder his brief reunion with Patricia from the window of a cell that looked forlornly onto the rolling hills of this strange frontier to nowhere. He wondered what on earth might possess anyone to open a hotel and restaurant here. Certainly his landlord was not enjoying the experience. And neither the functional ambience of Frank’s bolthole nor the curious circumstances of his meeting with Patricia gave much meat for reflection. Their reunion had not been at all as he had so often imagined in rehearsal. It left him with too many questions. But without the prospect of any answers at least until Friday, he made an effort to put all the problems to the back of his mind. On balance, he had to consider himself fortunate that he had seen her earlier than originally anticipated.
It occurred to him that he had forgotten in his excitement to return her book of Baudelaire. So he took this out of his coat pocket and let it open spontaneously at the well-used page of underlined and annotated verse. Although this had no solutions to offer, and even prompted further unsettling questions of its own, it gave him the sense of being closer to her, of having a part of her still with him. A small comfort. But it kept him going. It went with him also when he ventured out into the still, sleepy air of this borderland the following morning. But by Thursday, the verse had acquired a hollowness with its constant repetition, which rendered the words as much in need of renovation and a coat of paint as the empty sadness of the restaurant. And come the afternoon, his patience was finally at an end.
Whatever the danger. However thin the ice he was about tread on. Whatever the risk of running into Breitner, he could not pass up the chance of sharing the concert with Patricia.
3 I think of my great swan, with his crazy gestures,
like all the exiles, foolish yet sublime,
consumed by unremitting desire! and then of you
Chapter 19
It was a long trek back across the border and down into the village on the outskirts of town to pick up the tram. By the time he arrived in the city centre, daylight was already beginning to fade. There was just enough time to buy a suit and new pair of shoes suitable for a fancy concert and bundle up his old clothes to leave in the left luggage at the station. ‘If I hurry,’ he told himself, ‘I might even manage a light dinner at the Gambrinushalle,’ where he had eaten with Patricia on their first date.
When eventually he reached the concert hall, there was no sign of anyone starting to arrive, so he could be certain Patricia was not already inside. He surreptitiously removed the gun from his coat pocket and slipped it into the side of his smart new dinner jacket. But this was too bulky and conspicuous for such refinement, so he tried slipping it under the waistband at the back of his trousers, where his jacket would cover it more discreetly. As a temporary measure, it would have to do. At all events, he felt safer having it about his person. And handed his coat in at the cloakroom.
Within half an hour, the foyer was thronging with concertgoers in their gowns and finery. Everything that there was to dislike about the middle and upper classes was on display that evening – the smug self-satisfaction, the airs and graces of the semieducated snob, the demonstratively loud handshake announcing to the hall at large its owner’s presence, but above all its acquaintanceships and by extension its culture. Had it not been for the sheer lack of taste, he might have missed her in the crowd. But her style shone through like the evening star as soon as she entered the foyer. She was not alone, however. A man in the early evening of his years, rather fresh-faced with a windswept, wispy look about his white hair, was deep in conversation with her. The moment she caught sight of Frank, she broke into a nervous, almost angry smile.
“I told you I’d come.”
“Yes, you did,” she said, keeping her composure. Then turning to her companion, she added: “Professor Imhof, may I introduce you to a friend of mine, Mr Eigenmann. Frank, this is my professor.”
Professor Imhof extended a hand that seemed far too large and workman-like for academic pursuit. “I’m very pleased to meet you Mr Eigenmann. Are you also a lover of Bartok?”
“No, I’m a lover of Mademoiselle Roche.”
“Er, I see. Yes, quite. I understand.” The professor was plainly lost for words and, rather than make the effort of a tiresome search, he discreetly withdrew.
“I do hope you enjoy the concert.”
Frank took her hands apologetically in his as the professor disappeared into the throng.
“Do forgive me. I just couldn’t resist it.”
“Don’t worry. He actually has quite a sense of humour. I’m much more concerned that you’re here at all.”
As the last traces of a nervous smile on her lips flickered away, an ineffably warm radiance still remained in the sparkle of her eyes. Even in her most anxious or melancholic of moments, it rarely deserted her. He would have gladly spent the remainder of that evening in the foyer, for whatever Bartok had to offer him it could not possibly surpass the obtuse beauty of Patricia. But his attention was caught by a movement over her shoulder, and she instantly saw his expression change.
“Damn it,” he said. The irritation was driven by an anxiety he found hard to conceal from her watchful eyes. “That’s just like Silverstone to spoil a beautiful evening.”
“Where?”
“Don’t turn round. He’s over by the door.”
She was examining Frank with one of her analytical gazes. “I shouldn’t worry. He’ll never recognise you in that get-up.”
“Maybe.” Frank was less than convinced. “But he certainly will when I leave here in my old coat. He’ll recognise the smell a mile off.” And he gave her a brief résumé of their last encounter in the public convenience.
“Give me your cloakroom ticket and go and stand over in the crowd by the stairs,” she said. Again Patricia took control, and again he submitted unquestioningly to her quick thinking. She appeared so slight and defenceless as she vanished amidst the forest of gowns and evening dress that towered around her. But his concern was superfluous. Within a few minutes she was back at his side, thrusting his cloakroom ticket into his hand. “Here, you’ve just got a new hat and coat.”
“I don’t like hats,” he protested, quietly excited to find that Patricia was capable of such misdemeanours.
“Tonight, squirrel, you love hats. But we must be sure to leave early. Come on, let’s go and find our seats.”
And he let her lead him into the auditorium, both thrilled and intrigued by this new dimension to her character.
“You knew I’d come tonight,” he said as they squeezed along to the only two seats still unoccupied in their row. “Didn’t you?”
“It’s fortunate we’re some way back,” she observed, ignoring his question. “That way we can leave early without attracting too much attention.”
“Didn’t you?” he persisted. But she said nothing, just smiled with her body as she settled the delicate line of her frame into the seat and ran her fingers through the dense cascade of her hair. He was easily seduced and conceded defeat: “Have you seen where Silverstone is sitting?”
She shook her head.
“Maybe he saw you and is lurking outside for the concert to finish.”
He felt the comfort of her hand on his, but it did not come without a certain chilling cynicism: “I’m afraid, squirrel, you have to accept that the bird who sits for too long on the fence is liable to get shot at from either side.”
“Thank you for those comforting words.”
“Look, Frank, I told you not to come – for your own safety.” The impatience in her voice stung, seasoning her charm with a pungency that only added to his disquiet and threatened to nurture a disturbing distance between them, until she added: “Even so, I’m glad you’re here. So let’s enjoy the music and worry about your problems afterwards, shall we?”
It was her utter coolness in face o
f all the menace that completely disarmed him before he had a chance to say a word in reply. And he sat back in defeated silence to watch her soak up the concert atmosphere. Perched on the edge of her seat, she studied the scene with a girlish wonder he had not seen in her before as she looked out for the slightest hint of activity on the stage. Suddenly he could see her as Isolde, wide-eyed and devoted to her Tristan, and he was pained by a foolish jealousy of this childhood sweetheart she had told him about. Sensed a preposterous sadness that he had not known her then. Yet there were so many impenetrable shadows to her life that he wondered whether he even knew her now. And, as if in answer, she waved to someone from this unlit world of hers. It was her professor, who had just found his seat with what was presumably his wife and was looking almost girlish himself in his anticipation of the evening’s cultural treat.
“This is going to be a wonderful evening, squirrel. I can feel it,” she whispered, as the orchestra came out on stage. “I’m so glad you’re here to enjoy it with me, after all,” and she squeezed his hand. She had crossed so effortlessly into another world. No guilt, no complications, no quarrel with reality. Transported from darkness into a make-believe where Silverstone and Breitner no longer existed, and Achim’s family might be playing somersaults with Max and Moritz for all she knew. Perhaps she was right, he told himself. Maybe this was the way to handle the situation. At all events, he was glad she had taken him along with her, even if he did not feel entirely at home in this fantasy world.
His knowledge of music was limited, but the symmetry of the players, the way the strings were arranged into two small orchestras either side of the podium, with celesta and drums taking up the centre, pleased his eye for harmony, and helped him relax into the journey Patricia was taking him on as a hush came down on the house to let the gentle fugue-like introduction carry them away. He sensed Patricia become instantly riveted by its mysterious haunting quality. And he knew he had already lost her as the slowly surging repetition of its theme began to build a tension into the ambience of sound which perfectly matched the anxiety that had been hounding his every move. Each new entry of strings brought an added strain on his nerves, conjured a fresh image of his persecution. First Breitner, then Silverstone, the cloth cap, Achim, his family, his mother, the carnivorous nurse all assumed a deliberate relentless edge to their features as they lined up before him in judgement, fixing him with the same steady glare. And when the theme began its slow return to the keynote, each one of them began to move pitilessly towards him.
Desperation seized hold of Frank. He felt a burning need to leave, but there was no way out. When he looked at Patricia, he saw a peaceful serenity that only heightened the loneliness of his despair. Although he saw the audience around him, and the orchestra on stage, the images would not release him from their obsessional grip. They pursued him into every corner of this unrelenting trial. Hunted him down in the merciless allegro of the second movement, running, dragging a net behind them that danced with the flapping wings of a thousand birds in panic, a net that was his destiny. His future a silhouette against the light that shone behind the ghostly architects of this chase and cast its shadow directly through their midst. Back and forth they darted in the remorselessly receding arm of this shadow, his destiny, approaching ever closer, until eventually they faded with the exhaustion of the music.
The landscape went flat, and the sound of a pin dropping on the floor would have echoed through the hall. But it was the faint tinkling of a bell that announced their return to the haunting quality of the opening theme and restored perspective to the bleak landscape. The movement of a solitary figure, larger than life, now grinned through the half-light with the look of a vengeance in its bloodshot eyes. Breitner had eliminated all his rivals in judgement. He dominated Frank now with an obsessional urge to shape his future. Inched steadily closer, shedding an article of clothing with every bar, until he stood over him stripped to the waist, looking awesomely muscular, with an ugly hammer in his hand. Frank was caught on the edge of a precipice and had no choice but down or have his skull fashioned to the art of Breitner’s whims. His tormentor grinned. Frank opted for down. Over the edge, forever through the briny air, to the granite rocks below, smoothly sculpted artefacts of nature’s hand, washed with salt and the blood of his poor mother, her carcass split open by the impact. He lay in the cold, bloodless embrace of her arms, weeping as the water lapped over his own battered corpse and rinsed the poison from his ravaged skull. Above him, Breitner continued to grin atop his cliff, like a towering granite sculpture, an Aryan statue of tyranny wielding a hammer for a torch. And this he tossed now into the sea, jettisoned with disinterest as if it was nothing more than a smoked-out cigarette butt. Frank watched it sink down slowly through the clarity of the water and slithered after it off his blood-drenched boulder as it assumed an immeasurable significance for him. It drew him down with an irresistible magnetism. He had to have it. But only when it was too late, when it had lodged in the sand, did he see it for what it was: a baby barely old enough to swim. He wanted to gasp for air and began to take in water. But seeing his distress, the baby cradled him in its arms and swam with him to the shore. The waves swirled over them in a contemptuous dance – frolicking, laughing, joyful at his rescue – and dragged them into their dance, pulling them this way and that. And still Breitner stood there watching, laughing from the clifftop, until the waves pushed them ragged and beaten into the pebblewash. The baby still held him tight in its arms, his saviour now become a straitjacket. Now demanding attention. It gurgled as it lay on his chest, pinning him to the ground, trying to suck at his nipple, as the sea washed over them, washed the pebbles over them, gashed a deep crevice through its back, and washed it clean of blood. Through the ebb and flow of water rushing in his ears, he caught Patricia’s voice.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look terrible. You’re sweating profusely.”
She was still sitting on the edge of her seat like a little girl, adding her own measure of approval to the rushing applause of the audience.
“Come on. We’d better go, before everyone else starts to move,” and she carefully guided Frank along their enraptured row of concert-goers still celebrating their enjoyment and out towards the fresh air of the foyer.
“Give me your ticket,” she said with an air of command when they reached the cloakroom. He was thankful for her presence of mind. It was not until they were out in the cool air of the street that he became aware of the unaccustomed sensation of a hat on his head and the feel of a plush new coat on his shoulders. He touched the waistband of his trousers through the coat. The gun was still in place. He surreptitiously tried to remove it and put it in his coat pocket, where it could be in his hand at all times. But she spotted it.
“What on earth do you have there?”
“My insurance policy.” He sensed her silent conflict between disapproval and understanding, but he said nothing more and waited for her to break the silence.
“Squirrel,” she said at length, “you look as dreadful as ever. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
His assurances that he was fine, that his auberge bed was just a little inhospitable, and all he needed was a good night’s sleep carried little conviction. And they failed to forestall the sweet concern and care she showed when she took him under her wing. He was not about to complain, especially at the point where he realised she was not dutifully putting him on the tram out to limbo, but was taking him back with her into the tender confidence of her own exquisitely private world.
“Are you sure we’re not being followed?” It was a redundant question.
“Just relax and let me do the worrying,” she said.
Patricia was in control. She held him like an injured fledgling in the hollow of her hand, letting him lie back and enjoy the ride. He recalled the first time he had seen her, how impressed he had been by the strength that emanated with such paradox through her fragile vulnerability. An impression that was confirmed that eveni
ng. She smiled, almost as if she knew what he was thinking.
“You look very fetching in your hat and coat,” she said. Her words put him in mind of the shabby old coat he had abandoned to its unsuspecting new owner.
“I have an apology to make, Patricia.”
“Don’t speak of it now.”
What does she mean? Frank wondered.
“No,” he insisted. “Just while I think of it. That book of Baudelaire. Les fleurs du mal. It was in the pocket of my old coat.”
“I was wondering where that had got to.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll buy you a new copy,” he promised.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “It was only something I picked up at a flea market.”
An instant sense of relief swept over him. A sense of comfort in the knowledge that the annotations were not some private code of intimacy for her, but came with the second-hand grime and dog-eared corners.
“Nonetheless, it meant something to you,” he insisted. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have underlined all those passages.”
He recited the one that had impressed itself on him with particular effect, as he had done to himself every idle moment of the last three days in his limbo across the border.
“You see,” she laughed, “I don’t need the book. I have my squirrel.”
Vanity convinced him there was affection in her mockery.
“Don’t laugh, Patricia. I know my French is appalling. But I remember the words so well because I find them very beautiful, but also because they surprise me. They don’t seem like you at all.”
“Oh, but they most definitely are. Dreams, little squirrel. They remind me of my dreams. And if I didn’t have these, if I couldn’t forget this mess every now and then, I’d go insane.”
They did not speak again until they reached the new accommodation that Lutz had found for her not far from the zoological gardens. Her words disturbed him, because they seemed to echo a profound disquiet that he would never fathom.