Katherine Carlyle

by Rupert Thomson

  “I love the sounds you make,” he told me afterwards. “It reminds me of those birds that hover so high up that you can’t see them. But you can hear them. That’s how you know they’re there.”

  “Skylarks,” I said.

  My hand on his rib cage, his heart punching underneath. And the question I had then is the same as the one I have now.

  Will anything be that good again?

  A light clicks on in the apartment opposite, and a shadowy figure crosses behind a white translucent blind. Someone else who can’t sleep. I climb back into bed and lie down on my stomach with my head turned sideways on the pillow and my legs out straight.

  When I wake, the window is open and there’s a puddle on the floor. It must have rained during the night. I mop up the water, using tissues from beside the bed. I’m about to go and shower when Klaus knocks on the door and asks if I’d like coffee.

  /

  I sit at the breakfast bar in a fluffy white bathrobe, finishing the café-au-lait Klaus made for me before he left for work. On the breadboard is a paper bag of croissants but I’m not hungry yet. When the hum of the fridge cuts out I can hear the murmur of traffic. Otherwise it’s quiet. I put on another pot of coffee, then I read yesterday’s paper and the latest edition of Der Spiegel. Later, I walk to the window and stare out over the pale-yellow gables of the houses opposite. On the roof of an office block a huge Mercedes sign revolves. It’s strange how distant Rome seems, and how irrelevant; I thought I would miss it more. I picture the apartment on Via Giulia — the shelves of books on war and politics, the golden sofa with its lilac and burnt-orange cushions, the autumn sunlight spilling across the parquet floor … What will my father think when he returns? Will he put his bags down in the hall and call my name? Will the atmosphere strike him as unusual? Will the rooms look warm and lived in, or abandoned, bereft, forlorn? First my mother left. Now me.

  I turn back to the breakfast bar and pick up the scrap of paper Oswald gave me. I scrutinize his handwriting, which isn’t spidery, as I imagined it would be, but forthright, bold. I study the creases in the paper, the perforated edges. I’m so used to looking for signs and clues; there’s nothing that can’t tell me something. When I hold the piece of paper to my nose I smell cured meat. I fetch Klaus’s phone and call the number.

  Oswald answers almost immediately. I tell him it’s the girl who took the package to the station.

  “I know,” he says. “I recognize your voice.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “I wasn’t expecting you to call,” he goes on. “I thought you’d lose my number.” He pauses. “How did the negotiations go?”

  I smile. “Really well.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Right now? I’m walking the dog. It’s my day off.”

  “You have a dog?”

  He laughs. “Is that so strange?”

  I smell the piece of paper again. Perhaps it isn’t meat after all. Perhaps it’s dog.

  “You wanted to show me something,” I say.

  “That’s right.”

  Since he is working long hours for the next three days he suggests we meet on Tuesday, in the evening, at a fast-food place on the Ku’damm.

  “You can’t miss it,” he says. “There’s a neon sign. Three red sausages with white flames underneath.”

  I imagine Oswald walking in a drab windswept park, his eyes glistening like olives in brine, his black shirt flattened against his raw pale body. He throws a stick, which cartwheels through the sky. His dog runs off in the opposite direction.

  That afternoon I visit Schloss Charlottenburg. The gardens are shrouded in a clammy mist. Statues stare at me with blurred blank faces, and tree-lined avenues end in nothingness. Though I don’t see any other people I have the feeling someone is following me, or about to make contact. Why now, though? I have only been gone a few days, and I’m not due in Oxford until the first week of October. So who am I expecting? Massimo? He would be hopeless in Berlin. I can almost hear the piteous voice he puts on when he thinks he’s coming down with something. Mi sento fiaco. Pienso di avere un po’ di febbre. I don’t feel good. I think I might be a bit feverish. What about Daniela? I see her in skinny jeans and a parka with a fur-trimmed hood. When we hug each other, her body begins to tremble and I realize she’s crying. Sometimes you frighten me. I hold her tight. It’s all right, Dani. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. But Dani isn’t likely to appear. She’s still at her parents’ house in Puglia. Is there anyone who might be able to track me down? The airline database will show that I boarded a flight to Berlin on September 8, but after that? What are the chances of somebody tracing the taxi driver who took me to the blue hotel? Slender, to say the least — and anyway, I checked out after just four nights. And nothing connects me to Klaus Frings, nothing at all. My disappearance is like a crime without a motive, and they’re notoriously difficult to solve, aren’t they?

  /

  I have been staying at Walter-Benjamin-Platz for no more than a couple of days when Klaus asks if I would like to go to a concert with him. Two symphonies are being performed, he says. Tchaikovsky and Prokofiev. I know nothing about classical music, I tell him. I’m worried the ticket might be wasted on me. He seems fascinated and appalled by this gap in my education. She knows nothing about classical music, I hear him murmur as he moves across the kitchen, shaking his big head.

  On Saturday night we take a taxi to the Konzerthaus in the Gendarmenmarkt. Under my coat I’m wearing a clingy black shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, a denim miniskirt, black tights, and black ankle boots with heels. Earlier in the evening, when I emerged from my room, I asked Klaus if I was appropriately dressed. He smiled, then looked away, ruffling his hair. At the time I wasn’t sure how to interpret his response, but as we mingle in the lobby with other concertgoers — tuxedoes, jewels, furs — I understand that I do in fact look inappropriate, and that it pleases him. I’m flouting convention and since he’s escorting me this means that he too is flouting convention but in the only way he can — at one remove.

  Upstairs in the bar Klaus introduces me to a man with slicked-back hair and a damp handshake. His eyes are damp too. When he looks at me they seem to leave a deposit, as snails do, and I have to resist the urge to reach up and wipe my face. His name is Horst Breitner. Klaus, Horst — German names are truncated, harsh, almost greedy, like bites taken out of something crisp. For a split second I glimpse the apple on the bed in the hotel on Via Palermo.

  When Klaus goes off to buy a program, Horst insinuates himself into the space in front of me, blocking my view of the ornate, high-ceilinged room. He holds his champagne flute below his chin and speaks over the rim, in English. “You have known Klaus long?”

  “I met him a few days ago.”

  “Ah, so this is — how do you say? — fresh.”

  Horst has an air of urgency, as if he is required to extract certain information from me before Klaus returns. As if he has specific goals or targets. The effect is flattering, but vaguely repellent. I could pretend not to notice, of course. Frustrate him. For some reason, though, I decide to lead him on.

  “We met in a café,” I tell him.

  “Really?”

  “He was sitting at the next table. I asked for the sugar —”

  Horst lets out a brief breathy laugh of disbelief.

  “We started talking,” I say.

  “In a café.” Horst’s eyebrows lift and he turns through ninety degrees. Standing sideways-on to me, he looks away across the bar. He raises his glass to his lips, then tilts it quickly, swallowing a mouthful that is economical, precise. “And now you live with him, in his apartment …”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m surprised,” he says. “Really.”

  I shrug, then I too look away, scanning the people to see if they have anything to impart. That’s what life is like now. I hold myself in a constant state of readiness. Every occasion — every moment — tremb
les with a sense of opportunity. I have no idea where the next communication will come from, but I know that one will come — perhaps even from the unwholesome, insidious man who is still standing beside me.

  Klaus returns with two glasses of champagne and a program.

  “Quite a crowd,” he says.

  “Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique.” Horst twists his lips. “Always popular.”

  Klaus looks wounded.

  “You’re here too,” I say to Horst.

  “I have a complimentary ticket,” he says. “I do not pay.”

  Soon afterwards he moves away. He approaches a woman in a small close-fitting hat of orange feathers and begins an animated whispered conversation, his mouth only inches from her ear.

  “How do you know him?” I ask Klaus.

  “We were at school together. I don’t see him often.” Klaus finishes his drink. “He runs a gallery.”

  I’m still watching Horst. He notices, and allows himself a quick sardonic smile.

  /

  Once we are in our seats I consult the program notes. Written shortly after the Second World War, Prokofiev’s Sixth Symphony addresses dark themes of loss and damage — “wounds that can’t be healed.” As I lift my head, the conductor raises his arms, and the audience goes still. Loud blasts burst from the brass section, then the strings come in, giddy, out of kilter, somewhat unhinged. I feel as if I missed the beginning but I know I didn’t. The turbulence dies down, and the music becomes melancholic, questing. A gradual awakening, a sense of possibility. Then more bombardment from the horns and trumpets. It’s like trying to listen to several people talking at once, but maybe that’s the whole idea. The lack of a single lucid voice, the absence of a solution. Wounds that can’t be healed.

  I glance at Klaus, who sits upright with his hands flat on his thighs and his eyes fixed on the orchestra. My mind drifts. I find myself thinking about The Passenger. There is a scene where Jack Nicholson’s wife tracks him down to a small Spanish town and he makes a getaway in a white convertible with his new lover, Maria Schneider. Filmed from behind, the convertible speeds into a tunnel while the car carrying the camera pulls over and stops. For a few daring, hypnotic seconds of screen time Antonioni allows the main action of the film to disappear from the film itself. I’ve never known exactly what to make of his decision. I used to think he was drawing attention to Nicholson’s predicament: in taking on a new identity, a stranger’s identity, Nicholson has shrugged off his old life, left it all behind. Now though, with my own thoughts wandering, I see the scene from another angle. What if Antonioni’s parking of the camera is mischievous, or mocking? The Passenger is a difficult film, and he might be playing with his viewers, predicting or preempting a lack of concentration. He’s looking away before they do … Just then, the Prokofiev becomes unexpectedly tuneful, almost sweet. Is it me, or does the symphony seem to have turned into a movie soundtrack? Klaus has not reacted. He remains transfixed, lips slightly parted, as if in awe.

  Returning to The Passenger, I once again see Nicholson and Schneider disappear into the dark mouth of the tunnel. I see the road’s cracked surface, the dusty verge, the weeds. Of course it’s always possible that Antonioni is conjuring a sense of apprehension. He can’t bring himself to follow his characters. He’s fearful of witnessing what’s going to happen. He doesn’t want to know … Or perhaps it’s about validity. Perspective. That ordinary stretch of Spanish highway has just as much significance as anything else. Next to the tunnel is a sign that says GRACIAS POR SU VISITA. It’s ironic. Or naive —

  The curtain falls suddenly, to rapturous applause.

  “The interval,” Klaus says.

  People rise from their seats. Some have been soothed by the music in a cryptic, almost celestial way. They look benign, incapable of cruelty or violence. Others seem thoughtful, as if they have been set a puzzle or conundrum. And there are those who have a narcissistic air that reminds me of the English couple in the cinema. They have achieved importance simply by attending.

  Back in the bar I notice Horst Breitner in the crowd. His eyes rest on me, moist and slightly sticky, then slide away again. Klaus returns with two glasses of white wine. His forehead gleams, as if listening to music is a form of physical exertion.

  “Are you enjoying it?” he says.

  “Very much,” I say. “But I think I’ve had enough for now.”

  “You don’t want to hear the Tchaikovsky?”

  “This is a new experience. I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

  He stares miserably down into his glass. “Would you like me to take you home?”

  “No, no. You go back in. I’ll wait for you.”

  “But there’s another hour —”

  “That’s fine. I’ll wait.”

  When people surge back into the auditorium Klaus is carried along with them. At the doorway he looks over his shoulder. I wave at him. I wonder if he thinks I’m saying goodbye — that I’ll be gone when he comes out, and that he’ll never see me again. It’s not my intention. These days, though, when I leave a room, I often have the sense that I might not return. Steps can’t always be retraced; the path through the forest closes behind me as though it was never there. The repetition that used to characterize my life has gone and I’m left with a trajectory that feels driven, linear. No day is like another day, no moment like the next.

  I buy another drink and sit at a table in the corner. Opening my notebook, I begin to describe my move to the apartment on Walter-Benjamin-Platz, and how I have become separated from what might commonly be perceived as the main action of my life. How I have cut loose. How I’m operating with a kind of freedom I never imagined. Sometimes, as I write, I’m aware of the Tchaikovsky, swelling and fading beyond the closed doors, but mostly it’s blotted out by the chatter of the bar staff and the clink of glasses. I glance down at the page. My handwriting looks unfamiliar to me.

  I finish my wine and go outside. Wrapping my coat around me, I sit on the top step and look out over the Gendarmenmarkt. Floodlit churches on either side, the low cloud cover glowing orange. I’m about to open my notebook again when a man approaches. He starts up the steps, but stops when he sees me.

  “How are you doing?” His voice has grit and gravel in it. His accent is American.

  “Fine,” I say. “You?”

  He stands three steps below me, hands in his trouser pockets. The traffic on the east side of the square is on a level with his face. Cars seem to go in one ear and out the other.

  “What’s so funny?” he says.

  I shake my head. “Nothing.” He’s wearing a gray plastic raincoat and a pair of tennis shoes. One of the laces is undone. “You’re not going to ask me for money, are you?”

  “Money?” He looks south, towards the cathedral. “I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.” He takes out a twenty-euro note, holds it between finger and thumb, and sets fire to one corner with a lighter. His thumb and finger open. The burning banknote floats away into the darkness like a vivid ragged moth.

  “Beautiful,” I say.

  He laughs. It wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.

  “Don’t you like Tchaikovsky?” he says.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. One symphony’s enough.”

  He nods, then gazes up into the sky. I close my notebook but leave it resting on my knees.

  “What were you writing?” he asks.

  “None of your business.” To anyone else this would be rude. With this man, though, it seems natural, appropriate.

  “You were recording your impressions of the city,” he says. “Or your dreams. You always dream when you go somewhere new.”

  “You don’t look rich,” I say.

  He laughs again, then looks at me askance, across one cheek. “You know what they say about appearances.”

  His face is blunt and dented as a boxer’s and his hair is thinning, wild. He’s probably about my father’s age but he has lived a very different life.

  “I want to show
you something,” he says.

  First Oswald, now this stranger in a plastic coat. Everybody wants to show me something.

  I hesitate. “But my friend —”

  “He’s still inside?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll be back in five minutes. Ten at the most.” Mock-gallant, he places his hand on his heart. “I give you my word.”

  We cross the Gendarmenmarkt. Turning right, then left, we emerge into another spacious paved area, bordered on the east side by the Staatsoper. According to the American, the opera house is closed for renovation work. In front of us, fifty meters away, a ghostly fan of light rises from the ground, reminding me of the photo booth in Hauptbahnhof Zoo. Portraits of me with my eyes closed, as if asleep or dead.

  “That’s where we’re going,” he says.

  Set in the middle of the square and flush with the paving stones is a thick glass pane. I stop at the edge. Beneath the pane is a brightly lit white room, its walls lined with shelves that are pristine, empty.

  “This marks the place where the Nazis burned the books,” the man tells me. “One of the places, anyway. Forty thousand people gathered here to watch.”

  The crackle of a fire. Pages lift, then shrivel.

  The man looks away into the sky again. “In those days, the square was called Opernplatz, after the opera house. Now it’s named after August Bebel, one of the writers whose work was thrown into the flames.”

  I stare down into the empty room. “If you keep looking you start to see a library.”

  He nods. “Maybe that’s the whole idea.”

  As he walks me back to the Gendarmenmarkt I ask what line of work he’s in.

  “Import-export,” he says.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “I thought you knew everything.”

  I give him a look. We’re acting as if we know each other, as if we’ve known each other for years, but he only walked out of the darkness half an hour ago.

  “It’s an umbrella term,” he says. “Right now, I’m working with a bunch of Russians.” Outside the Konzerthaus, he turns to face me. “The city’s full of Russians.”