‘You say that rather mockingly.’
‘But not unkindly. After all, why not start off by seeking clues to life in literature and art? I used to live through books myself, I was always reading, studying.’
‘And now?’
‘Less so. I grew out of historical romances: I grew up, of course. All that purity and renunciation and turning away from life—it began to seem inhuman to me. I wanted to have feelings that came welling up from my own experiences, not just be constantly trying to imitate some pale heroine. I didn’t want to be afraid of the wildness of the world; I didn’t want to have some fixed idea of perfection borrowed from another century guiding everything I thought.’
‘And that shift was productive?’
‘You can’t hide from your own time. You have to embrace what’s all around you. Otherwise you’re not living—you’re just in a dream.’
‘You don’t think there’s something quite dreamlike about our lives today?’ I said: ‘Images everywhere, a flood of them, all second-hand, all repeating—and never for a moment stillness, never any peace.’
‘Absolutely, yes, we’re all part of it,’ she said, in distracted fashion: ‘Dreams in a dream—so much that there’s no chance of escape—no chance. Anyhow—time for us to go.’
‘Us?’
She turned, put one hand to her lips and made a soft calling noise, much like the sound of a dove calling from the branches of a forest tree. A small boy who had been lying curled up on a couch in a dark corner of the entrance hall and whose presence I had completely failed to register now stirred, stretched, stood up and came toward us. He took the woman’s hand, and leaned against her, rubbing his eyes.
‘You fell asleep, my little one?’ she asked, and he nodded.
‘I should go, too,’ I said, ‘and leave you with your son.’
‘Who said anything about him being my son?’ she said: ‘You love jumping to conclusions, don’t you? I look after him from time to time, I take him out from school: we look after each other, in fact—we go on excursions, like this one. I even read to him, sometimes—only from the classics, though, you’ll be relieved to hear—just the way I was read to when I was a child.’
‘Is that right?’ I said, and stray thoughts ran through me.
‘Yes—that’s the order of life: things repeat, the generations come and go, one after the next, like falling leaves.’
‘Of course,’ I said: ‘I understand that very well.’
‘So why that look? What are you smiling at?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I was remembering something. I was thinking about the first time I heard stories being read to me—stories from an old book, in another country, half a lifetime ago—and I can still hear the sound of those words in my mind today.’
II
Fil de Cassons
THE MONTH WAS August, high summer, bright and clear. Sunlight was streaming into my room. It woke me: I was late. I got up, looked out for a moment at the view across the valley, then ran downstairs to the breakfast room, almost losing my balance, taking the steps two at a time. I stopped: from the landing I could see Serghiana. She was seated at the centre of the long table in the hotel lobby, surrounded by a group of men and women with serious expressions on their faces: they were hunched over, all of them, listening intently, and leaning towards her from both sides. Before her on the table was a small square radio with coloured dials, its antenna set at a rakish angle. To her left was a handsome man I had never seen before; he was frowning and toying with one of the cufflinks on his shirt; a young woman was beside him, clutching at his arm. A couple in tennis clothes stood close behind this pair, craning their necks to hear; next to them was a waiter and beside him the hotel’s manager, both with their heads bowed. By Serghiana’s other shoulder, resting one elbow on the table, was Mr Balzer, the concierge, a figure of great distinction, the gold buttons gleaming on his uniform. At the far end of the table was the newspaper cartoonist Egon, whom I knew well from previous years, and this was surprising—there was a coldness between him and Serghiana that was plain even to me. These figures seemed frozen in place: they looked like the carved wood effigies on a mediaeval altar, bent over in the performance of their devotions. I went across to them. I could hear the radio now. There was a whine of electronic interference, and a newscast, a man’s voice.
‘To recap, once more—late last night troops from the Soviet Union and Warsaw Pact countries crossed international borders into Czechoslovakia. Prague airport has been closed to commercial flights; a military airlift is underway. Moscow claims to have received an urgent request for assistance from Czechoslovak leaders; the whereabouts of Communist Party First Secretary Alexander Dubček remains unknown.’
‘Maybe we should tune to Radio Moscow instead to find out,’ said the handsome man, lightly.
‘Is that an attempt at humour?’ said Serghiana.
‘Or Czech Radio, perhaps. Isn’t it traditional on occasions like this to play martial music—or Bach?’
‘What a tragedy,’ said Serghiana, pressing one hand to her forehead: ‘An utterly predictable tragedy.’
She looked up, and noticed me. I could see that the couple in tennis clothes were crying, and wiping away their tears.
‘Serghiana Ismailovna, you would surely have welcomed this once,’ said Egon from the end of the table.
‘Your trouble, Egon,’ said Serghiana, sharply, ‘is that you forget nothing, you forgive nothing—in fact, you understand nothing!’
She fixed him with a brutal stare, then turned away.
‘And you, Stephane,’ she went on: ‘What would you counsel?’
‘I’m not a military attaché,’ said the handsome man.
‘But what?’
‘A peace conference must be held, of course—in Geneva, by preference.’
‘Naturally—because past conferences in Geneva have all been so successful!’
‘And what good would that do?’ said one of the others round the table.
‘Do you see,’ said the handsome man, disengaging his arm from the woman at his side, and adopting a professional tone: ‘By definition, this move—everything that’s happened overnight, all this creates an imbalance, an instability’—he held his hands before him, palms upwards, and raised then lowered each one in turn. ‘The gravitational relationships between great powers are disturbed; there are reverberations; they die away—then comes the time for diplomacy.’
‘My child, welcome,’ said Serghiana, and beckoned to me: ‘Come. Something’s happened. There are things going on in the world today.’
‘Serghiana, tell him,’ said the handsome man. ‘Or shall I? Your country’s been invaded.’
‘I just heard,’ I said: ‘I understood; I was listening—by the Russians.’
‘Well, strictly speaking, by the allies of the Warsaw Pact.’
‘Don’t confuse things,’ said Serghiana: ‘Don’t be pedantic. Just explain, in simple terms, simple enough for him, what’s going on. Say what’s actually happened.’
‘Absolutely,’ said the handsome man: ‘A reasonable request.’
He began speaking to me in a gentle, agreeable voice. ‘You’re familiar with the board game Monopoly, yes—you know the rules?’
‘Of course.’
‘And everyone who plays must abide by them. So: picture this. The Russians have built a hotel on the Champs Élysées, or the Boulevard des Capucines, and, by the roll of the dice, the Czechoslovaks happen to land there, and they refuse to pay. What happens?’
He looked at me. I said nothing. He smiled in triumph: ‘Everything breaks down, that’s clear enough. The game’s over: winner takes all.’
‘That wasn’t very helpful,’ said Serghiana.
She looked up at me again, a bleak expression on her face. ‘My child—Russia’s always been a dark and potent force.’
‘I thought the Russians were our friends now, in a way,’ I said.
‘Who have you been listening to? A dark for
ce: believe me, because I know—dark and unremitting. They hold what they have, at all costs. We’ve woken up to find a new order. The West will sound concerned, of course, and pretend to act, and do nothing. That’s the picture. It’s always the same.’
‘And that was helpful, Serghiana?’
‘This is Daru,’ she said. ‘Stephane: this young man, as you can tell, is my nephew, about whom you’ve heard so much.’
‘Nephew?’ he echoed, in a quizzical, slightly mocking voice.
‘In a diagonal manner, yes. My child—Daru’s a very distinguished man. He’s an ambassador—and he’s an intellect.’
‘He’s intelligent?’
‘Yes—and many people say he’s in intelligence as well.’
‘Please, Serghiana!’ said the young woman at Daru’s side: ‘Someone might overhear you, and take you seriously. Just think of the consequences—they could be incalculable!’
Serghiana leaned back in her chair. ‘Don’t dramatise, Josette,’ she said: ‘Incalculable! What nonsense.’
She got up, and paced about the table, then wheeled round. ‘Surely you understand,’ she said, her voice low: ‘None of us matter now. Our positions don’t matter; whatever prestige we might once have had is nothing. We’re bystanders. This is the day that changes the map for generations to come. Can’t you hear the echo? It’s the same lesson as 1956—or even 1939.’
‘A fait accompli,’ said Daru.
‘Precisely. What we think—our opinions, our theories, our predictions—they’re all irrelevant. The tank columns are on the move, they’re in the streets of another European capital—and we find ourselves here, high up in the Alps, listening to shortwave radio reports, powerless, and wondering what our fate will be.’
‘The fate of Western Europe,’ said Daru, ‘will be to avert its eyes, just as you say.’
‘I find myself in strange agreement with you, Serghiana Ismailovna,’ said Egon, rather nervously, laughing.
She turned away; her attention had been caught by someone else. In the hotel’s entrance lobby stood a rotund man. His face was soft and unemphatic: he wore round-framed glasses, which gave him an owlish look. He waved, and she gestured back.
‘What a comical-looking little figure,’ said Daru: ‘He looks like a travelling shoe salesman!’
‘You’ve always had a discriminating eye, haven’t you?’ said Serghiana: ‘I thought you knew that world. He’s the professor of theoretical physics at the Charles University in Prague—and he’s got a minder in tow.’
The rotund man now approached, followed by a pale, thin, grey-suited attendant. He bowed to Serghiana, took her hand and raised it to his lips in histrionic fashion.
‘Küss die Hand, schöne Frau! I’ve been trying to find out further details.’
‘What, Leo—practising your bourgeois airs in preparation for exile?’
‘Madame Serghiana, don’t joke,’ he answered, looking around uneasily.
There were introductions: the group gathered at the table began to disperse. I stood next to Serghiana, waiting. She reached into her handbag for a cigarette: Egon sprang towards her, his pack open.
‘Please,’ he said.
‘A peace offering, Egon? So soon? Show me: yes—Muratti—with the charcoal multifilter! How Mediterranean! My child, a man’s choice of cigarette is very significant—particularly when he’s a refugee.’
‘And what does my choice tell you?’ asked Egon: ‘Or should I perhaps have had a Black Russian Sobranie in my hand to mark the day?’
She ignored this, and turned to me. ‘My child,’ she said, in a whisper: ‘You already know Uncle Leo, don’t you, from home?’
I nodded.
‘And you know he’s been courting your mother, don’t you?’
He was with us now, before I could answer.
‘We’ve met before, my boy,’ he said to me, affably: ‘Do you remember when?’
‘You came to take me out at Easter,’ I said: ‘Last year.’
‘That’s right, in St. Gallen—with your mother. We had a good afternoon together, didn’t we, that day? I was telling you all about our childhood times, when she and I were in the same language class together at Prague Grammar School. In fact, I often used to do her homework for her.’
‘Wouldn’t that have been cheating?’
‘She was very beautiful. How is she? Is she here?’
‘Leo,’ said Serghiana, commandingly, changing the subject: ‘An update—you promised.’
‘This was inevitable,’ he said, assuming a confidential air: ‘I’ve known it was coming for weeks. Everyone did—except the leaders. They refused to hear! I spent the last week at an international conference—in Trieste. It was already common knowledge.’
The man standing beside him drew closer, at this, and gave a slight shake of his head.
‘Trieste,’ said Serghiana, nostalgically: ‘Such a mournful place. Sometimes I think we’ll all end our days there, waiting at the waterfront, scanning the sea for boats that won’t ever come. My child—maybe you should go and ask Josette to take you upstairs to have a look at the Nietzsche vitrine. She’s got the face of a little angel; she won’t do you any harm. A dose of Nietzsche: that might provide you with more amusement than this unending politics.’
She beckoned to the woman with Daru.
‘Were you talking about politics all this time?’ I asked Serghiana.
‘Everything’s politics! Go on.’
‘But we’ve already looked at the vitrines and display cases upstairs together—several times.’
‘No: I only showed you the Einstein one, with the picture of him and his wife and Irene Curie, and the one for Empress Zita with the slipper and the glove she left behind. Nietzsche’s on another floor. I was saving him for emergencies—as a special treat.’
‘And is this an emergency?’
‘Certainly—it’s a very good time to make his acquaintance.’
The young woman had drifted over to us.
‘Would you, Josette?’ said Serghiana, rather meltingly: ‘I’d be eternally grateful.’
‘Better your gratitude than your hostility,’ said the woman.
She smoothed her hair back, took me by the hand, and turned, but at that moment one of the hotel waiters who was edging his way through the gathering reached us.
‘Madame Semyonova,’ he said to Serghiana, almost cringing: ‘Forgive me—you have a telephone call—international. Shall I bring across the phone?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ll take it in the cabin.’
‘Well, I wonder,’ said Daru, with amusement in his voice: ‘What can that be about? Instructions from the Cominform?’
‘I think those days are behind us,’ said Egon.
Daru gave him a cool glance.
‘Behind us? They’re never gone.’
‘You believe our hostess, with whom you’ve been dining happily and speaking very freely, still has affiliations—and of that kind?’
‘Some affiliations are permanent,’ said Daru: ‘You know that very well. There are affinities, and persuasions; there are crevasses and susceptibilities in every heart. You should keep in mind her origins.’
‘I’ve heard she grew up in some wild Caucasian oblast,’ said Egon, almost stuttering as he replied.
‘The kind of place where dreams of revolution can seem quite natural. Serghiana Ismailovna, with her famous patronymic. She has her loyalties. The regime’s in her blood.’
This was said with a little, curling, triumphant smile. Egon glared back.
‘Insinuation. How diplomatic! You are aware, aren’t you, that the Kremlin killed her husband? Her life’s pattern’s very clear.’
‘I’ve heard many stories,’ said Daru: ‘About her; about you, about all of us, and they serve very well to pass the time. Some of them even provide us with a pretext for our lives—a cover, and in due course we may actually come to believe them, and bind them into our selves.’
‘Cover!’ said Egon, in
a heated voice.
Josette tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go,’ she said.
She steered me away, and guided me up the first flight of stairs, moving slowly and gracefully.
‘Did you understand any of that?’ she asked me, as we reached the second landing.
‘I think so,’ I said: ‘Did you?’
‘I’m afraid I did,’ she said.
She stopped in the hallway leading to the guest rooms. In front of us was a little white pedestal, topped by a glass display case.
‘Can you see?’ she asked.
‘I can see a pair of glasses, and a photo, and a paper—and some bones. Is that him?’
‘No! I’ll tell you what it says. He was a famous philosopher, and he came here, many years ago—in 1873, long before any of us were born. He was looking for peace and quiet so he could write—and he did. In fact, he wrote one of his best known essays here, and stayed here for a whole month, but it sounds as though the hotel got on his nerves. He was constantly complaining: there were too many flies in the salon, the piano was out of tune, he didn’t like the food they served in the restaurant. He must have had a very bad temper: one day he decided the piece of chicken on his plate was inedible, so he threw it at the hotel manager’s head.’
‘Did he hit him?’
‘It doesn’t go into that much detail—but these are the bones of the chicken, in this glass case: they kept them as a memento of his stay.’
I took all this in.
‘You’re very quiet,’ she said: ‘Are you shy around strangers? Don’t be. Not with me.’
She bent down until our eyes were level, and stroked my cheek with one finger. ‘What is it? Are you upset—about what they were all discussing downstairs? Or are you embarrassed? Is it me? Are you just tongue-tied around me? Do you think I’m attractive?’
‘Of course,’ I said, uncertainly.
‘You don’t sound very sure! And how about Daru? Do you like him?’
‘Your husband?’
‘Oh, he’s not my husband. I’m just his secretary.’
‘Would you like to be married to him?’
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