She gave a little smile, and shrugged. ‘Perhaps. And perhaps not.’
‘Why do you work for him, if you don’t like him?’
‘I don’t mind him—I like him—he found me when I was a translator in the Moscow Embassy—we got on—and here I am. Let’s go back down.’
‘Wait,’ I said: ‘The bones.’
‘What about them?’
‘How can we be sure they’re the same ones—that they’re really from the piece of chicken that he threw at the manager of the hotel?’
‘That’s a very philosophical question. How can we be sure of anything? We live in a murky world. You have to take what you hear and what you read on trust—otherwise everything falls apart.’
‘And is that what he thought: Nietzsche?’
‘I’m not really an expert. I don’t know.’
‘But Daru would?’
‘I dare say.’
‘And what happened to him?’
‘To Nietzsche? I know the answer to that, at least. There’s a special museum devoted to him, at Sils Maria. It’s not far away from here. We were there just last week, Daru and I, staying at the hotel. Nietzsche adored the mountains: he used to come to the Alps every summer, for his holidays, to work, of course—and most of all he loved to go on long walks by the lake shore at Sils Maria and at Silvaplana, and up the pathways of the Fex valley, and higher still, towards the bare peaks, always on his own. When autumn came, though, he preferred to travel on to warmer places: Nice, Genoa, the Mediterranean coast. One winter season he rented a set of rooms he’d taken before, with a family he knew in Turin, but by that stage he wasn’t very well. Just outside his lodgings, early one morning, he saw a coachman in the Piazza Carlo Alberto whipping his horse. He burst into tears: he flung himself around the horse’s neck as if to save it: then he had a complete breakdown. His senses had left him: he never recovered them—he slipped into a coma that lasted for the rest of his life.’
‘What was wrong with him?’
Josette pursed her lips. ‘I think,’ she said, after a moment’s equivocation, ‘that’s probably something for another day.’
Downstairs, the tension had grown. Voices were speaking, loudly, in different languages, men and women were pushing into the hotel lobby and milling round the reception desk. Daru spotted us at once.
‘Malzahn’s here,’ he said to Josette: ‘Can you imagine? I had no idea, I just found out. He’s staying at the Waldhaus. We have to go across at once.’
‘Who’s Malzahn?’ I asked.
‘He’s a minister,’ said Josette: ‘Stephane’s deputy minister. A powerful man. He has cruel eyes—I don’t care for him.’
Daru looked at her in amazement. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘your personal predilections are hardly the criterion that should be guiding us now. It’s worrying in the extreme that no one told us.’
‘Surely he’s just taking a holiday: he looks as if he needs one: all those student riots would grind anyone down.’
‘For God’s sake, Josette!’
‘No, for God’s sake, you!’ she said: ‘Can’t you see—it’s chaos here. No one’s in charge, no one here knows anything at all.’
‘Here’s someone who’s in the picture,’ said Daru: ‘The physics professor.’
He reached over through the press of new arrivals and gave Leo a fraternal pat on the shoulder, and beckoned to him with an air of ingratiating urgency.
‘Tell us, do,’ he said: ‘You must know. Are times of instability upon us? Is this a quick stab—or a change for the long term? Should we be anxious?’
‘Anxious?’ Leo stared at him: ‘You want me to write your whole telegram for you! Frozen times are what lie ahead now—and frozen times are what lie behind us as well. Weren’t you posted to my country? Didn’t you have your eyes open when you were there? Or do I have to say more about a truth everyone understands? Wasn’t Madame Serghiana with you a moment ago—I can’t see her anywhere.’
He glanced round, and looked at me as though I had hidden her. ‘What’s the meaning of her presence here anyway, I wonder?’
This seemed to be half a question directed to me, and half a meditation.
‘Why ask him?’ said Daru, and then he saw what I saw: Serghiana, bearing down. She came up behind Leo.
‘So here you are—the insider,’ she said, in triumph: ‘The only man who admits to having had advance warning! And you’re keeping an eye on my nephew. In loco parentis. It’s touching. I’m pleased to see it.’
Leo took a little step back from me.
‘How was it?’ asked Serghiana: ‘At the Nietzsche shrine, I mean. High up in the realms of the unfettered intellect—beyond good and evil, cold and pure?’
I looked back at her in confusion.
‘Josette, didn’t you explain it all to him?’
‘I tried,’ said Josette.
‘I’m sure you did. And did you talk about what’s going on?’
Daru now broke in. ‘Serghiana—I just found out Malzahn’s here. Malzahn, of all people! Won’t you come across the road to his hotel with us for a talk? It could be enlightening.’
‘A talk with the emissary of a hostile power,’ said Serghiana, sternly: ‘With a junior minister of a bourgeois republic!’
Josette laughed.
Daru glared in her direction. ‘In a crisis of this kind,’ he said, ‘the first hours are the crucial ones. It’s good fortune I’m here to restrain him. What if he plans to release some communique?’
‘Why should that be any concern of mine?’ said Serghiana.
‘Some of us here are in the wings,’ replied Daru, looking solemn: ‘But some are in the flow of history. We all know who you represent.’
‘I represent no one. Only myself.’
‘And of course you have no connections at all, no protectors?’
‘Stephane,’ said Serghiana, very coolly: ‘Your composure and your capacity for charming dissimulation seem to be deserting you. Perhaps our masks should stay on, at least for the duration of this carnival. Don’t you agree, Josette? My child, why don’t you come with me into the garden. I want to talk to you—and escape from all this.’
‘Madame Semyonova—a message!’
A man in the uniform of another hotel had rushed up, and stood before her, bearing an envelope. She took it, and with a single fluid movement looked at the note, folded it into her pocket, waved him off and strode on; the messenger was immediately engulfed by a group of other guests. I followed her through the crowd until we reached the far balcony’s balustrade.
‘Are we still going up the mountain today?’ I asked.
‘Of course. It was a promise. I’ve already booked the car—it’s coming to collect us. Do you really think I’d let a little quarrel in a faraway country between people of whom we know nothing get in the way?’
I stared at her. ‘It’s not that far away.’
‘No, it’s not, it’s not at all far. And I know a great deal about the people on both sides. Forgive me—I couldn’t resist. It was just a glance back in time: a quote—a famous one. Something that started off a war. Of course we’re going to go up. Look—follow where I’m pointing. You can just see the top station, where the snow line begins—and you can see the funicular cable glinting in the sun. That’s where we’re going. Doesn’t it look majestic to you, as if it’s floating there, in that clear sky? It always seems beautiful from this vantage point, from down below: then you reach the summit, and the beauty’s gone, and there’s something different, something wordless, in its place.’
I gazed up. I raised my hand to shield my eyes. At last I saw it: the dot close to the peak; the thin, gleaming line, like fire; the blue of the morning, pale, almost transparent, and within it faint, shifting shapes and images that seemed like the negatives of clouds. They shimmered, their outlines took form for a moment, then disappeared, and slowly recomposed themselves—sea monsters, dragons, animals, ghostly figures with tendrils trailing in their wake.
‘It resonates with me, this view, today of all days,’ said Serghiana.
‘Why?’
‘Everything seems drenched in sadness. And not just for the obvious reasons. Not because the golden future’s ground to dust: that happened ages ago; and not because of what’s led up to this, and what’s going to come from it, all the things we can’t see yet, but can sense; not even because I don’t know what I used to hope for, and what I’m going to fear in times to come—but because there’s never any escape.’
‘Escape from what?’
‘Even here, behind this fence of mountains, the wildness breaks in: I can’t hold it back. Even when I’m spending my days with you, whom I should be shielding from such things, it forces its way in. You can see how all these people here around us in the hotel are excited by disaster. They feed on it, they depend on it, it’s a good trouble for them; a happy sadness for them.’
‘Who are they?’ I asked. ‘Do you know them all?’
‘They’re the international class, of course,’ she said: ‘They’re diplomats, and businessmen, and backroom politicians—they like to talk to each other. You heard Daru: for them, a crisis is a pretext for a conference, and that’s all it is.’
‘Great-Aunt Serghiana,’ I said: ‘Shouldn’t we go home?’
She turned to look at me, and gave me a smile—it was a smile that wanted at the same time to laugh and to dissolve into tears: ‘Home? And where is that? Where? The place you were born? Where you were growing up? The country on your passport? My child, we’re hotel people—nomads, always moving, always with our suitcases packed and ready, always waiting for the knock at the door in the dead of night. And wherever we are, we’re in the same place.’
She paused, and shook her head: ‘That famous grand hotel—the hotel perched above the abyss,’ she said then, and repeated the words, in several languages, each time more softly: ‘It’s an old joke—and the most absurd thing is that it’s true, down to the last detail: there’s every comfort, every luxury: and what a vista we have! On the very edge. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’
She glanced down at me: ‘Why would you? Sometimes only half-understanding things is a blessing,’ she said. ‘I remember when I was your age—and the wars were coming: I had no idea at all what my life was going to be.’
‘And what was it like, being a child then?’
‘It was roads, and trucks, and train carriages. It was always staying with strangers—new people, unkind faces; movement—that’s what I have in my memory most of all: school to school, city to city, constant noise, no stillness, no silence or peace.’
‘And you never had a home?’
‘There were many different homes: one after another.’
‘Didn’t you like any of the places where you lived?’
‘On the contrary: I was left alone. No one cared what I did or where I went. I used to go exploring. When we were moved to Crimean Kerch there were still wrecked houses and piles of rubble everywhere; I found hideaways in the ruins; I went climbing on the ramparts of the old fortress. When we stayed in Uzhgorod, we were in the barracks, right by the cathedral, and I spent all day by myself on the riverbank: there were cherry trees in flower all through the parklands—it was like a paradise. The same in Sukhum, beside the quay: you could watch the changing patterns on the water as the sun went down and there’d be no one else in sight. It was like a stage-set. None of it felt real, or solid, or tied to life. That was what those years were like. People came and went without reason, they would vanish, and then reappear a few days later—everyone was anxious, and hungry, and nothing was ever spelled out. The most substantial places were the hotels—you could feel the power and the safety in their corridors.’
‘And that’s why you like living in hotels today?’
‘Do you think that? Do you really believe I have a fondness for this kind of life? What I think is that hotels like this are theatres, where we’re in character, where we’re most ourselves. We’re on display, we’re all actors. Life’s richer, it’s brighter.’
‘And it’s safer to live without a home?’
Serghiana was silent in reply: Egon came up behind us, looking flustered. ‘Forgive the interruption, Serghiana Ismailovna—I have a request to pass on to you.’
‘Egon Keleti,’ she said, in a rhythmic, ironic Hungarian accent, drawing each syllable out: ‘E.K. The man from the East! I always thought it was a good name you chose for yourself. Cartoonists need a catchy tag, don’t they—a label, a signature to scrawl? My child—this gentleman’s an artist, he’s a gifted individual, he’s drawn for all the best European newspapers.’
‘I know your godson—wasn’t that what you called him?’ said Egon, and he smiled down at me, and gave me a quick, uncertain pat: ‘We’ve known each other for years—from previous summers in the mountains, you see.’
‘Godson! How formal! How tactful of you, Egon! I must have missed the christening!’
She reached over, and drew me closer to her: ‘We’re kindred spirits,’ she said: ‘That’s all. That’s enough—and it’s fallen to me to look after him in these days and weeks. You know the story: perhaps you should give some thought to doing so as well.’
‘But what on earth could I do?’
‘Draw, of course, show him how to: teach him—or do you have hidden talents I don’t know about? Should I consult your file?’
‘Please—Serghiana Ismailovna, don’t say such things even in jest. I’ll help, of course. Whenever you want. We should support each other—no one else will.’
I looked at them both. ‘Are you two friends now?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely,’ said Egon.
‘Shared background means much more than friendship,’ said Serghiana, coldly.
‘But I’m confused,’ Egon said then: ‘I must admit it. A few minutes ago, you were damning me in public, consigning me to the deepest circles of hell—and now we’re close, we’re allies. What’s changed?’
‘My mood, for one thing,’ said Serghiana: ‘Besides, we’re going to ride up to the peak—that always lifts my heart. Why not come with us?’
‘Oh, no,’ Egon recoiled: ‘I couldn’t. The vertigo! The second I step onto the chairlift I tremble, panic takes hold of me; my head spins, the light in my eyes fails.’
‘You’re in the wrong place, really aren’t you? You came out of the teeming streets of Budapest: these mountains aren’t for you!’
‘It’s true,’ said Egon: ‘Sometimes I wonder what it is that keeps drawing me back here.’
‘You come here because you have to. You come because this is what you are. You linger, you mingle, you make yourself familiar, you spend time on the fringes of groups you think significant, you imagine you’re in touch, you’re in the swim of things—then back you go, to Berlin, or Vienna, or Zürich, wherever it is you’re selling your work now, and you tell your golden summer tales.’
Egon looked at me with a helpless expression. ‘Your godmother has a sharp tongue!’ he said.
‘What would be the point of gentleness?’ asked Serghiana: ‘And what did you actually want?’
‘The message: it’s a film idea. A proposal. There’s an American here. He asked me: he wants to meet you. He wants you to produce for him.’
‘The Vietnam screenplay,’ said Serghiana: ‘I know: I heard. I already have his message: several of them, in fact. Some people have no sense of timing.’
‘Why does he want you to make a film?’ I asked.
‘That’s what your godmother does,’ said Egon, a note of venom suddenly entering his voice: ‘The truth is she’s just the same as me: she needs these people just as much as I do—she makes pictures, she sells stories, she’s a broker of amusements.’
‘I prefer to call it culture,’ said Serghiana.
‘And are the films you make famous?’ I asked: ‘Like westerns?’
‘Hasn’t she told you?’ Egon asked me: ‘What reticence! Maybe she thinks you’re too young. Of course she’s suc
cessful: how could she not be? She’s an intermediary between worlds. There’s no one else like her, no one who can do what she does. We mere mortals look on in amazement, and wonder how she makes it work.’
‘You pay me the kindest compliments, Egon,’ said Serghiana: ‘But I’m afraid this little talk of ours has to come to an end. The car’s here. Soon we’ll be high up among the peaks—in that pure, thin air where cartoonists fear to tread.’
We rode up in the chairlift, side by side. It was swift, and silent; it carried us high above the paths and rooftops. Streams and meadows passed beneath our feet, the landscape stretched away—then the lines of distant ranges, one after the next, like waves on an icy ocean, came into view: and though years and decades have gone by, nothing has dimmed my memory of that ascent, when the mountains and their geometry of ravines and spurs and rockfaces were shifting their alignments with each second, and a new world of air and void and precipice was unfolding before me: the glaciers shone, the grey screes slanted down into deep shadow, the light picked out each lake and forest clearing. I can still feel the warmth of the sun’s rays at the instant they first fell on us; I can hear the sound of the wind, and the abrupt noise the lift made clattering across each pylon in turn.
From the midway station Serghiana and I looked down together on the buildings below. They were arranged in just the way the relief maps in the hotel showed them: spread along the valley floor as though in the palm of a sheltering hand. She made me point out each landmark, and laughed when I made mistakes, and corrected me. She was telling stories, describing the books she would next read with me, and the countries we should explore together: how close they were, just across the alpine passes—what wonders we would see!
Then came the journey’s last stage—a closed funicular. The two of us climbed in alone, the cabin door clanged shut. Serghiana’s mood began to shift: I could tell the warning signs. She frowned, she stared at me, a hard look coming into her eyes, as if my presence was a burden to her. She swung away, she reached for the safety rail with both hands: she gripped it tight and gazed off into the void: suddenly it felt as though a demon was there with me inside that glass-windowed cage. This continued until we reached the summit. We stepped out. A bare plateau lay ahead of us, and beyond it a line of sharp, snow-covered peaks. The air was cold; we walked. She went ahead, not looking back. I followed, becoming more fearful with each step, feeling more out of place. I had the sense of time in its passage slowing, pressing down, imprinting its every second on me. All I saw around me was set at a strange angle. I had questions: I wanted to ask them; I hesitated. I turned to Serghiana. She wheeled round.
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