Red Heaven

by Nicolas Rothwell

  ‘You can see,’ he said: ‘I know her well.’

  I put the two sketches side by side. ‘Why don’t you make drawings that way all the time?’ I asked him.

  ‘Shall I tell you? There’s a reason—a simple one—a bitter one. Do you want to hear it?’

  ‘Would you like me to hear it?’

  ‘Of course, yes. I’d like you to know me, or at least a little bit about me: in case something were to happen. It feels safe to be known by a child.’

  He gave a half-smile, more to himself than to me, and gestured at each drawing in turn.

  ‘This one’s a caricature; but this one is meant as truth. When I was young, and I was still learning, I believed in drawing truth—I thought you could paint your way to heaven: make perfect images of everything around you—the sky, nature, the faces of everyone you saw—and that would be my place in life, my way of holding back the pressure of the world. I wanted only to be an artist, and be able to draw anything: I knew I would be one: I would make myself one. That’s what I studied and what I loved. I drew on the blank pages of old books at home—I had books covered with my drawings even before I went to school. I was my own master and instructor then. I taught myself to make portrait sketches.’

  ‘Like this one?’

  ‘Absolutely—I had my special style: I showed what lies around the features of a face, I drew in negative. I wanted to make the eye believe in what I was drawing, I wanted hands to reach out and touch my images and think they were real.’

  He paused.

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘I was torn apart at once when I went to fine-art school—to that great school I’d dreamed of reaching. I thought it would be freedom and discovery; it was like an unofficial prison camp. There were ways you had to live, and things you had to think, and rules to take to heart: it was impossible to go against the tide. They told me my way of working was old, and useless, and idealistic, and there was no place for that kind of art anymore. I look back now, and wonder at myself: I fell into so many traps. I had no worldliness, no way to defend myself. I was sincere, and weak; that society was for the two-faced and the strong. I was still trying to find beauty in everything I painted—but all around me there was chaos: war, and the memory of war, and the threat of more violence close ahead. They threw me out of that school after my first year there. I was facing time in the army. I decided to run—and that’s the end of the story—I reached the West.’

  ‘And you started to draw cartoons?’

  ‘To support myself—yes. I knew how to draw: that was all I knew—or almost all. I understood what people wanted. I could tell what made them smile, and laugh: I’d learned from my teachers how to draw crudely, how to exaggerate. Those were the only lessons they’d taught me. I was in Vienna first. Then Berlin: poor, without friends. No one cared for what I did; all my portraits, all my fine, well-drawn lines and shadings. No one would commission me. So I made cartoons—and they were picked up. That’s when I began to see the way things were: the sharper the cartoon, the starker the message, the more popular they became. The more I betrayed myself, the better things went.’

  He gave a brisk laugh; it sounded like a yelp.

  ‘At first, when I’d just begun my exile, I hated what I was doing: but not enough. I persisted. My work became known. I had supporters—and I was useful to them, because I came from the East, I was the victim from the other side. They pushed me, they even told me what to draw—and soon it became easy for me. It’s easy now. You saw: I can draw my cartoons like this.’

  He clicked his fingers: ‘See—a good sound, isn’t it? I do them like a magician’s trick. The less thought I give my work, and the less care, the better it is.’

  I looked back at him.

  ‘I’m telling you a dreadful story,’ he went on: ‘Do you understand that?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said.

  ‘Of course I’m only telling you because I know you can’t possibly. I might as well whisper a secret to the wind. I’m telling you that debased times like ours need debased art; and when all the dreams and principles have rotted away, caricature’s the only truth. Beauty can’t mean anything anymore: it has no place. Listen—try to remember what I’m saying. Remember it, even if it can’t mean a thing to you now.’

  ‘You think I can’t understand anything: you’re making fun of me.’

  ‘What I’m doing is trying to warn you—not to do what I’ve done… There’s Serghiana Ismailovna now.’

  He pointed her out. She was on the far side of the hotel’s garden terrace, surrounded by a group of men.

  ‘She’s casting around,’ he said: ‘She’ll see us, you can be sure of it.’

  With a quick, stealthy movement he gathered up the two drawings on the table and slipped them into the folder by his side.

  ‘She helped me, you know,’ he went on: ‘In those days I was describing to you, when I was just beginning to work in the West. She made things plain to me. She gave me to the editors who made me what I am. And now she likes to make jokes about how far I’ve fallen—as if she believed in ideals and high art still. She likes to think she’s a child of the revolution: she’s the ultimate in capitalism.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like a good thing to be,’ I said.

  Serghiana made her way between the tables towards us. She tapped Egon on the shoulder.

  ‘Discussing me again behind my back? It’s a bad habit.’

  ‘No, Serghiana Ismailovna—of course not!’

  ‘Was he?’ she asked me: ‘Don’t answer; it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No,’ said Egon to her: ‘I’ll tell you what we were saying. I was telling your child what I know—that we live in broken times; that the past’s the only thing that lights us up—and if we gather here in the summer months, it’s because places like this reek of pastness. We suffer from a love of what used to be. We’re sick with nostalgia!’

  ‘The title, as it happens,’ said Serghiana, ‘of a film I want to make.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what nostalgia is,’ said Egon, and his voice rose: ‘It’s not what people think it is—no! It’s the pain of longing, the pain of wanting to return and always knowing there’s no home; knowing you can’t get back what you’ve lost. That’s what afflicts us all.’

  ‘And that’s why you draw as you draw—that’s why you’re a cartoonist and a caricaturist, and you can’t make the great art you were born to make: and nothing good or true is possible. I’ve heard it all already. It’s also why you’re rich and successful and well known. Do I really have to remind you? I don’t see you struggling to go back into oblivion.’

  ‘And it’s why you do what you do, Serghiana Ismailovna: my old friend, my benefactor—it’s why you produce films set in a golden past, and peaceful days, in a time gone by that never was.’

  ‘Such delirium!’ said Serghiana, in a magisterial voice: ‘Child—night’s falling. Go and find Josette. It’s best you leave us now.’

  *

  One morning a few days later I went downstairs to the breakfast room at the usual time to find Serghiana. There was no sign of her. The tables were empty; the hotel lobby was quiet. I went out to the terrace, where Egon always drank his black coffee: no one. I waited a few minutes, then went over to the concierge’s desk. Mr Balzer was there, talking in a low voice on the telephone—speaking in a soft, strange language I had never heard before. He glanced down at me, nodded to me and kept talking: I leaned against the reception counter and let the sound of his voice wash over me: it was like the call of songbirds, or the flow of a river, or the humming of bees. I closed my eyes, and listened, and felt the cool brass edge of the counter pressing against my cheek. His call ended. He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Young man—is everything to your pleasure?’

  ‘Mr Balzer,’ I said: ‘I was looking for my great-aunt Serghiana. I can’t find her—I’m not sure where she is.’

  ‘And this is a surprise?’ he said. ‘Really? You must know very well that she comes
and goes from time to time. Don’t worry—we’ll look after you. She wrote you a note yesterday evening before she left.’

  He reached into the message boxes behind him, produced an envelope and gave it to me. I opened it: the notepaper was Serghiana’s. Across the top of the page were art-deco motifs, entwined leaves and ornamental flowers, and her name in stylised capitals—‘S. I. Semyonova: Producteur – Régisseur.’

  I tried to make out the message: she had written in her cursive hand, at speed—one could almost see the words racing across the page: every few words the script jumped from Roman to Cyrillic lettering, then back again.

  ‘My Dear Child,’ it read: ‘Forgive me—I care for you, I truly do.’ The word ‘truly’ had been underlined with a sharp flourish—the pen had gone through the surface of the paper. ‘I must go away for two days to Zürich with Uncle Stephane. The usual stand-ins will look after you while I’m gone. For all your needs turn to the concierge, Balzer, to whom I am entrusting this note, written with great affection in my heart. Trust Balzer—he has hidden depths. From the friendly hand of your great-aunt.’

  I finished the note, and looked up at Mr Balzer. ‘What does she mean by hidden depths?’ I asked him.

  He looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said: ‘What is it actually that you’re asking me?’

  ‘What language were you speaking,’ I asked instead: ‘When I came up to you and you were talking on the phone? It was beautiful.’

  Mr Balzer smiled, and looked pleased. ‘That was Romansh—Surselva Romansh, our language from here, the language we speak in this valley, among ourselves—but my mother’s family came from the Lower Engadine, and we have another language there, even more beautiful: We call it Vallader.’

  ‘It sounded like music,’ I said.

  ‘Yes—people fall asleep listening to it—fall asleep and dream. We don’t speak it when the hotels are busy. It’s a private language, for our world alone. Old men used to say it was the language of God: my father told me it was the language of poetry and song.’

  ‘Will you teach it to me?’ I asked him.

  He laughed. ‘It’s a hard language to learn—and the members of your family already speak too many. Your aunt in particular. She changes and switches all the time: we can’t keep up with her.’

  ‘Won’t you say something for me—to me—in your language—even if it’s too hard for me to speak?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ he said.

  He looked about the reception, then came out from behind his desk, and went down on one knee alongside me: he pronounced a few sentences in rhythmic fashion, almost in a whisper: a rustling, scurrying rush of words.

  ‘What did that mean?’ I asked him.

  ‘The Lord bless you and keep you—the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you—the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said: ‘But—Mr Balzer—why are you praying for me?’

  ‘To intercede for you in your misfortune.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘Do you?’ said Mr Balzer. ‘It’s natural for us to want to help you and protect you. There’s more to our work than meeting the needs of our guests—much more. It’s best if we can see through the expressions they wear, and look into their hearts; if we can find a true affinity with them; if we know what they want before they know it themselves. Those are the things that make places like this what they are—not luxury and spa treatments and elegance.’

  ‘Can you really remember all the different people who come here for their holidays?’ I asked him: ‘Do you recognise them from year to year?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said: ‘We know their stories, and we know their habits. We know the face each one of them presents to the world. A guest like Madame Semyonova, for example: we greet her on her arrival as if we were greeting a respected friend. We know the pattern of her life, we know her hopes and fears, we sense the obligations that weigh her down. We know where she travels when she leaves us at short notice, and we know why: we see everything, and judge nothing. We try to be of assistance to her in all her tasks. Sometimes it seems to me as if we’re an audience, watching a great spectacle, and the guests are actors on a stage. When the play’s well scripted and performed, we can feel everything they feel: happiness and sadness, fulfilment and discontent.’

  ‘And what do you feel about this summer’s performance?’

  ‘The season isn’t over yet. It’s too early to say. Last year, though, I felt a great worry—worry, in fact, for you.’

  ‘But it was a good holiday.’

  ‘Do you remember it? For a boy your age, a year’s a long time ago. You spent most of it reading with Madame Semyonova. She became your family. You hardly saw your mother at all.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She was occupied with other people.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked him.

  ‘Will you be paying her a visit?’ he went on, in a soft voice. ‘If you do, please give her a message on our behalf: tell her that we miss her, and wish her well.’

  ‘You liked her—when she was here before?’

  ‘We care for all our guests—even the most difficult ones: even the ones who fail to notice us and what we do. Especially for them, in a certain sense. Enough of all that now: I want to show you something: a surprise!’

  ‘You’re changing the subject,’ I said.

  ‘Of course I am: that’s also part of what we do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll have ample time for difficult, unpleasant things in your adult life. Look behind you—at that photograph on the wall: the panoramic view. I’m sure you have before.’

  ‘Hundreds of times.’

  ‘But look closely. It’s an old picture, of course. You can tell that from the landscape: it was taken in the early days of the resort. There are no holiday villas; the pine-tree forests reached much further then than they do now. And here we are—where I’m pointing: this hotel building already looked the way it looks today. How many floors do you see?’

  ‘There’s the reception floor, and one below, and four above.’

  ‘Exactly so. Now—come with me.’

  He led the way to the lifts, and pressed the call button. We got in: the doors closed behind us.

  ‘How many floors?’ he asked again, and pointed at the control panel.

  ‘R for reception, G for garden, and three more.’

  ‘Exactly so! There’s one missing. Shall we go up, and see if we can find it? Let’s take a look.’

  ‘Don’t you have to stay downstairs?’

  ‘I think I can risk a few moments away from my duties,’ he said, and pressed the button for the top floor.

  ‘But this is the floor where I’m staying,’ I said as we got out.

  ‘And have you never wondered about that closed double doorway, with no bell to ring, and no room number beside it, at the far end of the corridor? Didn’t you ever think there might be something strange behind it—something you wouldn’t expect?’

  He produced a key, opened the doors and ushered me in. Before us was a wide staircase, drenched in light. We climbed it, and it was as if we had stepped into another world. There was a roof of curved glass far above our heads; there were chandeliers, there was fan vaulting: iron columns rose around us; two long, glass-walled galleries stretched away. On every side, the eye was dazzled: sunshine, the gleaming peaks, the white clouds, the blue of the sky—everything was shimmering and alive with light.

  ‘Now, tell me,’ said Mr Balzer, stretching out his hands: ‘Isn’t this one of the most splendid sights you’ve ever seen?’

  I looked out—then up, into the vaulting, and the sky: the sun blazed, its light poured down, the clouds raced past—I felt myself adrift, my head spun.

  ‘Where are we?’ I asked him.

  ‘This is the Glass Chamber,’ he said, in a dramatic voice: ‘It was a ballroom, once—a grand ballroom with a view onto the stars. See how
fine the flooring is—Versailles parquet, perfect for the dance. Guests from all over Europe used to come to the parties and the celebrations here. There were recitals in the afternoon all season long; a string quartet from Italy gave chamber music concerts every night. It was a gathering point, it was famous, everyone in Berlin and Vienna knew its name, they all longed to see it with their own eyes—it was one of the marvels of the Alps.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Tastes change. Nothing stays the same. People come here today to walk in the mountains, not to dance. The hotel’s owners decided long ago to close up these rooms. Look carefully: you won’t have the chance again. The whole floor’s going to be remodelled over the next few months. Nothing will be left of all this. The sun won’t stream in through the glass cupola anymore; the snow and ice won’t mantle it in winter. Look, and fix it in your memory.’

  And doubtless, with the naive good faith of childhood, I wished to do as he instructed, and I promised him I would—but as the years flowed past and the images that came crowding in upon me multiplied, my memory of that morning when the last glow of summer was in the air around us faded. The world of mountains and hotels retreated from me, that whole childhood time—it was gone, with all its surprises and its upheavals. They vanished, I hid them away inside myself, I had no use for them—they came to seem far distant, they were gauzy and disjointed in their texture, and more like a story I had once been told than recollections of the past. My life had turned into a series of staccato chapters: I went from city to city, and from school to school; I looked ahead, not back—my interests and my fears were all in the present and the future tense.

  So it was a jolt for me when, one afternoon at the beginning of my student years, I came face to face with a set of images that brought that day with Mr Balzer back into my thoughts. I was with my friend Beni Anselme: we were both strangers in Paris, we had just arrived, we both felt out of place. We were walking together, on the Rue Champollion: we passed a rerun cinema, the Reflets Médicis. There were black-and-white photos pinned up inside a display window by the ticket office—production stills: I caught sight of a single, striking shot: it showed a boy staring upwards, and a wash of bright light streaming down upon his face. Suddenly I could see myself standing beside the hotel concierge all those years ago, gazing up at the crystal chamber’s vaulting, and through it, to the sun’s disc and the clouds as they raced by.