Red Heaven

by Nicolas Rothwell

  ‘How do you remember things so well?’ I asked.

  She let my hand go, and stood up. ‘Time for us to move on, I think,’ she said, abruptly, in a stronger voice: ‘Let’s join the Romanian. We can talk about memory and its pitfalls some other day.’

  ‘Join who?’

  ‘Muscatine. He’s Romanian, or at least he comes from Romania; he’s actually Gagauz, I think, or Tartar, he comes from some little town at the far end of the Danube. Brăila, Tulcea—somewhere like that, some place at the ends of the earth. And he was a prodigy in his day, a real keyboard star. He was selected for the Warsaw competition. That’s how he met Novogrodsky and fell in with him.’

  I followed behind her, half-running down the steps to keep up. Muscatine was waiting by the car, a long-suffering look on his face.

  ‘Madame,’ he said: ‘Where would you like me to sit this time?’

  She gave him the keys. ‘Here, Ludo,’ she said: ‘You drive us.’

  ‘Madame Novogrodsky! You’ve never called me by my name before!’

  ‘Is it an honour, or an insult? Run us up to the palace of fantasy! Take us to Badrutt’s!’

  The trip was brief. We pulled up in front of a high-arched hotel entrance. A figure in uniform helped us all out, took the keys from Muscatine, jumped into the front seat and drove off.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Ady to me. ‘He’s not going to steal the car! Come, follow. We’ll go straight to the back drawing room.’

  She led the way, but she had only taken a few steps into the hotel’s crowded lobby before she was accosted by a solidly built man in a grey suit.

  ‘Eppler,’ she said: ‘You don’t have to greet me personally every time I walk in.’

  ‘But I do, madame, I do,’ he said: ‘It’s the little tribute Badrutt’s pays to genius.’

  He bent down, and shook my hand in exaggerated fashion.

  ‘And who’s this?’

  ‘My nephew,’ said Ady.

  ‘But you said…’

  She raised her hand to cut me off.

  ‘Any relation of the Maestro’s is a friend of the hotel,’ said the suited man in a grave voice, as though pronouncing a sacrament. ‘Shall I find one of our housekeepers to sit with him?’

  ‘He’s at school here in the Engadine, Eppler. It’s part of his cultural education to see Badrutt’s, don’t you think?’

  ‘Undeniably so!’

  ‘And you know what I’d most like him to see?’

  ‘I do. And I’ll give the historical account personally, of course.’

  ‘I’d expect nothing else.’

  ‘And will we eventually be able to welcome Maestro Novogrodsky here with you? Any word?’

  ‘He’s still in Hamburg, conducting the Philharmonic State Orchestra, and doubtless harassing the first violins as well.’

  ‘I don’t think I heard properly, madame—it’s high season, such a crush of guests. Too noisy here in the great hall. Let me take you through.’

  At that moment I caught sight of a face I recognised. It was Josette, standing in the middle of a group of men. She saw me, waved, and came towards us.

  ‘What a surprise,’ she said: ‘I thought I’d never see you again. You vanished so suddenly back to school. There’s Stephane, just over there. He’ll be pleased to see you, too.’

  She pointed out Daru, and beckoned to him. He paid no attention.

  ‘He’s ignoring me! As usual! He thinks he’s with important people. I’ll go and drag him over here.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ said Ady, acidly: ‘She looks like a French waitress in that short skirt, and she sounds like one, too.’

  ‘It’s Josette. I know her from last year. She looked after me, for weeks; she was the only one who did.’

  Daru came up, with Josette firmly grasping his hand.

  ‘You remember our friend, don’t you, Stephane?’ she said.

  ‘I do,’ he said: ‘How could I forget our happy days together?’

  He was about to turn when he noticed Ady. His manner changed. He brushed past me towards her, extended his hand, and smiled a radiant smile.

  ‘Madame Novogrodsky,’ he said: ‘Please! What good fortune. Let me introduce myself: Stephane Daru—and my wife, Josette.’

  I looked at Josette questioningly. She gave a nod back, and a quick, almost imperceptible shrug.

  ‘And what brings such a glamorous couple here to Badrutt’s?’ said Ady, in her most sardonic voice: ‘You look just like a pair of movie stars—but I suppose that’s what one finds in the great resorts of Europe now, isn’t it? No more consumptives and Russian exiles, only jet-setters and escapees from Hollywood. And how do you know my nephew?’

  ‘Nephew?’ echoed Josette: ‘Really? I’ll never work your family out!’

  ‘Nothing’s more ambiguous than Central European relationships,’ said Ady, sternly.

  ‘I believe we met through Serghiana Semyonova,’ said Daru.

  Ady turned on him: ‘That Bolshevik! How appalling. Is she a friend of yours? Are you two communists? You certainly don’t look the part!’

  ‘Madame,’ said Daru, ‘I have the honour to be the ambassador of the French Republic.’

  ‘Almost the same thing! Ambassador to where?’

  ‘To Switzerland: to Berne.’

  ‘And where before that?’

  ‘Prague.’

  ‘So you specialise in postings to small, insignificant countries?’

  ‘I have other tasks. One in particular that may be of interest. That I’d be keen to describe to you.’

  But Ady turned her attention away from him, and towards Josette. ‘I was married to an ambassador once,’ she said: ‘He was always sleeping with his secretaries.’

  ‘Fancy that,’ said Josette, uneasily.

  ‘Yes, blondes, with hair just your lovely colour, for the most part. It was as if the ministry had a limitless supply. One gets used it. But there’s always a way to master a man!’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘It’s simple. Would you like me to tell you? You have to find the special attribute in them that’s present to excess. That’s the weakness in their psychological armour. There’s always something. Aggression, or shame, or cowardice, or self-love: it’s obvious what it is from one individual to the next. You identify it, then you highlight it constantly, until they suppress it in themselves. That’s the trick to psychoanalysis. You make the patient do the work. No point being married to a man who isn’t properly bridled. They need to be broken in.’

  She gave a quick tug on an imaginary rein to illustrate the point. ‘Like this. You have to keep them off balance. Otherwise they’re no good, to you or to themselves. Otherwise they surrender to their love of power. They give no quarter, they don’t compromise, they believe they can run their worlds alone.’

  ‘But this gives me a perfect opening,’ said Daru, enthusiastically: ‘Compromise in politics! Let me escort you into the salon. I’ll tell you all about the first session of our European conciliation council. It’s only a month away.’

  And he offered his arm to Ady, who took it, and went ahead with him, glancing for a second at Josette.

  ‘I’m so susceptible!’ Ady said: ‘You understand. The charm of a diplomat!’

  We followed in their wake through a series of reception rooms.

  ‘Who is that woman?’ Josette asked me, almost under her breath. ‘She doesn’t sound as if she’s related to you. She’s obviously Hungarian. And why doesn’t she like Serghiana?’

  ‘She’s not. Not really,’ I said: ‘She’s a family friend.’

  Ady stopped. ‘I heard that—my treasure! My burden! Don’t deny me that way! Family friend! Wherever did you pick up that awful expression? If I’m not your family, who is? If I didn’t care for you, and pay the tuition fees for you, who would? And you—you want to hear why I don’t have any liking for Serghiana Semyonova? Obviously you don’t know what she’s capable of doing, and how few principles she has.’

  ‘Sh
e’s always been kind to me,’ said Josette.

  ‘Kind! Anyone can be kind when it suits their purposes. True kindness, selfless kindness, that’s something very rare, and it’s not present in her. I’ve had my dealings with Semyonova, and I can tell you: she was brought into the world to spread chaos and darkness, not harmony and light.’

  She gave me another glare even as she shifted her attention back to Daru. ‘Now—this conference you were telling me about.’

  ‘Council. A gathering at governmental level…’

  ‘And you want Novogrodsky.’

  ‘Madame,’ said Daru: ‘Let me explain!’

  ‘Do you think this doesn’t happen to me every day? Drop the preliminaries! When and where?’

  We were standing at the entrance to a large, lavishly decorated drawing room with a view of distant mountaintops. The manager appeared at Ady’s side.

  ‘Eppler! Rescue me!’

  ‘A minute, madame,’ said Daru: ‘One minute—that’s all I need to convince you.’

  ‘One minute, then,’ said Ady, an amused expression on her face.

  Daru breathed in, like a diver about to plunge into the sea. He began: ‘I could tell you all about our hopes and dreams; about our longing for a peaceful, reunited continent; I could tell you how we believe culture must light the way for politics, how pivotal our first meeting will be—but I want to speak more simply. It was my idea to approach your husband, mine alone. I was still a student when I first saw him perform. He gave a concert in Paris—symphonic, very beautiful—well-judged, well-paced, professional. Then he played an encore, a set of keyboard pieces. Just him: a dark stage, a spotlight, a harpsichord. He played Rameau. Up until that moment I believed I knew that composer’s works very well. I listened, from my seat high up. I felt I was being given the keys to understanding the music, that I was hearing the notes for the first time, that they were being passed directly from his hands into my heart. It was a visit to the realm of the sublime. I still see that evening and the scene before me: Novogrodsky did what no other performer has ever done for me—he lifted me up above the passing flow of time. That’s why I ask you. Not because of his prestige, not because of the celebrity that attaches to his name.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Ady, and made a quick clapping motion with her hands. ‘Superb, in fact. I’ll give him to you. Muscatine! Muscatine?’

  She looked around. ‘Where is that man? Impossible! We’ll make time for your council, I promise you. Novogrodsky was going to record a film next month, about the mountain origins of Parsifal, of all things. One of those mad ideas the publicity departments of record companies dream into being. They wanted to have my poor husband tramping up and down on the edge of the Suvretta glacier, and telling everyone how Wagner drew his leitmotifs from nature, how the music reflects the skyline of the Eastern Alps. Only a philosopher could come up with something as deranged as that. It has the smell of Nietzsche about it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Remember him?’ I said to Josette.

  ‘I remember that day very well,’ she whispered back: ‘The chicken bone!’

  ‘What are you two murmuring about?’ said Ady.

  ‘I was just saying it must be inspiring to be married to such a man,’ Josette said.

  ‘Inspiring! It’s like being tied to a panther in the jungle! He has no self-awareness. Everything in him is instinct. An impulse comes to him—he follows it. A need arises in him—he pursues it. Consideration for others is one tune that’s not in his repertoire. Do you know why he laid siege to me? Why he chased me round the world for years?’

  ‘Because he was in love with you? Because he thought you were beautiful? You would have been a great prize—even for a man like him.’

  ‘No: it was something else. Novogrodsky went on his hunt for me because he knew we were both made-up people, and he liked that—but above all he thought I made a visual rhyme with him. Really he married me because he knew I photographed well at his side.’

  ‘But why did you agree to marry him?’

  ‘Why did you say yes to your husband? Novogrodsky never gave me any peace. The easiest way to be rid of him was to accept him. I knew exactly what he was: an absence, not a presence, a man hollowed out by all his art. I accepted him as an exercise in self-denial. That must be plain enough!’

  She glanced back and spotted Muscatine scurrying towards us. ‘At last,’ she said: ‘I’ll never know why my husband feels the need to employ staff from these obscure eastern ethnicities! He had a Vlach chauffeur when I first met him: the things that man believed! What have you discovered on your travels, Muscatine? We’ve been looking for you high and low!’

  ‘Madame,’ he said, panting: ‘A call for you at the lobby. It’s the Maestro! His performance—it’s about to start. And flowers have arrived for you as well—from Hamburg: I’ve had them arranged in your bedroom upstairs.’

  ‘What a sweetheart,’ said Ady, almost purring: ‘How well he knows me! I’ll be back. These little phone talks only take a minute: he likes to hear my voice.’

  She hurried off, Muscatine behind her giving chase.

  ‘Such a magnificent creature,’ said Daru, watching her as she went. ‘So fitful. So flamboyant!’

  ‘It’s not hard to win you over, is it?’ said Josette.

  ‘How fortunate,’ he went on, ‘that we stumbled on our young friend!’

  ‘Stephane,’ she said, ‘try not to make too much of a fool of yourself.’

  ‘But this is like a dream come true. It lifts our project up into the skies. And I believe the president of the republic himself has a strong admiration for Novogrodsky. Truly a lucky day!’

  The hotel manager was upon us. He tried to take me by the hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said: ‘I’m not going to arrest you! I’m here to show you our great treasure, just as Madame Ady asked. See it, there, at the far end of the drawing room, in the place of honour, in the golden frame?’

  ‘The painting?’

  ‘More than a painting. The Madonna, painted by the hand of Raphael. Raffaello Sanzio. You know his name?’

  ‘I don’t think art scholarship has been a feature of his upbringing,’ said Daru.

  ‘Stephane!’ said Josette: ‘What a thing to say!’

  ‘So: have you spent much time in the company of Raphael?’ said Daru to me.

  ‘Maybe not,’ I answered.

  ‘See! How could he have?’ said Daru: ‘He’s been living in the East. To know Raphael in any serious way, you need to know the Louvre—or the Vatican.’

  ‘With one great exception, of course,’ said the manager: ‘The twin of this painting—the Sistine Madonna, lost from our world, alas, marooned in the gallery in Dresden: but if you look with clear eyes, the version here at Badrutt’s is even more perfect. Even more sublime.’

  ‘Are there degrees of sublimity?’ Daru murmured to Josette.

  Ady had reappeared. She stood beside us. ‘Tell him the full story, Eppler! Leave nothing out. Tell him about the artist, but don’t forget the mystery and the intrigue. It’s such a story! What do you think, my treasure? Isn’t it a lovely vision—so poised, so full of grace? We came here specially to see it—and there’s a lesson to be learned from it. Listen carefully, and afterwards I’ll give you a little test!’

  She gave me an encouraging tap on the shoulder. I gazed up at the canvas: the pair of bored-looking angels leaning on the parapet at the base of the composition, almost level with my eyes; the virgin and child in the centre, flanked by a pair of adoring saints; the speckled background, greyish, full of gauzy, angelic figures, hovering and indistinct.

  ‘She’s floating on clouds, in the air,’ I said: ‘The artist should have painted a bench or a platform for her to stand on.’

  There was general laughter.

  ‘How ridiculous,’ exclaimed Daru to Josette.

  ‘How delightful,’ said Josette.

  ‘Don’t make an exhibition of yourself,’ said Ady: ‘Be an adult among adults—and be on guard. Remember
others are always assessing you.’

  ‘She floats,’ said the manager: ‘Yes, she does, because the aether is her realm. She belongs above our world, she looks down upon us, contemplating the sins and sufferings of mankind, and the fate of the child she holds in her hands…’

  ‘Eppler, we can leave the theology to one side,’ said Ady, interrupting. ‘Introduce your hero!’

  ‘At once! In years gone by, our founder, Caspar Badrutt, was raised in this valley. He knew the beauties of the Engadine. He had a dream of what it could be. He built this palace, and it was his masterpiece: the emblem of its age, the model for a hundred other grand hotels across the Alps. But Caspar Badrutt was more than a businessman, more than a visionary in his special field. He had received an international education…’

  ‘Just like the one I’ve arranged for you, my treasure,’ said Ady in a stage whisper, and gave my hand a reassuring pat.

  The manager paused, and looked across at her for approval. She nodded: he went on.

  ‘Yes! He had a deep culture—a great love of art. It so happened that his father, Johannes, had acquired the painting you see before you, and many others, in the course of Italian travels, and this Madonna was a well-known work, a version of a famous masterpiece, one of the most famous paintings of the Renaissance. It was hung in its place of honour here soon after the completion of the new hotel—and all who came here praised its beauty, and saw it as an adornment to the palace Badrutt had christened with his family name. A version—a studio copy. But is it? Is that all it is? You can look for yourself. You can judge. Does it seem to you a workshop imitation, by a lesser hand, with the stiffness and lifelessness that all copies have, or is it rich and poignant and full of the breath of life? Caspar Badrutt was an intellect, but he also had something of the detective about him. He began to investigate the painting. He found out the details of its history, he chased down every lead. He came to his conclusion: that the work his father had acquired was the original, and the celebrated altarpiece in Dresden the copy. He set out his thesis in a monograph—a challenge to the art historians. It was a lavish publication—it was widely noticed.’