Red Heaven

by Nicolas Rothwell

  ‘Madame, if I may,’ said Amborn: ‘The Rosenberg in St. Gallen is very well regarded.’

  ‘I’ve already been there,’ I said.

  ‘Is there anywhere you haven’t been?’ Ady asked me: ‘What about Austria?’

  ‘That would be wonderful. I could come and stay with you then, in Vienna, couldn’t I?’

  ‘There’s probably only room for one child in our household, my treasure. Any other suggestions?’

  ‘I was sent to school in Salzburg for a brief period,’ said Amborn: ‘With the monks.’

  ‘A good education? Broadly based?’

  ‘Certainly, but it wasn’t for the faint of heart.’

  ‘Are you just going to decide like this?’ said Josette, in a voice of outrage: ‘Right now, on the spur of the moment, as an afterthought, an entertainment to follow on from the tea and cakes?’

  ‘I take no pleasure from these circumstances, I can assure you,’ said Ady: ‘I feel almost like the Madonna before us in the painting, thrusting her child into the harsh world!’

  ‘What a comparison!’ said Josette.

  ‘Quite original,’ said Daru.

  ‘We have a plan, as it happens,’ Ady continued, in a calm voice: ‘Don’t we, Muscatine? It’s a good plan. I simply wanted to know whether any of you had ideas for us. I’d hoped to wait another year, but I just don’t see any way of avoiding it. We have a school in mind already. I’m sure it’ll be a good surprise.’ She gave me a look: a look that blended sympathy and aloofness.

  ‘Where?’ I said.

  She turned to Muscatine. ‘You’ve already enrolled him, haven’t you, as a precaution?’

  ‘I have, madame. Though I feel sorry for him. It’s such a momentous change.’

  ‘You mean it’s all already decided?’ I said: ‘You knew all the time you were going to do this when you came to collect me today: everything you were saying to the headmaster, about your husband visiting, and rehearsing with the music students, it was all made up—it was just a game, a game you both were playing with him?’

  ‘Don’t work yourself up into such a state,’ said Ady, almost laughing: ‘Muscatine and I do that all the time. Games and acts are part of life. You’ll be master of your own destiny soon enough, I promise you: for all the rest of your life, and there are times when that bitter freedom seems to last forever. Thank me for making decisions for you. For thinking of your interests. It’ll be a dream come true. You’ll adore it—won’t he, Muscatine?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But where are you sending me?’ I insisted.

  ‘To America—where else? The promised land.’

  IV

  Chastè

  THE STEWARDESS LED the way downstairs into the arrivals hall, her hand clutching my wrist. She glanced about. I did the same. She watched me.

  ‘Do you actually know the person meeting you here?’

  ‘By initials, perhaps,’ I said.

  ‘What? But look—over there—that must be him, wearing blue jeans, in that strange khaki jacket. Yes—see—he’s got a placard with your name on it.’

  She pointed out a youngish man with long, floppy hair and a bored expression on his face, standing at the end of the walkway and holding up a piece of cardboard.

  ‘Spelled wrong,’ I began to say, but the stewardess had forged ahead.

  ‘You’re from the film company? This boy’s for you.’

  The man looked down at me, and touched the plastic badge around my neck. ‘Unaccompanied Minor,’ he read out: ‘Sure—I’ll take him.’

  He turned to me. ‘Let’s make tracks. Your flight came in very late. No way we’ll get to where we’re going before dark.’

  ‘Who are you?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t sound so suspicious. I’m Lipsett. But we can be informal: Corey, to you, I think. Your aunt sent me. I’m her production assistant. And now I’m your driver, too.’

  ‘She’s my great-aunt, not my aunt.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid—Madame Semyonova’s not old enough to be anyone’s great-aunt. Besides, she’s already told me the story—how she’s looking after you, and making a path in life for you—out of the kindness of her heart—not that it’s so very obvious to me she has one!’

  ‘Why are there all these police with machine guns everywhere?’

  ‘They’re not machine guns, they’re submachine guns. Much more effective against terror. The weapon of choice. Don’t you read the news? Zürich airport gets hit all the time.’

  ‘For real?’

  ‘Frightened? No need—we’re not going to be hanging around. Is that all your luggage—just one little case? Come on, then—let’s pile into the cruiser. Where did I pull up, now? I’ve been waiting for you so long I’ve almost forgotten.’

  I followed him. We roamed through the airport car park, up and down the rows of vehicles. At last he stopped in front of a low-slung red sports car.

  ‘Is this yours?’

  ‘Sure—you think I’m just going to drive off in one at random? Doesn’t it meet with your approval? It’s an Alpha—a special model GTA.’

  ‘It’s very small.’

  ‘And very fast, and super-cool. You were expecting a limo? A big, shiny black Russian ZiL, perhaps?’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To Sils Maria—don’t you know anything? You don’t look very happy to be here. Not many schoolboys I know would complain about a free trip to the mountains in the middle of term-time.’

  ‘I’m missing things at school.’

  ‘Don’t kid a kidder! I spoke to them myself. I fixed the whole thing. They were cool with it. They said it was family week. And you’re here to see your extended family. What could be more natural?’

  ‘It’s family weekend, actually. And the idea is that the family comes to the school.’

  ‘Family weekend—how harmonious that sounds. They didn’t have that in my day.’

  ‘You went to school there too?’

  ‘To the same kind of place—a while ago. Things have moved on: but I know the vibe, that’s for sure. You should be grateful to us for getting you out of there. When I was your age I’d have killed for a week or two off school—and to be in on the first stages of a movie project as well. What a blast! Hardly anyone gets to have that kind of experience.’ ‘And that’s what I’m doing here?’

  ‘Madame Semyonova told me she sent you all the details in a telegram.’

  ‘It didn’t say very much. I’ve got it with me—it’s folded up in my passport—see.’

  He reached out. ‘Hey—I’ve never seen one of these before: “Československa Socialistická Republiká—Cestovní Pas”—from the other side of the Iron Curtain: that’s wild!’

  ‘You’re pronouncing it all the wrong way!’

  He opened it, and glanced through its pages. ‘Here you are. What a photo! As if you’d just emerged from some communist detention camp. And look at the personal data! They seem very interested in the colour of your eyes, but nothing else.’

  He held it up, and looked into my face: ‘And they even got the colour wrong—they’re blue, not grey. Typical Eastern Bloc efficiency! A passport like this wouldn’t take you very far in this part of Europe. It’s about to expire as well. What will you do then?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Don’t look so worried—I’m just joking. And this is the telegram? Let me see a second.’

  He read it out loud. ‘Ticket waiting—all arranged with school—CL—that’s me, of course—to meet you at Kloten—scoping new film: rendezvous at Waldhaus—bizous, Serghiana. See—what could be clearer? And she must really like you. Bizous! She’s never normally affectionate that way with anyone. Okay, then: ready? Let’s move.’

  He set off with a screech of the tyres and took the main road leading into Zürich. He drove fast. Soon we were in the downtown, near the river, in a maze of crossing streets.

  ‘I think I’m lost,’ he said.

  ‘That direction, go there�
��along the lake shore—then you just follow the signs—Chur—Sargans—Julier Pass: lots of twists and turns.’

  ‘You know your way around!’

  ‘Of course I know the road—I was at the school in the valley near St. Moritz all through last year.’

  ‘So you know the hotel too.’

  ‘The one with the tower, and the battlements?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘You could just see it, sometimes,’ I said: ‘On walks, or from the funiculars and chairlifts, once you were high up and the landscape was spread out below you—all the lakes, and the lines of the peaks—it was in the distance, above the roofs of the other buildings, on its own—it looked like a castle in another world.’

  ‘That’s exactly what it is—especially these days.’

  ‘And that’s where you’re going to be making your film—in a hotel?’

  ‘No—it’s just the base camp. The hotel wasn’t even there in the plot time. You know the story, don’t you: the Nietzsche saga?’

  ‘I know lots about him,’ I said.

  ‘Like what? He’s a mystery to me, and I’ve been researching him all year. Go on—tell me!’

  ‘Well: I know he was Swiss, and a writer, and—and he spent time in the mountains—and his life didn’t end that well.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And—that’s it.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘And now I know Great-Aunt Serghiana’s making a film about him.’

  ‘Thinking about making it. She’s always got several projects underway. S-Film’s branching out—that’s why she brought me in—to write the Nietzsche script.’

  ‘S-Film?’

  ‘Her new company. She’s got an unusual take on the story. Don’t you want to know? Or is it all too complicated for you?’

  ‘Of course I do—I’m not a child.’

  ‘You’re not—what are you, then?’

  ‘We’re taught at school to say we’re young but empowered, we’re the new generation—we’re people of potential.’

  ‘Is that what they’re teaching these days? Well—Nietzsche’s definitely for you. And Semyonova sees him as a young hero. She’s starting with the romance, of course—you have to if you want a modern take on him.’

  ‘The romance?’

  ‘The great affair—the impossible love. Nietzsche and Lou, the drama of his life. No—that rings no bells? Listen—I’ll fill you in—I’ll even pitch the story to you. It’s good practice for me.’

  ‘Pitch it?’

  ‘Yes, while we drive. So: you pretend you’re running a film studio—and I’m the screenwriter, coming in to your office in Hollywood to run through my script. You’re the executive in charge of productions, a movie mogul—I’m trying to win you over: okay? I’ll break it down for you: the basics—the pattern. Let’s call it “Nietzsche in Love”—that’s just a working title. We meet our hero: he’s a prodigy, he’s troubled, he’s on edge. He’s thrown over his professorship, he’s on the move, he’s looking for a place to work, for peace and quiet, he’s tried everywhere—mountains, the Mediterranean, the south. Pure chance brings him to the Engadine. It becomes his special haven: the secret home from home where he can write. It’s the 1880s: and that’s the great decade for him: his ideas are pouring out. We hear them on the soundtrack when we first see him—a mesh of different voices, all conflicting, all fading in and out. But it’s not just a film about him. No film worth anything’s ever about what it seems to be about: there’s always a higher theme.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course—that’s the way with every work of art. Subtexts, opposites that complete the initial picture, and also undercut it, and give it dimension and relief. It’s a film all about light—the light that blinds; light, insight, alpine light—and enlightenment as well, the world of reason that the hero loves, and hates, and overthrows. In light he sees destruction—and that’s not a metaphor, believe me—he can barely see, his eyes are so weak the gleam from the blue sky almost destroys them: light fills the screen all through the movie, but at the end there’s darkness, there’s a fall, disaster comes, and with it a new mood, new visuals—suddenly everything’s refracted, filtered; the focus blurs, there’s nothing but sepia tones. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds complicated.’

  ‘I didn’t mean how it sounds to you—that was a prompt—for the studio guy I’m pitching to.’

  ‘The imaginary one?’

  ‘Yes—anyway: we’ve met the hero. We meet his foil, too—his best friend: a handsome, engaging, rich young man—Paul Rée: and Rée’s like a brother to Nietzsche, kind and understanding—but Rée’s also a tormentor, just because of all that kindness and understanding. He’s everything Nietzsche can’t be—he’s calm, he finds ideas intriguing rather than oppressive; the world he sees is something straightforward he can master, it holds no deep secrets, it wears a pleasant face. And then there’s the love interest who divides the two of them—she’s a creature made for film: Lou Salomé. If she wasn’t in Nietzsche’s life you’d write her into it; she’s brilliant, and beautiful and unpredictable. And the plotline’s in a perfect shape already: three acts, meeting, romance, dark climax—and curtain: a potent end. We’ll close it all out with music—Wagner, of course.’

  He made a dramatic hand gesture for emphasis: the car swerved. ‘Don’t worry! All under control.’

  ‘And that’s it? The whole movie?’

  ‘No—that’s just the outline. Then there’s the casting to talk through. Almost more important. The story’s got big characters—we need big stars. The female lead’s the key—I must say I had Julie Christie in my thoughts. I think that’s the point when the studio guy laughs, and inwardly he starts to pay attention. And I say to him then, sure—it’s an ideas film, that’s true, but it can be a star vehicle as well: it’s made for grand performances. It’s not some trite costume drama: it’s nothing like that. It’ll be modern, it’ll be a film worthy of its hero. The critics will sit up and take notice of it. We’ll use intercutting, we’ll break down the walls of place and time. Flashbacks, of course, and flashbacks within flashbacks: the whole script’s structured as a memory: Nietzsche’s already left the world behind. We see him as he was in Rome, when he and Lou first meet. We see the three stars together in Luzern: a brief, golden interlude, they set off from there exploring, they take little excursions, they’re happy, friends. We see the primal scene, of course—at Orta, on the holy mountain, where Lou and Nietzsche have their romantic moment. What a backdrop—it’s perfect cinema. First his memory of that day’s shown; then hers—they don’t match. That’s the dream; the lovely dream that breaks—then, right on its heels, the nightmare—his collapse: he’s in Turin, in the piazza. And after that the fadeout. Dementia takes him—he lives on for a decade in a bedroom in his sister’s house, the sickness slowly eating his brain and spinal column away.’

  ‘What?’ I said: ‘That’s horrible!’

  He looked over at me. ‘You told me you knew all about him. You don’t—do you? How can I explain it tactfully?’

  ‘There was a dark force in him?’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘I guess that’ll do: for now, anyway. So: try this out: how I see it opening. First shots: we ride with him, the camera’s with him, in tight close-up. Then it pulls back—we see his face, half-lit and half-shadowed: remember, he’s the hero and the anti-hero at the same time. We’re high up in the peaks—but he’s no alpinist, his eyes are so shot he has to wear dark glasses whenever he’s outside, and he wears a hat and a kind of veil as well.’

  ‘That would look funny, wouldn’t it—in a movie?’

  ‘Yes—it’s a problem—but not the only one. The key scene in the script’s a vision, or a visitation, after all.’

  ‘What kind of vision?’

  ‘You could see it as a meeting with an angel—or a devil. Semyonova’s got some way of showing it—but she won’t tell me what it is. She’s still looking for her director. So
metimes it sounds as if she wants to set the whole film in modern times, and turn it into a kind of Cold War parable. I know exactly what I’d do: shoot the vision scene in black and white, bleached out, overexposed—the way Bergman does sometimes, for nightmares, and for waking dreams.’

  We were making good time—the roads were clear. Lake Zürich was already far behind us: the late sun was shining on the peaks. I gazed out.

  ‘How strange it is,’ I said, ‘coming this way and seeing all this.’

  ‘Like coming home?’

  ‘In a way. Like coming back to somewhere I thought I’d never see again.’

  ‘I used to feel that way about Williamstown, Massachusetts! Can you believe that, dude? And now here I am!’

  ‘But how did you get to be here? And get to work for Great-Aunt Serghiana?’

  ‘Oh—contacts,’ he said, vaguely: ‘Recommendations, networking, that’s the way this world runs. The human element. I don’t exactly work for her: I’m more like a student of hers, or an intern, in a way. But she’s coming to rely on me, more and more. We’ve got plans. It’s just she’s got too many old projects and old hangers-on. She has to change: that’s what I keep telling her—to move to international productions, to America. And that’s where I come in. She must have thought I could help her because I had a background in American film.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘God, no! I majored in Russian literature and twentieth-century politics. I wanted to take the State Department exam. The last thing I expected then was to wind up working for a communist like her! But you have to start somewhere, don’t you? Not be too doctrinaire. I would have stayed on and done a master’s, that would have been the safe thing—but the time just wasn’t right: it was the end of the sixties, those were days of madness. I wanted drama; I wanted poetry and adventure. So I took a Pan Am flight to Paris instead—I had to see the revolution on the streets. When I tell Semyonova that she just laughs at me: but I did. I was there, I saw it all, I soaked it up. I fell in with the Cahiers crowd there: movie journalists: in-touch people. They’d heard about this project early on: they steered me this way, and here I am—almost by accident—right at the vanguard of international film-making.’