Red Heaven

by Nicolas Rothwell

  ‘I hardly ever see her,’ I said: ‘I scarcely know her anymore.’

  ‘Is that so?’ she said, sarcastically. ‘She doesn’t seem to think that way. She talks about you all the time.’

  ‘I thought she was getting ready to say goodbye on this trip.’

  ‘It may be so. That would only add to the pull—affection rises up when it’s about to come to an end.’

  ‘Actually, I thought she was treating you like a favourite. Don’t you and she get on? You seem to—just fine.’

  She stared back at me. ‘You believe it’s a relationship of equals? Be serious. What choice do I have? I’m just another in the long parade of underlings from Eastern Europe she and Novo collect and make use of and then discard.’

  ‘And am I that, too?’

  ‘You want me to do your thinking for you? That’s for you to work out.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, and went back over the balustrade.

  Elista came up. ‘Did it work, anyhow?’ she asked in an abrupt way.

  ‘Did what work?’

  ‘Her stories—while you slept. Did you have Freudian dreams?’

  ‘What should I have been dreaming about?’

  ‘Don’t you remember any of what she was telling you? You ought to know all that anyway. It’s famous. Dora’s dreams: the dream of the house on fire, the dream of the strange forest. No? Nothing? You should go inside now, and find Madame Ady. She was asking for you. She told me to go and wake you. She’s on the terrace, over there, with the director from Bregenz. I’ll show you—I’ve got a message for her. I have to interrupt them.’

  ‘Then we can explore, afterwards?’

  ‘She’ll take you. She’s in a good mood. Their little negotiation’s been going well. She wants Bregenz to program Novo’s Eastern Orchestra for next year: his youth orchestra.’

  She looked at me expectantly. ‘The new project,’ she said: ‘You must know all about it.’

  ‘Are you part of it?’ I asked.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I’m not that musical,’ I said.

  ‘Everyone is,’ said Elista, rather scornfully: ‘We are music: haven’t you heard all that before?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Maestro’s doctrine: what he teaches in every masterclass. We’re each one of us like phrases of music—we have to find them inside ourselves and express them: sing ourselves into being. No?’

  ‘You seem to know everything about your protectors,’ I said.

  ‘And I have the feeling you’ve still got some things to learn about them.’

  She said this in an offhand fashion, almost laughing, speaking over her shoulder as she led the way back into the hotel. There, at a table in the sunshine, was Ady, leaning back in relaxed fashion, shading her eyes against the glare. A grey-haired, earnest-looking man was seated opposite her, speaking to her in an animated fashion, his hands interlaced.

  ‘That’s the festival director,’ said Elista in a low voice into my ear: ‘And I think you’ve already come across the man sitting at madame’s side.’

  Next to Ady, whispering something to her, was another figure, younger, wearing a linen jacket, his back to us. There was something familiar about this individual—I looked again. I told myself he looked almost like Stephane Daru. At that instant the man turned his head, noticed me, nodded and even waved: it was Daru—his face tanned, his hair longer than when I had seen him last years earlier, a fret line stamped on his forehead—but it was him. Ady had also spotted us; she made a sign for us to wait.

  ‘You understand, madame,’ the stranger said: ‘If only your husband would agree to conduct.’

  ‘No,’ she interrupted in a forceful way: ‘If only you’d understand! It’s an orchestra for the young. My husband’s seventy-five years old. And it’s an international project—the conductor’s magnificent—we’re lucky to have him—he’s from the conservatory in Kiev. It’s not a cause that speaks to you?’

  ‘It’s a dream, madame—an unfulfillable one. Brotherhood across borders—concerts in the public squares of eastern capitals. It’s as if you and your husband believe the twentieth century isn’t real.’

  ‘Not at all—we simply want to bring it to an end. What seems permanent can be made provisional; what seems hopeless can be the start of hope. When you’ve lived lives like ours, you tend to believe in lost causes—the wildest dreams—they’re all that’s left.’

  ‘But that makes things very political for us, madame.’

  Ady reached over, and tapped the grey-haired man’s hand, and looked into his eyes. ‘That’s exactly the point,’ she said: ‘Don’t you want to do something worthwhile with your position? Don’t you live and breathe for that? Wasn’t that what you dreamed of when you were appointed? I seem to remember you came to visit Novogrodsky less than a year ago and told him so yourself—told him exactly that.’

  She paused then, and laughed in her most engaging way. ‘Best not to answer. You know what I want—what we expect. I’ll leave you two together to come to some kind of understanding.’ She got to her feet.

  Elista leaned over to me. ‘That’s what she always does,’ she said in a low voice: ‘Creates a vacuum around herself: a mystery out of nothing. It’s her favourite trick.’

  ‘Is it a trick?’

  ‘That’s what all power is.’

  Ady was upon us. ‘You two—how pleased I am to see it: just like brother and sister, whispering to each other: getting on so well.’

  ‘Madame,’ said Elista: ‘Frolich from the record company rang and left a message for you. He’s in Zürich already, waiting for us. For the meeting you arranged. I called him back. He’s worried something’s wrong. He’s afraid you’re going to cancel. He says he absolutely has to see you. He has an idea he wants to outline: to propose to you.’

  ‘An idea,’ echoed Ady, in a voice of amusement: ‘That’s when record-company people become dangerous.’

  ‘And he needs to fly back in two days’ time.’

  ‘How did he sound?’ said Ady.

  ‘Insistent.’

  ‘So let him come here. Call him again. Tell him to drive over to us. It’s not that far. It’ll do him good to see the Alps in autumn. We can fit him in, can’t we? Tomorrow morning, just as arranged. We can all enjoy his company and his eloquence.’

  ‘That’s the message you want me to pass on to him, madame—you’re sure?’

  ‘Don’t I sound sure? He’s American: it won’t make any difference to him what grand hotel we meet in—or what country.’

  Elista retreated. Ady took my hand. ‘Treasure,’ she said: ‘Come with me—I’ve arranged a splendid breakfast for you at the table. All my favourites from my childhood here: I had the concierge go specially to buy them: fresh patisseries, from König’s on the Corso—walnut cakes, strudel, tiramisu.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can manage all that.’

  ‘Of course you can—you need nourishment for all your studies. And they’re light, and delicate. I loved them when I was your age—if you’re still hungry later we can go there and try their Meranertorte this afternoon. I’ve nearly finished with our friend from Bregenz: then we’ll set off. We’ll follow the river, walk the summer promenade as far as we can go.’

  Daru had made his way over to us. ‘It’s done, madame,’ he said: ‘And as you wished.’

  ‘You know my handsome peacock already, don’t you?’ said Ady to me: ‘I’ll leave you with him a moment.’ She let go of my hand, as if signalling the end of a dance.

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Daru to me. ‘Are you so surprised?’

  ‘I thought you were far away,’ I said: ‘I thought you were still a diplomat—an ambassador, in fact—in South Vietnam.’

  He recoiled as if he’d just been dealt a blow. ‘You shouldn’t mock me that way. It was the dream of my heart. I’d be in the skies of happiness if that were true. Whoever could have told you such a thing?’

  I hesitated.

  �
��Don’t say—I can guess. Believe me, I asked for that posting, I pleaded for it—but as you can see, my career in diplomacy hasn’t advanced. Your aunt was kind enough to take an interest in me. I was able to put my ideas to her: it was at the time when her husband was just setting up his orchestra. So I work in his interest now.’

  ‘And is that better than what you were doing before?’

  ‘It’s wonderful—to have a cause to believe in.’

  ‘And that’s a change?’

  ‘It’s as if I’m returning to what I once was: music was my special refuge—my only refuge—when I was a boy growing up in an empty house in Saigon. I loved the piano: I played from very young—I even used to compose my own pieces—in the style of Ravel, and Debussy: I wanted to found a school of hybrid music there: West and East together; two traditions into one.’

  ‘And do you still want to do that?’

  He looked into my eyes for a moment. A pained expression came over him.

  ‘Do you have hopes of that kind?’ he asked. ‘You should hold on to them. The dreams of childhood are the best things we have in life.’

  ‘You seem very different,’ I said.

  ‘People change sometimes, when their circumstances change—or they come back to their true selves. I wonder if you still see Semyonova?’

  ‘Not recently,’ I said.

  ‘You mean you’re in Madame Ady’s orbit now?’

  ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘We both are! I don’t lament Semyonova’s fate, I have to say—although I admired her, and feared her, and made use of her as well—whenever I could.’

  ‘What fate?’

  ‘She’s nothing, now—or at least not what she was. No connections. When she gave up Moscow, she gave up all her power. It’s as if she’s vanished from the landscape here. She still produces, films on art, I think, and period dramas, all in California—but here in Europe you rarely come across her name. You’re better off with Madame Ady anyway. She’s a gentler kind of autocrat.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I said.

  ‘Believe me—I can make the comparison. I know.’

  He gave me a slightly distracted smile, and went back to the table.

  ‘You don’t seem very comfortable with Stephane,’ said Elista, coming up to me.

  ‘Do you know him well?’

  ‘He’s only just started working for the Novogrodskys.’

  ‘He was always very cold towards to me—until now,’ I said.

  ‘Really? I’ve never met someone whose personality I find more warm-hearted and open. There’s a lightness about him: I can’t imagine him being anything but kind. Perhaps it’s more you: your nature. You seem to be on guard always—with everyone.’

  ‘If it’s me, and something in my nature, how would I be able to tell?’ I started saying, but Ady swept towards us again.

  ‘Come,’ she said to me: ‘We’ll go off to inspect my birthright. Elista—I leave you with the peacock. Call the record man. And don’t forget your appointment: Fragsburg at midday—then down again to meet us.’

  She turned back to me, and took me by the arm. We walked in silence for a short while.

  ‘I saw you talking to Elista before,’ she said then: ‘Outside, by the river. As if you were arguing: sparring with each other.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps I was imagining things—but that’s the way it looked to me. She’s still finding her place among us. Be kind to her: be friendly. Try. I can tell you don’t care for her. It’s natural. She’s my new companion—you’re jealous.’

  ‘I’m not. I was never your companion.’

  ‘Yes, you were—of course you were—but now you’re growing up, becoming what you should be—what you really are: a watcher of life’s parade, a composed and well-defended creature: safe in yourself. That’s what I wanted you to be. That’s what I promised I would do for you. And our paths are separating; they won’t cross so much in the years to come. You know that yourself already; you’ve hardened yourself against me. I can see it in you.’

  ‘Please,’ I said: ‘Don’t think that.’

  ‘My treasure—you look so sad, suddenly. Don’t be: life’s sad enough as it is. Just open yourself up to me one last time—will you: will you do that for me?’

  I nodded my head.

  ‘And don’t be confused. No need. This is the way we agreed things would be.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Your first guardian and I felt it would be for the best—if you had every choice, if you were bound to nothing; as free as you could possibly be.’

  ‘You mean Serghiana Ismailovna?’

  ‘How Slavic of you! I do mean Semyonova.’

  ‘I used to think that you and she never agreed on anything. That you were enemies. You always made it sound as if you were.’

  ‘It’s not quite that way. It never was. Enemies are the people whom you fight. It’s simply that we’re unlike each other. You understand that, don’t you? We couldn’t ever be friends—our backgrounds are too different; the things we care about are different, the way we live our lives is different; in fact the only point we have in common that I can call to mind is you.’

  We had reached one of the river bridges: Ady stopped. ‘How I love that sound,’ she said: ‘I always have: the song of the river—its name’s much better in Italian: Torrente Passirio: with its glacier water—deathly pure and icy cold. Take my hand again, but do it properly, this time, gracefully, casually, as if we were strolling together on the Ringstrasse, and without a care in the world. Stay in step: we’ll do the rounds—see all the sights—sights in the town of ghosts.’

  ‘Why do you call it that?’

  ‘There’s a ghost at every corner for me; behind every facade. I’ve thought of this place so much—it’s in my dreams each night. I’ve come back here so often in my mind. Can you tell what I’m thinking: right now, when I look across the river, and see the Kurhaus and its statues, or Theaterplatz, with its gabled houses and its colonnades? Can you?’

  ‘You’re smiling,’ I said. ‘You look happy: but thoughtful, as well.’

  ‘The mountains don’t change,’ she said: ‘That’s what I was thinking. And the faces of the people are still the same—only the buildings change. So much new; so much gone. Down that street, that was the way to the Waldpark, to Bermann’s sanatorium—my father knew him well, and Balog, too, and Lustig: he knew every one of the specialists: the pioneers who offered radiation cures.’

  I looked at her.

  ‘You don’t believe me? It’s true. The hills are radioactive. That’s why the soil’s so fertile, and the vines and fruit trees grow so well. That’s why Merano became famous in the first place, and so many of the doctors who were already famous in the capital moved their clinics here. They used to prescribe a special diet of grape juice—juice and thermal baths: they wanted to irradiate their patients back to health. And there were doctors for the mind and heart as well: people crossed the mountains to come here as though they were travelling to a promised realm of happiness.’

  ‘But what about you? Why did you leave Vienna? Why did your father bring you here?’

  ‘I’m telling you the story. Just listen. It was for a different reason. The obvious reason. He saw ahead. And of course he loved the mountains—but in another way. He liked to say they were our barrier, our secret fortress, they were a wall of granite, protecting us from harm; but he always said it jokingly: I was still too young when we first arrived here to understand what he meant. I was constantly asking him to take me walking on the mountain paths; he said the time might come, and I should read the guidebooks; and I did: I studied them.’

  ‘At school?’

  ‘No—I had tutors—I would have gone to some school for young ladies in due course, I imagine, in France, or Switzerland, maybe—but I wasn’t much older than you are now when I saw Merano for the last time. Come—keep up with me.’

  She looked round, and smiled, and stretched out he
r hands: ‘How strange the feeling is. Like walking through a world of crystal. Everything I knew and cared for here has vanished, it’s gone, but I can see it still. That’s where the Villa Steiner was, and there, over the bridge—the Post Bridge, with all that latticework of gilt and silver—the first building on that side was Wassermann’s, the photographic studio: I had my picture taken there on my birthday, every year; next door was the jeweller, and then it was just a few houses to Feldschareck’s, the piano school: that’s where I went for my lessons: Tuesdays and Thursdays, at three in the afternoon.’

  ‘You remember everything!’

  ‘No—it would be more truthful to say I’ve built a life on hiding memories from myself: on looking past them, never coming back to them.’

  She walked on for a while, then stopped abruptly in front of an imposing townhouse with a covered entrance and heavy, dark-painted double doors. There was a new expression on her face: tender, uncertain, dismayed.

  ‘Where are we now?’ I asked her: ‘This must have been something grand.’

  ‘It was a great landmark. Can’t you picture it? Can’t you guess? This was the headquarters of my father’s empire across the mountains: his trading bank—the Bank of Vienna and Tyrol. I came here every afternoon to collect him, and the staff gave me little salutes of greeting when I walked in: I’d go up to his office, his secretary would announce me, and then, whatever he was doing, whoever was there with him, he’d break off; we’d go out together to the balcony and watch the sky changing colour, and we’d talk as the sun went down. That was our ritual: I looked forward to it every day. Let’s not linger: it’s changed too much. Everything has. It hurts me just to be here—more than I thought it would.’

  ‘You expected it to make you sad, and still you wanted to come?’

  ‘We came so I could show you all this. Don’t you think it’s a proper part of your education? No one’s wholly European or civilised unless they know the stories of old Meran: the charm of its past, the charm that lulls.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t sound very sure. Look around you. The literature of longing—on all sides. There, on the Corso, or on the Post Bridge, you could have caught sight of Ungaretti; in the town castle’s courtyard, Julien Green; along Portici, the architect Orlando; down the Winkelweg, poor Morgenstern, who came looking for health and found only illness and decline. Name me the dreamer who hasn’t washed up here. The prince of them all, as well! I had Stephane find the villa on the Maiastraße for us. It’s not far from here—the Ottoburg, where Kafka stayed, sitting on his terrace in the sunshine and working on The Trial—you know all about him, at least, don’t you?’