Red Heaven

by Nicolas Rothwell

  ‘But your father never thought of escaping; trying to get away?’

  ‘Escape to where? Get away to where? We were in safety—we’d already escaped: that’s what he thought. For him, it would have been unthinkable to run from Europe. He felt safe here, he was sure all would be well under the Italians—and for years he was right. But you know how this story ends, don’t you? It ends here—by the riverbank: by this cold torrent.’

  We had retraced our steps as she was speaking; we had crossed the bridge with gilt and silver railings. Ady sank down on a stone bench; she made a sign to me to sit with her.

  ‘We could go back to our table from yesterday,’ I said: ‘It’s just there, in the sunshine.’

  ‘No—stay with me—beneath the climbing vine in flower—it’s always flowering here. It was a day like this when things changed for us: it was also in September. We had no warning: the Germans came. There was a fleet of transport trucks with soldiers in them—aircraft for the officers. That’s where they set up their headquarters—right there, in that building, across the river, see—that one, the Palace Hotel. There were guards at the gate, and flags flying—they even draped their banners over the Kurhaus facade. They took back the Tyrol—this whole valley—it happened overnight. Everything beautiful can be destroyed.’

  She hesitated for a second.

  ‘Or it wouldn’t be beautiful?’ I said.

  ‘Indeed not. They marched in—and our paradise became our hell.’ She looked over to me. ‘Prompt me,’ she said, in a whisper: ‘Please—I can’t go on.’

  I did as she asked: once; twice. She thanked me: her voice grew stronger.

  ‘The next day, there was a proclamation, and a rally in the old town; they gave their orders; we saw their soldiers searching everywhere. My father held a meeting in his office for the directors and the managers—even the ones from Chiusa and Bolzano, from furthest away. They began early; it was evening before they were done. Then they all came back to our apartment. We ate together. They were guarded in front of me—but I understood. I asked my father that night: “What will happen to us?”’

  ‘Aunt Ady—do I have to hear the rest of this story?’

  ‘You do. You wouldn’t be the child of my heart if you didn’t. After they’d all gone I stayed up with my father—we talked into the small hours. You know how close I was to him; he’d always sheltered me. That night he told me everything. We were sitting in his study, in the half-light, surrounded by his treasures: his Egyptian figurines, his vases from Crimea, his statuettes of Scythian gold. “And now I have to say goodbye to all these things,” he said to me: “I have to leave them behind—this one, and this, and this; I chose them and collected them: I loved them all—but they mean nothing to me beside you: and I have to say goodbye to you too. We’ll say our farewells now, here, just the two of us—and when tomorrow comes, show no emotion. Master yourself. Always hide your feelings from the world. Never weaken. Never show your grief or pain to anyone.” I sobbed and cried in front of him. I cried my heart out. That was the last time. Never since. He saw far into the future. He told me what to do—how to live in the years ahead. Go out into the world: stake your claim: survive. Never forget; never drop your guard. “How quiet it is tonight,” I whispered to him. “It’s the way things always are in times like these,” he said: “Still everywhere, still and quiet. The servants are all gone; I sent them away. They won’t be coming back.” I fell asleep beside him, there in the study: I slept until the morning light. When I woke he was leaning back against his work desk, watching me. He was dressed as if for a country outing: a suit of linen, a shirt and cravat. “Did I dream it all?” I asked him. “No,” he said: “Our dreams are all cancelled—gone. Memories—those you can still have—it’s harder to steal them away.” We talked more: about his childhood; about what I remembered from when I was a young girl and we still lived in our house high up on Castle Hill—we went on talking as long as we could.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Little things—foolish things. I remember every word; I’m grateful for every word. Then the time came: we walked out together—from the apartment to this bench, beside the riverbank—it’s not far. I wanted that walk to last forever. “Does it have to be like this?” I asked him. “Everything’s arranged,” he said to me: “As much as it can be—of course, though, one can never think of everything. How beautiful the mountains and the slopes and orchards look today. It’s the time of year I love most—late summer, with the faintest hint of autumn in the air. Go back to the apartment. You’ll find Pavlikova waiting at the entrance. She’ll take you; she knows her way in the mountains; she knows what to do.” He touched my hand. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’ll watch over you.” Two officers in black uniform were standing in the little park beside the Palace, talking to each other casually, laughing. Then one of them looked at his watch, and made a sign. They began walking towards the bridge. “My child,” my father said, “these men are here for me. Remember everything I’ve told you. Now walk away from me—walk away from me as if you don’t know who I am—walk fast and don’t look back.”’

  *

  Years went by—a decade, more. I studied, I chose a path in life: I made my way. I had fallen out of touch with Ady; I was becoming what she had wanted me to be: I was an observer in the worlds of others; I recorded their impressions and masked my own. We were in the last days of 1989: the turmoil of that autumn in Eastern Europe was near its end. I was staying at a hotel in Zürich, waiting for a new photographer to join me. He was coming in by plane: his flight was late. I set aside my work and walked down to the lake shore, and watched the last cruise boats gliding in. Sunset; a clouded sky; winter chill. How long it had been since I was last there! An age ago: in childhood. Why not use the empty hours? Why not retrace my steps—walk along the Mythenquai, walk down its winding paths, walk and feel the wind from the lake blowing? There was the lido, where it was always too cold to swim; there was the villa, high up, where Wagner used to live; and here, close by, the old museum with cactus plants and desert flowers: through its windows I could see the palms and the tree ferns, the orchids and the mosses too, and long rows of hanging bromeliads, just as they were the last time I set eyes on them, their spines and gaunt leaves lifted up like sentinels. All remembered—all familiar—as if the past was still present there for me: as if it was claiming me and calling me. It seemed near enough to step into in those moments—and that would be an end: an end to everything. How unmoored I must be, I told myself, how lost on time’s ocean—pulled here and there by the faintest recollections—by vestiges—by sights and sounds. Night had fallen: it was hard to keep one’s bearings. Time to double back: back to the old town, to its narrow streets and spires and cobblestones. Christmas lights in the shop windows; laughter, voices mingling in the air. I passed a hotel—Ady’s old favourite: there was a crowd in the lobby; piano music, a party, a jazz tune playing. And beyond—beyond was silence, calm: the river, the bridge by the town hall, the little balcony where I used to feed the swans—and two swans came gliding by on cue, and tilted their necks enquiringly. I pressed ahead: walking for the sake of movement now, walking to be without thoughts. Onwards—down a flight of steps, along the covered passageway above the riverbank: a colonnade of shopfronts: I was halfway: I stopped. A jolt went through me. But why—why there? I was outside a recessed window. It was nondescript, a square of glass like all the others: it was half in shadow—then I recognised it: it had fallen from my memory, but I knew it: I knew it well. It had been the temple of my childhood summers—a haven for me. It was an artist’s studio—a workshop: its window held displays of little figurines—and they were still there—maquettes of dancers: dancers seated, dancers stretching, dancers mid-pirouette. What tales I used to picture in that shadow world! I gazed down. I was shielding my eyes and peering through the light reflected in the glass when I heard footsteps just behind me.

  ‘Hello,’ said a lush, accented voice—a voice I knew: ‘My treasur
e.’

  I turned. It was Ady—it could only be her. She was smiling her soft smile: there was a familiar expression on her face—her special look that teetered between self-admiration and self-mockery. She was wearing a long fur coat and a cap of black astrakhan. At her neck was a knotted silk scarf. Two elongated dogs with pale beige coats stood by her side, panting, the cold turning their exhalations into brief plumes of misty spray. ‘Aunt Ady—how wonderful to see you—how wonderful you look!’

  ‘You charmer—even now you know the way into my heart. You learned the lessons that I taught you—you learned them well.’

  She stretched out a gloved hand towards me, as though to touch my cheek—then paused in mid-gesture, and slowly, with a slight smile, pulled her hand away.

  ‘Do you still think of me sometimes, my treasure?’ she asked.

  ‘Very often.’

  ‘And do you remember that last summer that we spent in the mountains—when we made our journey to Meran?’

  ‘Vividly.’

  ‘I’m glad. That’s what I hoped for. It must have been a hard year for you—a sad summer, with the news we had—from that place whose name you don’t like to hear.’

  ‘No—that was later.’

  ‘Truly? So many departures: so hard to keep track. Where do we all go, I wonder—where am I bound for? We’re always in flight in life, aren’t we—hurtling onwards—on through space and time.’

  She looked stricken. I felt I should jump in.

  ‘How strange to find you here,’ I said: ‘Out walking, on such a cold night. Are you visiting someone in Zürich?’

  ‘My treasure, didn’t you hear—don’t you know? I gave up the house in Vienna: it felt too empty after Novogrodsky died. It’s being turned into a museum, of course—like the whole city, really.’

  ‘But I thought you loved being there! You told me so.’

  ‘My poor treasure—the places you love the most are the ones you leave.’

  ‘And where do you live now?’

  ‘Here, of course. In the Storchen—where we used to stay. I have a suite on the top floor. It looks out over the river: it’s a perfect view. Besides, the hotel reminds me of Paracelsus—he stayed there, four centuries ago—and I think the world of him.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes—he was the first person to recommend the waters at St. Moritz. And the Storchen’s convenient, too—for the salukis—my darlings.’

  She glanced down at the dogs, and gave their leads a little shake. ‘We go for walks around the lake shore, as far as the Rietberg, sometimes further—just after sunset, every day. Do you remember them? Did you ever meet them? Bartók and Haydn?’

  At this mention of their names, the dogs lifted up their thin muzzles, looked at Ady and gave, in unison, brief, half-stifled howls.

  ‘How thin they are,’ I said: ‘Tall and thin—you can almost see through them.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Ady: ‘We’re all transparent, though, aren’t we, one way or another, after a while.’ She laughed—a soft laugh, with a slight distortion inside the sound.

  ‘And I see you’re covering your bases,’ I said: ‘Politically, I mean: culturally.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘One dog named after an Austrian composer, one after a Hungarian.’

  ‘My treasure—what can you be thinking! There’s nothing more Hungarian than Haydn’s music. He’s not Austrian—not in any real sense. You know very well he composed his best work at Eszterháza! If you listen to him closely you can tell—Magyar themes; Magyar rhythms everywhere. Isn’t it plain to you? Hungary’s the fount of all music: it always has been. I already knew that when I was a little girl in Czernowitz.’

  I looked down at the dogs: they stared back with unblinking eyes. ‘They don’t seem very friendly,’ I said.

  ‘Of course they are—they’re being friendly. If they didn’t like you, they’d already have jumped up and ripped out your heart.’

  ‘That’s reassuring to know,’ I said.

  ‘Come and visit me—you must: I’ve so much to tell you. Come one day—come tomorrow.’

  ‘I can’t, Aunt Ady,’ I said: ‘I’m meeting a colleague of mine: we’re leaving in the morning—we’re going to drive all the way to the frontier post at Arad, and then to Bucharest. If we can, that is—Timișoara and Bucharest.’

  She frowned on hearing this.

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘On the contrary—I’ve always had a soft spot for Romanians—such conspiratorial people.’

  The dogs shifted; their leash chains gave a chinking sound.

  ‘They’re impatient,’ said Ady: ‘Time to go. With companions like these two you have to keep moving.’

  ‘I’ll walk you back to the Storchen,’ I said.

  ‘No, no,’ said Ady: ‘Our walk’s only just beginning—we go deep into the night. Don’t worry—they look after me. Au revoir, my treasure—au revoir.’

  And she turned and waved goodbye, and was quickly lost from view in the dark of the passageway.

  VI

  Clemgia

  COULD THIS REALLY be my destination? I gazed up at the facade: spires, ornamental arches, balconies and French windows, turrets, colonnades—more like a museum of eccentric architecture than a grand hotel. I found the entrance: wooden doors, palatial, heavy: I pushed my way in. Murk; half-dark. A reception, cavernous: the usual furnishings: armchairs, tables, desks, tall vases full of flowers. Ahead a grand staircase: gilt scrollwork, decorated handrails—but no movement. Nothing. I cast about: down one corridor, then another. At last I made out a sign at the far end of the lobby. ‘Bureau,’ it announced, in artnouveau lettering. There, in the shadows, was a counter, and behind it stood a young man in uniform. He was watching me, a sceptical look on his face. I went up to him.

  ‘What a place!’ I said: ‘Like the landscape of a dream.’

  He stared at me for a few moments, his face unmoving. ‘A guest,’ he said at last: ‘A late arrival. Unusual. The name?’

  I told him.

  ‘No booking,’ he said, rather haughtily.

  ‘I wonder if I’m at the right hotel?’

  ‘That depends,’ said the receptionist, and his voice took on a softer tone: ‘There are many hotels in this valley—for different purposes: some for cures and some for culture; some for solitude and some for company; some for sadness, some for joy—’

  ‘But this is the Waldhaus, isn’t it?’ I interrupted.

  ‘It is,’ he answered: ‘I can confirm that.’

  ‘So I’m where I should be,’ I said then: ‘I’m meeting someone—a guest who’s already here.’

  ‘Unlikely—it’s the start of the season—we have hardly any visitors. Only a single group, in fact. And the name of the person who expects you?’

  At this riposte I hesitated. ‘I’m not entirely sure what name you’d have it under.’

  ‘Try,’ said the receptionist, now in a cajoling, coaxing tone of voice: ‘Don’t give in to doubt. Stand firm. Give me the name you have.’

  ‘Semyonova?’

  ‘No!’ he replied, sounding almost triumphant. ‘Another name, perhaps?’

  ‘I know she’s here,’ I said: ‘She sent me a telegram. A Russian woman: from the Caucasus: a commanding kind of person—always takes a suite, or several. Tends to travel with a retinue. Sometimes involved in producing films. Serghiana Ismailovna Semyonova.’

  ‘But you mean Madame Serghiana,’ he answered, and his manner changed. ‘That’s all you had to say to me! The rooms were reserved by her studio. We’ve been waiting for you—you’re the missing guest!’

  ‘Wasn’t that quite obvious?’

  ‘I thought it might be you. I couldn’t know for sure: you don’t look like someone from the movie business.’

  ‘At last I’ve found a hotel that’s harder to get into than Kafka’s castle!’

  ‘It’s been the choice of many well-known writers down the years.’


  A porter had appeared; he took my case.

  ‘Please,’ said the receptionist: ‘Go with my colleague—go—hurry—they’ve been waiting for you—for hours now, in fact—in the reception suite, in the rotunda: you’ll find them there.’

  I went up. The door was open: music, laughter, voices speaking in several languages: a throng of faces, smoky air. I stood at the threshold and took in the spectacle: a full salon, a blazing chandelier, high windows open to the night, men and women clustered in tight knots, smiling, gesticulating, darting here and there. In one corner, a buffet table piled with food and drinks: waiters with long-suffering expressions on their faces poised behind it. I plunged into the crowd: I navigated through, and searched for Serghiana. There: I could see her—standing at the open doorway to another reception room where more guests were gathered. I made a sign—she gave me a distanced wave, then turned back to the tall woman at her side and said something that made them both incline their heads. How strange the mood around me seemed: at once elated and serious. Then I caught sight of someone else I recognised: Professor Leo, in the ill-fitting jacket he always wore. Beside him was a figure with a lined, pensive face: familiar too, in the way half-famous actors are—and here was a much younger man with dark brown hair and a full beard, bearing down on me.

  ‘Hey, kiddo,’ this man said, and gave me a tentative half-hug: ‘All grown up now! Great to see you!’

  It was Corey Lipsett, both his look and his manner changed. He seemed taller; there was an air of greater substance about him.