Red Heaven

by Nicolas Rothwell

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was sent off to France: to Paris—to university. It wasn’t a homecoming for me. It was more like exile; unfamiliar faces, strange sights and sounds, a city that meant nothing to me. I was lost there. I missed the light I used to see when I was in the tropics—I missed the colours of the plants, the monsoon rain, the birdsong, the hum of insects—everything I used to love: I was suffocating, I couldn’t thrive there. But in the end I found a way to be less lost. I had one gift no one could take from me: I was a child of Saigon. I spoke the language of an unhappy country. I knew that I could tell the world its stories. I went back.’

  ‘Back to danger—and to fame on the frontline. An uplifting tale.’

  It was Serghiana. She had found our secluded corner. She was watching us, a severe expression on her face.

  ‘Why, then, am I so ill at ease?’ she said: ‘Why do I feel as though this is an indoctrination session?’

  ‘What do you mean, Madame Semyonova—’ began Delaunay.

  ‘I know exactly what you’re doing,’ she said, and cut him off. ‘What seed you’re planting so tenderly: the dream of drifting freedom. I didn’t school this child for him to end up as a correspondent working in the Third World; to throw away his life by living through the lives of others. I had a different aim in mind: for him to spend his days surrounded by art and beauty, not death and blood. Or would you like him to be just like you? Was your time reporting in the jungles so fulfilling?’

  ‘It was a kind of heaven, actually,’ said Delaunay.

  ‘And that’s why you abandoned it to come and work with us? Enough!’

  Lipsett had come over, and the tall woman was with him.

  ‘What’s the drama now, princess,’ she said to Serghiana: ‘It’s supposed to be a happy evening, remember? Peacetime; harmony.’

  ‘Absolutely, M.L.,’ said Serghiana: ‘The collapse of all values, the carnival of emptiness.’

  ‘But we’ve got something to celebrate, don’t we? Tonight—tomorrow night as well. Corey, have you told them?’

  ‘I was just getting round to it, Miss Exner,’ said Lipsett.

  ‘You’re hopeless: what else was so important? Everyone here I haven’t invited yet: come to us tomorrow—at sunset. My chalet, in St. Moritz; it’s not far.’

  ‘And what’s the occasion?’ asked Delaunay.

  ‘You haven’t heard? We’ve found what we were looking for: the ideal location—all thanks to our hostess tonight!’

  She gave Serghiana a fervent hug. Serghiana extricated herself, looking both pleased and annoyed.

  ‘It was nothing,’ she said: ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ said the American woman in an insistent voice. ‘It was your suggestion—an inspired one.’

  She turned to Delaunay: ‘You’ll laugh. We’re making a vampire picture—but political—set in our day.’

  ‘Heavy metaphor,’ he replied.

  ‘We were thinking we’d already found the perfect lead—but I’ve begun to hesitate—it occurred to me my favourite Polish émigré could both star and direct.’

  ‘Where are you going to set it?’ asked Delaunay: ‘In this hotel?’

  ‘Not bad—in fact, a good idea also,’ said the woman, and she looked back to Serghiana: ‘Your new screenplay writer? Maybe we should take him. Just kidding: I wouldn’t do that to you—or if I did I wouldn’t say before doing it. But we’ve already found the ideal haunted castle—you must have seen it: it’s in this valley. That’s why we’re overnighting here. We went round it for the first time yesterday: Serghiana took us through and showed it to us: from the cellars to the eaves. And we’ll go back tomorrow, won’t we? It’s a real find.’

  ‘You mean Castle Tarasp?’ asked Amborn, who was listening to this exchange: ‘You do know the interiors aren’t original—or even true to period: they’re more like a fantasy of what a mediaeval castle ought to be.’

  ‘Fantasy’s my business—that only adds to the appeal.’

  ‘And you know who owns the castle today?’

  ‘Some German princely house,’ said Serghiana.

  ‘Spoken with real disdain,’ said Amborn.

  ‘I am the child of a revolutionary,’ she answered: ‘That’s something I never let myself forget.’

  They talked on; the evening drew to its end. I followed Lipsett out. Serghiana intercepted me.

  ‘We’ll resume tomorrow,’ she said: ‘Won’t we? The way we always used to—at the hotel’s breakfast table. Try for once not to be late.’

  *

  Morning came. I went downstairs and looked round for Serghiana and her entourage: no sign. I sank down into one of the lobby armchairs and waited. Minutes passed; a long half-hour. At last I felt someone standing over me. It was Lipsett.

  ‘Do you do this on purpose?’ he asked. ‘Do you practise to be so good at it? You’re late; they’re all out on the garden terrace, waiting for you—again.’

  I followed him. There was Serghiana, at the last table, two well-dressed men sitting to one side of her, the tall American woman on the other, while Professor Leo stood nearby, hovering, coffee cup in hand.

  ‘You do this to vex me, don’t you?’ she said.

  I started to explain.

  She raised a hand to interrupt me. ‘It’s youth. Young people today. Everyone—forgive him. Come: sit with us. Sit facing me.’

  ‘Like at an interview,’ I said.

  She paid this no attention. ‘It’s a good time for us to talk. The only time in the day, really: the mind’s fresh, the heart’s restored by sleep and dreams.’

  She poured a cup of coffee from a silver beaker and handed it across to me.

  ‘I don’t really drink coffee very often,’ I said.

  ‘Impossible! Did you hear that, M.L.? Can you believe it? Coffee-drinking’s a mark of character: of good cultural formation. Drink!’

  I raised the cup to my lips.

  ‘Pleasant to be staying here again?’ she asked me: ‘In the loveliest palace in all the Alps. Do you remember it well?’

  ‘How could I?’ I said: ‘I’ve never been here before.’

  ‘Of course you have: don’t start suppressing your memories—rewriting history—that way madness lies.’

  ‘I think that’s more a Soviet specialty,’ I said.

  She gave me a measuring glance. ‘So quick,’ she said. ‘And sharp. But you have stayed here—with me; when you were a little boy.’

  ‘And we used to go on long walks together, on the forest paths—and you’d tell me all about your favourite books, the ones you used to read in your childhood.’

  ‘You do remember!’

  ‘No—but I can fill in the scene you like to paint.’

  ‘I see,’ she said: ‘Or at least I begin to see: see what you’re becoming.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A young man of independent mind. And are you well rested, at least?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘And your head’s still full of that sweet French music from last night?’

  I looked back at her.

  ‘Delaunay’s, I mean, of course,’ she said: ‘That siren song of his: the joys of the corresponding life?’

  ‘I understood why he was telling me his story—and what he was trying to explain.’

  Delaunay was standing off to one side of the table, beside Lipsett, and as I said this he gave a faint sardonic smile.

  Serghiana shook her head in a grave way and made a quick gesture to the figures sitting at her side. ‘You know everyone here, don’t you?’ she said to me: ‘You met them all last night, didn’t you? No? Not even these two here? My special helpers. They travel with me—location hunting. One’s a designer—one’s an architect.’

  ‘Would I know the buildings?’ I asked. ‘Are they famous?’

  The man beside Serghiana raised his eyes heavenwards.

  ‘He’s not that kind of architect,’ she said: ‘He’s contemporary. He deals with
flows of matter: movement through space. Structures, and how they interact with time. We’ve been scouting round: we were at the new dam on the border yesterday. It was a good trip. I think we found what we needed. That’s what matters, isn’t it, M.L.?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ came the answer.

  Serghiana fixed her eyes on me once again. ‘So,’ she said: ‘Lyova tells me you want to talk to me.’

  I gave Professor Leo an even stare. He glanced away.

  ‘Don’t hold it against him,’ she said: ‘That’s what he’s here for—to filter people—to tell me what they want.’

  She clapped her hands together. ‘Everyone,’ she called out: ‘My nephew’s deciding his future.’

  ‘Am I?’ I said: ‘Does it have to be right now, this minute? With these two I’ve never met before sitting in like silent judges.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Serghiana: ‘You two both—head off. It’s not a trial—not exactly. We’ll change the tribunal. Amborn—come, sit with me.’

  She turned, and made a sign to Delaunay. ‘You too, scriptwriter—the voice of freedom. Come over. Join us—listen in.’

  She gave me a prompting look. ‘Well,’ she said: ‘You were going over your ideas last night with Lyova—you were frank with him. You might want to tell me all about them too. Don’t be embarrassed. You’ve been hanging back ever since you got here. In fact, you’ve been quiet and withdrawn for a long time now. I write you letters, full of questions: nothing comes back: you change schools—no effect. Have you even thought about what lies ahead for you? M.L.—help me: any advice for him?’

  ‘You could ask him if he wants to go on to college.’

  ‘It’s what people seem to do in America,’ I said.

  ‘In Europe also,’ said Serghiana sternly: ‘With good reason. Will you even pass your examinations? Do I have to pull strings to make sure? Do you know what you’re going to study?’

  ‘Literature,’ I answered: ‘American, perhaps.’

  Her manner changed. ‘Seriously? You can’t mean it. By your age any civilised person should be at home in literature. You don’t need some professor telling you what to think about books. They’re your birthright: the possession of all mankind. Choose a field that adds to what you know; to what you are. We’ll talk about this later—just the two of us.’

  This was said in a firm voice, with a quick glance around the table: everyone was watching.

  ‘Why not now?’ I said.

  She looked back at me, surprise in her eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘Why not now—here?’

  There was a pause—then she gave a quick clap of her hands and laughed. ‘Your face—how determined you look. You want to resist me. Defy me. Really? Here? In front of everyone—people who are complete strangers to you.’

  ‘Why should I care about them and what they think about anything?’ I said: ‘Who are they to me?’

  Professor Leo had been edging nearer: he came up beside me. ‘Young friend,’ he said, and placed his hand on my shoulder: ‘There’s no need for this.’

  ‘Let him go on,’ said Serghiana, and she folded her arms and leaned back a little in her chair: ‘Let him. I’d like to hear what he really thinks.’

  ‘I know what you think,’ I said: ‘You think I should be grateful to you: give thanks to you, every single day: bow down here in front of everyone—be grateful for all of it—everything you’ve done for me.’

  ‘But what I did was nothing, really, you mean.’

  ‘That’s not what I said!’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I did for you,’ she went on: ‘I looked after you, I cared for you and shaped you—I poured myself into you, I gave you more attention and regard than anyone would give a child. Without me, what would have become of you? What? You’d have knowledge, but not understanding; you’d see the surface and not the depths; and all the books we used to read together, those golden books you loved so much—yes, you might have come across them by now, it’s possible, that’s true, and even looked into them, maybe—but they wouldn’t speak to you and live inside you. The writers we spent our days with—they’d be names to you, empty names, and nothing more. But they’re not: you know them, and all their stories—they’ll always be with you. And that’s because I gave you the keys to them—I opened up your mind: I forced you to become what you are.’

  She stopped, caught her breath and looked straight at me again, and there was a pleading quality in that look. I looked back.

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘I’ve always wondered what it is that drives you on. What makes you so unyielding—so harsh.’

  ‘Have you, my child,’ said Serghiana: her voice was low: ‘Have you indeed? You’ve no idea?’

  And then, without warning, she broke into a smile. ‘You poor creature! You think I’m angry because of what you’ve just dared to say to me? I’m not. I’m overjoyed. I’m proud. It’s the beginnings of a personality: you’re stronger than all these hypocrites and hangers-on. I can see it in you now. You’d be quite prepared to break with me and go off into the wilderness. I thought the day would never come. I thought you were much too weak to stand up to me. Too mild and gentle—soft as milk. I thought we still had far to go. And I was wrong. We’re almost on an equal footing now.’

  She stood up; she looked around the table. Several strangers had come over and were listening: waiters too.

  ‘Ladies—gentlemen,’ she said then: ‘I hope you enjoyed the scene. A little early-morning drama—spontaneous—the purest kind. But it’s over now.’ Her attention shifted to me. ‘Gulp your coffee down, my child. I’ll deal with things here—make my calls—and then we’ll go.’

  ‘Go where?’ said Lipsett: ‘I thought you were going to look through my screenplay notes. You promised you would.’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘And there was something else as well: you said you’d keep the morning free for Miss Exner.’

  ‘Cancelled too,’ said Serghiana, in a triumphant voice.

  And she gathered up the folders on the table before her, turned on her heel and strode back into the hotel. The group on the terrace dispersed. I walked over to the belvedere and looked out across the valley. Lipsett came up and stood beside me.

  ‘Kiddo.’

  ‘Corey.’

  ‘That was something else, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Aren’t you used to her by now?’

  ‘No,’ he said: ‘I couldn’t bear the constant sparring. It wore me down.’

  ‘But you still talk to her, don’t you?’

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘So you must know what she’s working on: why she’s here: why she made me come all this way?’

  ‘Who could tell? Nostalgia, perhaps—she’s got a sentimental streak. There’s a script she’s working on. We all know that. But it’s still some kind of secret—from everyone.’

  ‘Even you?’

  ‘Especially me. It’s something dramatic: historical. I know it’s big-budget—that’s what she’s doing these days—and she’s certainly not about to confide in EPs from other studios.’

  ‘She wouldn’t even tell the woman you’re working for? They seem to always be together. As if they’re collaborating—as if they’re almost friends.’

  ‘More like rivals. Each wants to know what the other’s doing. They’re spying on each other as much as actually helping each other.’

  ‘So you really are well placed.’

  ‘Between two fire-breathing dragons. And don’t you dare repeat what I just said.’

  ‘But you’ve landed on your feet—haven’t you?’

  ‘The only people you ever see along the way in life are the ones who land on their feet. You forget the others—they just fade from view.’

  ‘Is that what you were afraid of? Is that why you stopped working for Great-Aunt Serghiana—after Sils Maria?’

  ‘After the stand-off, you mean? What a movie that would have made! But you’re wrong—I’m not a quitter—I didn’t leave her then. I stay
ed. Right through: it was a strange time. You know she even kept up her Russian projects for a while: that’s why she wanted me with her.’

  ‘And did you ever finish that film you were just beginning when I was there?’

  He laughed at this. ‘The biopic—the Nietzsche? You’ve really got your finger on the pulse, haven’t you? Are you still at that place in New Hampshire?’

  ‘It didn’t work out.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Hard to say. It wasn’t a good fit: they didn’t seem to want outsiders there.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this for free—you’re an outsider among outsiders if you don’t go to the movies. The Nietzsche picture came out two years ago. It saved Semyonova. It won best foreign-language film. It made her what she is on the West Coast these days: she’s on top of the pile.’

  ‘Truthfully? I heard a different story.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say.’

  ‘Go on—who?’

  ‘It was last year—things must have changed. I was staying with the Novogrodskys.’

  ‘And that film went through as well. They fought like wildcats, but it was finished in the end—somehow. I was still with Semyonova for it. I did all the negotiations with her. Novogrodsky needed the publicity—for his orchestra—otherwise it never would have happened. I won’t forget it—it was insane. Wild travelling in Eastern Europe—to places without streetlights or hotels. And then Vienna, for an age—and we had to film in Bratislava—and in Kiev. There was a young assistant working for Novogrodsky: she was something else.’

  ‘You mean Elista?’

  ‘I sure do: what a fox! I never met anyone quite that cool before. Didn’t you think so? I’m still on the trail. I write to her. She likes philosophy.’

  ‘Does she write back?’

  ‘Look,’ said Lipsett: ‘Here’s your amigo.’

  Professor Leo had come up to us.

  ‘I’ll leave you two together to catch up—better go chase after M.L.’

  ‘Professor?’

  ‘Young man—I want to apologise to you—on behalf of Madame Serghiana.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘She was harsh with you.’