She is cloistered in her drawings, almost like a nun.
So Paula vacates the room, leaving them alone.
Alfred examines Charlotte’s sketches.
She is overwhelmed by fear.
Her body trembles, on the inside.
You have an above-average talent.
Damned with faint praise?
No, Charlotte is encouraged.
This man is in her room, and he is attentive.
A drawing catches his eye.
What have you represented here?
It’s inspired by a Matthias Claudius poem.
Well, it’s in the Schubert libretto.
I illustrated Death and the Maiden.
Alfred looks troubled.
Then says simply: death and the maiden, that’s us.
Charlotte softly speaks the words of the Maiden:
Pass me by! Oh, pass me by!
Go, fierce man of bones!
I am still young. Go, rather.
And do not touch me.
And Alfred responds with Death’s words:
Give me your hand, you beautiful and tender form!
I am a friend, and come not to punish.
Be of good cheer! I am not fierce.
Softly shall you sleep in my arms.
For a moment, they remain in silence.
Then, without a word, Alfred leaves the room.
Charlotte gets up and stands close to the window.
One minute later, she sees the professor in the street.
Will he turn around to look at her?
No, what a ridiculous idea.
He has already forgotten her.
He just came in to say hello.
A question of politeness.
And what about the way he looked at her drawings?
Common courtesy, nothing more.
He did seem sincere, though.
She doesn’t know, she doesn’t know anything anymore.
From her window, she watches him walk away down the street.
He does not turn around, becomes smaller and smaller.
She tries to follow his progress as long as possible.
As he walks, he moves his head.
As if he were talking to himself.
5
Coming out of the Academy, Charlotte too walks quickly.
Barbara tries to hold her back, but it’s no good.
She is left alone, and this makes her sad.
Charlotte is usually such a good listener.
Her ears are perfect recipients for Barbara’s secrets.
She tells her friend everything, even the kiss she shared with Klaus.
But now she feels a strange emotion.
However dull Charlotte’s life may appear, Barbara sometimes envies her.
There is something powerful and touching about her.
Is it the charisma of the silent?
Or the sad strength radiated by those excluded from society?
Barbara has everything, except what Charlotte has.
So she runs after her.
But Charlotte is already far away.
She tries to see Alfred whenever she can.
If she gets home too late, she collapses on her bed.
Ever since he entered her room, she has felt under his power.
Under the power of his gaze.
She paints for him, to win his approval.
She feels idiotic.
She has seen him several times since that first meeting.
He has given her nothing more than a quick smile.
Never taking the time to ask about her again.
Did his interest in her last only a single day?
Perhaps there is some logic to all this.
If an entire country can reject you, what hope can you have with a man?
Just when she has stopped believing it will happen, Alfred reappears.
He comes into her room without knocking.
She looks up.
I hope I’m not disturbing you?
No, no, I was just daydreaming.
I have a proposal to make to you, he goes on.
His tone is serious, almost authoritarian.
Charlotte’s eyes grow wide.
It’s … delicate, he begins.
I’ve written something … something very personal.
Yes, this book is about me.
I believe any work of art should reveal its author.
I mean, I have nothing against fiction.
But all that stuff is just entertainment.
And people need to be entertained.
It’s their way of not seeing the truth.
Anyway, it’s not important, that’s my point.
We know the meaning of disorder.
And nothing is more important than that, you understand?
It is up to us to decide the perfect moment for chaos.
And it is up to us to decide the moment of death, of course.
I still possess the freedom to do something crazy.
And so do you, don’t you?
I know you won’t disappoint me.
I have great hopes for you.
Alfred pauses for an instant.
Anything he asks, Charlotte will do.
His presence alone makes every moment intense.
I would like you to illustrate my novel, he says finally.
Without even waiting for her answer, he picks up his bag.
And takes out a stack of papers covered in scribbles.
Charlotte carefully takes hold of the manuscript.
She quickly glances over the opening lines.
When she looks up again, he’s gone.
6
Charlotte reads Alfred’s book several times.
In a notebook, she writes down the key words.
The story describes the time he spent beneath a corpse.
We can leave anything behind except our obsessions.
Many scenes seem to emerge from darkness.
She sees beauty in the expression of fear.
Isn’t she herself in a state of constant dread?
When she walks, speaks, breathes.
She is not allowed in parks or swimming pools.
Her entire city is a battlefield.
A prison for her blood.
She begins with sketches.
For hours, days, nights.
Her entire life is between parentheses.
She wants so badly to live up to his trust.
He arranges to meet her.
In two weeks’ time, at the café near the train station.
That way, they will see each other without Paula knowing.
On the day in question, she puts on some lipstick.
Will he make fun of her?
Of her desire to be feminine?
In the end, she wipes it off her lips.
Then reapplies it.
She doesn’t know what she should do.
To make a man find her beautiful.
No one ever looks at her.
Either that, or she is the one who never notices anything.
Barbara has told her that Klaus thinks she’s pretty.
Well, no, pretty is not the word he used.
He said that her face is full of strength.
What does that mean?
For Klaus, it’s a compliment.
He thinks Barbara is pretty, but characterless.
But Charlotte couldn’t care less about Klaus.
What she wants is for Alfred to like her.
She waits for him in the café, near the central station.
By arranging to meet here, they are breaking the law.
Sitting at a table, she stares at the big clock.
Alfred is late.
Has he forgotten?
Does she have the wrong day?
It’s impossible that he won’t come.
Finally he arrives, thirty minutes after the agreed time.
And walks quickly over toward Charlotte.
&nb
sp; He didn’t even have to look for her.
As if he knew instinctively where she was.
By the time he sits down, he is already speaking.
Maybe he began his sentence a while ago.
He lifts his hand to order a beer.
Charlotte is stunned by his appearance.
He turns his head left and right.
As if attracted by everything that is not her.
The waiter brings his beer, and he drinks it right away.
Down in one, not even breathing between mouthfuls.
Only then does he apologize for being late.
Charlotte says it doesn’t matter.
But he is not listening to her.
He starts talking about Kafka.
Just like that: a sudden burst of Kafka.
I wanted to tell you, Charlotte, about my revelation.
Kafka’s entire oeuvre is based on surprise.
That’s his main theme.
If you read his books carefully, you’ll see: surprise.
Surprise at his transformation, at being arrested, surprise at himself.
Charlotte does not know how to respond.
She had prepared things to say, analyses.
She was ready to talk about Alfred’s novel.
But not about Kafka.
Where Kafka is concerned, she is devoid of words.
Thankfully, he asks to see her drawings.
Charlotte takes out her portfolio, stuffed with sheets.
Alfred is surprised by how much work she has done.
He thinks: this girl must love me.
He might draw some satisfaction from that.
But today, something is suffocating him.
His mood is at rock bottom.
It is simply not the right moment.
He glances quickly at Charlotte’s work.
Then says he doesn’t have time to give his opinion.
The way he does this is humiliating.
Why is he acting like this?
This man who is usually so gentle and kindly.
He gets up and says he has to go.
He grabs the portfolio as he leaves.
She doesn’t even have time to think about getting up too.
He fled so quickly.
It’s already over.
You could hardly even call it a meeting.
Charlotte remains behind alone, in a daze.
She stumbles out of the café.
It’s so cold now in Berlin.
Where should she go?
She doesn’t recognize anything anymore.
Her vision blurs.
Because of the tears in her eyes.
She could throw herself off a bridge.
And die in the icy water.
Her sorrow transforms into morbid urges.
Yes, she must die, as quickly as possible.
Suddenly, a strange feeling overwhelms her.
She has to find out what Alfred thinks of her drawings.
She could be mad at him, but no.
His opinion is still more important than her life.
7
The days pass without any news.
Charlotte doesn’t dare ask Paula the date of her next lesson.
She must wait in silence.
In any case, Alfred will return.
Returning is what he does best.
Finally, he is there.
Charlotte enters the apartment and hears Paula singing.
She crosses the living room quietly, so as not to disturb them.
But slowly enough to be seen.
The happiness of the moment makes her amnesic.
She forgets all about her disappointment in the café.
Nothing exists now but the ecstasy of seeing him again.
She goes to her room and sits on the bed, a docile little girl, and she hopes.
He opens the door of her room.
Without knocking, as always.
There is no border between them.
I wanted to apologize, he says right away.
For being so abrupt the other day.
She would like to tell him it doesn’t matter, but she can’t.
You must never expect anything from me.
Do you hear me?
Charlotte slowly nods.
If I’m rushed, I can’t give anything.
I can’t stand the idea of someone waiting for me.
Freedom is the survivors’ slogan.
Alfred puts a hand on Charlotte’s cheek.
And says: thank you.
Thank you for your drawings.
They are rough, naïve, unfinished.
But I love them for the power of their promise.
I love them because when I looked at them I could hear your voice.
I felt a kind of loss and uncertainty too.
Maybe even a hint of madness.
A gentle, docile madness, quiet and polite, but real.
Well, anyway.
That’s what I wanted to tell you.
This could be the start of something beautiful between us.
Alfred shakes her hand and leaves.
He has understood that Charlotte gave herself completely to this.
For the first time, her drawings were dictated by necessity.
She didn’t perform the work, she lived it.
This is a pivotal moment for her.
The man she loves put words to her frenzy.
She is intoxicated by what she has just experienced.
Now she knows where to go.
She knows where to hide, to shelter from the hatred.
Can she admit that she feels like an artist?
Artist.
She repeats this word.
Without really being able to define it.
Not that it matters.
Words do not always need a destination.
We can leave them behind us at the borders of feelings.
Running around headless in the vague zone.
And that is the privilege of artists: to live in confusion.
She paces her room.
Jumps on her bed, laughs like an idiot.
At this moment, her destiny seems fabulous to her.
Immoderation takes hold of her.
In the form of a fever.
A very real fever.
Charlotte is boiling hot.
That evening, her father is very worried.
He takes his daughter’s temperature.
And notices the strange rhythm of her pulse.
He asks her numerous questions.
Did you go out half-dressed?
No.
Have you eaten anything unusual?
No.
Are you upset?
No.
Did someone insult you?
No, Father.
Charlotte reassures him, says she feels better.
It was just a momentary fit, everything’s fine now.
Relieved, he hugs his daughter.
And realizes she is no longer hot.
What a strange phenomenon!
Once he is gone, she can’t sleep.
Only she knows exactly what happened inside her body.
8
Charlotte wants to dazzle Alfred, that is certain.
But her hope is complex.
After feeling so strong, she falls back into doubt.
And spends her time putting herself down.
She cannot believe that he is really interested in her.
The man will inevitably realize how mediocre she is.
It goes without saying.
He will shine a light on her.
And burst out laughing as her con is exposed.
She wants to hide under the covers.
Suddenly, encouragement turns to fear.
She is terrified at the idea of seeing him again.
To see him is to risk disappointing him.
And he will abandon her: it is already written.
And t
hat will be painful.
She is so afraid.
Is this how love feels?
The next time she sees Alfred, she is in a sullen mood.
Her body is home to an army of parentheses.
It’s like there’s a barrier around you, he says.
So he tries to make her laugh.
He tries absurdity, grotesquerie, outrageousness.
Charlotte gives a faint smile.
A breach in her tension.
No one ever tries to amuse her anymore.
For years, the atmosphere has been gloomy.
Every night, her father attempts to hide the humiliations of the day.
Paula pretends to think about her career.
About the day when she will be able to travel again.
Alfred is nothing like them.
He is a man out of nowhere.
You wouldn’t even think he was living in 1938.
…
He arranges to meet her in a café again.
This is the second time they have broken the rules.
They are not allowed to be there, but they don’t care.
It is an odd place.
Cats wander between tables.
And rub against customers’ legs.
The atmosphere is like a waking dream.
With the dense smoke pouring from certain cigars.
I know all the cats here, says Alfred.
I’ve named them all after composers.
There’s little Mahler, and over there is big fat Bach.
Look at Vivaldi purring.
And, of course, there’s my favorite.
Beethoven.
You’ll see, he’s deaf as a post.
Call his name, ask him if he wants some milk: he won’t turn round.
Charlotte, somewhat embarrassed, attempts to get the cat’s attention.
It’s no use: Beethoven ignores her.
He blinks, sleepily.
Alfred continues to humanize the cats.
This gives him the chance to mention Schubert again.
The two of them return to the subject of Death and the Maiden.
The piece obsesses them both in a similar way.
Alfred launches into a monologue on the life of a musician.
Schubert wasn’t exactly a ladies’ man, you know.
He was small and he considered himself deformed.
Despite all his compositions, he knew very little about sex.
He was practically a virgin when he died.
You can tell, sometimes, when you listen to him.
His Hungarian melodies are a virgin’s music.
There’s no flesh in Schubert.
And then he slept with a prostitute.
Who gave him a fatal disease.
His death throes lasted for years.
Poor Schubert, eh?
Still, at least there’s a cat named after him now.
That’s a form of posterity.
Charlotte is dazed.
She is thinking about Schubert, of course.
Charlotte Page 6