Today, he not only played the Rachmaninov, the Bach and the Schubert, but he leafed through his stack of sheet-music and pulled out various other pieces that took his fancy at this particular moment. Among others, he spent quite some time to work his way through Mozart’s K 331, leaving out the all too often-heard last movement, but repeating several of the variations of the first movement. In the end, however, he got tired of the deceptively graceful A major of the Sonata and returned to the mood of the Rachmaninov. He was just reaching the climax of the third part with its gorgeous fortissimo, when his phone rang.
It was his friend Dave. He wanted him to come for a drink at the Bibendum, a pub-cum-bistro at the corner of Grange Road and South Street. Andrew had liked the pub a lot better before its recent refurbishment, when it had still been called the New Inn.
In the pub, Dave smiled, “Hi Andrew, old man, how are things?”
“Hiya, good to see you. I’m glad you drew me out of my place. I’ve been spending too much time on my own recently, you know, cut off from the world.”
“Oh, have you? The good old piano, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. That and other things.”
“Aren’t we growing into two old buffers? You with your music and I with my books?” Dave pulled a sour face.
“Well, I don’t know. On the other hand, I think we are learning a great deal about the world, about humanity, only different things from what we can learn in a pub, for instance. Don’t you think your extensive reading gives you insights you could never reach without your books? And I feel the same about my music.”
Dave was indeed an extremely avid reader. Whenever he could, he had his nose in a book. Wherever he went, he always carried a book with him in case he might have some time to kill. Andrew envied his encyclopaedic knowledge of literature. He knew quite a bit about English and German literature, too, but Dave’s expertise extended into many other literary fields. He was very well-read in all the Postcolonial literatures in English, and in French, German, Italian, Spanish and Russian literature. While he read most of those in their original languages, he also read Scandinavian, Chinese and Japanese texts in translation. No wonder Dave was working his way up the academic ladder and was hoping to get a chair in Comparative Literature one day. Andrew never stopped being impressed. The two friends respected each other’s keen interests.
They got their drinks and sat down by the large window. Outside, the forecourt was full of smokers who were holding their pint glasses in one hand while gesticulating in the air with their other hand which also held their cigarettes.
“I can never understand how anyone can still be a smoker these days,” Dave remarked. He had rather strict views on this, while he condoned the other most popular drug of today, alcohol.
The friends got into discussions about drugs, about the general decay of society and about their own positions between optimism and pessimism. Dave said he believed English society particularly was getting vulgarized more and more terribly year by year, much more so than other European societies. Andrew countered that he was obviously forgetting the banlieues of Paris. This got them talking about the general dangers of growing parallel societies in many European contexts. In the end, they arrived at the question of whether or not a society needed some sort of moral standards, some set of shared moral values, in order to keep its general coherence.
“What happens to individuals who violate such moral standards? And why do they commit such violations in the first place? That’s what I’d like to understand!” Andrew said.
“Well, think of Raskolnikov! Every individual has the potential to commit a crime, for various reasons. The important thing, however, is for him to be guided back into the social system, to be reprimanded. That’s Dostoyevsky’s original title, you know. The Russian Prestuplenie i Nakazanie, generally translated as Crime and Punishment, really means ‘Transgression and Reproof’. It is really that process of being reprimanded by the powers that govern human behaviour which is the important issue. Some individuals manage to survive such a process, albeit through phases of extreme difficulties, you know, through complete collapse and rebirth, while others are destroyed in the process, like Meursault in L’Etranger by Camus.”
“It’s funny how you’re just trying to make me understand such important issues through some Russian mind. I mean Dostoyevsky. When you called me, I was just grappling with another great Russian mind, Rachmaninov.” Andrew was quite excited about this coincidence. “The mood of his famous Prélude, you know the c sharp minor, especially in its third part, I now feel, has a lot in common with what you’ve just been explaining.”
“Yes,” Dave said and took another sip from his drink. He rubbed his chin and continued. “I used to think it was the Germans who carried with them a constant sense of guilt. I mean, just look at most of their classical literature. But more recently I’ve come to the conclusion that their hereditary guilt complex was nothing compared to the great Russian soul. Whereas with Tolstoy you never really know where you are, whether in the land of light or in the valley of darkness, it’s a constant struggle for the spiritual survival of one’s soul in Dostoyevsky, especially if a character allows himself to be separated from the essence of his society and from the healing power of love.”
“I agree completely,” Andrew nodded. “But why did you bring in Camus before? Surely, that’s an altogether different case, isn’t it?”
“You’re right there. Meursault is different. He’s the hero and the victim at the same time. The only insight he gains is the recognition of his own existence. He can be seen as the personification of Nihilism, in which case there’s no parallel to Raskolnikov, but the similarity, at least for me, lies in both men’s overstepping of absolute limits, their utter abandonment of the values of the society that nourishes them.”
“But what about such cases in real life? What course of action remains for such individuals in our time?”
“Do you mean the Idi Amins, the Ghaddafis and the Saddam Husseins of this world?”
“Not even just those. They are lost to the world anyway. But take any minion within those dictators’ machineries? Take the Stasi thug responsible for ordinary men’s disasters, or the KGB agent helping to send innocent people to the Siberian Gulag. Those aparatchiks go to their offices like any ordinary employee but the results of their seemingly ordinary office jobs kill or destroy people. In their eyes, they’re just doing their jobs. Remember Adolf Eichmann and all those defendants at Nuremberg who claimed they just obeyed their orders. How guilty can they ever be?”
“Of course, they’re as guilty as their leaders. Remember Hannah Arendt’s dictum, ‘No-one has the right to obey.’ But listen, Andrew. We’ll have to go on with this conversation some other night. It’s time for me to go home. I’m expecting a phone call from a colleague in the States who promised to let me know something I asked him the other day. He’s due to call me within the next half hour. It’s only late afternoon in Washington now.”
Andrew was disappointed. He was enjoying such conversations with Dave, and his friend’s insights often gave him a big boost. But he agreed to call it a day, and the two friends parted in the street in front of the pub.
Back in his flat, he sat down at his piano and played a light-footed Arietta con Variazioni by Haydn to unburden his spirit after the heavier pieces that he was normally working on. He added the second movement of Bach’s Italian Concerto, to conclude his day. This relaxed him enough so that he could go to bed.
* * *
When, two days later, he ran into his Aunt Margaret in front of W. H. Smith’s in Terminus Road he greeted her with real joy. She kissed him on his cheek and suggested they go for a cup of coffee together.
“I’ve just been to the hospital,” Margaret explained when they were settled with their coffees at a wobbly table at the back of the café. “Nora is feeling a lot better. I’m glad. You k
now, we were all so worried.”
“Of course, we were worried. She’s given me such a shock as well. All of a sudden, I realize that my Mum is not going to live forever. But I guess that’s a lesson every person has to learn sooner or later, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes. Just think of your grandparents. My mother dead for ages and my father in a terrible state...”
“I don’t think he is so terribly unhappy. Do you?”
“Not really. You may be right, it’s more the people around him - that’s us - that are unhappy. He may very well be okay within the cocoon of his dementia.”
“On the other hand,” Andrew mused, “there are obviously things that worry him a great deal. I mean things from his past. Mostly his experiences in the War. Don’t you feel he seems to worry a lot about those?”
“Probably. But to tell you the truth, I am sick of all that talk about the War and all that. Nora has been going on and on about it for most of her life. I can’t take any more.”
Andrew mildly protested. “But I think it’s important.”
“Oh yes, I’ve nearly forgotten that you’re just like her in that department. How come you also take such a keen interest in history, the War, Nazi Germany and so on? Does that really matter?”
“To me, it does.”
“Just like your mother. Nora kept at it through most of our time as youngsters. But I understand she’s no longer so keen. We all criticized her until she went on that trip to Germany, which seemed to have satisfied her at last. She certainly lost a great deal of her zeal after that trip.”
“Have you ever talked to her about that trip?” Andrew asked.
“Well, yes, we did talk about it for a bit. But I don’t think she told me everything. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t all that interested.”
Andrew wanted to tell his aunt how very much he would like to learn more about his mother’s trip to Germany back in the 1990s. But he understood that his interest was not reciprocated, so he changed the subject. When, at the end of their time at the café, they said good-bye, Aunt Margaret quickly returned to the former subject. “Why don’t you read her diary?” she suggested.
He was surprised. He’d never known his mother to be a diarist. But he decided to find out if such a diary really existed.
He was still lost in his thoughts when he walked into the National Westminster Bank. He wanted to ask something about his mortgage, but his mind was still engaged with his mother’s diary. So he was turning the corner through the heavy wooden doors in an absent-minded state when he bumped into another person.
“Oh, I’m really sorry,” he croaked. Looking up he saw the other person was a woman. They stood facing each other, dumbfounded for a moment.
“Can’t you keep your eyes open?” the woman snapped, rubbing her nose.
“Sorry again. I don’t know what else to say. Just that I’m sorry.” He clearly felt it was all his fault. “Are you hurt?”
The woman took a moment to calm down. As it appeared, she felt a pain in her nose, which had hit Andrew’s chin head-on, and she said she had a pain in her knee.
They stood aside to let other people pass by. They both felt a little awkward, not knowing what to say and still feeling reluctant to part without another word or some sign of reconciliation. While Andrew was searching the woman’s face for signs of forgiveness, the woman was first looking down, avoiding his eyes. Eventually, she raised her face and met his. Then they just looked at each other. Neither of them managed to find the appropriate words. Andrew had never felt like this in his life. He didn’t want to give up looking into this woman’s dark green eyes. He forgot everything around them.
At last, he mumbled, “My name’s Andrew.”
“Hi Andrew. I’m Rebecca,” she answered. She began to smile.
Suddenly, he panicked. He said something to the effect that he was busy and just walked away. He’d forgotten the bank and just walked across to the entrance to the Arndale Shopping Centre. He didn’t look back.
Andrew spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous agitation. He was not himself. He went back to his office, but he didn’t realize what he was doing. He functioned like a robot. After a fruitless hour of pretended work, he decided to go home.
Back in his flat he sat down to a glass of Chardonnay and tried to find out what was going on with himself. But his thoughts went round in circles, he felt drugged, and the wine added to his sense of intoxication. So he fell into a light sleepiness, a sort of trance. Like this, he spent what seemed to him something like ten hours but in reality, was only about half an hour.
Then it hit him like lightning.
“It’s that woman,” he breathed to himself. “What was her name? Rebecca. Yes, Rebecca. Her deep stare, her dark green eyes, her fascinating face, her breathing, her posture, her perfume.”
The only adequate response to this shock was the piano. It had to be Beethoven. He sat down at his piano and played the Grande Sonate Pathétique from end to end. When he’d finished he first took some time to regain his normal breathing, then he felt utterly exhausted. So, even though it was only just after six o’clock, he went to his bedroom and collapsed on his bed.
He dreamed of Rebecca, of course. In his dream, she was staring at him in the same intensive way as in front of the bank, her face just a few inches away from his, and he wanted her to come closer, to put his arms around her, to kiss those lovely lips of hers, but whenever he had the impression that she was sinking into his arms and her lips were coming closer and closer, she vanished from sight, only to reappear in the same position as at the beginning of the dream. This scene repeated itself several times. Every time he wanted to draw her to him and to kiss her she vanished. In time, the dream became more blurred with every repetition, and he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
He woke up some time after two in the morning. After tossing and turning in his bed for another half hour, he got up and walked to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of cold milk. Normally, this helped him to go back to sleep. But back in bed he still couldn’t relax enough, his mind kept racing around what had happened to him. That woman. Rebecca.
He thought about his experience with women. Most of the time he had been too busy with his studies and his piano to take note of women’s charms. During his university years, he had been to several parties where he was attracted to one of the girls, he had even been drawn into some hot cuddling and kissing sessions with girls he liked very much. He had to admit to himself that he was really very fond of female beauty, and he still remembered how deeply he’d been impressed with the erotic quality of the Toilet of Venus by Velazquez in the National Gallery. He used to go back again and again, standing in front of the alluring painting, following the wonderful curve of the woman’s back with his eager teenager’s eyes and admiring the perfection of her naked pink skin. Of course, he knew perfectly well what a naked girl looked like. After all, as a child he had often played naked with his sister Lisa during those hot summer afternoons. At the time, the fact that she looked different had just been a natural observation, without any particular attraction. The change had come when Lisa suddenly began to grow into some alien being, with her giggles and - more visibly - with those budding breasts. That was the time when they’d stopped their carefree games in the long summer afternoons. Lisa had begun to go out to play with other girls, while he had turned his interests to more academic subjects and to music. So, when the awareness of female beauty re-entered his consciousness during those hot university parties he experienced the whole matter as a pleasant but not very important aspect of his life as a young man. That was what men and women did, didn’t they? Eventually, they’d get ready to produce children. But for Andrew that eventuality was still miles away. Although he was more than just aware of women and he loved looking at beautiful and sexy women, he still couldn’t imagine himself wanting to be with a woman
for more than a relaxed cuddling session, for an evening when he had nothing better to do perhaps. He liked the erotic quality of nude women in men’s magazines or in French films, particularly with Isabelle Huppert or Eva Green, and at the other end of the scale he liked several women as friends or colleagues, just as fine persons. But up to now he’d never managed to build a bridge between these two quite contrasting images of women in his mind. Until now.
That Rebecca woman caused an earthquake within Andrew’s entire being. He could neither categorize her among those erotic models and actresses, nor could he merely see her in the same sphere as his female friends, say like Zoe, the young woman who worked in the same office and with whom he often exchanged pleasant chats about everything under the sun. Zoe was a friend, yes, but what was this new woman, Rebecca?
He checked himself, telling himself that his feelings were ridiculous. He’d only bumped into Rebecca, they had looked into each other’s eyes, and they had only spoken a few words. He knew next to nothing about her. Even if what was happening to him now could be called falling in love - a process which was utterly new and represented dangerous, unmapped territory - it was as futile as waiting to win the National Lottery.
He suddenly remembered the old Jewish joke of Samuel who went to the synagogue every day, praying to God for the jackpot in the lottery. Every day he would look up towards heaven and pray with the same words, “Please dear God, arrange it for me to win the lottery!” Back he went to the synagogue, day after day, until one day after many years, when he’d just completed his regular prayer, he suddenly heard a deep voice coming down from heaven: “Oh Samuel, please give me a chance. Buy a lottery ticket!”
White Lies Page 23