by Clare Clark
It took a particular type of courage, Julius thought, to make light of catastrophe. ‘I’m sorry it turned out this way,’ he said. ‘I hope it isn’t too damaging a setback.’
‘Me too.’
There was an awkward silence. Then Rachmann shook his head. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t admit this to you, but there’s a part of me that wishes I had the nerve to brazen it out. All those scavenging vultures out there picking off German treasures for small change. It would be worth something, wouldn’t it, to get one over on them?’
‘Something, yes. But not half of what it would cost you to do it.’
‘Ah, scruples,’ Rachmann said and his laugh was nine parts sigh. ‘What would we do without those?’
‘What indeed?’
Frau Lang opened the door. The wind blew rain into the shallow porch, printing dark circles on the stone. Rachmann stepped out and opened his umbrella.
‘Good night, Herr Köhler-Schultz. And thank you.’
‘I only wish there was anything to thank me for.’
‘Everyone told me that in Berlin no one would give a greenhorn like me the time of day. But your generosity, your wisdom, a man of your eminence—’
‘Eminence, dear God, you make me sound a hundred years old.’
Rachmann winced. ‘Flattery will get me nowhere, is that it? Those damned scruples. Though, for the record, it isn’t flattery when it’s the truth.’
The young man turned away. You take compliments like a pawnbroker takes a watch, Luisa had told Julius once, as though the favour’s all yours. He started down the steps towards Rachmann and caught, just for a moment, his expression, a bleak grimace of frustration and defeat. Julius wanted to call him back. Instead he watched as he walked away down the path. The raindrops struck his umbrella and flew apart, silver streaking the black.
‘Look at you, getting all wet,’ Frau Lang tutted, bustling him back into the house. ‘Right then, you’ll be wanting that tea.’ She hurried across the hall. As she pushed open the servants’ door, Julius caught a glimpse of the baby’s black perambulator.
‘If the petition is successful you will of course get custody of your son,’ Böhm had said the day before. ‘Though perhaps not immediately. Guilty or not, most courts these days prefer to leave a child with his mother until he is at least four years old.’
The boy and the nursemaid had occupied the top floor of the house, their days marked out by a brisk, unchanging routine. Julius was not sure what exactly had occupied their time. He had not been encouraged to take an interest.
‘I want my son,’ he had told Böhm belligerently, and for the first time he wondered if it might be true.
IV
The storm that swept through the city that night was the fiercest to hit Berlin in decades. By evening the rain was a solid wall of water, hammering the sun-hard ground and lashing the flowers in their borders. At the Staatsoper, where Julius had gone to hear Strauss’s Elektra, the thunder rolled like timpani through the spaces in the music. By the time he got home, doubled up and dashing from the taxi to the front door, the storm seemed to have taken the house inside itself. The walls shook and the windows rattled in their frames. In his study Julius poured himself a glass of cognac and watched as the trees in the garden pitched and tossed, dark against dark. When the lightning split the sky, it lit the blank wall like a flash lamp.
It was almost dawn when the wind finally dropped, though the rain continued to fall. On the wireless the news announcer spoke of flooding, blocked roads, damage to buildings from lightning and from falling trees. An S-Bahn train had derailed when a telegraph pole had fallen across the line. The extent of the casualties was not known. Julius stood in his pyjamas at his dressing-room window, looking down into the garden. A branch had been torn from the largest of the lindens. It jutted, raw-stumped, from the lawn, rose petals scattered around it like confetti.
Julius stood at the window for a long time. Then he went up to the nursery. It surprised him a little to find the room exactly as he remembered it. He sat down on the chair in the corner and looked at the cot with its wooden bars, the rocking horse, the painted train on its circle of track. There was still a pile of picture books on the night table and the silver-framed studio portrait taken when the child was only a few months old. The photographer had propped him in a wheeled wooden cart, his starched white dress bunched up around him. His pale hair was neatly combed. Beside him a toy dog stood guard, its felt tongue lolling from its mouth. It was a syrupy composition, sentimental in the Victorian style. Julius had always disliked it.
He picked it up. His son squinted up at him anxiously, his little hands clinging like starfish to the slatted sides of the cart. Julius had never expected to have children. Luisa had not wanted them any more than he. He was too old to ruin his life, she said, and she too young. There was a doctor fashionable among her friends who dealt with things like that. Julius was glad. In that first heady year he could not bear the thought of sharing her. As time passed the savagery of their arguments found its echo in their lovemaking, desire and anger eliding in brief, fierce couplings, Luisa bucking and biting beneath him, digging her nails into his back. Her announcement that she was pregnant was to him just another act of war. Her ripening body had the heart-quickening eroticism of Titian’s Venus of Urbino, but Julius could not bring himself to touch her. It seemed impossible that together they had created a child, that symbol of innocence and incorruptibility. Instead he could imagine only the tumours he had seen preserved in jars at Virchow’s museum at the Charité, misshapen clots bristling with hair and teeth, fury and embitterment made flesh.
And yet when he came, he was a baby all the same. It changed nothing. Luisa continued to cram the house with her empty-headed friends. Julius continued to write, to lecture, to travel. Someone had to pay for the flowers and champagne. In their private fiefdom on the top floor the baby and the nursemaid followed their own obscure rituals and routines.
‘Excuse me, sir, I’m very sorry, I didn’t—’
Startled, Julius looked up. The housemaid stood awkwardly in the doorway, her broom clutched in both hands. It was a matter of pride to Frau Lang, the silence with which her girls moved around the house. She knew Julius could not endure the clatter of feet when he was working.
‘It’s all right, come in. I’m not staying,’ he said, but the housemaid shook her head, backing away on to the landing. She bobbed a curtsy as he passed her, her ears scarlet. It was only as he fumbled for his watch that Julius remembered he was wearing his pyjamas.
In his dressing room the wireless was still on. Rain dripped from the gutter and ran in fat rivulets down the window. Julius put the photograph of his son on the chest of drawers.
‘According to the Berlin Meteorological Office, the barometer will rise by nightfall, bringing clear skies,’ the wireless announcer said. ‘Milder conditions are forecast.’
Was it in that moment that something in Germany broke? There was no other explanation, not that Julius could see. The inflation had been bad for months, for years, but always there had been a shape to the crisis, a structure that, to Julius at least, made sense. However abysmal, the world continued to be bound, just about, by the basic laws of economics, of physics. Banknotes circulated. Wages were paid and goods purchased, even if the prices were scandalous. The mark remained a mathematical unit possessed of an absolute value, even if that value changed with every passing week. Though no one knew exactly on any day what it would buy, it was still, till then, a measure of something.
And then, abruptly, it was not. Milder conditions are forecast. With that confident pronouncement the world broke its moorings, smashing everything to smithereens. Within weeks the inflation was a fever dream, senseless and unstoppable, and Julius was rich. Not rich as his father had been with his factories and his stocks but obscenely, unutterably rich. In Europe sales of Vincent were faltering, the royalty cheques were starting to dry up. American sales had proved disappointing. In Paris or New York he would barely
have been comfortable. In Berlin he was a maharajah. By mid-August a single dollar, worth eighteen thousand marks a month before, was worth a million. By September it was a hundred million. It was like riding in an elevator sheared from its couplings, a helpless frozen hurtle towards the smash, except the smash did not come. The elevator only fell faster, one hundred and fifty million, two hundred million. Every zero was another jewel around Julius’s neck. He could hardly lift his head for the weight of them.
One night, at the theatre, he was cornered in the interval by a banker acquaintance. The banker told Julius he was part of a syndicate acquiring whole streets of property in Berlin. Buildings which a year ago might have sold for fifty thousand marks were now changing hands for less than five hundred dollars. He urged Julius to invest.
‘You’ll make a killing,’ he said, but Julius turned him down flat. Decent men, he said icily, no longer had the stomach for slaughter. He did not mention the exquisite little Seurat nude he had recently picked up for next to nothing in a private sale. Works of art were not like bricks and mortar, they had no intrinsic, objective value. On an April afternoon nearly thirty years ago Julius had ambled into Ambroise Vollard’s gallery on rue Lafitte in Paris. The Self-Portrait had felled him, splitting him open like an axe, but Vollard only shrugged and hauled it off the wall as though it were a Rive Gauche daub. He had had enough, Vollard said morosely, of lost causes. He sold it to Julius for six hundred francs. A painting was only worth what a buyer was willing to pay.
Julius did not hear from Rachmann. He thought of him often, hoped he was managing to stay afloat. The Trübner had come at a very bad time. Every day more businesses went bankrupt. There were no jobs. A single egg cost one thousand million marks. A milliard, they called it. The word no longer merited remark. On the outskirts of the city farmers patrolled their potato fields with guns. Julius was supposed to be working on a new book. Sometimes, as the day faded and the shadows draped the corners like cobwebs, he looked up and for a moment, before he remembered, it was there still, that haunted, haunting face, fixing him with his piercing, unblinking stare. Sometimes the setting sun washed the whiteness to a pale rose pink and the empty nail gleamed like an eye.
Buoyed up by foreign buyers, Hugo Salazin’s gallery was one of the few that had not closed its doors. Julius did not know which depressed him more, Salazin’s artists or his clients, but when he received an invitation to the opening of his newest exhibition he accepted immediately. The gallery was already crowded when he arrived. He pushed his way through the cacophony of chatter, scanning the crowd for Rachmann’s coppery head, but, though he passed through the rooms several times, Julius did not see him. Disappointed, obscurely anxious, he lingered, one eye on the door. Most of the pictures around him appeared to have been sold. It did not seem to matter that they revealed nothing of themselves but their surfaces, like mirrors. Perhaps, Julius thought gloomily, that was the secret of their success. The Dadaists might be fools and charlatans, but in their destruction of all artistic enterprise they had hit upon one immutable truth: a society gets the art it deserves.
And still Rachmann did not come. At last, weary of waiting, Julius pushed through the crowd towards the exit. Walter Ruthenberg was standing near the door. He shook his head at Julius, rolling his eyes.
‘Monstrous racket, isn’t it?’ he said over the din. ‘In more ways than one. I’m surprised you’re here. I thought you hated this sort of thing.’
Julius shrugged. A professor at the university, Ruthenberg’s academic monograph on van Gogh had been published at the same time as Julius’s Vincent. Julius had felt sorry for the man until he realised that Walter felt exactly the same way about him.
‘Actually, I was hoping to run into you,’ Ruthenberg said. ‘Do you have a minute?’
They went out on to the pavement where it was quieter. Beyond the spill of light from the gallery the street was very dark. The city no longer lit the streetlamps, they could not afford the electricity. Ruthenberg took out a pipe and a pouch of tobacco. ‘Sent by a forbearing friend from Amsterdam. Most things I can take or leave, but this?’ He took a tiny careful pinch and pressed it into the bowl. ‘I have something that might interest you. A rather lovely little Corot. I gather you’re in the market.’
Julius knew he meant the Seurat. He should have known that there was no such thing as a private sale in Berlin.
‘Provenance is murky, but then, when isn’t it with Corot?’ Ruthenberg said. Striking a match, he put it to his pipe, sucking on the stem to make it draw. ‘A young dealer I know picked it up in Hamburg and brought it to me for authentication. I told him to hang on to it or, better still, take it to Paris, but if you were interested . . .’
Julius frowned. If he was interested Ruthenberg would take a fat commission. Most dealers with a Corot would not consider that good business. ‘Which dealer?’ he asked. ‘Do I know him?’
‘Rachmann, he’s called. The Gemäldegalerie put him on to me. Clever boy, but very green. He’d want francs.’
Julius stared at Ruthenberg. Then carefully, casually, he shrugged. ‘I suppose I could take a look. Is he still in Berlin?’
‘What are you two gossiping about out here?’
Julius turned round. Salazin stood in the doorway, his pouched eyes glittering.
‘Walter was telling me about your friend Rachmann,’ Julius said. ‘I hear he’s flourishing.’
‘Of course he’s flourishing,’ Salazin said. ‘Men of his kind always do.’
‘His kind? If anything, he struck me as rather too principled for your game.’
Salazin laughed. ‘My dear Julius, that boy’ll be the last man standing. Grew up with nothing, of course. Father was a blacksmith, had his sons hawk firedogs in the streets to keep the family from destitution. Believe me, behind that pretty face young Rachmann is as tough as old boots.’
Rachmann telephoned the next morning. He arrived at Meierstrasse just as it was getting dark. He seemed uneasy. When Julius shook his hand his smile flickered nervously, his gaze sliding sideways towards the floor.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Julius said. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘Yes, well. I’ve hardly been in Berlin.’
‘You managed to see Ruthenberg,’ Julius said, more sharply than he intended, and a flicker of surprise passed over Rachmann’s face. Awkwardly Julius gestured at his slim leather briefcase. ‘Don’t tell me you squeezed a Corot in there?’
Rachmann hesitated. That was why he had come, he said at last. He wanted to tell Julius in person. The Corot was sold. A businessman. He wanted to remain anonymous.
‘In Berlin?’ Julius retorted. ‘Fat chance.’
‘A foreign businessman.’
‘Is there any other kind these days?’ It was a joke of sorts but Rachmann did not smile. ‘I wish I’d seen it. I hear it was delightful.’
Rachmann bit his lip. ‘I should have brought it to you.’
‘Well. They sent you to Ruthenberg.’
‘Except they didn’t, they sent me to you, but I—I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.’
‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘Don’t you? When there are more fake Corots in circulation than there are originals? He’s the most forged artist of modern times. After the Trübner, how could I bring you a Corot? How could I be sure? It didn’t matter what Herr Ruthenberg thought of me, not really, but you? How could I take that chance?’ He glared at Julius, distress flushing his pale cheeks, then covered his face with his hands. All this time he wanted to come back, Julius thought, and the gladness burned his throat like brandy.
‘Did you really think I’d blame you for the Trübner?’ he said.
‘Didn’t you?’
‘Of course I didn’t. Every dealer will have his Trübners. You should never be afraid of taking risks. Only of cupidity and ugliness.’
The young man shook his head. ‘That risk, that mistake, it nearly finished me. I thought I was finished.’
‘But you�
�re not. Look at you. You’re still here.’
Rachmann looked at Julius. His eyes were very green. ‘I couldn’t have borne it,’ he said simply, and again Julius’s throat burned.
V
Julius waited for Zelma Staub outside the theatre where she worked on Bülowplatz, a seedydooking establishment with a crumbling facade. She had been a friend of Luisa’s during the war and had gone on coming to her parties, even when Luisa’s affections had waned. She had been the one who gathered up the dirty glasses, who nodded sympathetically as men talked of other girls. Her coat was shabby, her dyed hair grey at the roots. She did not know that Luisa and Julius had separated. When Julius asked if he could buy her lunch she hesitated.
‘You knew her,’ he said. ‘It helps.’
They went to a nearby café. Zelma ate quickly, her hands cupping the plate as though she was afraid someone would take it away. Her face softened as Julius talked about the old days.
‘That night of Luisa’s birthday, do you remember?’ he said. Luisa had told the story so often he could almost believe he had been there. ‘When that friend of hers played the Spanish guitar and that other man sang? God, what was his name?’
‘Pieter Placzek. Someone told me he sings on the wireless now.’
‘Placzek, that’s right. He serenaded Luisa and everyone cried, do you remember? Everyone except that friend he hung around with: tall, sandy hair, boyish features—’
‘The writer?’
‘I can’t remember his name either. Don’t get as old as me, Zelma, whatever you do—everything goes. Conrad something, was it?’
‘The only writer I remember was called Harald.’
‘Harald, of course. He used to say that one day he’d be more famous than Mann, do you remember? Perhaps he is and we just haven’t heard. We should look him up. What was his surname again?’
‘Baeck, Harald Baeck. Though I don’t think he ever published anything.’