Partita and A Winter in Zürau E-Book

Gabriel Josipovici

• Herausgeber: Carcanet Fiction
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 412

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Partita Fiction and non-fiction are two sides of the same coin. Or are they? Michael Penderecki is in flight. Someone has threatened to kill him. But who is the woman dead in the bathtub? And why does the voice of Yves Montand singing 'Les Feuilles Mortes' surge from the horn of an antiquated phonograph in an otherwise silent villa in Sils Maria? This is the most enigmatic – and melodramatic – of Gabriel Josipovici's novels to date. It is as though one of Magritte's paintings had come to life to the rhythms of a Bach Partita. A Winter in Zürau Fiction and non-fiction are two sides of the same coin. Or are they? Franz Kafka is in flight. After spitting blood and being diagnosed with tuberculosis in the summer of 1917, his thirty-fourth year, he escapes from Prague to join his sister Ottla in her smallholding in Upper Bohemia. He leaves behind, he hopes, a dreaded office job, a dominating father, an importunate fiancée and the hothouse literary culture of his native city. Free of all this, he believes, he will at last be able to make sense of his existence and of his strange compulsion to write stories and novels which, he knows, will bring him neither fame nor financial reward. But this is not fiction. It is an exploration of eight crucial months in the life of one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century, months of anguish and reflection preserved for us in his letters and journals of the time, and which resulted not just in the production of the famous Aphorisms but, as Josipovici shows in this compelling study, of some of his most resonant parables and story-fragments.

Leseprobe

Partita

Fiction and non-fiction are two sides of the same coin. Or are they? Michael Penderecki is in flight. Someone has threatened to kill him. But who is the woman dead in the bathtub? And why does the voice of Yves Montand singing ‘Les Feuilles Mortes’ surge from the horn of an antiquated phonograph in an otherwise silent villa in Sils Maria?

This is the most enigmatic – and melodramatic – of Gabriel Josipovici’s novels to date. It is as though one of Magritte’s paintings had come to life to the rhythms of a Bach Partita.

For Rosalind

It turns out that black holes are in fact good children, holding on to the memory of the stars that gave birth to them.

Newspaper report

Contents

I Praeambulum

II Allemande

III Corrente

IV Sarabande

V Tempo di Minuetto

VI Passepied

VII Gigue

Note

I Praeambulum

1

He is dozing when the telephone rings. He puts it to his ear.

A voice says:

– Karim.

– I’m sorry?

– I am speaking to Michael? the voice says.

– Yes. Mike Penderecki here.

– This is Karim, the voice says.

– Do I know you? Mike says.

– I am the husband of Angela, the voice says.

– And who is Angela.

– The lady you are sleeping with, the voice says.

– I see, Mike says.

– I am here, the voice says. Outside your house. You will speak with me.

– Of course, Mike says.

– Then I will ring the bell.

2

– Please, Mike says, motioning to a chair on the other side of the coffee table.

The man sits and Mike sits in his turn.

– You see this? the man says, taking a small object from the pocket of his windcheater and putting it on the table between them.

– Yes, Mike says.

– It is a knife, the man says.

– Yes, Mike says.

– You know how to use it? the man says.

– Use it? Mike says.

The man presses the handle and the blade flicks out. He runs his finger along the sharp edge, then closes it gently and lays it back on the table.

– Look, Mike says. This is quite unnecessary. Angela and I have already agreed to part.

The man looks at him, smiling.

– It wasn’t going anywhere, Mike says. We both realise that. It’s over. Finished.

– You know from where I come? the man says.

– Angela told me, Mike says.

– From Homs, the man says.

– I know, Mike says.

– You do not know, the man says. I have business in Homs. It is destroy. I have house in Homs. It is destroy. I have wife and children in Homs. They are kill. You do not know.

– I’m sorry, Mike says.

– I come to England, the man says. I have cousin here. He give me work in his business. I meet Angela. We have children. You understand?

– Angela told me. I’m very sorry.

– Then you come, the man says.

– I told you, Mike says. It’s all over between Angela and me. Finished. This is an irrelevant conversation.

– Now I will explain, the man says. If I come tomorrow and you are here I will kill you.

– Hold on, Mike says. You haven’t been listening to me. It’s all over between us. This is an irrelevant conversation.

The man stands up.

– Look, Mike says, standing up in turn. This is where I live. Where do you expect me to go?

– I go now, the man says.

He moves towards the door, opens it.

– Where the hell do you expect me to go? Mike calls out after him.

He runs to the door but the man is already on the next landing.

– Where the hell do you expect me to go? he shouts again. But the man does not look round.

3

He makes a call.

– Giles here, a voice says.

– Giles, this is Mike.

– Mike?

– Mike Pen.

– Mike! Giles says. Good to hear you! How are tricks?

– Listen, Giles, Mike says. There’s a madman here who wants to kill me. I’ve got to get out of the house.

– A madman? He’s in there with you?

– Not right now, Mike says. He’s gone. Listen, Giles, I’ve got to get out of the house. Can I come over?

– Come over?

– You don’t understand, Mike says. I need to get out of the house. He wants to kill me. He told me if he finds me here tomorrow he’ll kill me.

– Kill you? Why?

– It’s a long story.

– Why don’t you call the police?

– This isn’t a police matter, Giles. Can I come over?

– Now you mean?

– Yes. Right away.

There is a silence.

– Giles, Mike says, you’ve got to help me.

– All right, Giles says. But it’s awkward.

– My life’s in danger, Giles, Mike says.

– Are you sure?

– Of course I’m sure. Do you think I’d have called if I wasn’t sure?

– All right, Giles says. Come on over.

4

Giles opens the door.

– What’s that? he says, pointing.

– My suitcase, Mike says.

– You’re not thinking of staying, are you? Giles asks as he rolls it in.

– Listen, Mike says.

– It’s out of the question, Giles says, shutting the door. I’m expecting Annabel for supper.

He gestures towards the kitchen, visible through the open door, as he leads him into the living room.

– I should be getting on with the risotto, he says.

– The man’s trying to kill me, Mike says. Don’t talk to me about risotto.

– There’s no need to get excited, Giles says.

– Of course there’s a need to get excited, Mike says. I keep telling you. The man’s trying to kill me.

– Go on then, Giles says, motioning towards an armchair as he sits down on the sofa.

– Tell me.

– It’s like this, Mike says, sitting down. I’ve been seeing this woman. Angela. Her husband’s abusive to her and the kids. He’s from Syria and half-crazed with what he’s been through.

– I can’t do anything about this, Giles interrupts. You need to go to the police.

– I thought you were a friend, Mike says.

– I am, Mike, I am, Giles says. But it sounds as if this is beyond both of us. You’ve got to get protection.

– You’re not listening to me, Mike says. If he finds me in the flat tomorrow he’s going to kill me. He’s got a knife. He showed it to me. An ugly flick-knife affair. The man’s crazy. He’ll think nothing of using it.

– Can’t you settle this thing amicably? Giles says. Maybe it’s money he’s after.

– The ridiculous thing, Mike says, is that we’d already parted, me and Angela. She decided he’d never let the children go.

– Then it’s clearly money he wants, Giles says.

– Giles, Mike says. I need to get out now.

– You need to go to the police, Giles says.

– You don’t understand, Mike says. My life’s in danger. Even if the police give me protection twenty-four seven he’ll find a way. The man’s mad. I could see it in his eyes.

– I’ll tell you what, Giles says. Why don’t I call Gerry?

5

– Have another, Gerry says.

– No thanks, Mike says.

– You don’t like it? Gerry says.

– I do, I do, Mike says. But, really, no.

– It’s the best single malt in this benighted country of ours, Gerry says. Believe me.

– I’m sure it is, Mike says. But, really, no.

– You don’t mind if I do?

– Please! It’s just that I’ve had quite a day and –

– Relax, Mike, Gerry says, going over to the drinks table. Breathe in, breathe out. Look at the view. There isn’t a better one the length of the South Coast.

He refills his glass.

– On a good day, he says, lifting up the glass and looking through it, you can see all the way to Dieppe.

– Dieppe? Mike says.

– Cross my heart, Gerry says, returning to his deep leather armchair. Feast your eyes, he says, gesturing towards the window.

– Listen, Gerry, Mike says. It’s really good of you to take me in like this but –

The other raises a hand to silence him.

– Think nothing of it, he says. Any friend of Giles’ is a friend of mine. We’re like brothers.

– Then if you don’t mind, Mike says, I think I’ll turn in.

– You can’t do that, Mike, Gerry says. Sue hasn’t got back yet. You’ve got to meet Sue.

– It’s been a long day, Mike says. I think Giles explained that –

– He gave me the gist of it, Gerry says. But you know what I always say? It’s all in the mind. If you think you’re tired, you’re tired. If you think you’re raring to go, you’re raring to go. Know what I mean?

– There’s only one place I’m raring to go, Mike says. And that’s to bed.

– Ah, bed, Gerry says. He gets up again and pours himself another drink. What a word, bed. The images it conjures up. The dreamless sleep of childhood. The fervent nights of love. What do you think of my phonograph?

– I’ve been admiring it since I came in, Mike says.

– Picked it up a couple of months ago, Gerry says. Been looking for that model for donkey’s years. Peter Ustinov had the exact same one. Put your ear to the horn you can hear the sound of the sea. Like a shell. Same principle. They talk about the shell of the ear. Same principle. I must play you my favourite song of all time.

– Tomorrow, Gerry, Mike says. OK? I’m bushed. I just want to get to bed.

– One short song, Gerry says, moving to the table. Send you to bed a happy man.

He finds the disc, sets it in place, winds up the mechanism. One short song, he says. Yves Montand. The king of them all, in my humble opinion. Les Feuilles mortes. Autumn Leaves.

A quiet voice of great beauty begins to tell a story. It tells of memory and of those happy days when the sun always shone, days when we were friends; it tells of the dead leaves of autumn swept up into piles, like our memories and regrets; it tells of the song you used to sing to me, and as it does so, without effort it swells in volume and turns into song, singing now in that lovely voice, breaking at times with emotion yet always beautifully controlled, of how life parts those who love and on the sands of time even the footprints of those who once loved are effaced by the tide; it sings of ways not taken and memories buried but brought to life again. Brought to life by the song that fills the room.

When it is over they sit in silence. The disc on the turntable makes a slow whirring sound.

Finally Gerry says: – Ivo Livi. The son of a broom salesman from the north of Italy. I ask you! A broom salesman! Did you even know there was such a thing? Crossed over to France when Mussolini putsched. The boy was two. Grew up in Marseilles. Worked in his sister’s beauty salon before he was discovered. I ask you!

He sips his drink.

– He’s the one, he says. Piaf has the voice but she’s basically singing the same song all her life; Aznavour has the skills but he’s always retelling you he doesn’t belong; Brel has the voice but little else; Brassens has the Gallic wit but after a while it wears thin. Only Montand can do it all. Only Montand can inhabit us all, can give it everything and yet – and that is his secret – hold something back. Hold something back.

He is silent. Then he says:

– I wonder what happened to Sue?

Mike stands up.

– If you’ll show me my room, he says.

– The night’s young, Gerry says. Have another.

– No, Mike says, making for the door. I need to lie down.

Gerry heaves himself out of his armchair.

– You’ll like it here, he says, leading the way down the corridor. Stay as long as you like. Sue’ll look after you. But don’t fool with her, if you know what I mean.

He throws open a door and stands back.

– The bathroom’s en suite, he says. Have a good night.

6

A bright morning.

In the kitchen Mike locates the kettle, the tea, the mugs and the milk.

The tea made, he takes his mug to the table and sits down facing the big window with its wide sea view.

The door opens and a beautiful young woman with long auburn hair enters.

– I’m Sue, she says.

– So you got back.

– Back?

– Gerry seemed concerned about you last night.

– Gerry’s sweet, she says.

She switches on the kettle, goes to the window, looks out.

– I don’t actually know him, Mike says. He’s a friend of a friend of mine. He very kindly agreed to put me up when I was in a bit of a hole. Perhaps he told you?

– Gerry’s sweet, she says again.

She sits down opposite him and stares at him, her green eyes open wide.

– He’s your father? Mike asks.

– My father? she says. That’s rich.

– I’m sorry, Mike says.

– Look, darling, she says. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s men who say sorry the whole time.

– Sorry, Mike says. Oops!

– Have an egg, she says. Have two. Have three. There’s bacon in the fridge. And tomatoes. And mushrooms.

– No thanks, Mike says. I don’t eat much breakfast.

– Personally, she says, getting up and opening the fridge door, I like a good fry-up in the morning. Mind you, it’s not much good for my figure or my gut, but, hey! you’re only young once if you know what I mean.

She’s at the stove, sets the bacon sizzling, breaks a couple of eggs.

– Do you mind if I open the window? Mike asks.

– Do what you like, darling, she says.

She brings her plate to the table, sits down opposite him again and starts to eat.

– I like the look of you, she says, looking up and wiping her mouth slowly with her napkin. Do you have a name?

– Michael, he says.

– My angel! she says.

– Hardly, he says.

– Don’t be so modest, she says. The rule of the house is we say what we mean and we mean what we say. It saves time.

– Sorry, he says. Oops!

– Look, Michael, she says. I’m going to tuck into this and then I’m going back to bed. It would be a pleasure if you would join me.

– I’m not sure I –

She stops him with a finger to her lips.

– You don’t have to decide now, darling. Have another cup and think it over.

She bends over her plate again.

He looks at her glossy head.

– I expect Gerry’ll be down any minute, he says.

– Gerry? she says. Oh no. He’s out for the day. Gerry works. He commutes. Up and down on the train every day bar the weekends.

– I see, Mike says.

– So there you are, my angel, she says, wiping her plate clean with the last of her bread. I may see you in a little while or I may not. Suit yourself. Second door on the left if you’re so inclined. Or if you want to have a wander on the beach there’s a spare key hanging by the front door. Make sure you take it.

– You’ve got egg on your nose, he says.

– My angel! she says, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand as she stands up.

She takes her plate and mug over to the sink and disappears, leaving the door wide open.

7

In bed she breathes ‘my angel!’ into his ear, then hoists herself on top of him and puts her tongue into his mouth.

The doorbell rings.

– Fuck! she says, rolling off him, the boys have forgotten their keys. Lie there quietly, my angel, and I’ll be back.

– All change, she says when she returns. They saw your coat in the hall and naturally they’re curious.

– What do I do? he asks.

– Sit up, she says.

– In bed?

– Relax, my angel, she says. They won’t eat you.

Three young men in black jeans and white shirts file into the room, mugs in hand.

She introduces them:

– Edward. Edmund. Edgar. And this is Michael.

– Hullo Michael, says the one called Edward.

– Hi, Mike says.

They stand at the door.

– Come inside, boys, Sue says. Don’t stand on ceremony with Michael, he’s a gentle soul.

– Are you? asks the one called Edmund.

– I don’t know, Mike says. If she says so.

– We’re gentle souls too, Edward says.

There is a silence.

– Doesn’t it get confusing when people call you Ed? Mike asks.

– Nobody calls us Ed, Edward says.

– I see.

– And you?

– Me?

– They call you Mike?

– Yes.

Another silence.

– Staying long? Edmund asks.

– No no, Mike says. Gerry very kindly –

– OK, boys, Sue says. Now we’ve got to know each other, out please. We’ve got to get dressed.

They file out again.

– Right, Sue says when the door has closed behind them. We’ve got to get you out of here. Have you got your passport?

– Yes but –

– No buts, my angel, she says, putting a finger to his lips. The boys saw you in bed with me. They don’t like it. I suggest you take the next train to Ashford and jump on the first Eurostar to Paris.

– Paris? Mike says.

– You can get a ticket at Ashford, she says.

– But where am I supposed to go?

– You don’t have friends in Paris?

– Not to stay with.

– Brussels?

– No.

– And you wouldn’t consider a hotel?

– For how long? he says. I can’t afford to stay in a Paris hotel for months on end.

– Hold on, my angel, she says. I’ll make a call. Get yourself sorted. The bathroom’s in there.

When he comes out she says:

– Right, my angel. Xavier will put you up. Here’s the address and phone number. Don’t lose them.

– But when am I going to see you again?

– Who knows? she says. Life’s short, but not that short. Our paths may cross again one day.

– Give me your number at least, he says.

– I don’t think that would be wise, she says. Now the boys have seen you in my bed.

Standing on tiptoe she kisses him lightly on the lips.

– Goodbye, my angel, she says. Then she pushes him down the corridor and out of the front door and closes it quietly behind him.

8

Xavier Roche, in white linen suit and lavender shirt, greets him with open arms:

– Welcome, my English friend! You arrive just in time. Tonight we are going to a party.

He embraces him.

The young woman standing beside him says:

– Do you want a drink, Michael?

– Yvonne, Xavier says, gesturing. If we decide to have a child, he says, we will call her Zazie.

– A charming name, Mike says.

– XYZ, Xavier says.

– I see, Mike says.

– I asked Michael if he would like a drink, Yvonne says.

– No time, Xavier says.

– There’s plenty of time, Yvonne says. Besides, I would like one myself. Will you join me, Michael?

– Thank you, Mike says.

– I said there’s no time, Xavier says.

– Here in France, Yvonne says, thank you means no thank you.

– I forgot, Mike says.

– Don’t forget, Yvonne says. You might miss out.

9

At the party there are so many people there is hardly room to move. Yvonne introduces him to Mia, who is small, with a tight cap of bleached hair.

– Come out of the crush, she says, taking his hand and pulling him after her through the crowd.

Outside, on the landing, she says:

– Ouff! One can’t breathe in there with all that smoke.

People keep coming up the stairs, pushing past them into the room.

– Come! Mia says. I will show you something.

He follows her up the stairs to the next landing. She pushes open a door and stands back to let him pass.

A bathroom. Steam.

– Go on, Mia says, pushing him towards an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. A woman is lying in the tub, her naked body submerged with only the head and feet protruding.

They stand side by side, looking down at her.

– She’s dead! Mike says suddenly.

Mia begins to laugh. He turns and stares at her.

– She’s dead! he says again.

– Touch her, Mia says.

– Touch her?

– Go on, she says.

– Are you mad? he says. What’s going on?

– Don’t be afraid, she says. It’s only art.

– Art?

– Body art, she says.

He looks down at the body again.

– Go on, Mia says again. Touch her.

– I can’t, he says.

– What do you think of the face? she asks.

– What do you mean what do I think of the face? he says. It’s horrible.

– Rachel would be pleased, she says. The face gave her the most trouble, you know.

– Who’s Rachel?

– The artist. That’s her in the bath. It’s body art. That’s her thing.

There is the shrill sound of a police whistle.

– Shit, Mia says. They’re busting us.

10

– Tell us, the first policeman says.

– I’ve told you, Mike says.

– Tell us again.

– I was taken to this party by a friend, Xavier Roche. And when we got there I was introduced to a woman called Mia. She took me upstairs to a bathroom where there was a woman lying in the bath. I thought she was dead but it turns out it was body art and then you arrived and everyone had gone.

– Body art? the man says. What’s that?

– I’ve no idea, Mike says.

– But you said body art.

– That’s what this woman Mia told me.

– And you believed her?

– I don’t know, Mike says.

– You don’t seem to know much, the man says.

– Who is Mia? the second one asks.

– I told you, Mike says. A woman I was introduced to at this party.

– What is her full name?

– I don’t know. I was introduced to her as Mia. She took me up the stairs and –

– Yes, the man says, you told us.

– And you believed her when she told you it was body art? the first one asks.

– I told you, Mike says. I didn’t know what to believe.

The two confer.

They turn back to Mike.

– Tell us again, the first says.

– Tell you what?

– The whole thing.

He tells them again.

– Does that sound convincing to you? the first says.

– What?

– What you’ve just told us.

– It’s the truth, Mike says.

The man consults his notebook.

– You have not explained this body art, he says.

– I told you, Mike says. I don’t know. It turns out it was her in the bath. Not dead at all.

– Mia?

– No no. Rachel. The artist.

– The artist? In the bath? Why did you not tell us this before?

– You didn’t ask.

– We asked you to tell us everything.

– What is everything? Mike asks.

The men wait. Finally the second one asks:

– This Rachel. Who is she?

– The artist, Mike says. I told you.

– In the bath?

– That’s what Mia said.

– And you believed her?

– I had no reason to doubt her.

– The house, the first one says. Who does it belong to?

– I told you, Mike says. I’ve just arrived in Paris. Surely you must know who the house belongs to.

– We are asking the questions, the second one says.

– You say you had just arrived to stay with a friend, the first one says. You had arrived from London?

– No. From Brighton.

– You live in Brighton?

– No. I was staying with friends.

– You have many friends, the man says.

– Not really, Mike says.

– Why did you come to Paris? the second asks.

– I wanted to visit Paris.

– Why?

– I hadn’t been for a while. It’s a city I’m very fond of.

– Everybody is fond of Paris, the other man says.

Mike waits.

– And you stayed with Xavier Roche? the second asks, consulting his notebook.

– Yes.

– He’s a good friend?

– A friend of a friend. He offered to put me up.

– The dead woman you saw in the bath, the first says. When you saw her did you not think of alerting the police?

– It was not a dead woman. It was art.

– You said you thought she was dead.

– I did at first, yes. Then Mia explained to me that it was art.

– And you believed her?

– It all went by very fast, Mike says.

– Did she move?

– No.

– Then why did you think she was not dead?

– I did at first. But then Mia explained to me.

– And if we explained to you that it was a dead woman, what would you say?

– I wouldn’t know what to say.

– You don’t think it strange when the police find you alone in a house that stinks of drugs standing in a bathroom looking at a dead woman lying in a bath?

– So she was dead? Mike says.

– We ask the questions, the second one says.

– You do not think it suspicious? the first one says.

– Of course, Mike says. Who wouldn’t? But I swear I am innocent.

– We do not think you are guilty, Mr Penderecky, the man says, looking at the passport.

– Penderetzky, Mike says.

– It says here Penderecky, the man says, pointing.

– It’s pronounced Penderetzky, Mike says.

– Polish? the man asks.

– Yes, Mike says.

– This is a British passport, the man says.

– Polish name, British passport, Mike says.

– You are British?

– Yes.

The two men get up, move to the side of the windowless room, confer.

They return, sit again.

– We do not think you are guilty, Mr Penderetzky, the first one says, but we do not think you are telling us the whole truth.

– You don’t?

– No.

– You can check what I’ve told you, Mike says. You can ask Xavier, Mia…

– We will ask them, the man says.

– Mr Penderetzky, the second one says. How do you think a judge would view the evidence presented to him in this case?

– I don’t know, Mike says.

– He would convict you of murder, the man says.

– But I don’t know the victim, Mike says. I have no motive.

– You are an art lover?

– I wouldn’t say that. I am interested in art.

– In modern art?

– All art.

– Is that why you went to the house?

– No. I told you. My friends took me to a party there.

– And when you saw this… body in the bath, you thought it was art?

– I told you. I had no doubt it was a dead body. And then Mia explained to me.

– You have already told us.

He waits.

– And if we told you it was indeed an artefact, the first one says. What would you say?

– I would heave a sigh of relief.

There is a silence. Then the first one says:

– Mr Penderetzky, we are going to let you go.

– Let me go?

– You can pick up your belongings on the way out.

– You mean I’m free?

– You’re free.

He makes a dismissive gesture. Mike gets up.

At the door he turns and looks back. The two of them are sitting there in their stiff uniforms, their faces turned towards him.

– Go on, the first one says. Fuck the hell off.

11

The phone in his pocket rings and he brings it to his ear.

– Giles? he says.

– Mike! Why the hell has your phone been off all this time?

– The police confiscated it.

– The police? What happened?

– It’s a long story.

– I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Gerry, Giles says. He told me you scuppered off to Paris with the spoons.

– What spoons?

– His little joke. I gather you’re staying with Xavier.

– Who is Xavier?

– What do you mean who is he? You’re staying with him.

– I mean how do you know him.

– He’s a friend of Vicky’s. Is it good there?

– No, Mike says. It’s not good. I’m getting out. I haven’t even unpacked my bag.

– What happened?

– It’s a long story.

– You’re in trouble with the French police?

– It’s a long story, Giles. Another time.

– Listen, Giles says. This may work out very well. I have a proposition for you. Nancy’s flat in Nice has just become vacant and she’s looking for someone.

– Who the hell’s Nancy?

– Sylvia’s friend. Her tenant’s let her down and she’s not planning on getting down there herself till June and she doesn’t want to leave it empty.

– I couldn’t afford the rent, Mike says.

– No rent, Giles says. You’d be flat-sitting. Doing her a favour. It’s right in the heart of the Old Town. You’d love it.

– How do I get in?

– Just ring her friend Raoul. I’ll text you the number. You’ll love it.

– This Xavier, Mike says. What do you know about him?

– Great guy, Giles says. Sorry, can’t really talk now. Shall I tell Nancy it’s sorted?

– Yes but –

– Raoul will explain everything. Ring him as soon as possible.

– Giles, listen.

– Sorry Mike, Giles says. Got to dash. You’ll love it down there. I know you will.

II Allemande

1

Walking past the Pépito at three in the morning, the heaving night life of Nice Old Town having once again driven him, sleepless and exhausted, from Nancy’s third-floor, oak-beamed flatlet, he is surprised to find the door, usually so firmly shut, standing wide open, and even more surprised to hear, coming from within, a light female voice intoning a familiar song.

As he enters the applause is dying away. A large, low-ceilinged room, barely half-full, with a bar to the left and a small stage at the far end on which a woman with a bob of blonde hair is absent-mindedly sipping a drink while, to the right, the members of a small ensemble in white shirts and dark trousers chat idly among themselves. As he advances the musicians begin to return to their places and start tuning their instruments, while the woman walks across the stage and deposits her glass on the upright piano, then moves back and, as the lights dim and the spotlight is turned on, cradles the microphone and whispers her way into a new number.

There is a curious echo where he is standing but he is able to make out what she is saying. ‘Deshabillez-moi’, she sings, undress me – but not straight away, and not too quickly. Desire me, she sings, take me captive, undress me, but don’t be like the others, don’t rush me, don’t rush it. Choose your words with care, she sings, touch me, but move your hands over me. Not too slow, not too quick. And there, she sings, I am trembling now beneath your hands, undress me, quickly now, undress me – and you – now get your clothes off quick.

Scattered applause. Graciously, she indicates the musicians and they stand and take their bows.

He makes his way to the bar and orders. As the man places the drink in front of him he asks:

– C’est qui, celle-là?

– Au micro?

– Uhuh.

– Charlie.

– Charlie?

– Charlie.

She is standing beside him. The barman places a glass on the counter before her and pours from a bottle.

– I liked that, Mike says.

She turns and looks at him.

– I really did, he says.

– You’ve got to be joking, she says, her voice surprisingly deep.

– Not at all, he says. Lovely words, lovely song.

– You’re easily satisfied.

– I don’t think so, he says.

She is sipping her drink.

– The other one, he says. Autumn Leaves. I heard it only the other day.

– Oh yes? she says.

– In another town, he says. Another country.

She has returned to her drink.

– On an old phonograph, he says. Yves Montand.

– Really? she says.

She puts down her empty glass and makes her way back to the platform. There are barely two dozen people left in the room.

Once more she cradles the microphone. ‘Speak Low’, she announces in English.

‘Speak low when you speak love’, says the song, and it goes on to tell of how our summer days have fluttered away too soon, too soon. It tells of ships adrift and the end of love. ‘We’re late, darling’, she sings and goes on to sing of how the curtain descends and everything ends, while the room empties, leaving the air heavy with the smell of sweat and cigarettes.

Mike asks the barman for a refill.

And once again she is standing beside him.

– For you? he asks, pointing to her glass.

– Marcel knows, she says.

– I liked that, he says.

– Is that all you know how to say?

– No, Mike says. But I did.

– I told you, she says. You’re easy to please.

– On the contrary, he says. My friends think I’m very discerning.

– Do you always speak like that? she asks.

– Only when I’m nervous.

– And you’re nervous now?

– Yes.

– Why?

– Because I’m talking to you.

– Look, she says abruptly. I don’t feel so good. Will you take me home?

– With pleasure, he says.

– Wait while I get my things.

The big room is now empty. Marcel lights a cigarette and wipes down the zinc.

– Does no one sleep in this town? Mike asks.

– We sleep in the mornings, Marcel says.

– I wish I could, Mike says. But however late I go to bed I always wake up at the same time. Then I feel wretched for the rest of the day.

– It’s to do with the biological clock, Marcel says.

And she’s there again, in a long white coat.

– Come, she says, putting her arm through his. Let’s go.

2

Outside, in the now silent street, he says:

– Are we walking?

– I told you, she says. I don’t feel well.

– Where do we get a taxi?

– You’re new here?

– Newish.

– Follow me.

Wrapped in her long white coat she leads him through the silent streets.

On the promenade he flags down a taxi. He holds the door open for her and she gets in and immediately curls up in a corner.

– Where are we going? the driver asks.

He nudges her:

– Where do we go?

She mumbles an address. He repeats it for the driver.

She dozes, curled up in her corner. He looks out of the window, watching the hotels and restaurants of the town centre give way to villas and gardens as the road starts to climb. Then they are in tree-lined residential streets, silent and empty.

The driver brings the car to a stop.

– Eh voilà! he says.

– Pay him please, she says, opening the door on her side.

He follows her up the steps of a three-storey balconied building. She activates the code and holds the door open for him.

– Quiet, she says.

Inside she fumbles in her bag, finds the keys, opens the door and goes in. She puts on a light as he follows her inside and closes the door behind him.

She is leaning against the open door of the bedroom.

– Are you all right? he asks.

– There’s the kitchen, she says, pointing. Make me some hot chocolate please. You’ll find everything.

When he returns with the mug of hot chocolate she is sitting on the bed, still in her white coat.

– Are you all right? he asks. You don’t look good.

– Put it there, she says, indicating the bedside table. Then go.

– Do you want me to call a doctor?

– No. Just go.

When he is at the door she says:

– Thank you for seeing me home.

He goes out into the night.

3

He arrives at the Pépito soon after the advertised opening time to find the door shut.

He rings the bell.

A window in the door opens and a man’s voice says:

– Yes?

– I want to come in.

– Member?

– No.

– Members only.

– I was in here yesterday. Nobody said anything about membership.

The door opens and he steps inside. The man, who is sitting on a high stool with a newspaper open on his knees, shuts the door behind him.

– How do I become a member? Mike asks.

The man points with his chin towards the bar and returns to his paper.

Marcel is still polishing the zinc.

– I want to join, Mike says.

– Join?

– Yes.

– Weren’t you in here yesterday?

– Yes.

– What will you have?

– Same as yesterday.

– You expect me to remember?

Mike tells him.

When the man puts it down in front of him he says:

– Now tell me how I join.

– Search me, Marcel says.

– The guy at the door told me I had to join.

– No idea, Marcel says.

– Where’s Charlie?

– She’s not in today.

– Why not?

– How should I know? Marcel says.

– Is she ill?

– How should I know? Marcel repeats. Mireille’s in tonight, he adds.

– Is that Mireille over there?

– Uhuh.

Mike swallows his drink and pays. At the door the man is still reading his paper.

– I want to leave, Mike says.

The man looks up from his paper.

– You just came in, he says.

– That’s right, Mike says. I want to leave.

With a sigh the man opens the door.

4

He rings the buzzer and waits.

Silence.

He rings again.

– Who is it?

– Me. Mike.

– What do you want?

– I want to see you.

The door clicks open and he steps into the hall.

She is standing in her dressing-gown by the half-open door of the flat, bleary-eyed.

– You’re ill, he says.

– Come in.

He follows her into the bedroom. She lies down, pulling the covers over her.

– Are you ill? he asks.

She motions him to the chair by the bed.

He sits.

– Why did you come? she asks.

– I was worried about you.

– You sound like my mother.

– I am your mother, he says.

– Thank God not.

She has her eyes shut.

– Have you got a temperature? he asks.

– You really are like my mother.

– You haven’t answered my question.

– What was your question?

– I asked if you had a temperature.

– I don’t have a thermometer.

– You don’t believe in them?

– Please, she says, opening her eyes and looking at him.

– I’m sorry, he says.

– Can you straighten the blankets please.

When he has done so he asks:

– Can I draw the curtains? Open the window? It’s fuggy in here.

– Fuggy? she says.

– It smells of illness.

– You want to leave?

– I want to open the window.

– Open then.

He draws the curtains, opens the window. A neat garden, several tall trees.

He sits down by the bed again.

– How come? she says.

– How come what?

– That you’re here.

– I went to the club. They said you were ill.

Her eyes are closed. She says:

– You are kind.

He waits.

Finally he says:

– You want me to go?

– No. Stay.

After a while he says:

– Are you often ill?

– More questions! she says.

– I’m sorry.

She is silent, seems to have gone to sleep.

He waits.

Suddenly she says:

– You can go, you know.

– Why are you here? he asks.

– Here?

– In Nice.

She is silent.

– You’re not French, he says.

– No.

– What then?

– Allemande.

– Allemande?

– Allemande.

– Why Nice?

– Why not?

– A man?

– Maybe.

– Still with him?

– Enough questions, she says. Make me a cup of tea. Verveine.

He pulls up the blinds in the kitchen, finds the packet, makes the tea, brings it in and sets it on the table by her bed.

– Now go please, she says.

– I don’t want to leave you like this.

– Please, she says. You tire me with your questions.

– When he is at the door she says:

– Will you come tomorrow? Bring me some food?

– I’ll get it now.

– I don’t need it now, she says. Bring it tomorrow.

– You need to eat.

– You’ll make me angry, she says.

– I’m concerned.

– There’s stuff in the fridge.

– What do you want me to bring you then?

– Anything, she says.

– But – ?

– Use your common sense, she says.

– But is there anything you can’t eat? Don’t like?

– Please, she says. Just go.

5

Again she is waiting at the open door of the flat.

– I’m glad to see you, she says.

– Are you starving?

– It’s you I’m glad to see.

She takes his hand and draws him in.

– Come, she says. I’ll make coffee.

– You’re feeling better?

She puts a finger to her lips:

– No questions.

At the kitchen table, with the coffee between them, he asks:

– How long can you take off from the club?

– I told you, she says. No questions.

– I’m sorry.

She pushes the cup across to him.

He says:

– Perhaps you’re right. I only know how to ask questions.

– You English are so complicated, she says.

– I’m not English.

– No?

– Polish.

– Polish?

– My father.

She is silent.

– Do you want to know any more? he asks.

– No.

She gets up, holds out her hand.

– Come, she says. She draws him after her to the bedroom.

– See? she says, pointing. I opened the windows.

She takes off her dressing-gown and then her nightdress and gets into bed.

– Come, she says.

– Into the bed?

– Take off your clothes first.

At the climax she says: Ha ha. Ha ha. Then falls asleep.

6

He dozes, wakes up when she nudges him.

– I made coffee, she says.

– I went to sleep.

– I know, she says.

She sits on the bed.

– You’re lovely, he says.

– Why? she says.

– You just are.

He sits up as she hands him the mug and the abrupt movement knocks it out of her hand.

– Shit! he says, jumping up. I’m sorry.

She sits on the sodden bed and starts to cry.

– It’s all right, he says. It’s all right, Charlie.

– It’s not all right, she says, between sobs. It’s all wrong.

He goes into the kitchen finds a cloth, comes back into the bedroom. She is still sitting on the bed, her head in her hands, her body heaving.

– Get up, Charlie, he says. Let’s change the sheets.

She doesn’t move.

– Charlie, he says. Don’t worry. It’ll come off in the wash.

– You must go away, she says, her head in her hands.

– Go away?

– You bring me bad luck.

– Charlie, he says.

– Please, she says. Go away.

– I can’t go away, he says. I’m going to help you get this mess cleaned up. You’ll see, we’ll do it in a second.

– No, she says, looking at him, the tears still streaming down her cheeks. You don’t understand. I want you to go away.

– But –

– Go, she says. Go away.

– When shall I come back?

– Don’t come back, she says. You bring bad luck.

– What are you talking about? he says.

– Go, she says. Please go.

– I’m just clumsy, he says. I always have been. I don’t bring bad luck.

– I don’t want you here, she says, wiping her face with the back of her arm. Go. Don’t come back.

– What does that mean? he says. You don’t want to see me again?

– I made a mistake.

– A mistake?

– Go, she says, pointing. Now. Please.

– Charlie, he says.

She sits on the bed, her head in her hands.

7

He pays a visit to Mme Esther. Her flyers, plastered over the walls and billboards of the Old Town, read: ‘Mme Esther, Déformations du temps’. Her waiting room resembles that of a doctor or dentist of the old school, upright wooden chairs with worn leather seats line the walls and ancient copies of Elle and National Geographic sit forlornly on a low table in the centre.

The only occupant is a stern-looking young woman at the reception desk who silently motions him to one of the chairs.

He sits.

After a while the woman says:

– You may go in now.

In Mme Esther’s consulting room there are no crystal balls or packs of cards, only the furnishings of a bourgeois living room. Mme Esther herself, tiny and elegant in dark slacks and white silk shirt, is of indeterminate age. Her handshake is surprisingly firm and cool.

– What can I do for you today? she asks, smiling, showing perfect white teeth.

– I thought you foretold the future, Mike says.

– There is no future, Mme Esther says. And no past. There is only our perception of the present, variously deformed.

– Deformed?

She waves this away and motions him to sit down in a deep armchair while she herself perches on the edge of the sofa, legs elegantly crossed.

– Tell me about my present then, Mike says.

– But that you already know, she says, smiling.

– Then what are you offering?

– Give me your left hand, she says.

She leans forward as he holds it out and takes it in her right, looking all the while into his eyes.

– I see a dead woman, she says. Lying on a daybed.

– In a bath, Mike says. Only she wasn’t dead. It was body art.

– A bed, a bath, she says, releasing his hand but maintaining eye contact. It makes no difference.

– But it does, he says. You see, she wasn’t dead.

– Mr….? she says.

– Penderecky.

– Penderecky.

She leans back on the sofa, closing her eyes.

He waits.

Finally she says:

– I see an ear on a table.

– A phonograph, Mike says.

– Please do not interrupt, Mr…, she says, opening her eyes and looking straight into his own.

– I’m sorry, he says, but you see, Mme Esther, that is all in the past. I want the future. Otherwise why would I consult you?

– Mr…, she says reproachfully.

– Penderecky.

– Please do not interrupt, Mr Penderecky, she says.

– I’m sorry, he says. Go on. I just meant I know all that. I want to know what I don’t know.

– We always know everything, she says, smiling, showing her beautiful teeth. But we don’t always know we know, you understand? Or we are not always prepared to acknowledge what we know.

– And so? he says.

– I help you to know what you know, she says. To acknowledge it.

– You sound like a psychoanalyst, he says.

– Sir, she says, you must understand. I sound like no one but me. Mme Esther.

He stands up.

– You are leaving us? she asks, still deep in the sofa.

– How much do I owe you? he asks, taking out his wallet.

– My secretary will tell you, she says, motioning towards the door.

– Thank you, he says, holding out his hand.

She does not take it.

The waiting room is still empty but for the young woman at the reception desk.

– It’s not cheap Mike says, examining the bill she hands him.

– You pay for what you get, she says.

– In that case, he says, it is extremely expensive.