On Saturday night we take a taxi to the Konzerthaus in the Gendarmenmarkt. Under my coat I’m wearing a clingy black shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, a denim miniskirt, black tights, and black ankle boots with heels. Earlier in the evening, when I emerged from my room, I asked Klaus if I was appropriately dressed. He smiled, then looked away, ruffling his hair. At the time I wasn’t sure how to interpret his response, but as we mingle in the lobby with other concertgoers — tuxedoes, jewels, furs — I understand that I do in fact look inappropriate, and that it pleases him. I’m flouting convention and since he’s escorting me this means that he too is flouting convention but in the only way he can — at one remove.
Upstairs in the bar Klaus introduces me to a man with slicked-back hair and a damp handshake. His eyes are damp too. When he looks at me they seem to leave a deposit, as snails do, and I have to resist the urge to reach up and wipe my face. His name is Horst Breitner. Klaus, Horst — German names are truncated, harsh, almost greedy, like bites taken out of something crisp. For a split second I glimpse the apple on the bed in the hotel on Via Palermo.
When Klaus goes off to buy a program, Horst insinuates himself into the space in front of me, blocking my view of the ornate, high-ceilinged room. He holds his champagne flute below his chin and speaks over the rim, in English. “You have known Klaus long?”
“I met him a few days ago.”
“Ah, so this is — how do you say? — fresh.”
Horst has an air of urgency, as if he is required to extract certain information from me before Klaus returns. As if he has specific goals or targets. The effect is flattering, but vaguely repellent. I could pretend not to notice, of course. Frustrate him. For some reason, though, I decide to lead him on.
“We met in a café,” I tell him.
“Really?”
“He was sitting at the next table. I asked for the sugar —”
Horst lets out a brief breathy laugh of disbelief.
“We started talking,” I say.
“In a café.” Horst’s eyebrows lift and he turns through ninety degrees. Standing sideways-on to me, he looks away across the bar. He raises his glass to his lips, then tilts it quickly, swallowing a mouthful that is economical, precise. “And now you live with him, in his apartment …”
“Yes.”
“I’m surprised,” he says. “Really.”
I shrug, then I too look away, scanning the people to see if they have anything to impart. That’s what life is like now. I hold myself in a constant state of readiness. Every occasion — every moment — trembles with a sense of opportunity. I have no idea where the next communication will come from, but I know that one will come — perhaps even from the unwholesome, insidious man who is still standing beside me.
Klaus returns with two glasses of champagne and a program.
“Quite a crowd,” he says.
“Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique.” Horst twists his lips. “Always popular.”
Klaus looks wounded.
“You’re here too,” I say to Horst.
“I have a complimentary ticket,” he says. “I do not pay.”
Soon afterwards he moves away. He approaches a woman in a small close-fitting hat of orange feathers and begins an animated whispered conversation, his mouth only inches from her ear.
“How do you know him?” I ask Klaus.
“We were at school together. I don’t see him often.” Klaus finishes his drink. “He runs a gallery.”
I’m still watching Horst. He notices, and allows himself a quick sardonic smile.
/
Once we are in our seats I consult the program notes. Written shortly after the Second World War, Prokofiev’s Sixth Symphony addresses dark themes of loss and damage — “wounds that can’t be healed.” As I lift my head, the conductor raises his arms, and the audience goes still. Loud blasts burst from the brass section, then the strings come in, giddy, out of kilter, somewhat unhinged. I feel as if I missed the beginning but I know I didn’t. The turbulence dies down, and the music becomes melancholic, questing. A gradual awakening, a sense of possibility. Then more bombardment from the horns and trumpets. It’s like trying to listen to several people talking at once, but maybe that’s the whole idea. The lack of a single lucid voice, the absence of a solution. Wounds that can’t be healed.
I glance at Klaus, who sits upright with his hands flat on his thighs and his eyes fixed on the orchestra. My mind drifts. I find myself thinking about The Passenger. There is a scene where Jack Nicholson’s wife tracks him down to a small Spanish town and he makes a getaway in a white convertible with his new lover, Maria Schneider. Filmed from behind, the convertible speeds into a tunnel while the car carrying the camera pulls over and stops. For a few daring, hypnotic seconds of screen time Antonioni allows the main action of the film to disappear from the film itself. I’ve never known exactly what to make of his decision. I used to think he was drawing attention to Nicholson’s predicament: in taking on a new identity, a stranger’s identity, Nicholson has shrugged off his old life, left it all behind. Now though, with my own thoughts wandering, I see the scene from another angle. What if Antonioni’s parking of the camera is mischievous, or mocking? The Passenger is a difficult film, and he might be playing with his viewers, predicting or preempting a lack of concentration. He’s looking away before they do … Just then, the Prokofiev becomes unexpectedly tuneful, almost sweet. Is it me, or does the symphony seem to have turned into a movie soundtrack? Klaus has not reacted. He remains transfixed, lips slightly parted, as if in awe.
Returning to The Passenger, I once again see Nicholson and Schneider disappear into the dark mouth of the tunnel. I see the road’s cracked surface, the dusty verge, the weeds. Of course it’s always possible that Antonioni is conjuring a sense of apprehension. He can’t bring himself to follow his characters. He’s fearful of witnessing what’s going to happen. He doesn’t want to know … Or perhaps it’s about validity. Perspective. That ordinary stretch of Spanish highway has just as much significance as anything else. Next to the tunnel is a sign that says GRACIAS POR SU VISITA. It’s ironic. Or naive —
The curtain falls suddenly, to rapturous applause.
“The interval,” Klaus says.
People rise from their seats. Some have been soothed by the music in a cryptic, almost celestial way. They look benign, incapable of cruelty or violence. Others seem thoughtful, as if they have been set a puzzle or conundrum. And there are those who have a narcissistic air that reminds me of the English couple in the cinema. They have achieved importance simply by attending.
Back in the bar I notice Horst Breitner in the crowd. His eyes rest on me, moist and slightly sticky, then slide away again. Klaus returns with two glasses of white wine. His forehead gleams, as if listening to music is a form of physical exertion.
“Are you enjoying it?” he says.
“Very much,” I say. “But I think I’ve had enough for now.”
“You don’t want to hear the Tchaikovsky?”
“This is a new experience. I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
He stares miserably down into his glass. “Would you like me to take you home?”
“No, no. You go back in. I’ll wait for you.”
“But there’s another hour —”
“That’s fine. I’ll wait.”
When people surge back into the auditorium Klaus is carried along with them. At the doorway he looks over his shoulder. I wave at him. I wonder if he thinks I’m saying goodbye — that I’ll be gone when he comes out, and that he’ll never see me again. It’s not my intention. These days, though, when I leave a room, I often have the sense that I might not return. Steps can’t always be retraced; the path through the forest closes behind me as though it was never there. The repetition that used to characterize my life has gone and I’m left with a trajectory that feels driven, linear. No day is like another day, no moment like the next.