Finally she went to one of Max’s performances. She waited outside the concert hall, looking at the patterns in the varnished wood panels on the walls. Long after the audience was gone, Max emerged, holding the door open for a very tall, serious-looking woman. She was carrying a violin case, and nodding at something Max was saying.
Milena drew herself up next to them. Max ignored her. He kept talking about orchestra business; how to divide the orchestra’s earnings fairly. The violinist kept giving Milena speaking looks, tight-lipped, steady-eyed. Finally she said, ‘Excuse me, Max,’ and addressed Milena. ‘I’m sure you must find listening to our conversation terribly dull. Perhaps you could talk to Max later.’
‘I would love to talk to Max later, but we keep missing each other. Max, have you been able to make up your mind about the Comedy yet?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, and tried to turn back to the violinist.
‘Do you think you could let me have the book back, so I can make a copy?’
‘Please!’ he said turning to her. He looked harassed, piteous, as if she had been hounding him. ‘You are asking rather a lot. Let me look at it, and I will let you know.’
Milena felt her jaw jut out. ‘You have had a month, Max. I don’t think that’s rushing you.’
‘I will let you know soon. Please give me some time, and please let me continue talking to my colleague.’
All right. For now, all right. ‘I shall try to see you in a week or two’s time,’ she warned him.
Sometime in early January, she visited him in his office. Winters were getting cold again. There was cold grey light coming in from the windows, but the room was still stiflingly hot. Max looked up in alarm when Milena came in. He was sitting at his desk, arms folded, hands buried in his armpits as if to stop them doing something. He’s sitting here doing nothing, Milena thought. ‘Hello, Max,’ she said quietly. ‘Have you made up your mind yet?’
His face was frozen. His mouth gaped open, with a kind of twist in its slackness. Milena realized that Max was trying to smile and couldn’t. He dreads me, she thought, he dreads me coming. I am the least welcome thing that could happen to him. Well, Max, say yes or no, and either way I’ll let you alone.
‘Max,’ she repeated. ‘Have you made up your mind?’
‘Yes,’ said Max, in an unconvincing imitation of firmness. ‘Yes, I have. I think the material is very good. It does require, a lot, a lot of work. But I’ll be happy to do it for you.’
‘Fine. Thank you Max.’
‘It will take some time.’
‘I’m sure of that, Max. But we don’t need a full orchestration. I think just the first canto will be enough to show the Minister what we want to do. So. I have brought you all the vocal line for the first canto.’ She had reconstructed it from memory, it was such a part of her life. She passed it to him, all tidy on staves. ‘Now, could I please have the book back?’
‘It isn’t here, Milena.’
‘I realize that, Max. It’s a big book. I’d see it if it were here. When can you get it to me?’
‘I will send it to you tomorrow.’
‘I will expect to see it. This is a major project, Max, and we have to begin thinking in terms of time. The Minister will want to see a schedule.’
He began patting his blank paper again. ‘He shall have one.’
‘I will need one, too,’ said Milena.
He shrugged again.
Milena chuckled with frustration. ‘Max!’ she said, as if to call out his better self. ‘Will I see a copy of the schedule?’
He only nodded.
‘I’ll come in tomorrow for the book, if that is well with you. Max? Max, please answer me.’
‘Yes,’ was all he said.
Milena shook her head as she left. I get that book back, and then I get rid of you, Max. There’s no way that you are up to doing this project.
Milena came back the next day to his office, and was not surprised to find that he wasn’t there. The charcoal burners were full of icy ash. Milena searched his room. The drawers of the black desk were empty, the long white shelves were empty. The room was as blank as the paper.
Milena took a sheet of his paper and wrote on it, angrily, making slashes of the Chinese characters.
Where is my book
Then she went to the Three Eyes.
The corridors echoed with the sound of distant feet walking on other floors, and with the strains of music — pianos, violins. It was as if the building were sighing to itself.
Milena knocked on his door. The door was green and should have hidden dirt, but all around the handle there were grubby fingermarks. From down the corridor, from outside the windows came the drifting sound of someone rehearsing Bartok on the violin.
The door opened very slightly, and there was a blast of hot air. It smelled of socks and stale bedding, and the room beyond the door was dark. Milena saw part of Max’s face, one eye looking at her.
‘May I come in, Max?’ she asked.
‘It’s a bit of a mess,’ he replied.
‘I’m used to that. I don’t need to come in, if you can just give me the book.’
‘Let me get dressed,’ he said.
Dressed? thought Milena. It’s mid-afternoon. I’m not waiting for you any more, Max, I am not standing out here in a cold corridor looking at a closed door. Milena lunged forward at the door before Max could close it and pushed her way in. She felt the edge of the door thump into the soft flesh of his shoulders and toes.
‘Milena, please!’ he yelped in genuine outrage. Milena forced herself sideways through the door.
Max stood looking at her, appalled, in only his linen shirt, underpants and socks. The room was dark and the blinds were down. Milena had an impression of clothes in heaps and bedclothes that had fallen onto the floor.
‘I’m very sorry, Max, but we agreed to meet today. I have been leaving messages and trying to talk to you for over a month. I am sick of chasing you. Please may I have that book!’
‘It’s in my office,’ he said.
‘No. It is not. I have searched your office and it is not there. Where is it, Max?’
He stared at her, even more exposed than his nakedness made him. ‘This is really outrageous,’ he said to the floor. ‘I am the conductor of an orchestra. Having you go through my office!’
‘Max. Where is the book?’
‘I will get it for you.’
‘Is it in this room, Max?’
The room was small. A sink, a bed, a cupboard, a chest of drawers. He was Party member, so there was also a small water closet. He was Party and had privileges. But there was not much space there for the great grey book to hide. Clothes were piled on the floor, twisted in strange shapes as if being tortured.
‘You’ve lost it, haven’t you Max?’
‘I’ll find it for you!’ he insisted. He could not manage anger, only petulance. Hands shaking, he began to pull on his baggy, wrinkled trousers.
‘Did you give it to someone else to write the music?’
He did not answer. Shaking, wounded, he was pulling on socks.
‘If you gave it to someone else, simply tell me who and I will fetch it.’
No answer. ‘Max. Please answer me. Did you give it to someone else?’
‘Of course not. I don’t think so.’
‘Which is it Max. Yes or no.’
‘I don’t remember!’ he suddenly shouted.
‘You don’t remember?’ It was Milena’s turn to be undone. Her voice went dismayed and childlike.
‘No! Now leave me alone, and let me think.’
‘Max, what do you mean, you don’t remember?’
‘I don’t know. I’m a very busy man with a full concert schedule and I’m afraid I had rather more on my plate than your silly little book.’