‘Goodnight,’ I said. We shook hands again, and she closed the door before I had even reached the stairs.
13.
HOW QUICKLY ONE’S LUCK CAN CHANGE. BUT THEN I HAVE NEVER been a very lucky man. Of what Schopenhauer calls the three great powers of the world, luck is that in which I am most deficient. Sagacity, though, I have in abundance: that is particularly clear now, looking back on these events of which I tell. Strength I never lacked, despite my weakened appearance; in fact it is precisely my weak exterior that is the source of my power. But at that time I suffered from want of luck. I was like the captain of the ship that is constantly blown off course. I could see the landmass towards which I was bound, but how the winds of ill fortune pushed at me. I worked hard at the rudder, adjusting my course again and again, but even as I did this, fresh squalls fell upon my vessel and threatened to engulf me.
Barely did I have time to register the blow dealt by Anja’s strange behaviour before I had Theodor’s meeting with Gustav to navigate. And that next meeting was to be the beginning of the one of the more violent storms of that period.
The morning after the party I waited for Gustav until our agreed time, but he failed to show, so after waiting too long and making myself late I made my way to the Goldblatt office in the hope that Gustav had gone directly there. The one mercy I could think of was that at least on this occasion I had no anxiety of the real Franz making an appearance.
From the moment the door of Theodor’s office building was opened I felt that I was being punished. There was a hostility in the room that had been absorbed into the stale air and the angular furniture that crowded the small space. I was aware of a series of darting glances shared between the office staff. No one looked me in the eye or answered me directly when I asked whether Franz was in a meeting with Theodor. I was made to wait a long time, ignored, in a dusty chair in the corner.
When I published my first novel and had come to this office for the first time my experience had been very different. I had been greeted with enthusiasm by the staff. They had left their desks and crowded around me, heaping such praise upon me that I felt quite ashamed. I was attended to and given the best chair, and tea, and was endlessly fussed over. Every time after this that I had come here had been like visiting the house of a friendly relative. I had always felt, naïvely, that this treatment of me represented a genuine affection, particularly on Theodor’s part. To me, he had become almost like an older brother or a trusted friend, but now I saw that this was false, and that for him the relationship had only ever been a transactional one. It occurred to me as I sat there in the uncomfortable chair to which I had been demoted that now Franz was the one who would be getting the special treatment.
I had not really thought through what I would say, or what reason I would give for being there at the office at that time. I remembered the look I had seen steal over Theodor’s face the night before when he had asked me how I had met Franz. I would have to be careful not to arouse his suspicions. The only excuse I could hit upon for my unexpected appearance was to beg for more time on Schopenhauer, which would be a useful thing in any case, if it were granted.
Theodor called me into his office. Gustav was not there.
‘It seems your friend has great difficulty keeping appointments without you. Perhaps he should employ you as his personal assistant.’
We sat staring at one another for a while. I tried to sit up very straight but could not look him in the eye for long. My gaze dropped to the surface of his desk, which was littered with papers; clipped-together manuscripts, notebooks and loose pages lay in piles, presumably in a kind of order known only to Theodor. My eye was caught by a bundle of loose sheets of paper covered in handwriting, of which only a small corner was visible. The sight of the blue ink of the handwriting caused my heart to jolt when I recognised it as my own. I realised it was the story that had been the product of my fainting fit some months before.
‘What can I do for you?’ asked Theodor.
I tried not to stare too much at the pages as I explained the difficulties that I was having with Schopenhauer, but only half of my attention was on my words.
The blue handwriting loomed in my mind and I cringed at the thought of Theodor, or anyone for that matter, reading those private lines that had come directly from my locked-away secret self. I could not understand how the pages could have come into Theodor’s possession and I tried to remember the last time I had seen them. My gaze darted again and again to the blue lines, but now I was no longer certain if it was, in fact, my own writing. I wondered whether I should ask Theodor if I could read it, but I did not dare. What excuse could I possibly give for such a request? And what would I say if it was indeed my own story that lay there? I could surely make no claim upon it.
I had this whole time been continuing my rambling explanation of my difficulties and I came out with my request for more time; another month.
There was a silence. I sat hunched over, now staring openly at the handwritten corner of the pages.
‘I see your attention has been riveted by Franz’s newest story,’ Theodor said, and his voice was hollow with irony. His hand burrowed among the papers and he pulled out the handwritten bundle.
‘I too was struck by it. It is vital. Compelling. Brutally honest. Honesty: this is the substance of real art.’
I nodded stupidly. My hand reached out timidly for the papers he held. Narrowing my eyes I tried to discern the writing. It looked from this closer distance identical to my own, I was sure of it.
‘May I…?’ My voice came out in a squeak that was ignored.
‘You see, Max,’ Theodor said, sounding tired, ‘you may be well known now, but the reading public is fickle. They will so very quickly forget you. The mileage of a book is only so long, and you must never forget that there are young writers, new writers, writers like Franz, coming up at every moment. It is imperative, if you want to survive, that you keep on producing work. If you want to survive.’
My eyes were still fixed on the papers. I thought that I could pick out a few phrases there on the page that seemed familiar. I wrestled with a fresh wave of shame at the recollection of the story’s content. Perhaps it was better that it had been attributed to Franz. But how could Theodor have got hold of the thing?
‘But of course,’ Theodor went on, and his voice had now softened, ‘I am eternally indebted to you for introducing me to Franz.’ He put the pages back underneath the pile of papers on his desk, appearing to be lost in thought for a moment. I had shrunk into the chair. If it really was my story that he held, there was absolutely nothing that could be done about it. I glanced up at Theodor’s face and saw that he was giving me a long, appraising look.
‘Well, I am prepared to give you the time you ask for, but only if you will do something for me,’ Theodor said.
Now he looked sly. I waited for him to go on.
‘There appears to be an emerging interest in travelogues.’
I had no plans to travel anywhere. I am not a man who romanticises travelling; not through any closed-mindedness or lack of imagination, but because it causes me such considerable bodily suffering. Being confined in too-small chairs, uncomfortable beds and jolting carriages are the chief memories that remain to me of most of the journeys on which I have embarked.
The thought also crept into my mind that writing a travelogue was beneath me. I was not some Baedeker hack,[14] touring the cities of Europe and rating it in stars. But I could see that I was in no position to refuse him. I feigned some enthusiastic sounds and repeated, ‘Travelogues,’ in a satisfied tone that I hoped was believable.
14
A copy of the 1905 Austria–Hungary Baedeker guidebook was also found among the manuscripts.