Paige leaves the restaurant feeling elated at the prospect of playing for Morrow, yet despondent that it all still hinges on Conroy. Verrine calls a couple of times over the following days but on each occasion Paige’s report remains negative. She visits Morrow’s website, gets to know the rugged face she may never meet, Googles Chopin and checks what Verrine said about his heart, his eyes, it all matches, meaning it’s true, or that Verrine got his factoids from Wikipedia. The company name on his card turns out to be some kind of media conglomerate, the fancy site goes on about passion and mission without ever really specifying exactly what they do.
When Verrine next calls he tells her the meeting with Morrow is scheduled, still weeks away. He’s a busy man, Paige sees the filled diary in her head, imagines the powerful feeling of being acclaimed but feels the balancing weight of failure and rejection: Morrow is as hypothetical and unreal as his website. Again she tells Verrine she hasn’t heard from Conroy, and now his irritation shows. “We’ve got to find the fucker.”
“If I can’t get the score we’ll need an alternative.”
“There is no alternative,” Verrine says witheringly. “Get it or the meeting’s off.”
“But…”
“We only get one shot, Paige, and it has to be done right. Klauer or nothing.”
She can’t understand why he’s so adamant, there are plenty more unknown compositions in the world. Mrs White seems pleased with Paige’s progress, but while playing the Scherzo in C sharp minor for her later that week, the picture in Paige’s mind is of decomposing eyes, a rotting heart. During the customary break for tea and biscuits Paige asks with fake casualness about the issue that matters so much to her: has there been any news?
Mrs White nods. “He sent a resignation letter.”
“Then he’s all right.”
“From what I hear, it wasn’t the standard kind of resignation. Said he needed to stay hidden until he could defeat forces trying to destroy him. I’m not sure if he’s getting any kind of psychiatric treatment but he clearly needs it.”
“Does anyone know where he is?”
“I don’t think so. But he got in touch and that might mean he’s ready to look for help.”
A whole week goes by with no word from Verrine, then she gets a call.
“Paige?”
“Mr Verrine, I…”
“This is David Conroy.”
It’s what she’s been waiting for, though now that it’s happening she feels no relief. She’s been convincing herself that the audition with Morrow would be a waste of time, Conroy’s sick and best avoided.
“Are you alone, Paige? Can anyone hear us?”
“I’m on the bus.”
“Get off now, I’ll call again in five minutes.”
She’s on her way to a doctor’s appointment but does as he says, getting up in the swaying vehicle and alighting at the next stop, in a residential area she doesn’t know. She waits on a quiet corner, long enough to consider how she’ll handle it. When he rings back she asks at once, “Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you, it’s too dangerous. And don’t try calling this number, it won’t work.”
“You should come back to the college.”
“Everything’s wrong, Paige. Don’t you feel it? Didn’t you notice? The needle jumped, everyone’s mind was on something else.”
This is what a nervous breakdown sounds like and it’s not Paige’s fault, has nothing to do with her, but he’s trying to make her feel involved, and that’s the trouble, she is. “People want to help you.”
“I’m in the wrong life. None of this should be happening.”
“We all have moments like that.”
“Laura’s gone.”
“I know,” she says, playing along with the fantasy. “She walked out on you.”
He shouts, “The whole fucking world walked out!”
She waits silently until he calms down and apologises. All she wants is the score. “Are you at home?”
“I can’t go back there.”
“Then tell me where you’re staying. Or perhaps we could meet.” Immediately she realises this might sound too eager, she switches instead to flattery. “I preferred your lessons to Mrs White’s. Wish I could have seen more of that Klauer work you gave me.”
“Has anyone contacted you about it?”
“No.”
At Conroy’s end Paige can hear a sound she equates with thought, something like an indecisive sigh and the rubbing of his chin, while around her there’s birdsong from empty gardens, an occasional passing car. Eventually he says, “We can’t meet, it would be too much of a risk. The last thing I’d ever want would be for you to come to any harm.”
“You wanted to perform the Klauer.”
“It’ll never happen”
“Then it’s lost again?”
Another silence, she’s sure he suspects nothing. Right now, Paige feels real pity for this weak man who’s become fixated on her for no reason and is entirely the maker of his own misfortune. It’s not her duty to feel sorry: she owes him nothing.
“Send it to me,” she says, breaking into his hesitation.
“The score? But surely…”
“Mail it to me at the college. Nobody will know I have it. A perfect way to keep it safe. I really want to help you.”
She hears him struggling to find words. “Paige…”
“Just send it.”
“Guard it carefully. Tell no one. I know I can trust you.”
1924. Capri
ONE-WAY STREET
Asja has gone into a shop to buy almonds but doesn’t know the Italian word; a German gentleman helps her with the translation. Small round glasses; thick, dark hair; intellectual, from a well-to-do background. And clumsy. He insists on helping her with the packages but drops them, accompanying her to the place where she’s staying. His name is Walter Benjamin. He’s been here in Capri for some time, would she mind if he were to call on her? Next day Asja cooks spaghetti; he explains he’s noticed her already some time before, walking across the piazza. This is not how he falls in love with her. This is how he announces the existence of a theoretical notion willing to be made real. Love is the translation of concept into action.
NO ENTRY
Benjamin has come to Capri to work on his habilitation thesis which will qualify him to teach in a university. He is to remain here for six months while his estranged wife and their young son stay in Frankfurt. Asja Lacis is a dark-eyed Latvian actress and theatre director who lives in Russia and has been a Bolshevik since before the Revolution seven years ago. She is staying on Capri with her partner and daughter. Benjamin tells her his thesis is on Trauerspiel, a style of Baroque drama characterised by violence and suffering. She asks him why anyone should waste time studying old plays that nobody reads.
POTEMKIN
The connection between a battleship and the many workers who hammered its rivets is like that of worshippers in regard to the idols of organised religion; the fetish-character of commodities leads to their being seen as phantoms whose assumed reality supersedes that of the people who made them. Thus our existence within capitalism is a condition of dreaming. Asja awakens him to this. He writes to friends about the interesting communist he has met, and with whom he is having long discussions. He sends postcards to his wife, telling her he is fine. Their relationship was extinguished some time ago; he feels closeness only towards his son, because Benjamin has not forgotten how to see the world with a child’s eye of fear and wonder. He agrees with Baudelaire, childhood is the state closest to original sin, therefore purest. In the streets and brothels of Paris, Baudelaire stirred himself from dogmatic slumber, saw through the illusion, appreciated that modern life is an allegory whose signs can mean anything. Possessions, money, family, home: skeletons of their own contradiction.