The Valley of Unknowing

by Sington, Philip

  ‘Hello, Bruno. I suppose you’re looking for Theresa.’

  ‘I was just passing.’

  ‘Twice?’

  Actually I had passed by three times. She must have missed the first.

  ‘Lost my bearings. Which way is the park?’

  ‘Theresa’s in Berlin.’

  Berlin: where she had first met Wolfgang Richter. Who was she meeting now?

  ‘What’s she doing there?’

  Claudia smiled, happy to know something I didn’t know. ‘She’ll be back at the weekend, I expect. I’ll tell her I ran into you, shall I?’

  I said that would be very kind of her and took my leave. As I walked away, the possibility occurred to me that Theresa was watching this whole encounter from a window in the college – was watching me still, making sure I didn’t return. I resisted the temptation to look back.

  *

  Then, on the Monday morning, I received a postcard from Berlin. On one side was a photograph of the Brandenburg Gate. On the other was written:

  Here for an audition. Tried to phone you a dozen times. What’s wrong with your phone?

  Wish me luck! (I’ll need it . . .)

  T

  A few hours later Theresa herself was on the phone. It appeared to be working perfectly, although it turned out she was only calling from a mile away. She sounded unhappy. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you beforehand. It all happened so suddenly.’

  One of her professors at the college had heard about an upcoming viola vacancy at an orchestra in Berlin. Theresa had raced up there to catch the tail end of the auditions.

  ‘East Berlin or West Berlin?’ I asked.

  ‘West, of course. The Radio Symphony Orchestra. Have you ever heard of Riccardo Chailly? He’s wonderful.’

  As it happened, I’d heard Chailly conduct many times, on the radio. But it was the ‘of course’ that made the deepest impression.

  ‘Didn’t it go well?’

  ‘That’s just it: it went very well. At least, I thought so.’

  I felt slightly sick. Had the countdown to the end of our affair begun already?

  ‘Well, that’s wonderful. Isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s not. Because I didn’t get the job. They let me know the same day: more experienced applicants, intense competition, blah blah blah. The thing is, I couldn’t have played any better. They just saw through me.’

  ‘There’ll be other chances.’

  ‘There’s too much competition. Orchestras are going bust all round the world.’

  ‘Not here,’ I said.

  ‘The symphony orchestra’s a dinosaur. And it’s slowly dying of neglect.’

  ‘Not here.’

  Theresa sighed. For a moment, I thought she was going to hang up.

  ‘It’s all very well for you, Bruno. You’ve got to where you want to be. I’m having trouble with the first step.’

  ‘Why don’t I make you supper?’ I checked my watch. The Delikat would be closed in an hour. ‘What you need now are calories and alcohol.’

  ‘I have to work. I’ve got to hand a paper in tomorrow. Music theory. Dull as hell.’

  ‘I love music theory. Bring your books and we’ll write it together. You expound, I’ll phrase.’

  She seemed to like the sound of that. ‘Just think: I’ll be handing in an original Bruno Krug manuscript,’ she said. ‘And no one will know but me.’

  I hurried to the Delikat and stocked up on a variety of expensive edibles and a superior brand of vodka. I also bought candles, a Vietnamese throw, some cushions and a brushed-steel reading light, the better to disguise the dingy furnishings in my apartment (for dingy they had begun to seem). Then I dashed off to a butcher, whom I bribed with Deutschmarks for a large salami sausage and a half-kilo of bratwurst. I wanted, I see now, to infuse the evening with cosiness; to make my home feel like her home. It was an unusual impulse for me, but all that talk of the future – of Theresa’s ambitions, and mine – had left me uneasy.

  The paper was about twentieth-century orchestration and Theresa had written most of it. All it needed were some extra references and a little editing. Regardless of this, I recomposed every sentence while we ate and drank, American jazz playing gently in the background; so that in the end it flowed with all the elegance of a prose poem, without a single rhythmic hiccup. There was nothing very clever about what I did, but Theresa seemed terribly impressed. It was at least a genuine piece of creative showing off, unsullied by pretence.

  When it was over, we undertook a tour of the soft furnishings, lolling amorously on one after the other, in search always of greater comfort and horizontality. Still, I found it difficult for once to disregard the issue of our future and to concentrate on the delights of the present. It had always been very likely that Theresa would return to the West once her studies were over. Yet the fact that there had been no discussion of the matter – no discussion at all, in fact – was a cause for concern. Would Wolfgang Richter have encountered the same reticence at the prospect of parting? The same composure? He’d been daring; I was cautious. His glories had been in the future; mine were in the past. He’d had promise; I had history. In a fictional context, his was a better fit for the romantic lead.

  None of which would matter if Theresa loved me, if our affair was more than an episode for her, an experience (of the kind students are supposed to have), a valued but temporary addition to the romantic curriculum vitae.

  ‘What about an orchestra in this country?’ I said, as we finally sprawled across the bed, still clutching our glasses. The geometry of the situation made it possible to converse without having to look at each other. ‘That’s where most of your classmates will end up, isn’t it?’

  Theresa was quiet. Her right hand, fingers splayed, moved mechanically back and forth across the covers. ‘That would mean settling here, though. Permanently.’

  ‘I just thought it might be an option. I mean, if things are really so tough in the West for serious musicians.’

  ‘Bruno, my whole family are over there. And my friends. I don’t really know anyone here.’

  I considered reaching for her hand, but thought better of it. ‘You know me. And then there’s Claudia. You two make wonderful music together – even if she doesn’t like me.’

  Theresa laughed. ‘Don’t talk rubbish.’

  ‘I didn’t think I was.’

  To my surprise, Theresa’s hand found mine. But the intention, I sensed, was gently to curtail further discussion of our future. She turned on to her side, facing me. I remained looking at the ceiling. It made me look thinner and besides, it was easier that way to hide my disappointment.

  ‘How’s the rewrite going?’ she asked.

  With her finger she pushed a lock of hair from my forehead.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The new book. Isn’t that what you’ve been working on?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’ I was feeling reckless and not a little miffed. ‘It’s coming on well. You can read it if you want.’

  Theresa jumped on top of me. Apparently this was just what she wanted to hear. I couldn’t keep my hands from riding up under her dress. The future can always wait so long as the here-and-now is rapturous.

  ‘This is turning into a good day after all,’ she said and kissed me on the mouth.

  I don’t know how she did it, but her lips tasted of orange blossom. Her thighs tasted of honey without the sweetness.

  20

  I telephoned Michael Schilling the next morning. This time he wanted to meet in the Volkspark. I didn’t question his choice of venue. I assumed it was a concession to me, as a keen walker, not a symptom of incipient paranoia. I found him pacing up and down outside the zoo, squinting at a newspaper while a crowd of Young Pioneers queued up to go in, their red scarves billowing in the breeze. The new raincoat lent him a veneer of elegance, but his shoes were muddy and his face was half hidden behind the peak of an ugly knitted cap that I had never seen before. We greeted each other with a nod and w
alked into the park without shaking hands.

  ‘You still have Wolfgang’s manuscript, don’t you?’ he said as soon as we were alone.

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of it lying around. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Bruno, but I need to know it’s safe.’

  Rooks were gathering in the trees up ahead. Their noisy communion filled the air.

  ‘We can go and fetch it now, if you like.’

  I was confident Schilling wouldn’t be so importunate as to take me up on my offer – which was just as well, because the manuscript was no longer in my possession. Theresa had taken it away with her. She had promised to be careful with it, but exactly where it lay at that precise moment, and how secure it was, I was in no position to say.

  ‘I hope this doesn’t mean you’ve decided to publish,’ I said.

  We were halfway along an avenue of maples. Spring was still months away, but some of the trees had retained a handful of their leaves. They dangled by their stalks, brown and lifeless, like scraps of prehistoric litter.

  Schilling looked back the way we had come. ‘Not any more. Not now.’

  This was what I wanted to hear. If Richter’s book was never published, Theresa would never have to know who wrote it. There would be no eventual need for a confession, no requirement for elaborate excuses. I would still have to explain why I was not submitting the new novel for publication, but that presented less of a challenge. I could profess endless dissatisfaction with content or form, stringing out the notional process of redrafting for years on end. And if all else failed, there was always the Ministry of Culture to fall back on. I might decline to submit the new book because I knew it would never get past the censors. The book was subversive, if you read between the lines. The excuse was built in.

  I was relieved, at the intellectual level anyway: Richter’s novel was dead, as dead as Richter himself. Strange, then, that the realisation coincided with a spasm of stomach pain so intense it doubled me over.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  I took a couple of deep breaths. ‘Trapped wind.’ The knot of pain loosened. ‘What did you mean, not now?’

  ‘Maybe we should sit down.’

  There was nowhere to sit, except the ground.

  ‘I’m fine. Has something happened?’

  Schilling went on staring, as if afraid I would drop dead. No doubt he was thinking of Wolfgang Richter, who had pretty much done exactly that on a leafy street in Loschwitz, though it had taken Death a day or so to claim him finally.

  Only when I had supported my self-diagnosis with a sonorous belch did my friend continue walking. ‘I’ve started hearing things,’ he said.

  I glanced at his ridiculous knitted cap, an insane choice even given the prevailing fashions. ‘Voices?’ I asked.

  ‘About Wolfgang. About his death, Bruno.’

  ‘What about it?’

  An elderly couple were walking towards us down the avenue. Schilling remained silent until they had passed.

  ‘After that party he went to, someone saw him. On the street outside.’

  ‘So? He was walking home, wasn’t he, when . . .’

  ‘He wasn’t walking. He was getting into a car. The back of a car.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘There were two other men inside.’

  The blood drained from my face. I felt unwell again and not a little irritated. Didn’t we both have enough regrets and fears to haunt us without conjuring up more?

  ‘I expect they were giving him a lift,’ I said.

  ‘The police said he was found in the street.’

  ‘Maybe they dropped him off, and then, after that he . . .’

  The rooks were overhead now. They seemed to find my suggestion hilarious. They were lined up on the branches, like theatregoers in the front row, laughing. What Schilling had described was a typical encounter with the state security apparatus. Under Actually Existing Socialism, when the decision was taken to question an individual, he or she was often picked up off the street, using plainclothes officers and unmarked cars. This was no doubt considered more discreet than turning up at their place of work or their home and banging on the door. Ideally, the very fact of the interview would remain a secret, known only to those involved. That way, should the interviewee be inclined to cooperate by, for example, turning informer, his renewed commitment to the anti-fascist struggle would not be suspected by those around him. Likewise, if something went wrong, if the detainee had a seizure under interrogation, if he tripped or fell or hanged himself in his cell, the whole episode could be plausibly denied.

  ‘Who told you all this?’ I said.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Maybe it’s just a rumour . . . You know how people like a good scare. Look what happened with the toothpaste.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The point is . . .’

  ‘It was some other guests, from the party. They saw the whole thing.’

  ‘You actually spoke to these people?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘But the person you spoke to, he did?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I had the impression . . . no, probably not directly.’

  I began to breathe easier. Schilling’s report wasn’t just second-hand; it was at least third-hand – and possibly fourth-hand, fifth-hand or sixth-hand. As far as I was concerned that made it the very epitome of a rumour and therefore probably untrue. On the other hand I didn’t want Schilling to change his mind about Richter’s book. He was in danger of doing that anyway.

  He was staring at the ground now, his head sunk on to his chest. ‘Maybe the right thing to do is . . .’

  ‘The right thing to do is what you are doing,’ I said. ‘You’d only be inviting trouble to publish now, rumour or no rumour. It’s not going to help Wolfgang, is it?’

  Schilling shook his head. ‘I suppose it’s too late for that.’

  We walked on in silence. The park was very empty, the mist turning slowly to drizzle, but to me it didn’t feel empty enough. I couldn’t shake the irrational sensation of being watched. I pictured myself in a viewfinder, captured in the grainy vision of a telephoto lens.

  ‘What are you going to do with the manuscript?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I had a feeling he did know. He just wanted someone else to suggest it; part of his own private exercise in deniability.

  ‘The safest thing would be to destroy it,’ I said.

  Schilling did his best to look shocked. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Just in case someone comes looking for it. In case questions are asked.’

  ‘What sort of questions?’

  ‘Why you didn’t reject the book outright. Why you didn’t let anyone see it except me. Those kinds of questions.’

  Schilling stared intently at the ground. ‘I suppose . . . I suppose that would be the safest thing.’ He brought a hand to his face. ‘My God, Bruno, what are we doing? It’s the only copy. It’ll be lost for ever. How can we . . . ? How can we . . . ?’ He stopped. ‘Maybe we could hide it?’

  ‘Anything hidden can be found. And then there’d really be some explaining to do. Subversive literature must be reported, not concealed.’

  Schilling seemed on the verge of tears. It came to me that he was actually incapable of destroying Richter’s manuscript. Whatever the method and whatever the circumstances, when the moment came he would be unable to go through with it. For him, it would be a hundred times worse than torching a library. Books in a library could always be reprinted. This would be more like murder.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Why don’t you leave it to me? And if anyone asks: you’ve never heard of The Valley of Unknowing. You never saw it and you never read it. Agreed?’

  Schilling couldn’t bring himself to look me in the eye. It was all he could do to nod.

  21

  Under Actually Existing Socialism the discreet destruction of compromising literat
ure is not as straightforward as it is elsewhere. In the West, for instance, where mountains of printed matter accumulate daily on the doormat, uninvited and unloved, literary purges are built into the routine of every household. Sack loads of writing are collected and removed each week. Roomy suburban gardens provide ample opportunity for incineration if greater discretion is required.

  None of these solutions was available to me. Garbage was not bagged up in the Workers’ and Peasants’ State, there being no ready supply of bags. Anything that could not be recycled was emptied in plain view into a communal skip. Ideally I would have burned Richter’s manuscript – it was at least fitting that the created should share the same fate as the creator – but that was not an option: my stove ran on oil and any fire outside the building was bound to attract attention. I considered pulping. As a schoolchild I had spent many contented hours making papier-mâché masks and assorted wild animals. I mixed up some flour glue and attempted a trial run with an old set of page proofs. But the trial was not successful: the paper was too stiff, and after an hour of boiling and pounding, I had got through less than thirty pages’ worth of Factory Gate Fables. There was always the river. I thought of drowning the manuscript the way people drown kittens, in a cloth sack weighed down with stones. But the bridges and quays were the most visible spaces in the city; I was almost certain to be observed. After much deliberation I decided that, just like a real murder victim, Richter’s book was best buried in the woods.

  As it happened, our city was blessed with sixty square kilometres of forest, the Heide, not half an hour’s walk from Blasewitz. Nonetheless, planning was essential. I would need to establish a suitable location for the burial. I would need to get there without arousing suspicion. I would have to dig a hole – but with what? A man walking towards the woods carrying a spade might well have been deemed suspicious. The Heide was officially designated parkland. Digging there was a state prerogative.

  I worked out the elements of my plan one by one. The key to it, I realised, was to have an alternative explanation for every step, an explanation both innocent and credible. This required some creative thinking, but I was glad of the occupation, glad to focus on the how and not the why. The answer to why lay in the past, but the past could not be changed. Besides, I was taking a risk, for Schilling’s sake more than my own. I was being strong for both of us, in case – only in case – the rumour he had heard about Richter’s death was true.