The Valley of Unknowing

by Sington, Philip

  What would Richter have written after The Valley of Unknowing? What was the next step in his all-conquering career? If only I could have answered that question, I might have been safe. Theresa and her agent were demanding only a brief description. I could have strung out the actual writing for years. I thought of asking Michael Schilling about the Richter pipeline, but decided against it. There was no possible excuse for my curiosity and I didn’t want to start arousing his. Besides, hadn’t Richter’s mother told me the boy was secretive about his work? He didn’t like to talk about his projects until they were finished.

  It was quite possible, of course, that Richter would have written nothing, or nothing good. Perhaps – this thought was perversely comforting – The Valley of Unknowing had sucked his creative well dry. Maybe the new star, celestially speaking, would have burned brightly and burned out, as the authors of so many promising débuts had done before him; as I had done, or so it was widely reported. Richter had confidence and swagger (in my memory he is always swaggering, hands sunk deep into his trouser pockets, a woman’s petitioning arm looped through his), but success is a heavy mantle no matter how expensive the fabric. It suffocates the brightest artistic spark. Following The Valley might have proved as daunting a task for Richter as it was for me. In that event I imagined he would have opted for a quick literary death, rather than the long drawn-out one attributed to me.

  All of which should have made my task easier. I was free, truth be told, to propose whatever story I liked. My anonymity afforded me protection – more protection than I had ever known. I had no censors to worry about, no ministry to please, no standing to protect, no reputation to defend. Fate had given me the rarest of luxuries: that of being able to ghostwrite my own book. What more freedom could a writer possibly ask for? But instead of opportunity, I saw only the multiple and conflicting requirements: for a story I could write, that Theresa might write, that Richter would write. I saw only the walls. It never occurred to me to look up at the sky.

  I did not give up easily. I tried my best to imagine the kind of stories that might have entered Theresa’s mind, if Theresa had been a writer; but all I could think of was her struggling to make music, and the twin she no longer had. I tried to become Wolfgang Richter as I strode through the Heide with the wind in my hair, but all I could think of were tales of petty jealousy and vengeance and clandestine betrayal – too confessional, too close: histories I wanted hidden from Theresa, not paraded before her. When at last we met again, I was exhausted and hollowed out from the fruitless hours of wandering.

  I recall the occasion as being marked by a lack of conversation. It was a close, sticky night. Theresa had turned up late, downed the shot of iced vodka I had prepared for her, sneezed and disappeared into the shower, pulling her ribbed white sweater over her head as she went. In other circumstances I might have followed her, not in pursuit of arousal but to affirm my privileged position in her affections. But that night I did not follow. For once, I had neither the conversation nor the confidence. I lay waiting on the bed, nursing my blistered feet, listening to her wash away the grime of her day. Now and again I caught snatches of a tune, though it wasn’t one I could place.

  She came into the room wrapped in several towels and threw herself on to the bed beside me. ‘So, what about your homework?’ she said.

  ‘Homework?’

  ‘For Martin. The next book idea. Today’s your deadline, remember?’

  ‘Coming along nicely,’ I said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ll write you something tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, but what? What’s it going to be about?’

  From somewhere in the building came the throaty roar of a flushing Klo. It was then that I remembered Frau Helwig.

  ‘It’ll be a sequel,’ I said. ‘Same setting, same characters, only five years on – no, make that ten years on.’

  ‘Ten years on.’

  ‘Yes. You get to find out what happened to everyone, in the end. It answers all the questions.’

  Theresa was silent. I knew why. The Valley of Knowing was a perfectly complete work of fiction. Tacking on a sequel was the literary equivalent of regurgitating an excellent meal so as to enjoy it a second time, somewhat rearranged. It was bound to leave a bad taste in the mouth.

  ‘A sequel. Great,’ Theresa said.

  She took off her towel and slipped beneath the sheets. By the time I was undressed and ready to join her, she was fast asleep.

  30

  Theresa’s exams and assessments went on for several weeks, a period in which summer at last made a clammy and truculent appearance in the valley; the skies pregnant with veiled and distant cumuli, the river low and toxic, the streets ever more malodorous. It was a summer redolent with decay, a season that looked forward to its own demise – a summer of waiting and of uneasy calm, like the months before war.

  Each day was hotter than the last. I gave up walking and stayed at home, burying my head in detective novels and Robinson Crusoe, until that too became unbearable. After that, I sought out churches and the larger, cooler public monuments, attaching myself to touristic troupes of Libyans and Bulgars, and corpulent, sweating Russians. I invariably peeled off at the ruins of the Frauenkirche – the star attraction, judging from the expenditure of photographic film – taking shelter in Tutti Frutti or one of the other Eiscafés, even when the only flavour of ice cream still available (seasonal variations in demand presenting a challenge to the central planning system) was a lurid green pistachio that tasted like deodorant.

  The torpid days were made longer by Theresa’s lengthy absences. These, she said, were unavoidable. She had to make up for the time she had spent away (time spent helping me, in part) and was dangerously ill prepared for her exams. Allegedly, an out-and-out fail was a real possibility. I never questioned these assertions, the memory of her unsteady Brahms performance being fresh in my mind. I didn’t object when she filled her evenings with studying and practice rather than make the trip to Blasewitz; I didn’t complain when she didn’t call. The single telephone in her residence was often out of order, she had told me; and when it wasn’t out of order, there was invariably a queue of students waiting to use it, making privacy impossible. When she did call, she sounded close to exhaustion.

  Her explanations didn’t stop me from worrying. I worried that my prowess, creatively speaking, had been deflated in her eyes on account of my recent capitulation. What was to follow the ingenuity and wisdom, the vitality and vigour of The Valley? A sequel. It didn’t matter that Richter’s book was a coded sequel to mine. The story of Thomas and Sonja was a story in two parts; it demanded two books. But a third? Thomas and Sonja in late middle age; what was that going to add? Even if Theresa was unaware of my capitulation, it would not be long before she was enlightened by her agent or her publishers in Munich. The same characters ten years on? Was that really the best she could do?

  Then early one morning I found a letter waiting for me in my letter box. Like the last of Theresa’s communications, it had not been entrusted to the postal service, the envelope having neither address nor stamp. It seemed she had access to some alternative delivery network, involving students and musicians – or so I assumed.

  The letter was very short, the handwriting more untidy than usual. It assured me that the exams were going ‘not too badly’ and invited me to a party being thrown in the evening after the last test. I hope you can come, she wrote, the sentiment striking me as strangely formal. I’m sorry I’ve been so wrapped up in myself. Things have become more complicated lately. It seems my whole life is in flux.

  I couldn’t guess what she was talking about. For me it was only our circumstances that were complicated: challenges posed by geography, history and politics – nothing that actually mattered. One of the joys of being in love is that it clarifies your priorities. Complication arises from not knowing what you want.

  Theresa signed off before adding the following postscriptum:

  I passed on the seque
l idea. To be honest, I wasn’t sure about the response. The first book ends so beautifully. Is there any more that needs to be said? But guess what? Everyone’s even more excited now than ever. Martin says a sequel is a masterstroke, because it gives everyone ‘two bites at the cherry’. Konrad Falkner said it’s just what he was hoping for and he’s going to put more money on the table for the rights. I didn’t know you could sell a book before it’s even written, but apparently it’s quite normal. (If the idea really caught on, bookshops would be funny places, wouldn’t they? Lots of empty shelves . . .) Anyway what do you think? Should I sign on the dotted line? I think everyone is going to be very disappointed if I don’t. Martin says it’s vital to keep Bernheim ‘fired up’.

  It was not in Theresa’s nature to joke about my work, but even so, it took me a while to accept that my creative surrender really was deemed a masterstroke in the West; an idea so promising it could not be allowed to get away. Well, if repetitiveness and creative timidity were the order of the day, I had plenty more where that came from. As I wandered into town, crossing the Neumarkt on my way to my favourite bakery, it came to me that there was a simple explanation for this bizarre reaction. What if the pivotal entity here, the repository of value, was not the books, actual and putative, but the person of the author? What if Theresa herself was the key ingredient, the selling point par excellence? If so, then all this talk of a second book might simply be a way of extracting more money and of extracting it sooner. Why wait for the bubble to burst? Why take a chance on the difficult second novel being difficult for everyone; difficult to sell, difficult to enjoy, difficult to read? Success in this strange new world happened almost instantaneously. Maybe failure happened just as fast.

  A humid summer wind blew through the ruins of the Frauenkirche, sending a plume of dust spiralling into the air. These were only speculations, but speculations were all I had. The little I knew of these negotiations and strategies, I knew from Theresa. My knowledge was limited to her perspective and her impressions – and to what she chose to reveal. The fact was, she could tell me whatever she liked. I was in no position to uncover her omissions, just as she was in no position to uncover mine. I had an inkling she could have told me more than she had; the way she spoke of her agent and publisher sometimes, it was as if they were old friends. What plans might they have made together? What futures might they have mapped out?

  In spite of the hour, my shirt was soon sticking to my back. As I gingerly plucked the fabric from my flesh, it struck me that my thoughts were as grimy and sour as the city air. I had no reason to mistrust Theresa. If I envisaged duplicity or ambition on her part, this was merely a reflection of my own double-dealing and my own pride. A deceiver might be doomed to live in fear of deception, but only in fairy tales and fables (factory gate and otherwise) was he doomed to be deceived. Poetic justice was, as the term implies, a phenomenon confined to poetry and to lesser literary forms.

  31

  I had not been at the party more than a few minutes when a couple of Theresa’s student friends – pale young men whose faces I recognised but whose names I could not remember – came up and asked me, in tones of wonder, if I had read her book.

  ‘What book?’ I stammered, being completely unprepared.

  ‘Her novel. It’s coming out this autumn, in the West.’

  The festivities were being held outdoors, on the north side of the Blochmannstrasse building, a semi-rustic space compromised by tornadoes of small insects spinning hungrily beneath the shadows of the trees. Refreshments and sandwiches had been laid out on trestle tables, the white plastic tablecloths acting as a magnet for thunderflies, earwigs and various arthropodal detritus, which fell from the branches like rain.

  I lowered my voice. ‘I thought that was supposed to be a secret.’

  ‘Not any more,’ said one of the young men, a cellist, if I remembered right. ‘Theresa’s been telling everyone.’

  ‘So what’s it like?’ asked the other young man. ‘What’s it all about?’

  I said I didn’t know, because Theresa had kept her book under wraps. Even I hadn’t been allowed to see it.

  The cellist smirked. I sensed that, beneath the smiles, Theresa’s literary coup rankled – more even than her freedom of movement, or her idiosyncratic beauty. Perhaps the modest aspirations of the viola player had drawn the sting from these other advantages, rendering them less wounding to his self-esteem. But the status of author, that was a different matter. The author was a soloist, elbowing her way centre stage. The maker of fictions was an egotist, a romantic showman, congenitally disinclined to share (all characteristics that, upon reflection, made Theresa unsuited to the role).

  ‘I expect she’s afraid,’ the cellist said. His breath smelled strongly of alcohol.

  ‘Afraid? Of what?’

  ‘Judgement. Your expert appraisal. She’s afraid you’d see through her.’ His friend gave him a censorious nudge. ‘Well, anyone would be. This is the man who wrote The Orphans of Neustadt.’

  I moved away. By now the gathering was around forty strong, but Theresa was nowhere to be seen. My insides began to gurgle and throb. The uncertainty that was intrinsic to our relationship, an inevitable consequence perhaps of its geopolitical instability, had a habit of resurfacing at times like these. Unexpected absences and casual farewells took on an ominous significance in retrospect. It was not the kind of uncertainty any normal man could tolerate for ever.

  I was standing in the middle of the crowd, stifling nervous belches and feeling out of place, when it began to rain: a few spots on the back of my hand, a faint rumble in the distance, then a hissing downpour that sent everyone running for cover. The bravest revellers huddled around the trunks of the trees; the rest, myself included, headed inside the building where an unprepossessing common room was commandeered for festive use. There was still no sign of Theresa and it was not until I had emerged from the lavatories – the tension translating itself into an increased pressure on my bladder – that I spotted her sitting halfway up a flight of stairs, holding a glass between her knees. Next to her sat Claudia Witt. Before I could open my mouth, Claudia got up and left without a word, giving me a peremptory hello as she went by, but nothing that could be called a smile.

  I took Claudia’s place on the step. On the landing above us the wind hurled volleys of raindrops against a large window. Theresa looked tired. There were unfamiliar creases under her eyes, and a general puffiness that I could not help but associate with the aftermath of our longest and most voluptuous nights. Was this really the result of too much studying, or was some change in her health responsible? Was she falling sick?

  She smiled and rested her head on my shoulder, forestalling my clumsy attempt to kiss her on the mouth.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ I said, peering into her half-empty glass.

  ‘Lemonade.’

  ‘Lemonade? I thought this was supposed to be a celebration.’

  Theresa nodded towards the common room. ‘The booze down there is awful. I think it’s actually moonshine.’

  Prepared for this eventuality, I pulled a small bottle of Stolichnaya from the pocket of my ancient linen jacket. But before I could pep up the contents of her glass, Theresa covered it with her hand. It really wasn’t like her.

  ‘My head hurts,’ she said, placing a hand on her forehead, the gesture a touch too theatrical. ‘I’ve been up since five.’

  ‘You do look tired,’ I said. ‘Recently you’ve even been sounding tired.’

  She sighed and said nothing, as if honouring a resolution not to expand on the subject.

  ‘So how did it go today?’ I asked at last.

  ‘It could have been worse. No disasters anyway.’

  Even expensive varieties of vodka are unpleasant when warm, but I took a slug before replacing the cap, if only to burn away the unsteady feeling in my innards. This reunion was ominously downbeat, ominously lackadaisical. In Theresa I saw none of the eagerness I felt, none of the need.

&nb
sp; ‘I’ve a question,’ I said. ‘Have I read your book, or not?’

  Theresa frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Someone just asked me if I’d read your book. I didn’t know what to say. No Party line on that particular issue.’ Theresa continued frowning. ‘You said you weren’t going to tell anyone over here.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sighed. ‘I told Claudia, that’s all. She has a way of winkling things out of me. Sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It didn’t seem natural keeping quiet about it. I thought if I said something now, there’d be fewer questions later, when the book comes out.’

  ‘It won’t come out here. Besides, you’ll be gone before then, won’t you?’

  Theresa fell silent. It was clear to me that she had come to a decision, a decision about us. I wished I had a drink to sip, or a cigarette to light (though I’ve never smoked), anything to appear oblivious to the significance of the moment. With timing that verged on the ironic, a faint rumble of thunder rattled the window behind us.

  ‘That depends,’ Theresa said at last. ‘There’s a chance I could take a masters degree in musicology. At the Humboldt in Berlin. My professor here – Dr Thurman – says it could be arranged, for a fee. But I’ve the money now, thanks to you; so I can afford it.’

  ‘Are you really interested in musicology? I thought you wanted to be a musician.’

  ‘I do, but there are no jobs, are there? Not for a viola player.’ Theresa began speaking rapidly. ‘It’s all right for you. You’re a writer. You don’t need anyone else. All you need is pen and paper. I need a whole orchestra.’

  ‘You told me once that you felt sorry for writers. Remember? Because they have to make up their own material; whereas you musicians have always got other people’s to fall back on.’