by James Runcie
One cold, wet, and dark night, just before Easter, she insisted that we attend a concert in which a friend of hers was singing a Lacrimosa. I was extremely unwilling to accompany her, particularly when she informed me that the piece of music was part of a Requiem. I did not want to think any more about death, or be upset by my confused thoughts on the nature of eternity, but Claudia was insistent. I only agreed on the understanding that afterwards there might, at last, be an opportunity to talk seriously with her about these things.
And so we found ourselves in the midst of the Stephandom waiting for orchestra and choir to fill its cavernous interior. People huddled in their chairs, wrapped against the cold, and candles spluttered under the marble statues.
At last the music began. It filled the air with grandeur and assurance, proceeding with a grave and natural inevitability, as if there had been no beginning and could be no end, each phrase beginning before its predecessor had finished, building its harmonies with a daringly slow serenity. It seemed as if there could be no other music than this, as if it had been written by a man who could do anything. Each time I thought the fullness and the richness of the harmony could not possibly be more poignant or more beautiful, the music flowed on, naturally and effortlessly, into a dimension of which I could not even have dreamed. The basses sang out as if they never needed to take breath, the high sopranos as if they were dancing with their voices, echoing the frailty of humanity against the deep bass of the world, crying, ‘I am here. I am part of this. I am involved in it all.’ I had never heard joy and pain so combined, as if everything it meant to be human was contained within it. It was complete. Nothing could be added or taken away.
And, as I looked at Claudia, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight, I was overcome by an almost inexpressible sadness. I could not accept that this music must end; that all things must perish from under the sun.
I knew that Claudia would have to grow old, and the thought suddenly terrified me. She was living her life at such a different pace to my own, and would be here on this earth for so short a time. I tried to imagine what she would be like, and her skin seemed to shrink in the dim light before my eyes. Her face aged, and for an instant she seemed seventy years old. I was filled with horror at the speed of my imagination, as if reality was falling away from me once more and I was about to plummet, yet again, into a terrifying dream.
‘What are you thinking?’ Claudia whispered.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘You look strange.’
‘I was afraid.’
I could not help but stare at her.
‘Of what?’
‘Of the moment not lasting.’
‘It never does,’ she whispered as the music continued. ‘That’s the point. It is only beautiful because it is rare.’
And I thought that even though Claudia might live a long life, and have children, and eventually die so that others might come in her place, there would never be anyone like her again, that this moment could never be repeated or reclaimed. Everything created could only be lost. Despite life’s beauty, whatever its securities and strengths, its transience infected the lives of all whom I loved.
To see Claudia grow old and suffer and die was something I could not bear. I would be bereft, and could not, did not, want to imagine such a thing.
The Dies Irae began. I had never heard anything so fierce or so destructive. Such anger and vengeance, thundering through the cathedral, filling it with terror.
I could not bear it.
I had to leave the city.
And so, terrified by my own feelings, longing for my own death and yet appalled by the very idea of the demise of my friends, I hastened to the Berggasse and explained my fears to the Doctor.
It seemed that there was no alternative but to begin the new life in England that Mr Fry had offered a few years before. It was the only course of action that would enable me to retain my sanity.
The Doctor smiled at me, as if he had always suspected such news.
‘Still you refuse to mourn.’
‘I cannot bear to. I know that I am fleeing my responsibilities, but I am filled with the need to escape the fears of life and the terrors of death.’
‘But if you live in dread, then you must die every day. Will you work?’
‘So hard as to forget myself.’
‘I only warn you that your fears must and will return.’
‘I know. But I shall work hard to protect myself from them. It is all I can do.’
‘I think there is still much to be done before you find peace.’ The Doctor shook my hand warmly.
‘Remember: we must all realise our place in the world.’
He assured me that I could always return to see him in Vienna, and that although he was sad to lose me as a patient, he recognised (adding this with a twinkle in his eye) that I would outlast a good few doctors before my time came. He also informed me that, despite his natural fear of trains, he would be glad to wave me a fond farewell at the railway station, for he would be most interested to observe a man of my slowness embracing the speed of the iron horse.
All that remained was to explain my decision to Claudia.
I drank a large cognac to steady my nerves and rang the bell of her apartment.
‘Who is it?’ she called from inside.
‘It is I.’
She opened the door, pulling her nightgown around her.
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘There’s something I want to tell you.’
‘You can come in for five minutes.’ She held open the door and allowed me to pass. ‘Sit on the chair.’
She looked so beautifully pale, untouched by time.
‘There’s no need to stare. What do you want?’
‘Could I have a drink?’
‘No, of course not. You can have some water if you are thirsty.’
‘Please.’
I believed that the best thing would be simply to splutter out my news and then leave the room as quickly as possible.
It was not going to be easy.
Claudia poured water into a glass by the bed and looked at me suspiciously.
‘I hope you haven’t done something stupid,’ she threatened. ‘You look ashamed.’
She handed me the glass, bending towards me so that for a moment I glimpsed her breasts close to my face.
I closed my eyes.
I do not think that I had ever felt so uncomfortable.
‘Well?’ Claudia asked.
‘I am going to England,’ I said, quietly, my voice caught in my throat.
‘Oh …’
There was no going back.
I had spoken.
The new-born truth filled the awkward silence between us.
‘For how long?’
‘I do not know.’
Claudia seemed shocked.
‘Why do you want to leave? Are you tired of your life in this place?’
‘No, it’s not that exactly …’
‘You’re tired of me?’
‘No, no, definitely not …’
‘Our life?’
‘No. It’s not that …’
‘Then why go?’
How could I explain myself?
‘I feel that I do not know enough of the world. I have so much to learn. I believe that Mr Fry might guide me, and help me free my life from fear.’
‘What are you afraid of?’
‘Apart from you?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘You know the things of which I am afraid.’
‘I do.’
So many silences, as if we could not say more without hurting each other.
I looked down and noticed Claudia’s bare feet.
Their soles were wrinkled, like patterns in the sand left by the outgoing tide.
Age.
‘You are quite certain you must do this?’ she said at last.
‘I am.’
‘And when do you leave?’
<
br /> ‘Next week.’
‘Well then, if your mind is made up …’
‘It is. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s of no concern of mine. It’s your life,’ she added abruptly.
I could not understand her. Suddenly she did not seem to care at all.
‘I had better go.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good night,’ I said, but Claudia was looking out of the window now, across the roof of the opera house and out, far away, into the night sky.
My departure fell on Palm Sunday, and the city was covered in snow. The railway station was crowded with people, the tracks were cleared, and there was nothing to stop Pedro and me travelling through a wintry and frozen Europe to seek a new life in England.
The Doctor busied himself finding porters for our luggage, securing a crate for Pedro in which he was obliged to journey. In a particularly kindly gesture, he had brought us both a travel rug as a leaving present.
Claudia was dressed in her fur hat and coat, and stood uneasily on the platform, stamping her feet against the cold. I can still see the wisps of breath emerging from her mouth as she spoke, the fierceness in her green eyes, the crisp red lines of her lips.
‘Well then,’ she said at last, ‘this is goodbye.’
She held out her hand for me to take.
It was such a cold gesture after all that we had shared together.
‘I will miss you,’ I said, kissing her gloved hand. ‘I cannot thank you enough for all that you have done for me.’
‘And I must thank you. Will you ever return?’
‘I do not like going back,’ I said, thinking of Mexico. ‘It is never the same.’
‘Then shall we never see each other again?’
‘Come and see me in England,’ I said, as brightly as I could.
‘Perhaps.’ She sounded unconvinced, and dropped her hand.
We looked at each other in silence. We had shared such companionship that it was impossible to believe that it might be ending.
‘I am sorry to see you leave. You set me right.’
‘You have been a true friend,’ I replied, clasping her warmly. ‘You have been as a sister to me.’
She swallowed.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I suppose you did think that.’
I could hardly hear her words, and our bodies seemed awkward together. Something was wrong. Claudia would not look me in the eye.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, nothing. Our love would never have survived in any case …’ she said quickly, as if wishing as soon as she had spoken that she had not said such a thing.
‘Our love?’ I questioned, letting my hands drop. ‘What do you mean “our love”?’
‘You did not see?’
‘What should I have seen?’
‘That in the end I loved you.’
‘My God,’ I cried, ‘but you let me talk and talk and talk …’
‘It was part of loving you.’
‘You kept silent for five years?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what about Gustav?’
‘He is my employer. I do not love him.’
‘And now it’s too late? For us?’
‘That is why I am telling you now.’
‘Why didn’t you say so before?’
‘Did I have to spell it out?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘You know how slow I am.’
How had I failed to see what was happening to us?
‘Come,’ said the Doctor, walking towards us from the baggage car. ‘You must board the train.’
Claudia knelt down and held Pedro’s head.
‘Look after him,’ she said to this beloved greyhound. ‘Your master cannot survive on his own.’
‘I will always remember you,’ I said.
‘And I you,’ she replied, standing up once more. ‘At least I learned to love again.’
The Doctor led Pedro away and placed him in a small crate ready for the train.
‘Was that really love?’ I asked.
‘I think it might have been. We knew each other. We felt safe with each other. We were protected. It was better than desire.’
I reached out and held Claudia to me, but her body felt stiff, as if she did not want to touch me. I could not believe that I had failed to see what stood before me. Was I destined to spend my life in ignorance of the truths that surrounded me?
‘You think I do not know what love is?’ I asked.
‘I cannot know what you think. I only know that it seemed right to me.’ Again she could not look me in the eye. ‘I felt safe, for the first time in my life.’
‘Then should I stay?’
‘No. It’s too late.’
‘I could change my mind.’
‘No,’ she said sadly. ‘I do not think that it would be right. I am loved less than I love.’
And then she stopped, as if she could not contain herself any longer.
‘You didn’t even think to ask me …’ she said quickly, her voice breaking, ‘to come with you …’
The guard blew on his whistle. The carriage doors began to slam shut. How many passengers on this very train, I wondered, were frightened of the journey ahead, reluctant to leave their past and their securities?
Steam poured around us. The wind swept Claudia’s hair across her face. She clasped her handkerchief tightly, as if she was angry with herself and with the wind.
‘You must leave.’
She was crying now.
‘Try to find happiness,’ I said, holding her shoulders again.
‘If only it were so easy.’
‘It may be easier than you believe.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t think that it is.’
‘I’ll never forget you,’ I said.
‘And I’ll always love you,’ said Claudia sadly, ‘even if you are the most selfish person I have ever met.’
‘Come,’ called the Doctor once more.
X
I spent ten years in England. Although Mr Fry had become an old man, his company now stretched across the streets of Bristol. Every year extra buildings were converted from slum tenements in order to house the storing, roasting, winnowing, crushing and squeezing of cacao beans in order to make his famous concoction. Together we improved the process of manufacture still further by mixing and rolling the chocolate in a conching machine, reducing the size of the particles in order to create a new smoothness, rocking the mixture backwards and forwards for up to seventy-two hours at a time.
It was a complicated and painstaking process. In order to ensure uniformity of both colour and texture, Mr Fry and his sons had discovered that we needed to temper the chocolate. This was done by raising the heat of the cocoa mass to some one hundred and fifteen degrees, and then slowly lowering it over a large bowl of ice so that the crystal nature of the fat could be destroyed. We then re-heated the mixture for just under a minute, until the temperature reached eighty-nine degrees, and at last produced a hard and wonderfully glossy chocolate.
‘Temperature is everything,’ the elderly Mr Fry observed, looking at me seriously. ‘And do you know why?’
‘I do not.’
‘Because the melting point of chocolate is only slightly below the temperature of the human body. That is why it melts in the mouth as soon as it is placed there. Never forget temperature, Diego,’ he continued as if a professorship in chocolate had just been invented and he was its first incumbent. ‘Taste, Temperature and Texture should be your watchwords in its creation.’
And so each day, after the morning service in the factory, Mr Fry and I would taste chocolate together, as if it were a replacement for the Christian communion that I had ceased to attend. After a few months, we could almost judge a chocolate by touch alone, but we proceeded with the strictest of tests, wearing white gloves, and keeping a glass of ice-cold water by our side to preserve the acuity of our palates.
Thus we evolved the best method for evaluat
ing our creation.
First we would examine the chocolate by eye, checking the evenness of its colour. There had to be total consistency and no bloom. Then we would test the ‘snap’. For chocolate should break cleanly, like a small section from the bark of a tree; and finally we would place each specimen in our mouths, and time the melting.
Our evaluation was a slow, savouring process, in which we explored the ‘mouthfeel’, measuring on our pocket-watches how long the flavour remained. The finer the chocolate, the longer the finish.
I learned so much from Mr Fry that I had almost become an Englishman, knowing when, and how often, to keep silent, restraining my emotions, keeping my own counsel, and even wearing uncomfortable and impractical tweed clothing. He was truly my patron and taught me the abiding laws of friendship; and that this life which seems so long is, in fact, lived in an instant, and that we must one day be judged not so much by a divine figure as by the far more frightening prospect of our own, elderly selves.
‘Friendship,’ Mr Fry declared, ‘and respect. Follow these ideals and you will die a happy man.’
Then he stopped as if struck by a sudden random thought.
‘For we should die as we have lived. Think of a blue vase filled with anemones. Watch it change over so short a time. See how the flowers open, bloom and decay.’
It was as if he was about to cry.
‘They die so beautifully. That is how we must leave the world when our time comes, as naturally and as gracefully as possible.’
Some people carry an aura, as if they are rarely troubled by the trivialities of everyday existence. I hesitate to use the word ‘holy’ but I do believe that Mr Fry was such a man.
And yet …
After I had spent some ten years in his employ, Mr Fry became blind and his health began to fail. Unable to work further on his utopian dream of restoring the centre of the city, he became increasingly frail. I knew that he must die, but could not accept this inevitability, and was overwhelmed, yet again, with the fears that had struck me in the cathedral with Claudia. I simply could not bear the prospect of his impending death.
