A Greater Music (3 page)

When I woke from sleep I was at a loss to say where I was. The room was so dark I assumed it was the middle of the night. It was completely silent, the curtains were drawn, and there was no sign of either Joachim or Benny. It had been a dreamless sleep. The only source of illumination was the light from the TV, showing a live broadcast of a performance by the Berlin Philharmonic. Karajan's face appeared on the screen. Only when I looked at the hands of the clock on the bedside table did I realize that I'd only slept for three hours. It was unusually dark for daytime; when I opened the curtains I saw that the whole city lay overshadowed by black clouds, from which the snow had slowly started to fall. The Berlin Phil was doing Rossini's
William Tell Overture.
Perhaps Joachim had changed the channel and left it on when he went
out. Unfortunately, it was almost at the final movement, and after a brief commercial the program continued with Ravel's
Boléro.
I wasn't fond of the
Boléro.
It was a shame I hadn't woken up a little earlier, when the
William Tell Overture
was still on. I must have slept in an awkward position, because my right arm and my entire torso were tingling. I lay there in the bed and stared at the old ceiling. Originally there'd been an electric bulb suspended from it, but now all that was left was a short wire. Joachim had thought the light made the room too bright, so he'd pulled it out. As a replacement, he'd put a desk lamp on the small table that could be used for reading and writing, and there was a stand by the bed. The bookcase was filled with magazines and dictionaries, along with several volumes on physics and art theory—no different from when I first came here three years ago. Several old magazines had disappeared and been replaced by new ones, and the collection seemed to be missing several Baedeker guidebooks, plus two or three books on maths or physics which I remembered from before, but apart from that almost nothing had changed. Novels were represented solely by the English-language versions of the
Harry Potter Series
and
American Psycho.
Those were inside the wardrobe, where we'd put my suitcase yesterday. I opened it, took out my books, and put them on the bookshelves. I'd brought some translations of Dostoevsky with me, but I wouldn't be reading them here. I'd read them before, for one thing, though this had been some time ago, and had realized that reading them again would be tedious. I tried reading one on the plane, but had to put it aside. Joachim had more than enough magazines, so I tossed some into the wastepaper basket to make room for my books. After Christmas I would have to go into the city center to buy some more. Cookbooks or animal photo albums; classics which I'd read a long time ago but had forgotten both the plot and the significance, in fact everything
but the title; twentieth-century contemporary history; postwar history; war crimes trials; or essays about the deaths of musicians. I'd always liked reading, but over the past few years I'd thrown myself into it with increasing gusto. One reason was that I'd begun to spend the vast majority of my time alone. I went into the kitchen to make coffee. The small fridge was packed, as Joachim had said. He'd stocked up on all sorts of groceries just before the start of the Christmas shopping wars. Two bags of coffee, an easy-bake Christmas cake and a bottle of milk, frozen spinach and other vegetables, honey and butter, bread and eggs, apples and red cabbage for cooking in pig fat, a jar of bean sprouts and a packet of Chinese noodles. The kitchen window looked out directly onto the road to the cemetery. At the entrance to the road, affixed to the wall of the building directly beneath the kitchen, a lamp gave off a yellow glow. Snowflakes swirled and streamed, glittering like shards of glass in that light.

Joachim came home. In the hallway he brushed off the snow that was stuck to Benny's fur, and took off his jacket. He didn't much like that old, threadbare jacket, and would only put it on if he thought it was going to be extremely cold. He sat at the small kitchen table and I poured him some of the coffee I'd made. After that we began to wrap the presents he'd bought. He'd bought a cookbook for his mother and an eau de cologne for his father. He apologized that he hadn't been able to get anything for me, but that was only to be expected, since I'd only told him I was coming a couple of days ago. The day was now as dark as the depths of night, and the sound of the gusting wind could be heard through the shuddering windows. The falling snow swirled through the air, practically a blizzard. Joachim said we'd best wear scarves and gloves. And hats too, I added. He took a chocolate from the box he'd carried into the room, gave it to Benny, and took another for
himself. When he'd finished eating it, chewing slowly like a man deep in thought, he picked out another piece. I asked if he wanted me to make him some bread and honey, but he shook his head and fetched a big tub of Nutella from the cupboard, which he'd bought on sale. He got out a knife and a plate and began to slather the chocolate on the bread I'd given him. Benny watched this process with a look of great interest, wagging his tail all the while. The kitchen only had one small light, fixed directly above the dishwasher. Yellow light from the wall lamp further down the side of the building streamed up and illuminated the whirling snowstorm outside the window. After taking a sip of coffee Joachim opened his mouth wide and bit off a chunk of the chocolate-covered bread. He didn't give any to Benny, who waited patiently nonetheless. “Did you bring boots?” Joachim asked. “If you didn't, your feet'll get soaked. That's how bad this snow is.” I'd only brought one pair of shoes with me; rain boots, as luck would have it. I took off Joachim's pajamas, which I'd slept in, and found a pair of jeans to put on. I put a sweater on over my T-shirt, pulled on some thick woolen socks and went into the bathroom to comb my hair. The kitchen door stood open and through it I could see Joachim polishing off the rest of the bread, muttering to himself all the while. When our eyes met he raised his eyebrows as if to say, what's the hurry?, and carried on slowly chewing the bread, staring up at the ceiling with his body stretched out in the chair. I stood beside the front door and waited quietly until he'd finished getting ready. Benny saw the clothes Joachim was wearing and gave a short, sharp bark, angry at being left behind. But there was nothing to be done. My love. Joachim put his arms around Benny's neck and soothed him, kissing him again and again. My love, you have to stay here quietly. You wait here and I'll be back before you know it. Good boy, my love.

When we left the house the blizzard had abated somewhat, but the wind was as strong as ever. It was already completely dark. We began to walk silently along the snow-covered road toward the light at the tram stop. Joachim walked in front, carrying a blue backpack into which he'd stuffed the presents. It was the selfsame backpack I remembered from three years ago, and even back then it had already been pretty old. Now it had holes in the bottom, big enough to be instantly noticeable. I was a little surprised that he was still using it. I could see that the snow had soaked through the tops of his thin sneakers, and his feet were getting wet. His thin, light-colored jeans flapped around his skinny shins as he hurried along. When we arrived at the tram stop we brushed ourselves off and checked the timetable.

“We'll have to wait twenty minutes or so. What shitty luck,” Joachim grumbled. We were the only people waiting there. On the opposite platform there were two young children and one woman, standing stock-still and bundled up in bulky winter clothes like an Inuit family. In an attempt to ward off the tedium and the cold, I turned my attention to the various notices pinned up on the board and gave them a thorough examination. There was an ad for beer that made my teeth chatter just looking at it. Except for a family play, an exhibition of paintings, an exhibition of ancient relics classified by cultural-anthropological periods, and large business ads, they were all advertising New Year's fireworks parties. There was also something about writers giving a public reading at the town's only café. Joachim tapped his finger on the place where it said “free admission.”

“Want to go?”

I said I wasn't sure. A cup of coffee would set me back at least two euros, and I couldn't make a single cup last for over two hours, but then if we ordered beer or something that would make it too
expensive. Plus, there would be a fee for the brochure. But, more than anything else, I really didn't feel like going out anywhere, not while the weather was still like this. It was just too cold.

“I think I'd rather just stay home and read a book.”

“Sure, whatever you want,” Joachim said. “When the weather gets better you should go to the library and use my card. That's free, after all. And maybe we'll get to go to a party for New Year's, have some wine. Also, when you said you were coming I booked us tickets for the Philharmonic's New Year concert. Lucky there were still some seats left.”

“Wasn't it expensive?”

“A bit. And I wasn't sure if it's the kind of thing you like. It's choral music, you see. Probably Mozart and Beethoven's masses.”

“I don't mind.”

“Do you have any dress clothes? If not, you can always call one of your girlfriends and ask to borrow something.”

“Don't worry about it, I brought something with me.”

All I'd brought was a jacket with a stiff collar and some woolen trousers that were slightly stretched at the knees, but I figured they would be good enough. We stood there shivering in silence until the tram pulled in. The snow, which had somehow found its way in through our hats and scarves, formed droplets of icy water and trickled down to the napes of our necks. It was a Christmas of freezing temperatures and driving snow. Identical rectangular houses lined both sides of the road, impassive as soldiers on a midwinter battlefield. The tram passed along the tracks between them, between those houses where curtains hung in the windows and Christmas decorations glittered on candlelit balconies. Three years ago I often got lost here, as there was no way to tell the buildings apart unless you checked the house numbers. On top of that, the area was completely devoid of any kind of landmark, even so much
as a shop with a sign. But I didn't lose heart even when I realized I was lost, just continued to walk along the same road. Turning to the left, there's a vacant lot that the locals use as a dump. Large iron bins stand beside flowerbeds. Even in that vacant patch of ground, yellow wildflowers bloom in the spring. Continuing on, the quiet road comes to a sudden end and a very different scene unfolds: a large T-junction appears with trams running along the crisscrossing tracks, each going in different directions. On the corner is a Turkish kebab shop; in the summer, when the weather is good, the shop is given a fresh coat of paint, dazzlingly white, and tables and chairs are set out on the tiny patch of grass that forms the yard, and they sell beer and lamb skewers. I've never gone into the shop, even though I've walked down this road many times from summer to late autumn, but I always notice it standing there, gleaming like something seen in a dream. Of course, now that it's winter the shop is closed. On the opposite side of the road is the path leading to the lake, where Joachim takes Benny for walks. If you turn right again, white signposts stand in rows, bearing the house numbers of the identical military buildings, themselves a light green color like soldiers in summer uniform. On both sides of the road the scene that presents itself is so orderly, so repetitive, that it's almost uncanny. Somewhere among this order is a narrow road leading behind the buildings, adorned with small rectangular gardens. Now, the apple trees and western pear trees, the small artificial lotus ponds, and the brick flower beds all lie under a thick covering of snow. If you follow those small gardens the road leads to the cemetery. Joachim lives on the second floor of the corner building. The first time I came to his house it was around dusk, and the darkness had a reddish tinge as if the landscape had rusted. Alighting from the tram, he'd gestured toward the strange, silent, red-tinted road and said “Welcome to the ghetto.”

When we arrived they were already sitting gathered in front of the television in the living room, with the window open, sipping cappuccinos while watching a Christmas special. Joachim's mother Agnes and her boyfriend Bjorn, and Joachim's twin brother Peter. Joachim headed into the living room and slumped down into a spare place on the sofa, without so much as a single word of greeting. As soon he sat down he opened the TV listings magazine, a double edition for Christmas, and started to go through it. Agnes and Bjorn said hello to me. When I'd visited Agnes briefly three years ago, she'd had a different boyfriend. And I'd never met Peter before. Joachim had never even spoken all that much about him. I'd thought they might be identical twins, but I could see now that they weren't.

“Cappuccino?” Agnes asked, getting up from her seat. I nodded and thanked her. “How was your trip?” Bjorn asked, turning to look at me.

“It was okay. But the constant rain meant we couldn't go outside much.”

“Oh, it rained? Here we've just had snow.”

When he laughed he let his mouth open wide. Peter's gaze was fixed on the television screen as if there was something gluing it there. He greeted me only briefly, his hello stiff and formal. He didn't look at Joachim and Joachim didn't look at him, but then Joachim didn't look at anything—he just sat there selecting chocolates from a glass dish on the side table, peeling off the silver paper and popping them into his mouth one at a time, with his face buried in the TV guide. A violinist appeared on the television and began to run through a series of popular Christmas pieces, his features arranged in an expression of generic happiness.

“André Rieu, there's really no one like him,” Agnes sighed, gazing at the television while she settled back down on the sofa. “Don't you agree?” she
asked me. “He's so attractive, and the music is just wonderful, don't you think?”