Bruno Krug, the writer.’
‘We’ve met,’ she said. ‘Kind of.’
Fortunately I didn’t have to explain the where and when; the sound of my name caused heads to turn all around the room. Among the student body, it turned out, The Orphans of Neustadt was still a favourite and I was soon fielding questions from several quarters. Theresa looked on, smiling but saying nothing. I performed for her as best I could, asking questions as well as answering them (questions designed to reflect my innate inquisitiveness and uniqueness of perspective), peppering my comments with as many humorous asides as possible. The students seemed delighted, all except the boyish Claudia, who stood staring at Theresa and fiddling with a cheap ring on her middle finger.
‘So what are you working on now?’ someone asked. ‘Another novel?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘What’s it about?’
‘Well, I don’t like to . . .’
‘Another one of the Factory Gate Fables? ’
Theresa’s brow momentarily furrowed. It was a reflex, over in a split second, but it told me something. Another one of my Factory Gate Fables ? I would clearly have to do better than that.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, this is something on a grander scale. Something more like The Orphans of Neustadt , at least in tone.’
This was what everyone wanted to hear. The student body couldn’t wait to get its hands on my new book.
‘I heard you’d given up writing altogether,’ one of the violinists said. ‘So much for rumours.’
And everyone agreed that the rumours of my creative eclipse (rumours of which I had been hitherto unaware) were laughable and absurd – and quite possibly the work of rivals, jealous of my popularity and fearful of my inexhaustible talent.
Theresa and I left together for a café opposite the Volkspark. It was getting dark.
‘I like your friends,’ I said as we set off.
‘I know what they’re going to say,’ she said. ‘They’re going to say I’ve got a thing about writers.’
I hoped her friends were right.
‘Well, they seemed like a nice crowd.’
I didn’t want her to know how out of place I’d felt among them: complicated, compromised, with so much more behind me and so much less ahead.
‘They are nice, I think.’
‘You only think?’
‘I don’t really know them all that well, except Claudia. They keep themselves apart a bit, you know, because I’m . . .’
‘A Westerner?’
‘I don’t blame them. It’s difficult, isn’t it?’ She looked over her shoulder at a solitary van parked by the kerb. Behind the wheel a tiny orange ball flared in the darkness, betraying the presence of a driver. ‘I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.’
A gathering wind shook rainwater from the trees.
‘They wouldn’t get into trouble,’ I said. ‘Where do you think you are? I expect they’re jealous of you, that’s all.’
Theresa shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. For one thing, most of them play much better than I do. Not just technically: they play with real passion. Music means so much to them. They give themselves to it completely. I can’t do that.’
‘Your playing seemed passionate to me.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s passionate music. You just have to get the notes right.’
I wondered if this was the reason she didn’t play the violin: her passion deficiency would become too obvious. If so, there was something almost tragic about her predicament: to be committed to the life of an artist, only to find you lack the sensibilities an artist needs. I felt an urge to hold her. It was love she needed: reckless and raw.
‘Have you always felt this way?’
She hugged her viola case against her chest. ‘I always suspected it. The trouble was, people kept telling me I was the genuine article, when I was still learning. I could play all the notes, you see. But I knew it didn’t mean anything. It was like tap-dancing on strings.’
Her fingernails rapped against the case. I was reminded instantly of a
‘We’ve met,’ she said. ‘Kind of.’
Fortunately I didn’t have to explain the where and when; the sound of my name caused heads to turn all around the room. Among the student body, it turned out, The Orphans of Neustadt was still a favourite and I was soon fielding questions from several quarters. Theresa looked on, smiling but saying nothing. I performed for her as best I could, asking questions as well as answering them (questions designed to reflect my innate inquisitiveness and uniqueness of perspective), peppering my comments with as many humorous asides as possible. The students seemed delighted, all except the boyish Claudia, who stood staring at Theresa and fiddling with a cheap ring on her middle finger.
‘So what are you working on now?’ someone asked. ‘Another novel?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘What’s it about?’
‘Well, I don’t like to . . .’
‘Another one of the Factory Gate Fables? ’
Theresa’s brow momentarily furrowed. It was a reflex, over in a split second, but it told me something. Another one of my Factory Gate Fables ? I would clearly have to do better than that.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, this is something on a grander scale. Something more like The Orphans of Neustadt , at least in tone.’
This was what everyone wanted to hear. The student body couldn’t wait to get its hands on my new book.
‘I heard you’d given up writing altogether,’ one of the violinists said. ‘So much for rumours.’
And everyone agreed that the rumours of my creative eclipse (rumours of which I had been hitherto unaware) were laughable and absurd – and quite possibly the work of rivals, jealous of my popularity and fearful of my inexhaustible talent.
Theresa and I left together for a café opposite the Volkspark. It was getting dark.
‘I like your friends,’ I said as we set off.
‘I know what they’re going to say,’ she said. ‘They’re going to say I’ve got a thing about writers.’
I hoped her friends were right.
‘Well, they seemed like a nice crowd.’
I didn’t want her to know how out of place I’d felt among them: complicated, compromised, with so much more behind me and so much less ahead.
‘They are nice, I think.’
‘You only think?’
‘I don’t really know them all that well, except Claudia. They keep themselves apart a bit, you know, because I’m . . .’
‘A Westerner?’
‘I don’t blame them. It’s difficult, isn’t it?’ She looked over her shoulder at a solitary van parked by the kerb. Behind the wheel a tiny orange ball flared in the darkness, betraying the presence of a driver. ‘I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.’
A gathering wind shook rainwater from the trees.
‘They wouldn’t get into trouble,’ I said. ‘Where do you think you are? I expect they’re jealous of you, that’s all.’
Theresa shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. For one thing, most of them play much better than I do. Not just technically: they play with real passion. Music means so much to them. They give themselves to it completely. I can’t do that.’
‘Your playing seemed passionate to me.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s passionate music. You just have to get the notes right.’
I wondered if this was the reason she didn’t play the violin: her passion deficiency would become too obvious. If so, there was something almost tragic about her predicament: to be committed to the life of an artist, only to find you lack the sensibilities an artist needs. I felt an urge to hold her. It was love she needed: reckless and raw.
‘Have you always felt this way?’
She hugged her viola case against her chest. ‘I always suspected it. The trouble was, people kept telling me I was the genuine article, when I was still learning. I could play all the notes, you see. But I knew it didn’t mean anything. It was like tap-dancing on strings.’
Her fingernails rapped against the case. I was reminded instantly of a
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