Death in Rome (14 page)

Siegfried was late for the rehearsal. He was late on purpose, he was afraid, he was afraid of his music, he was afraid of Kürenberg, he had walked, he had taken the wrong bus in the wrong direction, he had followed a child for a while, he had been daydreaming and his feet were unwilling, his shoes had lead soles, as he approached the concert hall, and now he stood hesitantly in the foyer in front of the cloakroom, a couple of raincoats hung there on sorry hooks like corpses, a couple of umbrellas lurched against the wall like drunks, a cleaning-lady was eating a roll, and the fatty rind of the ham, melting in the heat, leaked out of the roll, and the woman's unsupported breasts rolled obscenely in her sweaty, unbuttoned blouse, and Siegfried thought of the woman's belly, and of the fact that she had borne children, and he was disgusted by the warm, moist belly, her warm, moist children, by life which was warm and moist, and the love of life to which we are condemned seemed peculiar and loathsome to him, the desire to reproduce that affects even the poorest people, the sheen of eternity which is a false eternity, the Pandora's box of hunger, fear and war, and he heard trumpets, his trumpets, and they were threatening him, and he heard harps, his harps, and they seemed to be trembling, and he heard violins, his violins, and it was as though they were screaming, and his own music seemed to him remote, remote, remote. And it terrified him, too. He walked up and down the corridor. His form was reflected in the mirrors on the walls, and he found himself ugly. I look like a ghost, he thought, but not the ghost of music. He made no effort to walk quietly. His footfall was loud on the hard linoleum flooring in the passage, it was almost as though he meant to disrupt the rehearsal, as though he wanted to rush into the hall, and shout, 'Stop! Stop!'

Then
Ilse Kürenberg
came towards him. She was wearing a summer dress in cornflower blue, and she looked youthful, firm-fleshed but not fat, and he warmed to her because she was childless. He thought: She has not given birth, any more than the statues in the gardens of Rome have given birth, and perhaps she is the goddess of music after all, the muse Polyhymnia, who is both experienced and virginal. But he was mistaken. Today
Ilse Kürenberg
seemed to be the nameless goddess of advancement, because she was in the company of a gentleman who looked like a large, captive and rather melancholy bird, whom she introduced to Siegfried as the head of the music department of an important radio station, or she introduced Siegfried to the bird, because the bird had such an important job. And
Ilse Kürenberg
and the bird were speaking French, they were both speaking quickly, fluently and musically, perhaps the bird was French, and Ilse
Kürenberg
had learned French, perhaps old
Aufhäuser
had chosen a French governess for his daughter, or perhaps
Ilse Kürenberg
had learned French in exile during the war, or perhaps both; but Siegfried now felt ashamed to be so uncultured himself, the Teutonic castle had been no help, his father had done nothing for his French,
Friedrich Wilhelm
Pfaffrath had no great opinion of France, no great opinion of the euphony of the French language, perhaps he had a higher opinion of French women, but then only as war-booty, and by now Siegfried was stammering, he was racking his brain for vocabulary, he didn't understand what the bird was asking him, but he was asking him something, because
Ilse Kürenberg
was nodding and looking to Siegfried for agreement, and so he agreed, not knowing what he was agreeing to, and he felt like rushing off, leaving the goddess of music and the radio bird standing—let them gobble each other up or whatever. But then Siegfried heard the final chord of his symphony, it sounded like the collapse of all hope, like a wave swamping a ship, leaving only a few planks and a sound of splashing.
Kürenberg
emerged into the corridor. He was sweating and mopping his brow. Oddly, he was using a large red handkerchief, which made him look not like a conductor, but more like a farmer labouring in his fields. People were following him, journalists, critics carrying notebooks, a photographer, who straightaway set off a flashlight on the group.
Kürenberg
saw that Siegfried was depressed, and he pressed his hand and said: 'Courage! Courage!' But Siegfried thought: Courage? I don't lack courage. Courage isn't what I need, anyway. Maybe I need belief. I do believe, but what I believe in is the futility of everything. Or maybe not everything, but that my being here is futile, my speaking to these people is futile, our picture being taken is futile, the flashlight is futile, my music is futile, but it wouldn't have to be, if I only had a little faith. But what am I to believe in? In myself? It would probably be sensible to believe in myself, but I can't believe in myself even if I try to sometimes, then I feel ashamed, and yet you have to believe in yourself, only you have to do it without feeling ashamed. Does
Kürenberg
believe in himself? I don't know. I expect he believes in his work, and he's every right to believe in his work, but if his work is in aid of my music, in which I don't believe, is he then still entitled to believe in his work? It was nice just now, the way he looked like a farmer coming off his fields. But what field is he working on? What land? And who will harvest the crop?

Kürenberg
introduced Siegfried. The critics spoke to him. They addressed him in many languages. He didn't understand them. He didn't understand them in any language. He was with them, yet not with them. He was already far away.

Approaching St Peter's, the church already fully in his sight, the squat-looking dome oddly disappointing in its grandiose setting, the rows of mighty pillars, the flanking colonnades, still in a line with the lamp-posts of the Via della Conciliazione, which leads up to the cathedral, the buildings on either side imposing headquarters of insurance firms, offices of international concerns, bureaux of flourishing trusts, with cool, well-made façades, looking as monotonous in the sunshine as sets of published accounts, prompting thoughts of expensive rents and the Saviour who drove the money-changers from the temple, in view of this world-famous, holy and—how could it be otherwise—extremely worldly scene, in front of the ancient, hallowed and busily trodden stage, which no pilgrim reaches without a shudder of reverence, and no touring party fails to tick off its itinerary, Adolf was seized by a great panic. Would he pass muster at the shrine, would he not be found wanting, would his faith be strengthened? An omnibus had dropped him here, he and the other passengers tossed out like a crateload of fowls allowed to pick. And already they were scratching away, hunting for bits of culture and lasting impressions, anxious not to miss a single grain of wonder, already they clicked open their camera lenses, greaseproof paper rustled, provisions were broken out to still hunger brought on by the star-count in Baedeker, while some swiftly plunged into souvenir shops, the
cartolerie
resembling little backhanded sinecures, the excursionists, having flown clear of their home cages, off the perch of habit, sent greetings from St Peter's before they had even set foot there, and Adolf felt sad, he was tossed around in the crowd like a piece of driftwood at sea, he was barged aside, an insignificant priest, or he was asked things because they thought he would know the answers, pointless questions for pointless bits of information. And foolishly he became aware of the lamp-posts by the roadside, and was reminded of another approach, where the posts were not crowned with cheap factory-lights like these, but where ornamental pillars were crowned with smoke and fire, with glowing fireballs, a street of blazing pillars through which he, the privileged child, the son of his father, had proudly driven. The Via della Conciliazione reminded him of Nuremberg, of the site of the Party rallies, only that parade ground had in the eyes of the boy outdone the approach to the cathedral, from which he didn't expect splendour, didn't want splendour, but which itself wanted to be splendid and challenged the universally rejected and despised splendour of Nuremberg, and lost out to it, as flambeaux had been followed by blazing houses, blazing cities and blazing countries. Certainly, in the real world, one couldn't expect hovels to be standing here by the wayside; a show of poverty, in the real world, was not to be tolerated here; mendicant monks, holding out their tin begging-bowls for bread and the love of God, have probably become extinct in the real world; but these new constructions, these buildings, evidence of clever choice of location and successful investment, were they not all too clearly a triumph of this real world, and thus a belated monument to Simon Magus, who had wrestled with St Peter in this city?

The square is no square but an oval curve, an ellipse, and Adolf wondered whether Nero might not have had his circus there, whether the obelisks pitched in the middle of it might not have seen the four-horse chariot races that still provide excitement for cinemagoers in our day, whether the cross had stood here where Peter had hung head down, and had won his tragic victory over Nero and Nero's lyre, and over all singers and all emperors to come. From the roof over the colonnades, Bernini's saints gesticulated like excited onlookers down into the oval, but they didn't seem to be crucifying anyone today, there was no animal-baiting, no retiarius finishing off the murmillo, no charioteers taking the curve, only the coaches of the travel companies vying with one another, Rome and the
Vatican
and the Holy Father and the tomb of the Apostle were offered for little money and in quick time, and still to look forward to there was the Blue Grotto of Capri, Tiberius's castle, Botticelli's
Primavera
in Florence, a gondola trip in Venice, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Others arrived on foot, and crossed the square in groups: girls' schools, little bosoms jouncing in blue uniform blouses; scouts with little flags, bare knees and dashing cowboy hats, neckties and boyish eagerness; ancient congregations in grey and black, among the perch and the tench the occasional pike, mindful of his career; communities under the care of their vicar who wanted to get away from the village for once in his life; British women's institutes, American ladies' clubs, bored by endless afternoons of bridge, parties of German visitors, spurred on by their guides, hurry hurry, so much still to be seen, lunch was waiting for them in Monte Cassino, now please hurry. But the children are dawdling, holding their quick, avid pulses under the cool flowing water of both fountains, and here come the mothers with their newest offspring in their arms, running up the stairs with babies in white lace to be baptized.

'Feed my lambs, feed my sheep.' Christ saw them as uncomprehending, vulnerable and helpless, and He wanted to protect the unprotected, and Peter, crucified upside-down in the Circus, and buried on the slope of the Vatican Hill, was to be Caiaphas the rock, the unshakeable foundation against which 'the gates of hell shall not prevail'. He lay buried on the Vatican Hill, but the wolf likes to disguise himself as a shepherd, and the robber appears in shepherd's guise; kings, tyrants, dictators and presidents, all graze their lambs, shear their sheep and slaughter their flocks for their own ends, and the preachers of enlightenment who came forward and cried, 'You are no lambs, you are free, you are no sheep, you are men, break out of the herd, abandon your shepherd,' in what panic, in what deserts they drove the herd, which yearns for the homey smell of the stall, and even for the reek of the slaughterhouse. Adolf strode through the cathedral doors. His boyhood training strode at his side. His training was incomplete, he had broken it off, and had set his face against it. But now it was with him again, accompanying him. When he was alone, speaking to someone, to his fellow-deacons, the cultivated teachers at the seminary, to his confessor, then Adolf was freed of the past in the Teutonic castle, free of its slogans, but when he was in a crowd, surrounded by crowds, confused and embittered by them, then they stirred up in him the methods of his Nazi instructors, the principle of exploiting the masses, despising the masses, directing the masses, and the Party bosses had pastured their sheep, and very successfully, so that the lambs had flocked to them. Adolf felt a profound need to disregard the world's bustle, the frenzied processes of history, what was left was a tub of blood, the repulsive, warm blood of the victims, but each time the world and history came near and got into his thinking, he would wonder whether by putting on his priestly raiment he had really succeeded in cutting himself off from all this killing, or whether for all his rituals and devotions he wasn't part of an organization that—unwillingly, tragically, with a grotesque inevitability—found itself in league with the killers. Did salvation lie in renunciation, in flight, in solitude, was the hermit the only prototype of survival? But the solitary man always seemed a figure of weakness to Adolf, because Adolf needed support, because he was afraid of himself; he required community, even though he doubted its worth. Glorious pillars pillars pillars,
Bramante,
Raphael, Michelangelo, one couldn't fail to think of them here, but the pillars of their edifice were glorious but cold, the stucco majestic but cold, the ornate floor ravishing but cold. Charlemagne rode up on a horse, a cold man on a cold horse, and Adolf strode on down the nave, and there was the slab of porphyry where the emperor had been crowned, igneous rock, quartz, feldspar and mica crystals, cold cold cold. And the emperors were anointed and then took it as carte blanche to go out and extend their power, to win horrible battles, their thrones were cold and the splendour of them stolen, and the grass was trodden down in the battle, and the warriors lay there battered and cold. Why did the Church get involved with emperors and generals? Why not just ignore them all, in their purple and their frockcoats, their braided uniforms and dictator leather? Why weren't they seen for what they were, men who formed alliances with God and misused the Cross for quarrels, for gluttony and fucks, for gold and land and naked ambition? There were chapels all around, and priests were busy at the altars. They were reading Masses, saying prayers, deep in meditation, devout, clean-living men, but they were at the same time employees performing their duty, doing their day's work, and once this wicked thought had occurred to him, it put an end to all reverence, and the altars were like counters in a huge department store. To either side were confessionals, stout wooden fortresses, and confessors sat in these hallowed shrines like bank-clerks—the believer could confess his sins in any language, and forgiveness would be granted him in any language. Even the confessionals seemed cold and draughty to Adolf; as cold as the marble tops of the money-changers
.