Death in Rome (23 page)

They walked silently through the night. They didn't touch. The tall buildings were silent. They were friendly. The paving stones lay benevolently at their feet. They heard the bells of San Bernardo striking; then Santa Maria della Vittoria and Santa Susanna sounded the hour. But they weren't thinking about time. On the Piazza della Esedra they passed through the semicircular arcades. The shop-windows were behind grilles. The shop-keepers were worried, they feared the night and robbers. The displays were lit up. Treasures lay spread out. Laura did not desire them, she desired none of those treasures, marked with high price tags behind the locked grilles. Her smile was a beacon in the night, it filled the night and it filled Rome. Laura smiled for the city and the world,
urbi et
orbi
,
and Rome and the night and the world were transfigured. They crossed the square, and Laura dipped her fingers into the water of the fountain, dipped them into the little Fountain of the Naiads, and as though with holy water, she, a devout Catholic, anointed the brow of her silent deacon with the water of the naiads. Then they stepped into the shadow of an ancient wall where night birds might nest. They stood in front of Santa Maria degli Angeli close by Diocletian's baths. Siegfried listened for screech-owls. He thought, compositionally, that the too-wit-too-woo of the death bird belonged here, but all he heard was the cry of the locomotives from the station near by, full of sorrow and full of fear of so much distance. How distant they were one from another, the three who were gathered together to face the night. Siegfried looked at Adolf and Laura. But did he see them? Was he not projecting himself on the shapes of his companions? They were thoughts of his brain, and he rejoiced that he had thought them. They were kind thoughts. As for them, did they see each other? It was dark in the shade of the ancient bath-house masonry, but in front of Santa Maria degli Angeli there was the gleam of a light everlasting, and by that light they tried to see one another's souls.

I left them alone together, what business did I have with them? I had brought them together, what further business did I have with them? I strolled over to the station. I stepped into its neon glare. Let Adolf pray in front of Santa Maria degli Angeli.
'Ut mentes
nostras ad coelestia desideria erigas.
Mayest thou lift up our hearts to heavenly desires.' Had I led Adolf into temptation? I had not led Adolf into temptation. There was no temptation. In the baths, in the National Museum, there were pictures of the old gods, now securely locked away. They were well-guarded. Had I given pleasure? I could not give pleasure. There was only illusion, momentary tricks of the light. I went to the platform. A train stood ready. The third-class carriages were overcrowded. In first class there was a single thin man. Would I be the man in first class? Perhaps he was a bad man. Would it be me? I didn't want to travel in the overcrowded third-class carriages. Florence-Brenner-Munich. Did the journey tempt me? It didn't tempt me. I went into the
albergo di
giorno,
situated like a neon grotto beneath the station. The nymphs of the grotto manicured the hands of gentlemen. I love the Roman barber shops. I love the Romans. At all hours they think of their beauty. Men came here to have their hair cut, to have themselves shaved, permed, manicured, massaged, covered with unguents, sprinkled with scents; they sat with sober expressions under barbers' hoods and glittering hairdryers, as hot sirocco winds blew over their hair. I had nothing to do. I asked for a compress. I asked for a compress because I was bored. My face was wrapped up in a steaming hot towel, and I had hot dreams. I was Petronius the novelist, and I spoke in the public baths with wise men and with boys, we loafed on the marble steps of the steam room, and talked about the immortality of the soul, there was a mosaic on the floor, a bright and skilful piece of work. Zeus the eagle, Zeus the swan, Zeus the golden shower—but the mosaic had been laid by a slave. My face was wrapped in a towel dipped in ice water, I was Petronius the novelist, I enjoyed the conversation of wise men and the beauty of boys, and I knew there was no immortality, and that beauty decays and I knew Nero was mulling things over, and I knew how to place the blade against a vein—the last marble step was cold. I left the grotto, I wasn't beautiful, I went into a waiting-room somewhere, and I drank a grappa, because Hemingway recommended grappa, and again it tasted to me like German rotgut from the time before the currency stabilization. I bought a newspaper at the big station news-stand. The jungle fastness had fallen. The delegates were leaving Geneva. My little Communist with her red kerchief was striding proudly through Rome. She wasn't leaving. Why should she leave? This was her home. The headline said: What now?

Kürenberg had made a lot of telephone calls, he had spoken to critics and arts administrators, he had spoken to agents, and to the organizers of the congress, and to the prize committee and the prize-givers, it was all very political and very diplomatic, and all the officials were secretive and self-important, but Kürenberg had had his way, Siegfried was to receive the music prize, not the whole prize, but he was to get half of it; for diplomatic reasons the prize was to be shared. Kürenberg told Ilse that Siegfried was getting the prize, and Ilse Kürenberg, who was running a bath, didn't care whether Siegfried got the prize or not; it didn't upset her, but neither did it give her any pleasure. She thought: Have I been infected, have I been contaminated by this meanness, by the simple-mindedness of thinking in groups, infected by the mutual enmity of groups, by the vicious idea of collective guilt, am I against Siegfried and his music, just because he belongs to that family? He isn't happy with them. I know he's left them behind. But why do I see the others when I see him? She thought: I don't want revenge, I never did, revenge is sordid, but I don't want to be reminded, I can't stand to be reminded, and Siegfried can't but remind me; he reminds me, and I see the killers. The bath was full, but the water was too hot. Ilse Kürenberg turned off the light in the bathroom. She opened the window. She was naked. She liked walking through the room naked. She liked standing naked by the open window. The wind moulded itself round her firm, well-kept body. Her firm body stood firmly on the floor. She had withstood the storm. The wind would not carry her away. There was something in her, though, that longed to be carried away.

The champagne was finished, he felt no intoxication, the victories had gone flat. Judejahn felt a dull roaring, like buzzing in his ears, but affecting his whole body; his blood pressure must be dangerously high, he walked over to the window, and he looked across at Rome. Once he had almost ruled Rome. Certainly he had ruled the man who had ruled Rome. Mussolini had been afraid of Judejahn. Now Rome had given Judejahn a mangy tomcat. A whore had run away from Judejahn. He was unable to have her shot. A whore had run off with his son, who was a Roman priest. Judejahn could not have any priests shot, either. He was powerless. Would he fight to regain his power? It was a long road. The road was too long to be travelled twice. He admitted it to himself now. The road was too long. Judejahn could no longer see the objective. The objective grew blurred. A red mist drifted round the objective. A whore had slipped away from Judejahn, and now a naked Jewess was displaying herself to him; the Jewess should be stood in front of a mass grave, but there she was triumphantly, mocking Judejahn; she loomed nakedly over Rome. He saw her in the clouds.

After standing together for a long time in the lee of the ancient masonry—many times the clock of Santa Maria degli Angeli had struck, the locomotives had screamed, perhaps an owl had hooted too, but they had heard nothing—Siegfried's music suddenly resounded again in Adolf's ears, and he touched Laura's face, he tried to hold her smile, a high note, humanity, sweet rapture, and then he was frightened, and he ran off into the night, which was to be long and without smiles.

The angels had not come. The angels from the Angels' Bridge did not take up the invitation of the old gods. They did not dance with the old gods on the Capitoline Hill. I should have liked to see Stravinsky sitting at a black grand among the broken pillars. At the black concert grand, the Maestro would have played his
Passacaglia
, surrounded by the rather off-white marble wings of the angels, and under the great pure wing-beat of the gods, all light and air; but the angels had stayed away, the gods hid themselves, clouds loomed in the sky, and Stravinsky merely said:
'
Je salue le monde confraternel
.' The music congress was received on the Capitoline Hill. I thought we must have looked funny in our suits, and the gods hidden behind the ruins, the fauns in the shrubbery and the nymphs among the rank weeds probably laughed a great deal. It wasn't they who were old-fashioned, it was us. We were old and foolish, and even the younger ones among us were old and foolish. Kürenberg winked at me. It was as if to say: 'Take it seriously, but not too seriously.' He was in favour of letting the agents get on with it, so that one might occasionally take the muse of music out to dinner in an expensive restaurant. The prizes were presented by the mayor of Rome, a mayor like my father, and he gave me my half-prize. He gave me a half-prize for my symphony, and I was surprised that he gave me the half-prize, and I thought, Kürenberg arranged that, and I was grateful to Kürenberg, and I thought my father would be proud of me for a whole day, because the mayor had given me the half-prize, but my father would never understand why the mayor had honoured me. I was glad of the prize-money. I would use it to go to Africa. In Africa, I would write my new symphony. Maybe I would play it to the angels in Rome next year: the black symphony of the Dark Continent. I would play to the white angels of Rome on the old hill of the gods. I know Europe is blacker really. But I want to go to Africa, I want to see the desert. My father won't understand the idea of travelling to Africa to see the desert, and to hear music from the desert. My father has no idea that I'm the devout composer of the Roman angels. The Council approved Palestrina's music, the congress honoured my music.

No reveille woke him, it was the yowling tomcat that startled him awake, Judejahn's head was growling, the desert fort was a long way off, Africa was a long way off, Germany was still further away, he awoke in Rome with a throbbing skull, with feeble limbs, with rage at waking at all, with a taste of perfume in his mouth that came from the champagne and the flat victories, mixed with sourness, with something acrid, with cellular decay, and behind his brow the image of the room shook, his feet and thighs trembled, but the virile member was erect, charged, stuffed with blood, it burned in unappeased irritation. He showered, scrubbed himself down, he thought in officers' slang, a yomp now, field exercises, but he was sweating in the shower, he couldn't get his skin dry, the sweat kept pouring off him, shimmering in little beads,
Judejahn
gasped for air, and the air of Rome was too soft. Hair of the dog was the old drinker's adage.
Judejahn
ordered a half-bottle of champagne, the champagne of victories. He asked for a lot of ice to go with it. He threw bits of ice into the glass. Judejahn's hand shook. He drained the bumper in a single draught. Now he saw clearly. Fogs vanished. He had a rendezvous with Laura. That was important. What if she'd slept with Adolf. He needed her, Jewess or no, he needed her to free himself from his distressing visions. He rang for the black ambassadorial car, but a while later a call came from the soldierly chauffeur, in clipped tones, without a trace of feeling, reporting a mechanical fault that would take all day to repair.
Judejahn
had heard the voice of Death. He failed to recognize it. He swore.

One of the churches where one might confess in many tongues was the old church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, the house of worship by the walls of the baths, and Adolf Judejahn knelt in the confessional of the German-speaking priest, and he told the German-speaking priest what had passed the previous night outside the church doors between himself and Laura, and, as nothing had happened that might cause the Church to be seriously angry with a deacon, Adolf was admonished to avoid temptation in future, and he was given absolution. He looked through the grille of the confessional at the face of his confessor. The face of his confessor looked tired. Adolf would have liked to say: 'Father, I am unhappy.' But the priest looked tired and dismissive. He had heard so many confessions. So many travellers came to Rome and confessed things they wouldn't entrust to their confessors at home. They were ashamed before the confessors they knew. In Rome they were strangers and felt no shame, and that was what had made the priest's face so tired. And Adolf thought: Will I one day be as tired as that as I sit in my confessional, and will my face look so dismissive? He thought: Where will I have my confessional? In a village? In an old village church among shady trees? Or is it not my vocation, am I spurned, spurned from the start? Adolf had wanted to push Judejahn's money into an offertory box, but, just as he was about to do so, he changed his mind. His action was not spiritually motivated. He did not trust the Church's care for the poor. The Church's ministry to the poor was vinegary, vinegary as all poor relief, and it smelled of soup-kitchens; the money went into watery soup for the poor. Adolf wanted someone to have joy of the money. He pressed his father's dirty notes into the wrinkled hands of an old woman who was begging for alms at the church door.

Judejahn was waiting. He was waiting on the station concourse, outside the CIT office, but Laura didn't show. Did she mean to jilt him in the morning as well? Was she lying in a seamy embrace with Adolf? Rage was bad for his health. Judejahn still had trouble breathing. From time to time the mist returned, a poisonous mist of red gas. Maybe mist like that would blow round the world in the next great war. Judejahn went to a refreshment wagon and asked for a cognac. He stood in front of the refreshment wagon for travellers as before the supply wagon on the battlefield. He knocked back the cognac. The red mist lifted. Judejahn looked across to the CIT, but Laura still wasn't there. Judejahn passed the news-stand. He saw the magazine
Oggi
hanging up, and there on the cover of
Oggi
was a picture of Mussolini. His old friend looked battered, and Judejahn thought: I look battered today as well. Behind Mussolini stood a man in an SS cap. He stood behind Mussolini like a minder. He stood behind him like an executioner. You could clearly see the death's head on the cap. Who was the fellow? Judejahn thought: He must be one of my officers. In the picture, the S S man had lowered his gaze, and Judejahn couldn't identify him. The man was probably dead. Most of his men were dead. Mussolini was dead. He had died a grisly death. A grisly death had been planned for Judejahn too. But Judejahn was alive, he had given them the slip. He was alive, and time was on his side, and just then Laura appeared. There was her smile, and for an instant Judejahn thought, Let her go, but then he thought again, She's a Jewess, and the thought excited him.