THE LUTE AND THE SCARS (6 page)

I was surprised to see that she had designated a place at the head of the table for me, since the widow of Prince S., who had been a literary critic and translator, was also invited to this dinner, along with the famous fashion designer Armani. Considering this an instance of her deliberate lack of conventionality (
“
d
’
Orsetti hates conventions
”
), I sat down at the place to which they ushered me; I didn
’
t want to stand out as someone who paid too much attention to formalities.

The conversation was about people I didn
’
t know, or themes that didn
’
t interest me: fashion, feminism, pederasty, conceptualism, comic strips. But the main topic of the evening was an opera that I hadn
’
t seen, and more particularly a young vocalist who had debuted in this production. Madame d
’
Orsetti thought her appearance plebeian, her voice common, and her interviews stupid; on the other hand Armani, who managed to win over a majority of those present, asserted that a new star had been born and would soon be shining on the operatic firmament of Europe: a new Maria Callas.

Even those people who had a completely negative view of Madame d
’
Orsetti, claiming she was a lesbian and an alcoholic, admitted, however, that she had great culinary talents and gastronomical imagination. As appetizers on this particular evening she served us caviar, tuna with black butter, and carrots in cream, and for the main course,
“
carp-in-the-sand
”
and lamb with rhubarb and walnuts; following that there were cheese and ice cream (pistachio and pineapple) with a sauce of cr
è
me de cassis. Along with this they brought us a 1967 white,
“
d
’
Orsetti,
”
—
on its yellow label stood the maxim
“
In vino veritas
”
—
as well as a Bordeaux for those who didn
’
t wish to align themselves with the tastes of the lady of the house.

After the dinner, Mme d
’
Orsetti, enveloped in a purple shawl, sat on the floor and rocked, barely perceptibly, to the rhythm of music from the gramophone (Rameau, Brahms, Vivaldi). At some point she put her glass down on the rug and nodded at me to follow her. When we reached the bedroom, she indicated that I was to take a seat on a bed with a violet baldachin; she passed me a glass and filled it to the rim. While pouring the vodka, she had said:

“
Your friend Jurij Golec has committed suicide. I wanted you to dine in peace first. Now I shall leave you alone. If you feel the need to talk with someone, d
’
Orsetti is at your disposal.
”

The burial was set for Tuesday, at four p.m., but the ceremony started almost an hour late. Apparently people here are used to it, because when I showed up, right at the appointed time, there was nobody at the cemetery yet. I thought that Jurij Golec
’
s friends would be gathered at the graveside or in front of the chapel; but then Luba Jurgenson, an acquaintance of mine, showed up and we waited together in front of the cemetery gate. Toward five o
’
clock a crowd began to gather. We wondered if they had really come for the funeral of Jurij Golec. They must have been asking themselves the same thing when they saw us standing there, shivering in the cold wind. Finally Luba, an
é
migr
é
writer and one of Jurij Golec
’
s prot
é
g
é
es, recognized a mutual acquaintance; she went over to a woman in black and embraced her.
“
Jurij
’
s sister,
”
she remarked to me.
“
She
’
s just now come from America.
”
Dolores-Dola and Nata
š
a showed up in the company of a young man wearing a cowboy hat and striped pants; it was yet another Russian
é
migr
é
, a painter, according to Luba. Finally there were about thirty of us: Emil Cioran, Adolf Rudnicki, Ana Novak, a literary scholar and former camp inmate; representatives of the Gallimard publishing house, the cultural attach
é
of the Israeli embassy, a delegate from the Jewish community, as well as various friends and admirers.

Mme Ursula Randelis kept her word and, contrary to my expectations, did not come to the burial. That same morning she had told me:

“
I don
’
t like dead people; I only like living people. The last time I was at a funeral, it was for my mother, twenty years ago. Then I made an exception, for Jurij
’
s sake, and went to No
é
mie
’
s, barely a month ago now. That will suffice for the rest of my life. Oh, now who
’
s going to call me a
‘
crippled old mare
’
? Who will say to me,
‘
You horsey old goy, they cut off my phone again!
’
And who will tease me with
‘
Hey, you lazy biddy, let
’
s go wet our whistle
’
? The next time I go to a cemetery . . . Come to my house after the burial, all of you. I don
’
t know the Jewish customs; they aren
’
t in my domain. I
’
ll prepare something to eat. And we
’
ll drink a glass of vodka to his soul. But I will not go to any more funerals. Not until the day it
’
s my own.
”

The rabbi was a man of about fifty, trim, clean-shaven, in a black caftan, and had none of the bearded biblical prophet about him; more than anything he resembled one of those French judges in a robe whom one encounters in the caf
é
s around the Palais de Justice. With arms extended, his palms turned up, he beckoned us to come over with one finger:
“
Come closer and gather about him, as you did in life. Closer, closer still, ladies and gentlemen.
”

The coffin was up on a podium set on one of the cemetery paths, under a large sycamore. In the widest part of the lid a small rectangular window had been put in, as if it were some kind of special Noah
’
s Ark that would transfer the body of the traveler to the shore of eternity. Gleaming metal letters were affixed to the lid:
“
Jurij Golec, 1923
–
1982,
”
like a perfectly condensed biography for an entry in
The Jewish Encyclopedia.

When the rabbi had started to speak, I noticed Dr. Wildgans; his powerful figure had materialized behind a gravestone. That probably accounts for the impression I had that he didn
’
t come in from the drive but from the field of graves.

Ever since Mme d
’
Orsetti had informed me that Jurij Golec had taken his own life, my suspicions had fallen on Dr. Wildgans. And this belated appearance of his, somehow furtive, fed these doubts. I tried to read his thoughts: was he feeling remorse? Or was he proud, perhaps, like a man who
’
s done his duty by his neighbor? Ultimately, being both friend and doctor, it was he, I thought, who could best judge the validity of his decision; to slip an ampule of cyanide to a man who viewed death as salvation, or to procure a pistol for him. My misgivings were further corroborated by the fact that Dr. Wildgans was the last person with whom Jurij Golec was seen alive; on the evening I
’
ve described, I had left him alone with the doctor. Perhaps Jurij Golec had finally succeeded in changing Dr. Wildgans
’
s mind by the force of his arguments.

On account of the noise from the street and the indifference of people in big cities, there seemed to be no one who had heard the shot. The Japanese woman next door hadn
’
t been at home. So no one knew exactly when he
’
d done himself in. The police were conducting an investigation but weren
’
t interested in filling in the details for the curious.

Should I have helped him? I wondered. I actually could have gotten him a pistol, through my Yugo-thugs, with no great risk to myself. My conscience hadn
’
t let me rest, in the meantime. I
’
d kept imagining him lying there on the sidewalk, bleeding, his skull shattered; or how the blood would stream out of his veins; or how he would hang there in the cabinet among No
é
mie
’
s furs, skin gone blue, his tongue jutting out and his eyes popping from their cavities. Now I felt like a person who had failed to hasten to the side of someone in mortal danger; like a coward who had left his friend in the lurch.

This sentiment was compounded with feelings of guilt of another sort: since everyone knew that I was one of the last to have seen him alive, I had the impression that they suspected me. Mme Ursula Randelis had repeated the following menacing formulation to me two or three times over the phone:
“
If I catch the bastard who provided him with that pistol . . .
”
And it seemed that the threat was aimed at me.

Dr. Wildgans liberated me from this nightmare. As if he intuited my suspicions about him, he came over and gave my hand a very prolonged shake. He told me about Jurij Golec
’
s end: he had purchased a hunting rifle and some big-game ammunition; he
’
d pointed the barrel at his heart. He
’
d left the receipt for the weapon on the table, too, as written up by the saleswoman, as if to avoid any misunderstandings and to prove that we were all na
ï
ve bumblers and that he was not as inept in practical matters as we thought. On the reverse of the receipt he scribbled in an agitated hand his Kafkaesque last will and testament:
“
Burn my papers.
”

In the text that the rabbi read aloud, I recognized a brief passage that had been printed twenty years ago on the cover of Jurij Golec
’
s one novel:
“
Born in Ukraine in the years immediately following the civil war, Jurij Golec, once a prisoner at Auschwitz, has lived in Paris since 1946. After pursuing Asian studies in Poland, Germany, and at the Sorbonne, he worked as a correspondent for various foreign newspapers. His one novel
—
he was, as one says, a man of one book
—
was written in French.
”
Then the rabbi listed all the volumes of poetry and essays, and he particularly emphasized the major role that Jurij Golec played in the awarding of the Nobel Prize to Elias Canetti.
“
He helped his neighbors; he prayed facing toward Jerusalem; in his own way, he believed in God.
”

When the rabbi began reading the Psalms, alternating between Hebrew and French, five or six men put on the yarmulkes they pulled from their pockets. Dr. Wildgans placed a twice-folded handkerchief on his head.

The rabbi read, holding his Bible on the casket as if it were a pulpit, supporting himself with his fists on the lid:
“
My soul drew near even unto death, my life was near to the hell beneath. They compassed me on every side, and there was no man to help me: I looked for the succor of men, but there was none.
”

And he continued in Hebrew:
“
Adonai, Adonai.
”

“
O Lord, rebuke me not in thy wrath: neither chasten me in thy hot displeasure. For thine arrows stick fast in me, and thy hand presseth me sore . . . I am feeble and sore broken: I have roared by reason of the disquietness of my heart. Lord, all my desire is before thee; and my groaning is not hid from thee . . . My lovers and my friends stand aloof from my sore; and my kinsmen stand afar off . . . Forsake me not, O Lord: O my God, be not far from me. Make haste to help me, O Lord my salvation.
”

This was a distant echo of King David
’
s voice, pressing toward us from the obscurity of time and history; it was the testimony of an inspired and afflicted poet, written some three thousand years ago, that still reaches our hearts like a knife and like balsam.

“
I cry out to you, Lord, saying,
‘
You are my confidence, my portion in the realm of the living. Hear my lament, for I am much tormented; save me from those who persecute me, for they are mightier than I. Lead my soul from the dungeon, that I might praise your name. The righteous will gather around me, if you are favorably disposed to me.
’
”

Next to the grave, on the edge of the marble slab, I caught sight of a dead rat; it lay on its stomach, as if resting for a moment; its tail, stiff and straight, lay draped on the ground like a standard in defeat. What led it here? What worked its death? I wondered. Was God
’
s providence perhaps at work here? Jurij Golec, a connoisseur of the Talmud and the Upanishads, would certainly have found an explanation for this phenomenon, and would not have seen any provocation in it. Then I remembered:
“
A few late rats, like bulky army tanks, are making their way home to their boathouses.
”
So it
’
s a rat from that simile of his, I thought; one that has come straight from his novel to the Montparnasse cemetery. Because nothing is stable apart from the grand illusion of creation; no energy is ever lost there; every written word is like Genesis.

I stood by the grave and observed. Hugging the stone and seemingly contorted, ants stretched out their wispy antennae in the direction of the huge swollen body, not daring to attack it. And the dead rat, the living rat from the novel, lay there motionless, still unmarked by any visible signs of decay, like a heavy armored vehicle; its treads had been blown apart by an anti-tank mine and its crew had abandoned it.