The Glass Room Page 12

  Her reply is a soft breath against his cheek. ‘Men always say that kind of thing. Only usually they never have any doubt.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the doubt that makes it dangerous.’

  Later they sleep, Kata with her back to him, the curve of her body moulded into his, his arms around her.

  Viktor dreams. Vienna is the city of dreams, but not the kind of dreams that comfort. It is the city of incubus and succubus, the creatures of nightmare. He dreams of Liesel and Kata. He is standing naked before them, but of course they don’t notice his nakedness or the incongruity of their own presence together. In fact no one notices anything, neither the witnesses, nor the judge, nor the jury, nor the people in the public gallery who laugh uproariously at him, not at his nudity but at the absurdity of his situation.

  Some time during the night he awakens. Kata is getting out of bed and crossing the room to the door. He waits for her to return, and folds her into his arms when she does.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s fast asleep.’

  His mind drifts in the border territory between sleep and waking. Lying there in the darkness with Kata, he has the vivid sensation that this cramped little attic room is at the axis of a great wheel, a Riesenrad that is the whole of his world. And everything else rotates slowly round it – the factory, the house on Blackfield Road, Liesel, Ottilie, the whole of his existence, which is the whole of existence itself, the whole world slowly orbiting him and Kata lying there amid the hot sheets.

  When he wakes the next morning the flood of milky light from the dormer window washes away all memories of dream and fantasy and leaves only a sense of disquiet. He sits up and rubs his eyes. Kata is already over by the washbasin in the corner, ironing his shirt. She is wearing a cotton housecoat. She tosses water on the fabric of the shirt and picks up the flatiron from the gas ring. The water seethes as she presses the iron down. Steam rises around her.

  ‘You’ll have to get dressed quick,’ she warns when she notices he is awake. ‘Marika’ll be up soon.’

  He throws the sheet aside. ‘I must go.’

  ‘It’s all right, if you’re dressed.’

  ‘No, I must get out of your way.’ He washes in the basin and pulls his clothes on. She hands him the shirt. ‘You’re still angry,’ she says, but he shakes his head in denial.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Bewildered. Confused.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, it’s mine.’ He struggles to adjust his tie. ‘I’ll need to get a shave.’

  ‘There’s a barber just round the corner.’

  He takes out his cheque book. ‘I want to give you something. For you, for the girl. I want …’ What does he want? She is looking at him with concern, as though he has done something bizarre. ‘Do you have a bank account? Can you use a cheque?’ The idea seems plain now, as obvious as the nose on her face.

  She shrugs. ‘I s’pose so.’

  He takes out his pen and writes, quickly, barely thinking but absurdly pleased with his idea: Katalin Kalman. And the sum: fifteen thousand Schillings. ‘It’s drawn on my Vienna bank. The Wiener Bank-Verein. Is that all right?’ He watches the ink lose its gleam as it dries, then tears the cheque out and hands it to her.

  ‘It’s a fortune,’ she says, staring at the piece of paper. ‘I can’t take that. It’s more than I earn in two years.’

  ‘It’s yours, Kata. For you and your daughter.’

  ‘They’ll think I stole it.’

  ‘You couldn’t have stolen it. It has your name on it.’

  ‘Maybe I forged it.’ She looks at the thing as though to see whether it is genuine, turning it over as she might examine a dubious note.

  ‘They’ll probably clear it with me, but that’s all right.’

  She looks up, and those pale eyes ambush him. ‘And what do I have to do to earn it?’

  He laughs. It seems the most obvious thing, the simplest thing. ‘Just don’t go with men.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘That’s for you to decide.’ They watch one another. He feels this absurd excitement, like a child with a new idea, bursting to tell people, dying to explain. ‘That’s entirely up to you.’

  She shakes her head as though in refusal, but puts the cheque on the table underneath a small vase. ‘We’ll see,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll come again soon.’

  ‘Of course.’ She reaches up to adjust his tie. He examines her closely, almost as though consigning her features to memory, the cast of her eyes and lips, the way her skin creases at the corners of her mouth, the set of her cheekbones and the dome of her forehead. Her hairline is ill-defined, with a line of soft down before the main growth of hair. There is something endearing about that; and the fact that he hasn’t noticed it before makes him panic, as if there may be other things that he has not noticed and will therefore not remember. He bends to kiss her there, among the soft down where she smells warm from sleep and entirely without artifice. The kiss transfers to the smooth texture of her forehead, and then to the palpitating presence of her left eye where her eyelid flutters like a trapped moth. And then down her cheek to her lips. He tastes the sourness of the morning on her saliva.

  ‘I’ll bring a present for Marika.’

  ‘That’d be nice.’

  ‘And one for you.’

  And then he leaves, thinking, as he goes down the stairs, of what might have been and what might still be, thinking of the pure caprice of life. Sitting in the train on the journey home Viktor Landauer, the man of quality, of qualities, attributes and gifts, feels elation no longer but only a deep and unfocused remorse, like the sadness that comes after coitus, an emotion for which he has a Czech word that he cannot translate into German with any exactness: lítost. Rue, regret for a whole universe of things, the irrevocable nature of one’s life, the unbearable sorrow of being, the fact that things cannot be changed, that love, the focused light of passion and hunger should be centred not on the figure of his wife but on the body and soul of a half-educated, part-time tart.

  Ecstasy

  ‘Have you ever been unfaithful to Liesel?’

  The question is a shock, but that is Hana’s manner.

  ‘What an extraordinary question to ask.’

  ‘But have you?’

  There are just the two of them waiting for the appearance of Liesel from her preparations upstairs and for the arrival of the other dinner guests. They are standing before the windows, looking out over the evening garden, sipping their drinks – under Hana’s tuition Viktor has mixed cocktails – and chatting quite idly about things. She has been relating some gossip about the Kaprálová girl – Vitulka – whom she bumped into at a café in Montparnasse on her recent foray to Paris. ‘Do you know who she is with all the time? You’ll never guess.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘Martinů. You know, Bohuslav Martinů, the composer. People say they’re sleeping together.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘I didn’t ask her directly, Viktor. Don’t be ridiculous. But she never stopped talking about him and that’s usually the sign.’ And then, unexpectedly, she comes out with that question: Have you ever been unfaithful to Liesel?

  There is jazz on the gramophone, a record Hana herself has brought them as a gift from Paris: a Negro playing the saxophone. The instrument talks to the listener in tones that seem so close to the human voice that it’s almost like having another person in the room, commenting on their conversation. Hana smiles, listening to the music, sipping her icy drink and watching the sunset. The expanse of glass emboldens, makes plain and transparent, opens up the mind and maybe the heart.

  ‘My dear Hana, why should you want to know? And why should you expect me to tell you if I had?’

  ‘That’s as good as an admission.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You’re an attractive man, so why shouldn’t you have a fling or two, something discreet on one
of your business trips, perhaps? Opportunities come the way of attractive men. Particularly rich ones.’ She is teasing, of course. That is how their friendship manifests itself, in her teasing him and his not taking offence. It’s the only way to bridge the gap between their disparate characters.

  He draws on his cigarette. ‘Would it make you feel happy if I did have a mistress?’

  She shrugs. ‘Happy, no. But at least Liesel wouldn’t seem so bloody fortunate in everything.’ The record comes to an end and the needle remains clicking in the inner groove. She goes over to put on something else, glancing sideways at him as she does so, that down-turned mouth curving upwards in her surprising smile. She is good at such smiles, the small expressions of innuendo. ‘I wouldn’t mind sharing you.’

  ‘That’s more or less what Liesel said you’d say.’

  For a moment she seems thrown off balance. ‘You’ve discussed having a fling with me?’

  ‘A long time ago. She wondered whether you’d ever made a pass at me.’

  ‘My God! Was she angry? She’s so funny about things like that. All that angst …’

  ‘She said you have different standards from us. I said that our relationship was more like brother and sister—’

  ‘How sweet.’

  ‘And she added that that wouldn’t put you off.’

  Hana laughs. There is a gleam of pink gum. ‘Darling Liesel, she knows me too well. And you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘It doesn’t need answering.’

  She is about to reply, but whatever she is going to say is interrupted by the sound of the doorbell upstairs, the front door opening and people coming in. She drains her drink and hands the glass to Viktor. Then unexpectedly she leans towards him and for a moment her face is touching his, cheek to cheek, as though she is going to give him a kiss. He can feel a breath of perfume underlaid with the scent of cigarettes. ‘What’s her name?’ she whispers.

  Viktor has come to recognise the signs when visitors enter the Glass Room for the first time. There are those little gasps of admiration, those exclamations of surprise. They’ve come down from the quiet and intimate enclosure of the top floor and they stand on the edge of the space, unsure at first where to focus their gaze. The impact of the place overwhelms visitors, especially those who are used to riches being expressed in things, possessions, the ornamental bric-a-brac of the wealthy, and instead discover here the ultimate opulence of pure abstraction. Glänzend! they exclaim, a word that has both the literal and figurative meaning of brilliant, and thus encapsulates within its gleaming glance exactly what strikes the newcomer about the room.

  ‘Quite a house, Herr Landauer,’ this particular guest observes as he advances across the floor. ‘Your lovely wife has been telling me about the place. And now, coming into this room. I can see what she was going on about.’

  Fritz Mandl is a businessman from Vienna, the head of the armaments company Hirtenberger Patronen-Fabrik. There have already been a couple of meetings to discuss his idea that there might be a joint venture with Landauerovy Zádovy in the burgeoning market for military equipment. The man has suggestions, projects, contacts. ‘The Germans are hungry for this stuff,’ he has assured Viktor. ‘And the Italians as well. Armoured cars are the latest thing. You want to move quickly before someone else steps in.’ But it is not Mandl himself who draws the attention as he crosses the room to shake Viktor’s hand: it is Mandl’s wife. Seemingly very young, she is blessed with looks of the most flawless symmetry. Dark shoulder-length hair frames a perfectly heart-shaped face. Her eyebrows are exact arches stemming from a nose of exquisite delicacy. She has grey-green eyes, watchful and nervous. Her mouth has a vulnerable quality to it, as though she is uncertain whether to smile or cry. She is, quite simply, one of the most beautiful women Viktor has ever seen. The chrome pillar nearby throws multiple distorted reflections of her beauty around the room with the careless abandon of a child. Very gently she inclines her head as she shakes his hand. ‘Your house is very beautiful. Modern, it is very modern.’

  ‘I like modern things.’

  ‘So do I.’

  She turns to greet Hana. ‘Please call me Eva. Frau Mandl makes me seem so old. You do speak German, don’t you? Here it is so difficult with Czech. I haven’t a word of the language, really. Dobry den is about my limit.’ Other guests are coming in and being introduced: a lawyer and his wife; a couple from the motor racing world who have driven Landauer cars in competition; a university professor and his daughter; and Oskar, of course. But Hana seems transfixed by Eva Mandl’s appearance. ‘Haven’t we met before?’

  Frau Mandl frowns. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Eva doesn’t get out of Vienna much,’ her husband says. ‘We have a very busy life there.’

  ‘Maybe it was in Vienna then. I’m sure we’ve met somewhere.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  Drinks are served. The guests exclaim at the spectacular view through the windows, at the Maillol sculpture, at the beauty of the onyx wall and the elegance of the Glass Room, and in the midst of all this Mandl’s voice is loud and congratulatory, somehow taking the credit for himself: ‘I like this place. Away with all the nonsense of the past. You seem to have what it takes in this city, Landauer. A good business culture and a modern outlook on life. Not like Vienna. Vienna is hidebound by tradition and cursed by Communism. Maybe I should move here. You’ve got the factories, all you need is the contacts.’

  And then Hana exclaims, ‘I know!’ and just as she speaks there is an unexpected hiatus in the conversation so that her comment, intended only for Mandl’s wife, becomes general. People turn to look at her. What does she know?

  ‘I know where I’ve seen you before,’ she explains hastily.

  Eva Mandl glances anxiously at her husband. Her eyes – green or grey? – are transfixed, like those of an animal caught in a snare.

  ‘You were in films, weren’t you?’ Hana cries. ‘Machatý’s Extáze. Oh my God, you’re Hedy Kiesler!’

  For Hana this is nothing. So the young and beautiful wife of the principal guest has run across the screens of countless cinemas of the world stark naked. So she has bared her breasts – lovely, girlish breasts, so Hana assures Viktor and Liesel later – to the audiences of all those countries around the world that didn’t actually ban the film. So her ample thighs and buttocks, her elusive comma of pubic hair, have been displayed to thousands of breathless men and women in breathless auditoriums from Paris to Berlin. So she has bared that ineffably beautiful face to the camera while rising – in simulation, one assumes, but all too many didn’t – to orgasm. For Hana all this is perfectly acceptable. It is what people do and the way that art moves on. For Mandl and his young wife it is, apparently, an intense embarrassment.

  ‘That was when I was very young,’ the woman says quietly. ‘I’m out of films now.’

  ‘She was just a foolish child,’ her husband adds. ‘It is not something that we wish to discuss.’

  There is an awkward pause. What to discuss if not this woman’s celebrated nudity? Hana smiles and touches the girl’s arm reassuringly. ‘But it’s wonderful. Ekstase was wonderful. You were wonderful.’

  ‘I said we don’t wish to discuss it.’ Mandl is getting angry, Viktor can see that. It is a low-level kind of anger, a mere tightening of the muscles of his face, a whitening around the edges of his nose.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Hana asks him. ‘Your wife showed us such beauty, such innocence.’

  Mandl replies, very carefully, ‘Gnädige Frau, it was a misjudgement. My wife does not wish to discuss the mistakes she made when she was a mere girl. Is that clear?’

  Hana laughs. ‘But I love to be reminded of the mistakes I made when I was a girl. They did involve running around naked, but regrettably never in front of film cameras.’

  There is a terrible moment when the party seems about to come to pieces. Then Liesel takes Hana’s arm to lead her away and Viktor says that everything is quite all right and usher
s Mandl and his wife round the other side of the onyx wall to see a remarkable phenomenon, how the sunlight, shining through the great windows of plate glass and striking the wall at just the right angle, lights an elemental flame deep inside the stone.

  ‘How fantastic!’ Frau Mandl exclaims, looking into the fire and clapping her hands in delight. ‘How truly beautiful!’ There is something childlike about her enthusiasm, as though it is designed to curry favour with her husband rather than to express her true feelings. But the diversion has done its job and the awkward moment appears to have passed. They go through to the dining area and take their seats round the table.

  ‘This would appeal to Herr Hitler,’ Mandl observes. ‘The Führer is very keen on round tables and knights and all that kind of thing.’ Of course he has met Herr Hitler in person on more than one occasion, and Il Duce. Remarkable fellows, he asserts. ‘We know them all, Goebbels, Göring, the whole gang, don’t we Eva? They took quite a fancy to you, didn’t they?’

  ‘I like Magda Goebbels,’ she says. There is something wrong with her smile, as though there are tears behind it rather than laughter. ‘Magda’s fun. Some of the others …’ Her voice trails away. She glances at Hana. At this circular table there is no hiding one guest from another. The further away you are, the more directly you look at one another.

  ‘The Führer’s a strange fellow,’ her husband asserts. ‘Quite the family man when you get him on his own. Loves babies and dogs and that kind of thing.’

  ‘What about the anti-Semitism?’ Liesel asks. ‘Don’t you find that a bit hard to take?

  Mandl’s laugh is like a shout. ‘They made me an honorary Aryan. How about that? An honorary Aryan. On Herr Hitler’s orders. They’re pragmatists, you see. If they need to deal with a Jew then they’ll come to an accommodation. I’m proof of that. Jews can get on with Hitler and his lot perfectly well.’