Intrigo Page 31
‘My left one is bigger than the right, isn’t that so?’
‘Do you want an answer to the King Lear question or the breast question first?’
She thinks about it and lets go of her breasts.
‘Sorry. What is it about this play anyway? I’ve never seen it.’
‘You don’t need to see it,’ I say. ‘It’s enough to read it.’
‘I haven’t read it either. Do you think I’m ignorant?’
‘No more than usual,’ I say amiably. ‘Pour on more water, will you, it’s not the idea that we should sit here and freeze, is it? It’s about an old man and his three daughters.’
That much I actually know.
‘Two of the daughters are power-hungry and selfish, the third one is good.’
‘Cordelia?’
‘Yes. Old Lear divides his kingdom among his daughters, but he is vain and wants to give most to the one who claims to love him the most. Cordelia loves her father but speaks in a low voice and gets nothing, the poor king puts his life in the hands of the other two daughters. He rejects the good daughter and that is the beginning of his fall . . . the final scene between the insane king and his dead Cordelia is the strongest that is possible to present on a stage.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she’s the one you want to play? The good, dead daughter?’
I nod. Point out that she is only dead in the end.
‘This means a lot to you?’
I glare at her in irritation. She is sitting and fingering her breasts again.
‘Of course it means a lot!’ I say. ‘Why would I get involved in something that doesn’t mean something? If I get to play Cordelia against Kauffner and it goes well, yes, then I have no reason not to continue. Give it a real shot.’
‘The acting track?’
‘No, the plumbing track.’
‘Hmm. But you’re not the only one who wants the role, are you?’
I sigh and think. No, of course not. The funny thing is that we are playing three sisters again. First Chekhov and now Shakespeare. Both Renate and Ursula, who played Olga and Irina, want to play Cordelia of course, they would be crazy otherwise. And there are supposedly a couple of other competitors too. The Thalia Company has added new members for some reason.
‘I understand,’ Henny says after a moment of silence. ‘Goschmann and Kauffner are not just anyone?’
‘Not exactly,’ I say.
‘And how does the actual . . . what is it called . . . the selection process work?’
‘Audition,’ I explain. ‘We’ve been given two scenes to practise. One right at the beginning, one towards the end. In two weeks Goschmann is going to sit for a whole day and assess us.’
We leave the sauna and stand under the showers. I notice that Henny is thoughtful and has started to get the point. She squints and sucks on that wisp of hair like she’s done ever since she was eleven or twelve. I think that I know her better than she knows herself.
‘Can I help you in any way?’ she asks when we have come out to the changing room.
‘Yes, thanks,’ I say. ‘I need someone to read and play against.’
‘Me?’ Henny says with a sudden infantile laugh.
‘You,’ I say. ‘We’ll start this evening. We have fourteen days.’
‘Now, our joy, although our last and least,’ Henny rumbles, ‘to whose young love the vines of France and milk of Burgundy strive to be interest; what can you say to draw a third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.’
‘Nothing, my lord,’ I say.
‘Good,’ Henny says.
‘You shouldn’t comment on my lines,’ I say. ‘You should play against me.’
‘Of course,’ Henny says. ‘Let’s do it again . . . what can you say to draw a third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.’
‘Nothing, my lord,’ I repeat.
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
Henny snorts. ‘Nothing will come of nothing. Speak again.’
‘Unhappy that I am,’ I say, lowering my eyes, ‘I cannot heave my heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty according to my bond, no more nor less.’
‘That’s good,’ Henny says. ‘I cannot heave my heart into my mouth. Super!’
‘Of course it’s good,’ I say with irritation. ‘It’s King Lear. It’s Shakespeare.’
‘I understand,’ Henny says. ‘Sorry. Let’s do it again now, I won’t interrupt.’
‘From the beginning,’ I say.
We go swimming three times a week, and after every swim we practise. A total of six times during these fourteen days. Act I, scene 1 and Act IV, scene 7. In the latter scene Henny plays Kent, the doctor and Lear, and already after the second or third attempt we know our lines by heart. I understand that Henny must have practised at home too.
Gradually she starts to give me advice.
‘Gentler,’ she says. ‘I think you should try to be as toneless as possible.’
‘Toneless?’ I ask.
‘Like this,’ Henny says. ‘O you kind gods, curse this great breach in his abusèd nature! Th’ untuned and jarring senses, O, wind up of this child-changèd father!’
She knows this by heart too.
‘She prays although actually she doesn’t dare believe in any result,’ Henny explains. ‘I think that is the idea. You should be as subdued as you possibly can. Although you must be heard, of course.’
I think and try it.
‘Good,’ Henny says. ‘Much better, I didn’t know that theatre was so exciting.’
We do it over and over. When we think that the words and intonation are the right ones, we practise gestures and posture. Henny is enthusiastic and constantly shares ideas. The day before the audition we carry on until after midnight. I also try a dress that I intend to wear – just a simple white cotton dress, but it is long and I can be barefoot under it without it being seen. Admittedly I have no idea what Goschmann will think about it, but I want to feel the floorboards under my bare feet when I am standing on the stage. If the role allows it, of course. It gives a sort of power that is felt all the way up in your vocal cords.
‘We should probably stop now,’ I say at last. ‘I’ll be first up tomorrow. At eleven o’clock. And I have to wash my hair, too.’
‘Remember to wear it loose,’ Henny says.
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Absolutely,’ Henny says. ‘You’re most beautiful that way. Beauty and goodness should go hand in hand, if that is possible.’
It sounds like something we used to write in our essays for Miss Silberstein. We hug and say goodbye.
‘Good luck,’ Henny says. ‘Trust in doing your best and be humble. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.’
‘Do that,’ I say. ‘I’m very grateful for your help, Henny.’
To:
Agnes R.
Villa Guarda
Gobshejm
Grothenburg, 10 February
Dear Agnes,
Thanks for your letter, it was so fun to read it. Unfortunately there probably won’t be too many more now, and – which truly pains me – unfortunately it is probably also time to burn all of this correspondence. I have reread all your letters – there are nine of them actually – just this evening; David is at some meeting and the girls are asleep. But I am still waiting for a line from you before I put it all in the fire; I imagine that you’ll be in touch soon before you travel up to Amsterdam – yes, can you please mail me a little greeting no later than Thursday, so I have time to read it before I go to Munich? I am leaving at three o’clock on Friday.
I have also received my programme for the translator days (as they are called); it undeniably arrived a bit late, but maybe that doesn’t matter very much. In any event I am going to be occupied all of Saturday and Sunday (I am thinking now about my alibi, as I’m sure you understand); there is nothing scheduled on Friday evening however, so I guess I’ll have to make sure they notice me in reception at t
he hotel a few times. Or if they have a restaurant I can spend a few hours there?
If it’s the case that you strike that first evening, that is.
Yes, write me one more line, dear Agnes, please. I actually have nothing else on my mind right now, it is Monday and this time next week it will be over. It feels both strange and liberating; when I walked past Kemperling’s store today, you know, the one that is down on Grote Square next to Kraus, I caught sight of a black dress in the window. If they still have it I will probably go in and buy it next week; I was actually about to do it today, but managed to stop myself. Perhaps it would attract some attention if the widow bought the mourning attire while the husband was still alive. Am I right, Agnes?
Anyway, may the gods support us and I trust that you have your nerves under control. I have your clever codes well preserved in my memory and look forward to a) a short letter from you on Thursday or Friday, b) a phone call sometime over the weekend.
Otherwise it is rainy and foggy here in Grothenburg, but the flu seems to have passed this time. Now I hear David’s steps on the stairway, closing in all haste.
Your Henny
P.S. (Tuesday morning) Kind Agnes, do not hesitate to call immediately, even if it is the middle of the night! I feel that I must find out as soon as it has happened.
P.P.S. And for heaven’s sake don’t forget to burn the letters too, Agnes! It would be terrible if someone happened to discover them!
To:
Henny Delgado
Pelikaanallé 24
Grothenburg
Gobshejm, 12 February
Dear Henny,
It is late Wednesday evening. Tomorrow I have two lectures and after that I will get in the car and drive straight up to A. If there is not too much traffic on the roads I ought to be there by about nine o’clock.
After that, a good night’s sleep at my hotel, and then I will be ready to meet your husband at the central station at quarter past three.
And then we’ll see.
I have packed my gun and the ammunition in my suitcase. Sat and weighed the pistol a good while in my hand before I parted with it. It feels strange that this little metal object will put an end to a life, simply by means of a light pressure from my index finger. So all this planning and this effort runs out in a simple finger movement, I couldn’t help thinking about it and whether it says something about our lives. I mean all of our lives, their inherent fragility – and is it not the case that after a certain point in time they narrow instead of expanding? Our lives. I think so. But when, Henny? As of when do our life paths suddenly become narrower instead of wider? When do we start – deliberately or unconsciously or both – going in a narrower direction? Because it really is like that, dear Henny, even if I feel that new possibilities will open for us after this (reunion, conversations, travel), at the same time it seems as if everything is getting tighter and tighter.
Or maybe I’m wrong. I’ve been drinking wine again. Maybe my thoughts are simply expressions of temporary moods and of the rain that unceasingly whips against the windowpanes. In any event I promise you to keep away from both wine and spirits in A. At least until I have completed my mission.
But I harbour no worry; on the contrary I am happy that it is finally time, I am probably not a person who is particularly good at waiting. What do you think, does that tally with your perception of me from before?
Otherwise I don’t have that much on my mind either, but you asked for a few lines. I have read all your letters again this evening and ten minutes ago I saw them transformed to soot and ash in the fireplace. Am going to bed now full of confidence; I will call as we said from A and then perhaps we will meet at David’s funeral.
Or do you think it is too risky for me to attend it, dear Henny? You were at Erich’s after all.
In any event I want to wish you a pleasant and rewarding stay in Munich! I truly hope the weather both there and in Amsterdam is better than here, a little spring in the air soon wouldn’t be bad.
Signed
Your Agnes
David Goschmann is a dark person, but his eyes are so blue that they spill over.
‘For the female roles we are only auditioning for Cordelia,’ he says. ‘I will be in touch with the relevant person tomorrow morning. Twelve o’clock at the latest.’
I nod.
‘Keep in mind that you, just like the others, are subject to considerable caprice.’
‘How many others are there?’ I ask.
‘Four. Those who are then interested in Goneril and Regan will come here tomorrow evening.’
‘I understand,’ I say.
‘We can possibly also let the clown be performed by a woman. You are aware that Cordelia is absent for most of the play?’
‘Of course.’
‘So you did Masha in Three Sisters?’
I admit that I interpreted Masha.
‘Did you like her?’
I admit that I liked her a lot. Both her and the role.
‘I’ve done some Chekhov,’ David Goschmann says. ‘Would like to do more, but there isn’t that much and you have to save some things for old age.’
He smiles and that blueness shines in him. He can’t be more than twenty-eight or thirty.
‘Who am I playing against?’ I ask, looking around. It is only Goschmann and I in the space.
‘Rotten . . . What’s his name?’
‘Rottenbühle?’
‘Rottenbühle, yes. Would you have preferred someone else?’
‘Oh, no. Just so I avoid him if it turns serious.’
He laughs and promises that there will be other actors by and by.
‘Do you want to lie down for a moment and concentrate first? Rottenbühle seems to be late.’
‘Thanks, gladly.’
‘You have a good appearance.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you intend to continue later?’
‘With theatre?’
‘Yes.’
I shrug my shoulders. Regret it, but it’s not possible to erase a shoulder shrug.
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Yes, it’s not impossible.’
‘I will give you a couple of names,’ Goschmann says. ‘Good schools. If you’re interested, that is?’
‘Thanks, gladly,’ I repeat. ‘I really am.’
The door opens and Rottenbühle comes in. He obviously has a cold and starts by sneezing three times.
‘Sorry. I got delayed a little.’
‘No problem,’ Goschmann says, smiling. ‘I don’t know if Cordelia wants to have a moment of concentration first, or if we can start at once?’
‘I’m happy to start at once,’ I say.
I understand what it is David Goschmann has.
Presence. When he steps into a room a force field opens. The energy increases quite tangibly; I feel both noticed and intelligent. And significant; I have never experienced this before but I grasp immediately what it is about.
He is sitting a good way out in the auditorium. The seventh or eighth row. True, I am playing against the cold-suffering Rottenbühle, but it is impossible to avoid playing against Goschmann at the same time. It is a question of the same diagonal as usual, of course, but also something new and unproven. It feels peculiar, I can’t decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing. If it strengthens or weakens my expression.
We go on for almost half an hour. Do both scenes two times; Goschmann has no comments whatsoever, but I know that he is registering every millimetre of my body and every breath I take. When I come out from Keller Theatre, where we had been – and always are – I feel exhausted and almost dizzy, as if after great physical exertion.
As if I’d been making love for two hours, for example, something that I still have never done during my twenty-one-year-old life.
I sit down at a table in Cafe Adler right around the corner and order a steak and a beer. Think that for the first time I have met a guy who seriously interests me.
Who truly . . . corresponds to me.
Later in the evening – it is a windy Saturday in February without any hint whatsoever of spring in the air – an incident occurs that I cannot readily interpret other than as a good sign.
My little studio apartment, where I have lived for over six months now, is on the top floor of an old building on Geigers steeg. Sixth floor without a lift; it is no more than a cupboard, but the sloping ceiling and irregularities no doubt have their charm and of course I don’t need more space at this stage in my life.
On the same floor, an elderly couple, Herr and Frau Linkoweis, also live. They are both in their mid-seventies and a little frail, he more than her – Frau Linkoweis usually makes her way up and down the stairs once a day at least, goes to the square and selects the day’s necessities and then has them sent home by courier. Sometimes I shop for them, but that is an exception, they prefer managing on their own. Herr Linkoweis, who answers to the unusual first name Sigisbard, comes out at most every three or four days. In bad weather he sees no reason to stick his nose out, and in good weather he is most often content to be out on the little balcony, which faces towards the courtyard and which I can see from my diminutive window in my diminutive kitchen.
When I come home that Saturday (after the steak at Adler’s, that is, and a couple of rather ineffective hours of study at the library), I run into Frau Linkoweis along with the caretaker, Herr Bloeme, outside my door. Frau Linkoweis looks about to faint, her face is white and she is foaming at the mouth without a sound crossing her lips. The door to the couple’s apartment is open; Herr Bloeme explains the situation.
Herr Linkoweis has gone crazy, he observes, breathing heavily.
Herr Bloeme smokes fifty cigarettes a day and only exceptionally visits any of the upper floors of the building.
‘You don’t mean that,’ I say.
‘I sure do,’ Bloeme hisses. ‘He’s standing out there on the balcony, intending to jump.’
With a nicotine-yellowed, trembling index finger he waves towards the Linkoweis’s apartment. Frau Linkoweis stops her foaming, takes hold of my arm and starts whimpering.
‘Please,’ she pleads. ‘Please.’
I shake my head sceptically.
‘He’s climbed up on the outside of the railing,’ Bloeme explains. ‘He’s standing there and holding on with one hand. If we approach or call for help he’ll let go!’