Ghostwritten (37 page)

I laugh.

Roy insists on helping me off with my coat, and slings it over the pineapple-shaped knob of the bannister. I must look up the correct word for that knob. ‘How’s The Music of Chance? All you young things, playing together and inspiring one another . . . We just love it.’

‘We laid down a couple of tracks two weeks ago, but now we’re back to rehearsing in Gloria’s uncle’s warehouse.’ Due to a chronic lack of anything to pay with. ‘Our bassist’s new girlfriend plays the handbells, so we’re trying to expand our repertoire a little . . . How’s your composing?’

‘Not so good, everything I do ends up turning into “A Well-Temper’d Clavier”.’

‘What’s wrong with Bach?’

‘Nothing, except it always makes me dream about a team of synchronised tail-chasing Escher-cats. Now what do you think of this? It’s from a wicked young friend of mine named Clem.’ He hands me a postcard of Earth. On the back I turn it over and read the message: ‘Wish you were here. Clem.’

Roy never makes himself laugh, only others. But he smiles timidly. ‘Now. You’re good with your hands. Can you work out how our percolator works? It’s through in the kitchen here. I’ve just been having no luck at all with it. It’s German. They make North American-proof percolators in Germany. Do you think they’ve forgiven us for the war yet?’

‘What seems to be the problem with it?’

‘Jeez, now you’re
really
sounding like Dr Marco. It just keeps overflowing. The drippy nozzle thing totally refuses to drip.’

The first time I saw Roy’s and Alfred’s kitchen, it looked like the set of an earthquake movie. It still does, but now I’m used to it. I found the percolator under a large head made of chickenwire. ‘We thought it would give a dead machine a little character,’ explained Roy. ‘It also makes it impossible to lose the percolator. Volk constructed it one spring weekend for Alfred.’

Volk was a truly beautiful Serbian teenager with a dubious-sounding visa who sometimes lived at Alfred’s when he had nowhere else to go but Serbia. He always wore leather trousers, and Alfred called him ‘our young wolf ’. I didn’t ask any more questions.

‘Well, I think the main problem is that you’ve put tea leaves into the filter instead of coffee.’

‘Oh, you jest! Lemme see. Oh, Jeez, you’re right . . . Now, where’s the coffee? Do you know where the coffee is, Marco?’

‘Last week it was in the tennis-ball shooter.’

‘No, Volk moved it from there . . . Let me see . . .’ Roy surveyed the kitchen like God looking down on a mess of a world it was too late to uncreate. ‘Bread basket! Say, go on up to Alfred in his study whydon’tcha? I left him reading last week’s instalment of his life. We both thought it was marvellous. I’ll bring up the coffee when it’s done dripping.’

There’s a sad story about Roy. He used to have his compositions published. He still finds old copies of them, occasionally, leafing through very specialist shops, and he shows them to me with glee. A few times they were performed and recorded for the radio. The American Public Radio Network broadcast his First Symphony, and Lyndon Johnson wrote Roy a letter to say how much he and his wife had enjoyed it. That success attracted negative criticism, too, though, and some bitchiness from the music world filtered down to Roy. It upset him so much that he’s never published anything since. He just composes, wodge after wodge of manuscript, with nobody to hear it but himself and Alfred, and occasionally a young wolf from Serbia, and me. He’s on his thirteenth symphony.

He should hear some of the things that people have said about The Music of Chance. Enough to make your bile freeze up. The
Evening News
reviewer wrote that he thought the world would be improved if we all fell into the giant food blender that our music resembled. I was chuffed pink.

As I reached the top floor I found that my mind was chewing over a conversation I had the first time I met Poppy. Everyone else at the party was unconscious, and a drizzly morning was watering down the night.

‘Do you ever think of the effect you have on your conquests?’

‘I don’t see where you’re coming from, Poppy.’

‘I’m not coming from anywhere. But I suddenly noticed that you love talking about cause. You never talk about effect.’

I knocked on the door of Alfred’s study, and entered. A room inhabited by photographs of friends, none of them new. Alfred was staring out of the window the way old men do. Curtains of rain were blowing pell-mell off Hampstead Heath.

‘Winter will soon be with us, our
gustviter
friend.’

‘Afternoon, Alfred.’

‘Another winter. We must hurry. We are still on chapter, chapter . . .’

‘Chapter six, Alfred.’

‘And how is your family?’

Is he confusing me with someone else? ‘They’re fine, last time I looked.’

‘We are only on chapter six, you see. We must hurry. My body is degenerating quickly. Last week’s work was satisfactory. That is good. You are a writer, my young friend. We can make more progress today. I indicated with a green pen the parts I wish you to revise. Now, let us begin. You have your notebook with you?’

I waved it. Alfred indicated the seat nearest him. ‘Before you sit down, please put the recording of Vaughan Williams’s Third Symphony onto the gramophone player. It is filed under “V”. The Pastoral.’

I love Alfred’s record collection. Real, wide, black, plastic records. Thick. My hands love handling them, it’s like meeting an old friend. CDs were hoisted onto us with scandalous aplomb and nobody rumbled their game until it was too late. Like instant coffee compared to the real stuff. I didn’t know this Williams’s music, but it had a good start. I’d like to mix in a distorted bass, and maybe a snare drum.

‘Then let us begin, shall we?’

‘Whenever you’re ready, Alfred.’

I start the cassette rolling, and open my notebook at a new page. Everything on it is still perfect.

‘It is 1946. I am living in Berlin, working for British Intelligence. Now there’s an oxymoron for you. We are on the trail of Mausling, the rocket scientist wanted by the Americans for his—’

‘I think we’re back in London, now, Alfred.’

‘Ah, yes . . . We’ve handed Mausling over . . . 1946 . . .

‘Then I’m back at the civil service. Ah, yes, 1947. My first quiet year for a decade. There were rumblings from India, and Egypt. Bad rumours from Eastern Europe. People finding pits full of bodies in Armenia, Soviets and Nuremberg Nazis blaming each other. Churchill and Stalin had done dividing up Europe on a napkin, and the consequences of their levity were becoming horribly apparent. You can imagine, I was a bit of an embarrassment in Whitehall. A Hungarian-Jew back from Berlin amongst the pencil sharpeners freshly down from Oxford. The crown owed me, they knew, but they no longer really wanted me. So, I was given an office job on Great Portland Street working with a division cracking down on black marketeers. I never got to see any action, though. I was just doing what computers and young ladies in shoulder pads do nowadays. Rationing was still in place, you see, but it was beginning to crumble round the edges. The wartime spirit was seeping away through the bomb craters, and people were reverting to their usual small-minded selves. Roy was still tangled up with his father and lawyers in Toronto. Imagine one of the more tedious Graham Greene novels, remove the good bits towards the end, and just have it going on and on and on for hundreds of pages. The only enjoyable part was the cricket, which I followed with the passion of an émigré. That, and Sundays at Speaker’s Corner, where I could discuss Nietzsche and Kant and Goethe and Stalin in whichever language I wanted to, and get a decent game of chess if the weather was good. London was full of Alfreds in 1947.’

I finished the last part and flexed my fingers. I followed Alfred’s gaze, to the dripping camphor tree across the road from the study. The corner of Hampstead Heath, I could see a pond in a hollow beyond. When Alfred was thinking he looked at it, past his signed photo of Bertrand Russell.

‘I’ve never seen a ghost, Marco. I don’t believe in an afterlife. At best, I consider the idea of God to be a childish prank, and at worst a sick joke, probably pulled by the devil, and oh yes you
can
have one without the other. I know you offer allegiance to Buddha and your woolly Hesse, but I shall remain a devout atheist until the end. Yet one extraordinary thing occurred one summer evening in 1947. I want you to include it in my autobiography. When you write it, don’t write it in the manner of a spooky story. Don’t try to give an explanation. Just say that I don’t know what to make of it, just write it like I tell it, so the reader can make up his own mind. The ghost comes in the first paragraph.’

I’m really interested now. ‘What happened?’

‘I’d finished work. I’d just had dinner with Prof Baker at a restaurant in South Ken. I was still sitting there gazing at the busy street. A waterfall mesmerises in the same way, don’t you think? Anyway. That was when I saw myself.’

Alfred’s eyes were all pupil, monitoring reactions and effects.

‘You saw yourself?’

Alfred nodded. ‘I saw myself. Not a reflection, not a lookalike, not a twin brother, not a spiritual awakening, not a waxwork. This is no cheap riddle. I saw myself, Alfred Kopf, large as life.’

‘What were you doing?’

‘Pelting past the window! I’d have missed him, if a sudden gust of wind hadn’t blown his hat off. There was no other hat like it in the whole of London. He bent down to pick it up, just as I would have done. That hat belonged to my father, it was one of the few things he gave me before the Nazis took him off to their melting pots. He bent down, and looked up, like he was searching for someone. He put his hat on. Then he ran off again, but I had seen his face, and I’d recognised me.’

Ghostwriters, like psychiatrists, have to know when to shut up.

‘I hope for your sake, Marco, that you never see yourself. It doesn’t feature in the ordinary repertoire of a sane human’s experience. It’s not unique, however. I’ve met three others who have experienced the same phenomenon. Imagine which emotion possesses you first.’

I tried to. ‘Disbelief ?’

‘Wrong. We all felt the most indignant outrage. We wanted to jump up and chase after the interloper and stamp him into the ground. Which is what I did. I grabbed my father’s hat –
my
father’s hat – and chased after him. Down Brompton Road towards Knightsbridge. I was a very fit young man. I could see him –
my
beige raincoat flapping behind him. It was raining slightly. The pavement was skiddy with drizzle. Why was he running? Oh, he knew that I was after him all right. It was a different London, of omnibuses, policemen on horses and women in headscarves. You could walk across the road without being knocked off a windscreen clean over Hades. My shadow was still there in front of me, running at the same pace as me. At Hyde Park Corner my lungs were clapping like bellows, so I had to slow down to a walking pace. And so did my shadow, as though he were baiting me. We walked down Grosvenor Place, down the long wall that closets off the gardens behind Buckingham Palace from the plebians. That takes you to Victoria. It was just a little place in those days. Then he turned up past the Royal Mews, along Birdcage Walk. The south edge of St James’s Park. By now my anger was beginning to dissipate. It all had the air of a shaggy-dog story. A Poe reject. I’d got a bit of breath back, so I tried suddenly sprinting at him. He was off again! Down to Westminster: when I had to slow down, so did my shadow. We walked along the Embankment. Commuters were streaming over the bridge. Sometimes I thought I’d lost him, but then I’d see the hat again, bobbing up and down about fifty yards ahead. My haircut, the back of my head. I tried to work out a rational explanation. An actor? Some temporal mirage? Insanity? Past Temple. We were heading east. I was getting a bit worried, it was a rough area in those days. I remember there was one of those Oriental sunsets of soupy jade and marmalade that London can pull out of the hat. Past Mansion House, down Cannon Street, and down to The Tower. Then I saw my shadow getting into a taxi! So I raced to the next one in the rank, and jumped in. “Look,” I said, “I know this sounds ridiculous, but please follow that taxi.” Maybe taxi drivers get asked that a lot, because the driver just said, “Right you are, squire.” Up to Aldgate. Through cobbled backstreets to Liverpool Street. Moorgate. Where the Barbican is now. Thanks to the Blitz, the place was one big building site back then. As was Farringdon, in fact Farringdon still is. When we were slowed up by the traffic, I considered hopping out of the taxi and running to my shadow’s, but every time I resolved to do so the lane of cars started moving again. Up to King’s Cross, stopping and starting, stopping and starting. Down to Euston Square, and on to Great Portland Street. I could still see his hat in the back of the taxi. Did my shadow have nothing better to do with his time? Didn’t I? After Baker Street the leafier parts began again, past Edgware Road and Paddington. Past Bayswater. I saw him get out of the taxi at Notting Hill Gate and stride off across Kensington Gardens. I paid the taxi driver, and sprang out after him. I recall the air after the rain, sweet and full of evening. “Oy!” I yelled, and some genteel ladies walking dogs harrumphed. “Alfred Kopf !” I yelled, and a man dropped out of a tree with a turfy thump. My shadow didn’t even turn round. Why was he running? Literary precedents suggested that at least we should be able to have a stimulating conversation about the nature of good and evil. Across Kensington Road, down past the museums, past this restaurant where I’d arranged to meet Prof Baker later that evening. A sudden gust of wind blew my hat off. I bent down to pick it up. And when I looked up, I saw my shadow disappearing.’

I had forgotten I was still here. ‘Just into thin air?’

‘No! Onto a Number 36 bus. Off he went.’

‘But I thought that you’d already met Prof—’

Something flew into the window and thwacked. It fell before I saw what it was. A pigeon? Roy came running in trembling, with tears in his eyes. ‘Oh, Jeez, Alfred. I just had a phone call from Morris.’