Angelica's Grotto

21 Noah’s ark

‘This is not a good time in my life,’ said Klein. ‘When was a good time?’ He saw the Hungerford Bridge over the shining evening river, the lights of boats coming and going, the Royal Festival Hall brilliant with expectation across the water, and Hannelore at his side. ‘Die Schöpfung,’ he said, ‘that was a good time.’ He put on the Berlin Philharmonic recording with von Karajan conducting, and the first bars of the orchestral prelude opened The Representation of Chaos. ‘What a beautiful chaos,’ he said: ‘so warm and dark and full of good things. 1970 that was, or 1971. Was that the same chaos that Oannes arose from? A different part of it maybe, not so black.’

The music lifted him out of the present, cradled him in the safety of that good time long gone. When the chorus reached ‘Und es ward Licht’ he wept as always, then hummed along with Fritz Wunderlich on the first day. When Gundula Janovitz made her entrance as Gabriel on the second day he wept some more, marvelling at the perfection of Haydn’s world that never grew old, never filled up with rubbish and defeat. ‘How beautiful London was at night, with its illuminated domes and spires and clocks,’ he said, ‘how shining the river!’

Gone, said his inner voice.

‘You spoke!’ said Klein. ‘That was you, wasn’t it, Oannes? You said, “Gone.” I’m sure it wasn’t me. Or was it?’

No answer.

‘If it was you, why did you speak then? What does it mean that you chose this moment to break your silence? I know very well that the good time is gone, so why do you need to belabour the obvious with that one word like the voice of doom? Are you trying to tell me something, like my life is no longer worth bothering with and I should pack it in? What?’

There came to Klein, dim and shadowy, lit by one bare light bulb, the cellar of the house he had lived in as a child. In it were a coal furnace, a coalbin, and a large black boiler lying down against a wall. Elsewhere in it were sledges, rolls of tar paper, various lumber, rakes, shovels, and mouldering bits of carpet. ‘My Noah’s ark,’ he said. ‘It had a red roof and Mr and Mrs Noah and the animals were printed on glossy paper glued to plywood shapes. I used to think it was lost behind the boiler. Why would it have been down there? I can’t remember. I still think that’s where it ended up. I looked under the boiler with a torch and I poked behind it with a stick but I always imagined huge spiders there and I never felt around for it with my hand. Even now, in dark corners of this country where I was never a child, I think of looking for my lost Noah’s ark. Are you with me, Oannes?’

No answer.