Mr Rinyo-Clacton's Offer

30. Tombeau Les Regrets

We returned from Paris Wednesday morning, once more leaving the daylight behind us and speeding into the darkness of the tunnel. On yesterday’s train to Paris, Serafina, though beside me, had not been really with me. On the way back she was with me but the weather between us seemed always on the point of changing from moment to moment; nothing could be taken for granted. What did you expect? I said to myself. At least she called me Jonno most of the time now.

On Wednesday afternoon an envelope was slipped through my letterbox. Inside were a note and a ticket for the Purcell Room that evening at 7.30: a concert of pieces for two viols by Sainte Colombe performed by Jordi Savall and Wieland Kuijken. The note said:

No, sex, Please! Cultural bonding only.

Be there!

T.

Cultural bonding! That man certainly wanted value for money. And I felt that cultural bonding was actually what he meant: he was able to hold in his mind at the same time the idea of killing me and that of greater intimacy through music. It would be simple enough to stay away from the concert if I chose but I felt myself in some obscure way responding to the need that I sensed in his invitation, and of course there was the music. I’d first heard the compositions of Sainte Colombe and his pupil Marin Marais in the film Tous les Matins du Monde, and they had the sort of deep melancholy that I was very much in the mood for at present; I’d bought the soundtrack CD shortly after seeing the film and I was looking forward to hearing more of Sainte Colombe.

Serafina was at the Vegemania, due back at the flat tonight. I left a note for her and set out at six so as to have plenty of time for a leisurely coffee.

I came out of the underground at Embankment, made my way through the busy station, and mounted the stairs to the Hungerford Bridge. There are always homeless people at both ends, huddled in blankets or sleeping bags: gatekeepers between the glittering view and the hard realities of life. I gave money to the man at the near end, joined the many pedestrians coming and going, and paused at the viewing bay in the middle to take in the shining river and its boats, the distant dome of St Paul’s, and the luminous sweep of London from the Festival Hall on my right to Charing Cross Station on my left.

The evening was cold, the air crisp and clear; the panoramic view was needle-sharp and bright with promise: this is where it’s all happening, declared the domes and spires, the twinkling lights beyond, the boats showing green for starboard, red for port, and the trains behind me rumbling in and out. Charing Cross Station, all agleam with its swaggering arches, urged action. Live! it said. Go! Do!

I crossed the bridge, gave money to the woman at the far end and the recorder-player at the bottom of the stairs, and proceeded to Queen Elizabeth Hall where I found Mr Rinyo-Clacton sitting at a table with a cup of coffee and a chunky paperback. Early as it was, many of the tables were already in use by eaters, drinkers, readers and talkers. This was a far cry from the box at the Royal Opera House but Mr Rinyo-Clacton seemed comfortable enough among the common folk.

‘What,’ I said, ‘no Cristal ’71? No oysters, no Desmond? And they haven’t got boxes here. How are you coping?’

‘Every now and then I like to mix with the plebs, as you may have noticed.’

‘What are you reading?’

He held up the paperback: Orlando Furioso. ‘Noticed this in your bookshelves when we were bugging your flat,’ he said. ‘It’s something I’ve always been meaning to read so I got a copy for myself, bought the Italian edition as well so I could hear the sound of the original.’

I got myself a coffee, then sat down to hear what he had to say about Ariosto. ‘This part in Canto VIII,’ he said, ‘where naked Angelica’s chained to a rock waiting to be devoured by Orca and Ruggiero comes to her rescue, you had a marker stuck there in your copy.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you especially like that part?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you seen the Redon pastel, Rogen and Angelica?’

‘Only in reproduction — the original’s at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.’

‘I’ve seen it there. They never get the colour right in reproductions; reducing it from the original doesn’t help either. It’s mostly murk, that picture, which is why it’s so true to life: all those rich blues and purples and greens are full of paradises and delights you can’t have because the murk is impenetrable.’

‘Still, despite the murk, you can see Angelica well enough and Ruggiero did manage to rescue her.’

‘Angelica! The nakedness of her! Here she is in Stanza 95 with her … (reading from the book)

… lily whiteness and

Her blushing roses, which ne’er fade nor die,

But in December bloom as in July.

In Italian it’s juicier.’ From a shoulder bag he produced that edition and read:

i bianchi gigli e le vermiglie rose,

da non cader per luglio 0 per dicembre …

‘Mmm! You can taste the deliciousness of her! But please note the shape of the rock she’s chained to. Almost like a head, yes? Almost like a face, and whose face is it? Redon’s of course. And the Angelica chained to him is the Angelica in his mind, the unattainable object of desire, the un-havable fleshly paradise of Angelica who vanishes when you stretch out your hands for her; she becomes invisible with the magic ring that you yourself, Ruggiero, have given her. It’s a no-win situation.’

‘And of course,’ I said, ‘oneself is sometimes … ’

‘Angelica! the one hoping for rescue, how right you are!’

Amazing, I thought, how comfortable I feel with him when we’re talking like this.

‘The first time I saw you,’ he continued, ‘I knew at once that you were Angelica and I was your Ruggiero, come to save you from the sea monster … ’

‘Who is …?’

‘Life, my boy! Life is the monster I’m saving you from: it’s too much for you: full of teeth and rocks and hard places and drowning. Not everyone can be a hero — indeed the heroes would be out of work if there weren’t always a good selection of little sweeties to be rescued. You are one of those in need of rescue, naked and defenceless in a murk of uncertainty and chained to the rock of your inadequacy. Really, you should see the Redon original; we could go and have a look at it if you fancy a short break in La Grande Pomme. With Concorde we could leave in the morning, come back in the evening; or next morning if you want to do it in a more leisurely way.’

‘You really are crazy, aren’t you?’

‘And you’re not?’

‘I’ve never offered to buy anyone’s death.’

‘But you were willing to sell yours.’

We stared at each other in silence while the five-minute bell sounded, then we went along to the Purcell Room and our seats. I’m always interested in the differences in South Bank audiences for the various events: seventeenth-century music attracts, in addition to non-addicted punters like me, many people who look as if they read the Independent, avoid meat, and are not averse to a bit of morris-dancing in the month of May.

‘Do you know Sainte Colombe’s music?’ said Mr Rinyo-Clacton.

‘Only what’s on the soundtrack CD from the film.’

‘Like it?’

‘Very much.’

‘Would you say it’s life-affirming or death-affirming?’

‘That’s a strange question, because any death-affirming art comes from the vital perception of a live artist, so the affirmation of death is at the same time an affirmation of the life in the artist and life itself.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Rinyo-Clacton, and squeezed my arm as the lights dimmed. There was applause; the bearded performers came onstage, bowed, and took their places. Using binoculars, I examined the carved female heads on the scrolls of the viols. It was as if the instrument-maker had in this way accorded recognition to the voice of the instrument. The viols were placed between the legs like cellos but the bows were held with the palms turned up so that the action of bowing seemed more one of supplication than command.

The polished gleam of the viols, the light glancing off the gliding bows, and the golden sonorities of the music seemed to constitute a magical being that had its own existence, independent of artists and audience, that could be reached by any mind that put itself in the right place. There was definitely a Lethean flavour to it and a beckoning to a state of tranquillity and no desire, a state beyond all pain and sorrow. The piece being played was Tombeau les Regrets. ‘“The low and delicious word death, …”’ Mr Rinyo-Clacton whispered in my ear as he gripped my thigh. I elbowed him in the ribs and he let go.

In the interval he went out to stretch his legs while I stayed in my seat and wondered what my chances were of taking my leave of him at the end of the concert. What is it with you? I said to myself. Why did you come in the first place? Don’t bother me, I replied, and went back to my going-home thoughts. If Desmond wasn’t in attendance, was Mr Rinyo-Clacton driving himself? If this was a night for mingling with the hoi polloi he’d probably cross the bridge with me, then go with me by tube as far as Sloane Square and walk from there to Eaton Place.

An elderly gentleman on my right had also remained in his seat: bearded, bespectacled, no morris-dancing.

He was reading a book from which he now looked up. ‘Apropos of death-affirming,’ he said, ‘there was a song a while back before you were born: “Gloomy Sunday”; “the Hungarian suicide song” it was called, or maybe it was Romanian — one of those places. People used to play it on the gramophone, then go and kill themselves. Young, too, many of them. What a thing, eh?’

‘Takes all kinds.’

He shook his head and returned to the book he’d been reading. ‘Hmmph,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘What what? I didn’t say anything.’

‘You said, “Hmmph”.’

‘So? A person’s not permitted to think aloud?’

‘Sorry, I had the impression that you wanted me to take notice.’

‘Really, it’s not for me to say.’

‘Say what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s not for you to say nothing?’

‘You got it. He’s a friend of yours, that man?’

‘Not exactly. Why do you ask?’

‘I’m a pawnbroker. In my business you get into the habit of reading people — you get a feeling as soon as they walk in: how they carry themselves, the look in their eyes and so on. The shop is in the East End and I’ve been robbed four times. Now I’m allowed to keep a gun for protection, and sometimes a person walks in and my hand reaches for it. If not for this instinct of mine it would already be six robberies. I tell you this so you won’t think I’m just some old nutter. This man you’re with, when I saw him come in it was like a cold wind blew over my heart.’ He nodded and said, with more emphasis, ‘A cold wind.’ He was wearing a cardigan, and as he thoughfully scratched his left wrist with his right hand I saw, as on Katerina’s arm, a number tattooed there.

‘This man,’ he said, ‘you know him a long time?’

I counted back. ‘A little over a week.’

‘I thought maybe he only picked you up tonight.’

‘Do I look as if I could be picked up?’

‘Maybe it’s that he looks like someone who picks people up. Look, I didn’t mean to meddle so much in your business, OK? I’ll go back to my book now.’

‘What are you reading?’

He showed me: Rainer Maria Rilke, Ausgewahlte Gedichte. ‘You read German?’

‘No, I’ve only read Rilke in translation.’

‘Rilke you can’t translate. Even in German it’s not always easy to know what he’s saying: “Denn das Schöne ist nichts als des Schrecklichen Anfang…” In English this is “For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror …” But that hasn’t got the same bite as des Schrecklichen Anfang, which simply grabs you by the throat. What I just gave you wasn’t even the whole line and already there’s enough to think about for a long time.’

Mr Rinyo-Clacton returned to his seat, the lights dimmed, the musicians reappeared with their viols, and began the first movement of Le Tendre. I thought about Rilke’s words during the second half of the concert while navigating the waters of Lethe with Sainte Colombe. Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, I said to myself but I couldn’t get my head around it. The dark river of music, instead of bringing forgetfulness, reminded me of the Thames and the Hungerford Bridge. I saw Mr Rinyo-Clacton and me crossing the bridge, saw us stop in that viewing bay that projected over the water …

The idea of the dark river, the night river, stayed with me all through the music, and it began to seem to me that everything that was between Mr Rinyo-Clacton and me was about this dark river. I felt that it must be in his mind as well, and I wanted to hear what he would say about it.

The concert ended; there was bowing and applause. The musicians were gone; the audience dispersed. Like a letter from a distant sender, the music of Saint Colombe had been delivered to each of us, to be read and re-read later when alone.

There were no buskers about and the night was cold when we went up the stairs to the bridge. The woman who sat there wrapped in a blanket was not the same one who’d been there earlier. Mr Rinyo-Clacton gave her a twenty-pound note. ‘They don’t live long, these people,’ he said.

‘Life is pretty short for some of the rest of us too.’

He shrugged. The footbridge was crowded with concert-leavers. We moved among their footsteps until we reached the viewing bay, where we stepped aside to look at the river. There was a little sickle moon in the sky.

‘Look at the river —’ he said, ‘the lights and the glitter and the shine of it. But underneath there’s only the blackness, only the blackness. Like that music: shining golden goblets but the wine is black water; that’s all there is now and for ever.’ He covered his face with his hands and his shoulders shook.

‘Are you all right?’ I said.

‘Do you care?’

I couldn’t find any words.

‘Tell me what you’re thinking, Jonathan.’

I shook my head and closed my eyes and saw a figure falling, falling to the dark waters below.

‘Come home with me, Jonny. Help me make it through the night.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘all you’ve bought is my death. Let’s go.’ When we came off the bridge he hailed a cab and was gone.