The Curfew - Jesse Ball [8]
There is a space in the playing of a virtuoso piece where the violinist must cease to think about the music, must cease thinking of fingerings, even of hands and violins, where the sound itself must be manipulated directly. At such times even to remember that one has hands, that one is playing, is disastrous.
William had stood many times before an audience, playing such pieces, and it was in this way that he sought to control the very passage of his life, deftly and without forethought, yet precisely and with enormous care. Part of it was to allow what was enormous, what was profound, without limiting it.
And if he should be forced to give up music? He had been. And if he should be forced to lose his wife? He had lost her.
He came closer now, and saw the gate, and the wall, and the gatehouse. The whole thing was simply to have people be watched. To delineate areas in which people felt watched and areas in which they didn’t. It was one more surface on top of the other surfaces.
He paused there by the wall to consider his position.
An hour passed, and the sun weakened by the gate. In the long afternoon, people of every kind passed by.
A young woman with a very short skirt and a thin blouse came out of a building in the distance. Because she was so beautiful, he saw her from far away, and for the same reason, he watched her as she came all down the road and through the gate. She wore her beauty very carelessly, and she left no one unaffected.
She was on the verge of dropping some of the things she was carrying, and in fact did drop them, at various points in her approach to the gate. But each time, someone came and picked up whatever it was, and handed it to her, and she accepted it, and appeared surprised each time that something should fall from her hand.
When she came closer, William saw that one side of her face was horribly deformed. That was why she had been dropping things—she had to walk in a very special way in order to keep one side of her face hidden from the crowd on the sidewalk.
To the next appointment he went hurriedly. He did not hurry out of worry that he would be late, but because it was the appearance of virtuous citizens—hurrying.
He found the house near the rail station. It was a large building with many apartments. Outside there was a huge signboard. It said,
VERACITY IS UNAVOIDABLE
in thirty-foot-high letters. Underneath in small letters, it said, Government Ministry 6. William had often wondered where the Government Ministries were situated. Their locations were not publicly known. The system was virtually invisible.
He was waved on by the doorman, who wore a remarkable gold-stitched uniform. There was no elevator. Instead—a grand staircase usually reserved for descending.
Many fine lamps here and there. Apartment 3L. He knocked.
A girl in a dressing gown opened the door.
—Come in, Mr. Drysdale.
William nodded.
—We are aware of you, she said, and walked ahead of him to the living room.
There, an elderly couple, her parents, sat amidst lavish furnishings. She sat, and he did the same.
The elderly couple inspected him quietly.
—He was her husband, you see.
—Our son-in-law.
—Died in the night, two weeks ago.
—Two weeks, three days, said the girl.
—There is no body. The body was taken. He has been …
—Accused, said the girl. It is unlikely that we will bury him. Nonetheless, we would like a stone.
—For her to visit, said the father.
—We will go with her, of course, said the mother.
William took out his notebook. He took out a pencil and his knife. He sharpened the pencil.
At the top of the page he wrote:
?
He looked up.
—The name?
—Jacob Lansher.
—Have you considered what you would like the stone to say?
Meanwhile, he wrote on the page:
Jacob Lansher.
The state of the room really was remarkable. It was full of contraband things. It was, in short, the house of a government minister, or seemed so. And yet, the disappearance of the husband.
—He was a writer, said