Free The Valley of Unknowing by Philip Sington

circle of acquaintance would fit that bill?’ Herr Andrich looked at me with his pouchy eyes, his chin dropping on to his chest. ‘Or are you simply making all this up for our entertainment?’
    That was when I mentioned Wolfgang Richter. Put on the spot, I couldn’t think of anyone else. ‘He’s young, of course,’ I added. ‘The young are often . . .’ But what were they? Threatening? Usurping? Physically superior? ‘He’ll learn anyway.’
    ‘Is that Richter with an “i”?’
    Neither Herr Zoch nor his colleague had ever heard of Wolfgang Richter. I had no choice but to fill them in on his curriculum vitae.
    ‘I liked Two on a Bicycle, ’ Herr Andrich said. ‘Very amusing film. Not unlike your Factory Gate Fables .’
    ‘Only funnier,’ added Herr Zoch.
    ‘Yes, that scene when the chickens get on the roof . . .’
    Both men laughed heartily. I found myself thinking of Theresa Aden, she and Richter embracing in the snow.
    ‘He’s writing a novel too,’ I pointed out, instinctively hedging by way of the present tense.
    ‘A novel?’ Herr Zoch made another note in his notebook. ‘Have you read it?’
    ‘I was asked to look over a few pages.’
    ‘What’s it called?’
    ‘The title hasn’t been decided on.’
    ‘What’s it about?’
    ‘It’s set in some unspecified place in the future.’
    ‘So science fiction, then?’
    ‘Of a kind.’ I wondered if I would ever actually see Theresa again and, if not, how long it would take me to forget her. ‘The whole thing has a mythic quality.’
    Herr Zoch sniffed and made another note. He seemed to have run out of questions.
    Herr Andrich watched me, eyes narrowing as he exhaled a pungent plume of smoke. ‘How would you describe this unfinished book in a word?’
    I considered my answer, my stomach gurgling all the while. ‘I thought it was very . . .’
    ‘Original?’
    ‘Not exactly. The word I’d choose would be . . .’
    ‘Would be?’
    ‘Promising.’
    Herr Zoch looked at Herr Andrich. Herr Andrich looked at Herr Zoch.
    ‘Promising? You’re quite sure that’s the word?’ Herr Andrich asked.
    Everyone was a fan of Wolfgang Richter, it seemed, even the employees of the state security apparatus; and all thanks to one comic film.
    ‘Yes, promising,’ I repeated, sticking to my guns.

10
    Autumn had finally given way to winter by this time, but when I look back at the Workers’ and Peasants’ State autumn is all I see. This was especially true of those later years, when our anti-fascist liberators cut their annual shipment of Caucasian oil by two million tonnes, obliging us to burn brown coal instead – coal that we gouged and scraped with terrible haste from the green hills of southern Saxony. To autumnal mists we added gritty miasmas, the one indistinguishable from the other, except for the carboniferous taste. The sky above – yellow, russet, dusty pink, depending on the time of day – had a persistent autumnal tinge, its colours mixed by the same celestial hand on the same celestial palette.
    Aesthetic shocks, it could be said, were eschewed generally in the Workers’ and Peasants’ State, at least where the colour scheme was concerned. Contrast was contained, partly by accident (if soot can be called accidental), partly by design. Colours stood in fraternal relation one to the others, none enjoying more than its fair share of attention. I have only to close my eyes and there they are, the distinctive hues of Actually Existing Socialism: grey, brown, grey-brown, caramel brown, rust brown, brown ochre, burnt sienna, coffee, beige. These were the colours of the apartment blocks and factories, offices and shops, of construction and decay and all points in between; of stucco and brick, roof tile and render, nylon, polyester, acetate and rayon, wallpaper, linoleum and squeaky velveteen.
    And then there was red. Red, the exception to the fraternal rule, denoting as it does fraternity itself. Red to be used sparingly: on flags,