Free Katherine Carlyle by Rupert Thomson

“I do not pay.”
    Soon afterwards he moves away. He approaches a woman in a small close-fitting hat of orange feathers and begins an animated whispered conversation, his mouth only inches from her ear.
    “How do you know him?” I ask Klaus.
    “We were at school together. I don’t see him often.” Klaus finishes his drink. “He runs a gallery.”
    I’m still watching Horst. He notices, and allows himself a quick sardonic smile.
    /
    Once we are in our seats I consult the program notes. Written shortly after the Second World War, Prokofiev’s Sixth Symphony addresses dark themes of loss and damage — “wounds that can’t be healed.” As I lift my head, the conductor raises his arms, and the audience goes still. Loud blasts burst from the brass section, then the strings come in, giddy, out of kilter, somewhat unhinged. I feel as if I missed the beginning but I know I didn’t. The turbulence dies down, and the music becomes melancholic, questing. A gradual awakening, a sense of possibility. Then more bombardment from the horns and trumpets. It’s like trying to listen to several people talking at once, but maybe that’s the whole idea. The lack of a single lucid voice, the absence of a solution.
Wounds that can’t be healed
.
    I glance at Klaus, who sits upright with his hands flat on his thighs and his eyes fixed on the orchestra. My mind drifts. I find myself thinking about
The Passenger
. There is a scene where Jack Nicholson’s wife tracks him down to a small Spanish town and he makes a getaway in a white convertible with his new lover, Maria Schneider. Filmed from behind, the convertible speeds into a tunnel while the car carrying the camera pulls over and stops. For a few daring, hypnotic seconds of screen time Antonioni allows the main action of the film to disappear from the film itself. I’ve never known exactly what to make of his decision. I used to think he was drawing attention to Nicholson’s predicament: in taking on a new identity,a
stranger’s
identity, Nicholson has shrugged off his old life, left it all behind. Now though, with my own thoughts wandering, I see the scene from another angle. What if Antonioni’s parking of the camera is mischievous, or mocking?
The Passenger
is a difficult film, and he might be playing with his viewers, predicting or preempting a lack of concentration. He’s looking away before they do … Just then, the Prokofiev becomes unexpectedly tuneful, almost sweet. Is it me, or does the symphony seem to have turned into a movie soundtrack? Klaus has not reacted. He remains transfixed, lips slightly parted, as if in awe.
    Returning to
The Passenger
, I once again see Nicholson and Schneider disappear into the dark mouth of the tunnel. I see the road’s cracked surface, the dusty verge, the weeds. Of course it’s always possible that Antonioni is conjuring a sense of apprehension. He can’t bring himself to follow his characters. He’s fearful of witnessing what’s going to happen.
He doesn’t want to know …
Or perhaps it’s about validity. Perspective. That ordinary stretch of Spanish highway has just as much significance as anything else. Next to the tunnel is a sign that says GRACIAS POR SU VISITA . It’s ironic. Or naive —
    The curtain falls suddenly, to rapturous applause.
    “The interval,” Klaus says.
    People rise from their seats. Some have been soothed by the music in a cryptic, almost celestial way. They look benign, incapable of cruelty or violence. Others seem thoughtful, as if they have been set a puzzle or conundrum. And there are those who have a narcissistic air that reminds me of the English couple in the cinema. They have achieved importance simply by attending.
    Back in the bar I notice Horst Breitner in the crowd. His eyes rest on me, moist and slightly sticky, then slide away again. Klaus returns with two glasses of white wine. His forehead gleams, as if listening to music is a form of physical exertion.
    “Are you enjoying