Free Katherine Carlyle by Rupert Thomson Page A

it?” he says.
    “Very much,” I say. “But I think I’ve had enough for now.”
    “You don’t want to hear the Tchaikovsky?”
    “This is a new experience. I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
    He stares miserably down into his glass. “Would you like me to take you home?”
    “No, no. You go back in. I’ll wait for you.”
    “But there’s another hour —”
    “That’s fine. I’ll wait.”
    When people surge back into the auditorium Klaus is carried along with them. At the doorway he looks over his shoulder. I wave at him. I wonder if he thinks I’m saying goodbye — that I’ll be gone when he comes out, and that he’ll never see me again. It’s not my intention. These days, though, when I leave a room, I often have the sense that I might not return. Steps can’t always be retraced; the path through the forest closes behind me as though it was never there. The repetition that used to characterize my life has gone and I’m left with a trajectory that feels driven, linear. No day is like another day, no moment like the next.
    I buy another drink and sit at a table in the corner. Opening my notebook, I begin to describe my move to the apartment on Walter-Benjamin-Platz, and how I have become separated from what might commonly be perceived as the main action of my life. How I have cut loose. How I’m operating with a kind of freedom I never imagined. Sometimes, as I write, I’m aware of the Tchaikovsky,swelling and fading beyond the closed doors, but mostly it’s blotted out by the chatter of the bar staff and the clink of glasses. I glance down at the page. My handwriting looks unfamiliar to me.
    I finish my wine and go outside. Wrapping my coat around me, I sit on the top step and look out over the Gendarmenmarkt. Floodlit churches on either side, the low cloud cover glowing orange. I’m about to open my notebook again when a man approaches. He starts up the steps, but stops when he sees me.
    “How are you doing?” His voice has grit and gravel in it. His accent is American.
    “Fine,” I say. “You?”
    He stands three steps below me, hands in his trouser pockets. The traffic on the east side of the square is on a level with his face. Cars seem to go in one ear and out the other.
    “What’s so funny?” he says.
    I shake my head. “Nothing.” He’s wearing a gray plastic raincoat and a pair of tennis shoes. One of the laces is undone. “You’re not going to ask me for money, are you?”
    “Money?” He looks south, towards the cathedral. “I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.” He takes out a twenty-euro note, holds it between finger and thumb, and sets fire to one corner with a lighter. His thumb and finger open. The burning banknote floats away into the darkness like a vivid ragged moth.
    “Beautiful,” I say.
    He laughs. It wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.
    “Don’t you like Tchaikovsky?” he says.
    “Maybe. I don’t know. One symphony’s enough.”
    He nods, then gazes up into the sky. I close my notebook but leave it resting on my knees.
    “What were you writing?” he asks.
    “None of your business.” To anyone else this would be rude. With this man, though, it seems natural, appropriate.
    “You were recording your impressions of the city,” he says. “Or your dreams. You always dream when you go somewhere new.”
    “You don’t look rich,” I say.
    He laughs again, then looks at me askance, across one cheek. “You know what they say about appearances.”
    His face is blunt and dented as a boxer’s and his hair is thinning, wild. He’s probably about my father’s age but he has lived a very different life.
    “I want to show you something,” he says.
    First Oswald, now this stranger in a plastic coat. Everybody wants to show me something.
    I hesitate. “But my friend —”
    “He’s still inside?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’ll be back in five minutes. Ten at the most.” Mock-gallant, he places his hand on his heart. “I give you my word.”
    We