‘I am Franz? No.’ I had recovered from that delusion! I had to show that I had learned my lesson.
‘Yes, Max. You are. You are Franz. It’s alright. I can understand it.’ Theodor sounded very certain, and as much as I tried to deny it to myself, something in what he said rang true.
‘You mean,’ I said slowly, ‘that I am Franz?’ I hardly dared to say it aloud. ‘But then that night in Berlin…’ The memory of it had come back in extreme detail, and I shrank from it.
‘In Berlin? Yes, I heard from Pick that you had some kind of fit at a house in Berlin. Someone brought you here.’
I crouched on the sofa in horror, waiting for him to go on, to speak of murder, of death. I was too afraid to ask him.
‘Was there nothing else in Berlin?’ I asked in a whisper. ‘At—at the scene of the crime?’
‘Crime? Well, yes, I believe you broke into the house where you were discovered, but clearly you were at that time a sick man in need of help.’
Could I have dreamed it? The more I thought of that night, the more it did seem like a dream. I could see my fury, and my pain in that room in Berlin, but perhaps that was the most sinister thing that the room contained. Theodor’s words had calmed the deep agitation that had been there all the time.
‘I see now,’ I said, and I did see. I knew that Theodor was right, that it was true. And I too had been right. I was Franz. Now the picture was clear to me. It shifted into focus and a new landscape opened out before me. I had needed Franz to hide behind, to speak for me. But I had allowed him to become too real, too strong.
‘So now I’m coming to you with a proposition,’ Theodor said. ‘And I don’t want to hurt you by saying this, but Franz—I mean to say, you as Franz—is a success of a kind never seen before. I mean a once-in-a-generation success. I never even dreamed I could be part of something like this. What I wish to ask is this: when you come out of here, which I trust will be soon, will you keep writing as Franz?’
‘But Franz is dead,’ I said. And this was also true.
‘He is only dead if you want him to be.’
‘I do want him to be.’
Although Theodor’s words had flattered me, it was true: I was relieved to be rid of Franz. He had exhausted me, burned me up. Without him now I felt light and clean. And yet there was some hesitation. Theodor’s words had awakened in me that old desire for fame, for adulation. Even as I sat and declared Franz dead, as I felt the lightness of his absence, I could feel that little flame flickering, and I could almost taste the success that waited for me, so very close. All that I had ever wanted. Almost all.
‘But what do we do about the problem of the body?’ I asked. ‘I mean, I was paying for Gustav by the hour; it costs a fortune. And someone will find out sooner or later.’
Theodor was silent with concentration.
‘That’s easy,’ he said after a long pause. ‘You wanted Franz dead? Fine, we agree that Franz is dead. Tuberculosis. He was sent to a sanatorium, but tragically it was too late. That leaves the coast clear for you to be appointed his literary executor.’
‘Does anyone else know about this?’ I asked. ‘About me, I mean?’
‘Only you and I, my friend.’
Already I could feel the strength of that hunger growing, filling me with a fierce energy. I was strong and tall, made of burnished steel, hard, shining.
‘I need some time to consider,’ I said, but I had already decided, and I think he knew it.
28.
[32]SOON AFTER THEODOR’S VISIT I WAS DISCHARGED. LEAVING THE asylum at last, my thoughts were fixed on Anja. I allowed myself the luxury of dreams. I pictured a life with her, the two of us in her house in the Martinsgasse or some other place—in the country, perhaps. I would work and write; there would be children; she would be a kind mother. I knew that these dreams were a dangerous game, sharp-edged, but, heedless, I gorged myself on them.
The same day that I was discharged I went to Anja’s house. I had made the journey so many times in my imagination that when it came to actually walking down the Martinsgasse it was like being in a dream. The curtains were still drawn over the windows, even though it was late morning, and for a moment I felt as if I had travelled back in time and was reliving one of my many fruitless visits of so long ago.
The place was full of memories. As I rang the bell I remembered the concierge, my old enemy, who had refused to open the door to me. Now I almost had a feeling of affection for him, but he did not appear, and instead the door was opened by a strange man who waved me through to the stairs indifferently.
Instead of feeling nervous, as I had expected to, I floated up the staircase, euphoric. But this soon faded. The house was darker than I remembered and an unnerving smell lingered in the air. I arrived at the door; the landing on this floor was even darker than the staircase, surely much darker than it used to be. I could hear muffled footsteps in the apartment. My eye was caught by a dark mass attached to the door and at first I could not decipher what it might be, its shape was so indistinct in the gloom. It looked like one of those large bulbous fungi that grow on the trunks of some forest trees. I reached out to touch it, feeling a wave of revulsion as my fingers approached it, expecting a sticky coolness, a spongy cobweb texture, but my fingers instead found the dark shape to be soft and dry; velvet. Specks of dust had stuck to my fingers when I pulled my hand away. I realised that it was the large velvet bow on a wreath, a funeral wreath. I felt a wave of angry jealousy, as for one mad second I thought that the house was in mourning for Franz, but then an even more terrible thing occurred to me: what if it was Anja? The ground wheeled away from me and I had to steady myself against the wall for a moment before I started hammering at the door. Almost immediately the door was opened and the housemaid stood before me, wearing a black armband.
The housemaid’s face was blank and she did not appear to recognise me. She turned immediately to usher me through to the living room, before flitting off.
‘Anja?’ My voice followed her down the corridor, but she seemed not to hear. I paced around the living room, frantic at the thought that I might have lost Anja. I strained my ears for the sound of her voice, and my heart raced until I thought I might choke with anxiety. I forced myself to sit down and slow my breaths. I looked around the room, trying to distract myself. The apartment was completely different to how I had remembered it. In my memory it had seemed so grand, but now it was close and crowded with furniture, dimly lit by a single lamp. This contraction of size was partly caused by the drawn curtains, and I now saw that the mirrors were also shrouded in dark fabric.
The sight of them instantly reminded me of my brother. He had died when I was very young, too young to remember his death at all, but those covered mirrors remain a strong image of my childhood. While Otto’s death had not troubled me, the thought of losing Anja almost struck me down. Flashes of my idle dreams of a life with her came to me like taunts, and I had to fight back my tears.
Then came the sound of footsteps approaching the door: a woman’s step, slightly clicking, fast and light. The door opened and I saw a pale hand, and I could not tell if it was hers, though I thought of all the times I had watched Anja’s hands fluttering and unfolding like white butterflies. Then came an arm, black-clad, and a shoulder, and then there was Anja, in the room.
Unthinking, I launched myself out of the chair towards her, my arms outspread, the tears unchecked, but tears now of relief. I folded her, little Anja, in my arms, and I thought I would die of pleasure from her warm, small body, the smell of her hair. I smiled while the tears still sprang forth. I held her tight and presently noticed a throbbing in her body: sobs. She pulled away then and covered her face with her hands.
32
This section of the manuscript is written on unlined letter paper. The pages were folded and found in the centre of the booklet containing the previous section.