Read Online The Valley of Unknowing by Philip Sington - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Philip Sington
Ads: Link
writer’s words might not be literally true, the argument goes, but they describe a greater truth, an artistic truth that soars above the contradictions and inconsistencies of real life. In this sense Western fictions are like news bulletins used to be in the Workers’ and Peasants’ State: they might not be literally true, but they propagate a useful message, which is to steer its audience in the right moral, philosophical or ideological direction.
Herr Zoch often asked why I did not include more artists and writers in my books, since that was the world I knew best. My response was to say that writers were too few in number to be socially significant. This answer did not stop him raising the subject every time we met. The one time he didn’t ask was two days after the Kulturpalast concert, when he and Herr Andrich turned up at my apartment unannounced. On that occasion he and his companion had more pressing matters on their minds.
‘I expect you’ve heard about Dressler,’ Herr Andrich said.
He was, I think, the more senior of my two handlers: a fat, middle-aged man with a bald head, pouchy bloodhound eyes and a permanent odour of stale cigarillos. He had probably been bullied at school – but not by the likes of Herr Zoch, who was half his size, bespectacled and slight, and who sat, when he was not taking notes, with his hands cupped over his kneecaps, as if the latter had been secured by cheap adhesive and were in danger of popping off.
‘Manfred Dressler?’ I said, feigning ignorance. ‘The sculptor? He hasn’t died?’
‘It would be better if he had.’
‘He’s fled,’ Herr Zoch said. ‘From Yugoslavia. Using a false passport.’
There followed a few moments of head shaking, mine actual, the others’ implicit.
‘A People’s Hero of Art and Culture,’ Herr Andrich said, looking quite hurt.
‘A hero,’ Herr Zoch repeated. ‘Like you.’
I briefly considered correcting Herr Zoch on that point, but decided against it.
‘Unbelievable,’ I said. ‘And he showed such promise.’
Herr Anders nodded. ‘ Such promise. Still, I always say it’s the promising ones you have to keep an eye on. More subject to temptation. Didn’t you know him?’
I explained that I had met the sculptor on a couple of occasions, but that we were certainly not friends.
‘A pity,’ Herr Andrich said.
‘A great pity,’ Herr Zoch said. ‘We might have seen it coming, if you’d kept your ears open.’
I hurried away to the kitchen to fetch the coffee and the Lebkuchen . Usually my discussions with the agents of the state security apparatus were of a general nature. I was encouraged to set out my views on the direction of cultural activity in our country and to offer earthy critical appraisal of literary works. I had never been asked to draw out people’s secrets or to note down gossip. It was not, I thought, part of our understanding. I supposed the Dressler affair had been embarrassing, a failure by whichever department was responsible for cultural affairs. And perhaps there had been other failures like it that I knew nothing about. In any case, I sensed that Herr Andrich and Herr Zoch were under pressure to up their game. My attempts to steer the conversation in a less concrete direction were unsuccessful.
‘You really should put yourself about more,’ Herr Andrich said. ‘Among the artistic community. A writer can’t live like a hermit. A hermit serves no useful purpose at all.’
I agreed that hermits were not socially useful, but protested that I was more at home with ordinary working people. I reminded him that I had grown up in an orphanage and trained as a hydrodynamic technician long before it ever occurred to me to write a book.
‘The truth is, I’ve never felt very comfortable among the intelligentsia,’ I said. ‘So often they strike me as . . . They have a way of being . . .’
‘What?’ Herr Zoch asked, taking out his notebook and ballpoint pen.
‘Well . . . arrogant, I
Herr Zoch often asked why I did not include more artists and writers in my books, since that was the world I knew best. My response was to say that writers were too few in number to be socially significant. This answer did not stop him raising the subject every time we met. The one time he didn’t ask was two days after the Kulturpalast concert, when he and Herr Andrich turned up at my apartment unannounced. On that occasion he and his companion had more pressing matters on their minds.
‘I expect you’ve heard about Dressler,’ Herr Andrich said.
He was, I think, the more senior of my two handlers: a fat, middle-aged man with a bald head, pouchy bloodhound eyes and a permanent odour of stale cigarillos. He had probably been bullied at school – but not by the likes of Herr Zoch, who was half his size, bespectacled and slight, and who sat, when he was not taking notes, with his hands cupped over his kneecaps, as if the latter had been secured by cheap adhesive and were in danger of popping off.
‘Manfred Dressler?’ I said, feigning ignorance. ‘The sculptor? He hasn’t died?’
‘It would be better if he had.’
‘He’s fled,’ Herr Zoch said. ‘From Yugoslavia. Using a false passport.’
There followed a few moments of head shaking, mine actual, the others’ implicit.
‘A People’s Hero of Art and Culture,’ Herr Andrich said, looking quite hurt.
‘A hero,’ Herr Zoch repeated. ‘Like you.’
I briefly considered correcting Herr Zoch on that point, but decided against it.
‘Unbelievable,’ I said. ‘And he showed such promise.’
Herr Anders nodded. ‘ Such promise. Still, I always say it’s the promising ones you have to keep an eye on. More subject to temptation. Didn’t you know him?’
I explained that I had met the sculptor on a couple of occasions, but that we were certainly not friends.
‘A pity,’ Herr Andrich said.
‘A great pity,’ Herr Zoch said. ‘We might have seen it coming, if you’d kept your ears open.’
I hurried away to the kitchen to fetch the coffee and the Lebkuchen . Usually my discussions with the agents of the state security apparatus were of a general nature. I was encouraged to set out my views on the direction of cultural activity in our country and to offer earthy critical appraisal of literary works. I had never been asked to draw out people’s secrets or to note down gossip. It was not, I thought, part of our understanding. I supposed the Dressler affair had been embarrassing, a failure by whichever department was responsible for cultural affairs. And perhaps there had been other failures like it that I knew nothing about. In any case, I sensed that Herr Andrich and Herr Zoch were under pressure to up their game. My attempts to steer the conversation in a less concrete direction were unsuccessful.
‘You really should put yourself about more,’ Herr Andrich said. ‘Among the artistic community. A writer can’t live like a hermit. A hermit serves no useful purpose at all.’
I agreed that hermits were not socially useful, but protested that I was more at home with ordinary working people. I reminded him that I had grown up in an orphanage and trained as a hydrodynamic technician long before it ever occurred to me to write a book.
‘The truth is, I’ve never felt very comfortable among the intelligentsia,’ I said. ‘So often they strike me as . . . They have a way of being . . .’
‘What?’ Herr Zoch asked, taking out his notebook and ballpoint pen.
‘Well . . . arrogant, I
Similar Books
