will be disappointed.”
“Life is one big disappointment for Irma. It’s time she’d grown used to that.”
“Rudeness doesn’t become you, young man.”
He peered down at the vast terrace through the Venetian blinds. Few people were already flocking at the tables, sipping wine, casting glances in the direction of the hotel entrance. One of the women (Helmut recognized his most devoted admirer) beckoned a call boy. The boy came up to her, listened then shrugged his shoulders. The woman said something, giving him a tip, which he accepted with a bow.
“Very well, then. Mussorgsky, I suppose. I feel like Mussorgsky today.”
Her smile faded before its time:
“Is he Polish? ’ she asked in low voice.
“Really, Mother, the world would be a kinder place if you refrained from commenting about music.”
“Why don’t you play someone with a German name for a change?”
Helmut liked to think that steering away from German classics was his clever way of being difficult. He was slightly disappointed to see how easily the German part of his audience closed their eyes to his naughtiness.
“I’ll play either Mussorgsky or nothing at all.”
“Shall I do your tie?”
“Leave me alone.”
Most conversations with her son were like that: in the end she wasn’t sure whether she had won or lost. But she couldn’t help smiling at his sour face as he was fumbling with his tie. She had already forgiven his rudeness.
Helmut Krauss was easy to forgive. One was never sure why he was so enigmatic: was it in spite of, or rather because of his spiky manner. He had that rarest type of charm, the charm of a good-looking boy who genuinely didn’t care how he looked. He frowned, pouted, grimaced, pulled faces – assumed countless expressions that distorted his regular, delicate features. He was hardly ever aware of that, and when he was, he never gave it a second thought. His confidence was bedazzling. Despite his average height and adolescent physique, he had an extremely powerful presence, and he managed it with the ease of an experienced public figure. To his English aunts” credit, he wore good clothes, and he wore them well, but that was more like an old habit which existed independently from its master. He never minded a bad photograph of himself; passing a mirror he never checked his hair or tie, he never posed, he never preened. His wit, energy, honest sense of humour, and easy attitude to his own radiant attractiveness could be enough to secure him the reputation of a likable personality if it wasn’t for his second natural gift – music – which had taken a serious toll on his character. Since he remembered himself, he knew that he was exceptionally talented, and in the end it made him simply unbearable to be around with. Nobody seemed to be good enough for him; nobody remembered him holding a half-civil conversation – he always had to be caustic and sarcastic. Regardless of people’s age and status, mocking and teasing was his rule; arguing when nobody wanted to argue was his signature. One would wonder what he despised more: compliments or criticism. In the end people wouldn’t believe he was the same enchanter who had wrought their hearts with a sublime rendition of Chopin half an hour ago. But first, he was very young. Second, objectively and to say the least, he was a very solid pianist with a dazzling career in front of him. For these two reasons his bad manners were easily forgiven and put down to artistic eccentricity. Forgiveness he dismissed; reputation, though, he didn’t mind, feeling quite snug in his aura of a difficult genius.
On the next day Helmut fled to Florence to pay his grandmother yet another visit.
He had waved aside his mother’s concerns about the old woman’s age and delicate health.
“Helmut, you are tiring her…”
“She doesn’t mind, she insists I visit her more often. Besides, I’m bored with this place. I need a change of scenery.”
“Darling, the whole idea of coming here was to spend time together like families do. You seem to be looking for every excuse to run away…”
“With these daily public concerts it doesn’t feel like a family holiday anyway…”
“Will you ever stop harping on your concerts? Just don’t play if you don’t want to…”
“Oh, it’s my fault now! You were the one who spoilt it from the start, Mother!”
“I am surprised you still call me that…”
“Pathetic…”
“No sense of responsibility! No sense of duty to your family whatsoever!”
“Grandmother is also my family.”
“Liar! Hypocrite! You don’t give a damn. You only care about yourself. And do you know what the most unsightly thing in the whole picture is? You secretly relish your small fame round here! Your complacency’s revolting! Who do you think you are? Striding around the place like the world’s greatest pianist… Just let me remind you that you are nobody yet!”
“I’ve had enough of that…”
A delicate knock on the door interrupted the scene.
“A call for Signor Krauss.”
Frau Krauss looked at her son sharply:
“Again?”
Helmut shot past her, stormed down the stairs to the reception desk, and grabbed the receiver.
“Yes?” He signed the receptionist to give him something to write with. “Yes… What’s that again?… I understand… Do you have any idea how long it might take?… Right… I see… Any news about the other business?… Oh, I thought it… No, there can’t be any mistake. Tell him to keep looking, it’s very important… Yes. Thank you… No, there will be no need. I’ll be in Florence in the next four or five days… See you there. Good bye.”
He went back to his room to pack, and as he was passing his sister’s room, he saw her sitting on the edge of her bed with her coat on.
“Irma. Damn it. I forgot. I’m sorry. It’s too breezy for walks anyway.”
“It’s fine really. Are you…?”
He passed on before he heard the question.
His mother was still in his room. She was standing with her back to him looking out of the window.
“I’ll pack your suitcase for you,” she said dryly, exhaling cigarette smoke. “Now, don’t be a finished pig and take her out for a walk.”
Helmut didn’t know which of the extremities was worse: thunderous quarrels with his mother or dead silence with his sister. Irma and he hardly knew each other. She was used to awkwardness in her presence and bore it with greater ease. After ten endless minutes of silence she suddenly spoke almost giving him a start: “Do you remember the scarf?” she asked. Helmut glanced at the piece of brightly coloured cloth wrapped around her neck. He didn’t remember. It must have been from Celia. Buying presents for Irma had always been Celia’s
