Фолькер Кучер: The Silent Death

The beam of light dances through the darkness, more reckless and wild than usual, it seems. Until the flickering subsides and takes form in the gentle outline of a face, sketched on the screen by light alone.

Her face.

Her eyes that open.

And gaze at him.

Sculpted in light for eternity, preserved from death for ever and all time. Whenever and as often as he desires, he can project her into this dark room, into this dark life. A life whose wretched darkness only one thing can illuminate: a dancing beam of light on the screen.

He sees her pupils dilate. Sees because he knows precisely what she is feeling. Something that is foreign to her and so familiar to him. He feels so close to her. Almost like in that moment captured there forever on celluloid.

She looks at him and understands, or believes she understands.

Her hands grip her throat, as if fearing she will choke.

She doesn’t feel any great pain, merely notes that something is different.

That something is missing.

Her voice.

That unbearable false voice which doesn’t belong to her. He has freed her from the voice which suddenly took possession of her like a strange, wicked power.

She tries to say something.

Her eyes display more surprise than horror, she doesn’t understand that he loves her, that he has only acted out of love for her, for her true angelic nature.

But it’s not about her understanding.

She opens her mouth and it’s just like before. At last he hears it again, her own voice has returned! Her true voice, which is eternal and cannot be taken away by anyone, which stands outside of time and has nothing of the present day’s dirt and vulgarity.

The voice that enchanted him when he heard it for the first time. The way it spoke to him, to him alone, despite the many others sitting alongside.

He can scarcely bear how she is looking at him. She has gazed out over the edge, has seen everything, not long now and she will lose her balance.

The moment she goes to ground.

Her gaze, which is suddenly so different.

The premonition of death in her eyes.

The knowledge that she will die.

That she will die now.

No going back.

Death.

Has come.

To her eyes.

The man in the tuxedo smiled calmly at the woman in green silk, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of cognac. His eyelids didn’t so much as flutter as she came to a halt just centimetres in front of him.

‘Did I hear you right?’ she hissed, shaking and breathing heavily.

He took a sip of cognac and smirked. ‘Looking at those delightful ears, I can hardly imagine them hearing wrong !’

‘You really think you can treat me like that?’

He seemed to enjoy her anger; the angrier she became, the more insolent his smirk. He paused as if giving the question serious thought. ‘Yes, actually. If I’m not mistaken, that’s exactly how you let Herr von Kessler treat you. Well, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your concern, my dear Count Thorwald!’

He watched with amusement as she placed her hands on her hips. There was a flash of lightning from outside the window.

‘That’s not an answer,’ he said, gazing into his cognac.

‘Well then, how’s this ?’

She’d raised her hand before even finishing the sentence. He closed his eyes in anticipation of a resounding slap that never arrived. A loud shout, which seemed to come from another world, was enough to freeze all their movements with instant effect.

‘Cu-u-ut!’

For a fraction of a second, they were both so rooted to the spot that it might have been a photograph. Then she lowered her hand, he opened his eyes, and together they turned their heads and gazed into the darkness, to where the parquet on which they were standing gave way to a dirty concrete floor. Squinting into the wall of light, she could just discern the outline of a folding chair and the man who had shut everything down with a single syllable. He now hung his headphones over the chair and stepped into the light, a wiry-looking fellow, tie loosely knotted and shirtsleeves rolled up. His speaking voice was velvety soft.

‘You were facing the wrong way, Betty, my angel,’ he said. ‘The microphones didn’t catch you.’

‘The microphones, the microphones! I can’t listen to it any longer, Jo! This has nothing to do with film.’ A quick sidelong glance at the sound engineer was enough to make the man pushing the buttons go red with embarrassment. ‘Film,’ she continued, ‘film is light and shadow, surely I don’t have to explain that to the great Josef Dressler! My face on celluloid, Jo! My appeal isn’t based on… microphones !’

She stressed the last word so that it sounded like a newly discovered and particularly revolting species of insect.

Dressler took a deep breath before answering. ‘I know you haven’t required your voice before, Betty,’ he said, ‘but that was the past. Your future begins with this film, and the future talks!’

‘Nonsense! There are lots of people who haven’t taken leave of their senses still shooting real films without microphones. Do you think the great Chaplin is wrong? Who’s to say sound films aren’t just a fashion everyone’s trying to keep up with, only to be forgotten when something else comes along?’

Dressler looked at her in astonishment, as if someone else had been speaking. ‘ Me ,’ he said. ‘All of us. You as well. Talkies are made for you, just as you are made for talkies. Sound films are going to make you huge. All you have to do is remember to speak in the right direction.’

‘Remember? It’s not about memory! When I play a role, I need to live it!’

‘Then live your role, but make sure you speak in Victor’s direction – and don’t raise your hand until you’ve finished your line.’

Betty nodded.

‘One more thing. You only need to tap him. You’re not supposed to hear the slap, just the thunder.’

Everyone on set laughed, Betty included. The trouble had blown over, and the atmosphere was relaxed again. Only Jo Dressler could do that, and Betty loved him for it.

‘Starting positions, let’s take it from the top!’

The director returned to his place and put his headphones back on. Betty resumed her position by the door, while Victor remained by the fireplace and reset his expression. As activity continued noisily behind the scenes, Betty concentrated on her part. She was a hotel employee, grappling with the consequences of pretending to be a millionaire’s daughter for the sake of her boss, and outraged at the insinuations this conman was making. This conman whom she would still kiss at the end of the scene – and who, far from being an arrogant trickster, would turn out to be modesty incarnate.

Sound and camera came back on, and the studio fell quiet as a church.

The clapperboard cut the silence.

‘ Liebesgewitter , scene fifty-three, take two!’

‘And, action,’ she heard Dressler say.

Victor said his piece, and she worked herself into her film rage. She knew exactly where the camera was, as she always did, but acted as if there were no glass eye capturing her every movement.

She assumed her position by the fireplace and laid into Victor. A heavy microphone was hanging over his head, which she ignored, just as she ignored the cameras. She just had to speak to Victor. It was quite simple, Jo was right, and she knew she was good. As long as Victor didn’t fluff his lines, which was always a possibility, they’d soon have the scene in the can. She registered the lightning; which had come at the right time, and let herself be carried by her own rhythm. She counted slowly backwards and uttered the scene’s final words.