Russell Hoban - Mr Rinyo-Clacton's Offer

The polished gleam of the viols, the light glancing off the gliding bows, and the golden sonorities of the music seemed to constitute a magical being that had its own existence, independent of artists and audience, that could be reached by any mind that put itself in the right place. There was definitely a Lethean flavour to it and a beckoning to a state of tranquillity and no desire, a state beyond all pain and sorrow. The piece being played was Tombeau les Regrets. ‘“The low and delicious word death, …”’ Mr Rinyo-Clacton whispered in my ear as he gripped my thigh. I elbowed him in the ribs and he let go.

In the interval he went out to stretch his legs while I stayed in my seat and wondered what my chances were of taking my leave of him at the end of the concert. What is it with you? I said to myself. Why did you come in the first place? Don’t bother me, I replied, and went back to my going-home thoughts. If Desmond wasn’t in attendance, was Mr Rinyo-Clacton driving himself? If this was a night for mingling with the hoi polloi he’d probably cross the bridge with me, then go with me by tube as far as Sloane Square and walk from there to Eaton Place.

An elderly gentleman on my right had also remained in his seat: bearded, bespectacled, no morris-dancing.

He was reading a book from which he now looked up. ‘Apropos of death-affirming,’ he said, ‘there was a song a while back before you were born: “Gloomy Sunday”; “the Hungarian suicide song” it was called, or maybe it was Romanian — one of those places. People used to play it on the gramophone, then go and kill themselves. Young, too, many of them. What a thing, eh?’

‘Takes all kinds.’

He shook his head and returned to the book he’d been reading. ‘Hmmph,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘What what? I didn’t say anything.’

‘You said, “Hmmph”.’

‘So? A person’s not permitted to think aloud?’

‘Sorry, I had the impression that you wanted me to take notice.’

‘Really, it’s not for me to say.’

‘Say what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s not for you to say nothing?’

‘You got it. He’s a friend of yours, that man?’

‘Not exactly. Why do you ask?’

‘I’m a pawnbroker. In my business you get into the habit of reading people — you get a feeling as soon as they walk in: how they carry themselves, the look in their eyes and so on. The shop is in the East End and I’ve been robbed four times. Now I’m allowed to keep a gun for protection, and sometimes a person walks in and my hand reaches for it. If not for this instinct of mine it would already be six robberies. I tell you this so you won’t think I’m just some old nutter. This man you’re with, when I saw him come in it was like a cold wind blew over my heart.’ He nodded and said, with more emphasis, ‘A cold wind.’ He was wearing a cardigan, and as he thoughfully scratched his left wrist with his right hand I saw, as on Katerina’s arm, a number tattooed there.

‘This man,’ he said, ‘you know him a long time?’

I counted back. ‘A little over a week.’

‘I thought maybe he only picked you up tonight.’

‘Do I look as if I could be picked up?’

‘Maybe it’s that he looks like someone who picks people up. Look, I didn’t mean to meddle so much in your business, OK? I’ll go back to my book now.’

‘What are you reading?’

He showed me: Rainer Maria Rilke, Ausgewahlte Gedichte. ‘You read German?’

‘No, I’ve only read Rilke in translation.’

‘Rilke you can’t translate. Even in German it’s not always easy to know what he’s saying: “Denn das Schöne ist nichts als des Schrecklichen Anfang …” In English this is “For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror …” But that hasn’t got the same bite as des Schrecklichen Anfang, which simply grabs you by the throat. What I just gave you wasn’t even the whole line and already there’s enough to think about for a long time.’

Mr Rinyo-Clacton returned to his seat, the lights dimmed, the musicians reappeared with their viols, and began the first movement of Le Tendre. I thought about Rilke’s words during the second half of the concert while navigating the waters of Lethe with Sainte Colombe. Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, I said to myself but I couldn’t get my head around it. The dark river of music, instead of bringing forgetfulness, reminded me of the Thames and the Hungerford Bridge. I saw Mr Rinyo-Clacton and me crossing the bridge, saw us stop in that viewing bay that projected over the water …

The idea of the dark river, the night river, stayed with me all through the music, and it began to seem to me that everything that was between Mr Rinyo-Clacton and me was about this dark river. I felt that it must be in his mind as well, and I wanted to hear what he would say about it.

The concert ended; there was bowing and applause. The musicians were gone; the audience dispersed. Like a letter from a distant sender, the music of Saint Colombe had been delivered to each of us, to be read and re-read later when alone.

There were no buskers about and the night was cold when we went up the stairs to the bridge. The woman who sat there wrapped in a blanket was not the same one who’d been there earlier. Mr Rinyo-Clacton gave her a twenty-pound note. ‘They don’t live long, these people,’ he said.

‘Life is pretty short for some of the rest of us too.’

He shrugged. The footbridge was crowded with concert-leavers. We moved among their footsteps until we reached the viewing bay, where we stepped aside to look at the river. There was a little sickle moon in the sky.

‘Look at the river —’ he said, ‘the lights and the glitter and the shine of it. But underneath there’s only the blackness, only the blackness. Like that music: shining golden goblets but the wine is black water; that’s all there is now and for ever.’ He covered his face with his hands and his shoulders shook.

‘Are you all right?’ I said.

‘Do you care?’

I couldn’t find any words.

‘Tell me what you’re thinking, Jonathan.’

I shook my head and closed my eyes and saw a figure falling, falling to the dark waters below.

‘Come home with me, Jonny. Help me make it through the night.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘all you’ve bought is my death. Let’s go.’ When we came off the bridge he hailed a cab and was gone.

After the concert I was more confused than ever. ‘I know it sounds weird,’ I said to Serafina, ‘but it’s almost as if he wants to be my friend.’

‘With friends like that you don’t need enemies.’

‘No, really. Obviously he’s some kind of crazy but he could be entering a new phase of it, or even coming out of the current one.’

‘That’s as may be but I don’t think I’d buy a used car from him.’

‘Maybe he’s got no intention of killing me. Maybe he’s so rich he can amuse himself by seeing what happens when he picks up some loser and makes the offer he made me.’

‘Is that what you are, a loser?’

‘That’s how I felt and I expect that’s how I looked when he found me in Piccadilly Circus tube station.’

‘Which brings us back to the question: if losing me made you a loser, why did you let it happen?’

‘We’ve been through all that, Fina. It’s like dehydrated shit and you keep adding water and stirring.’

‘I don’t want to but it keeps not going away.’

The phone rang. It was Mr Rinyo-Clacton. ‘Jonathan,’ he said, ‘I need to talk to you. Please.’ He sounded humble; it was shocking.

‘What about?’ I said in a dead voice.