Andrew Crumey: The Secret Knowledge

“One hundred.”

“I shall not sell it.”

“You don’t believe me? You find Yvette’s ravings more convincing than the plain facts I’ve told you?”

Adorno shakes his head. “I believe what you say. Her story is false. But she gave the book to me, and unless you tell me what it is and why it is important, I will not part with it so easily.” He opens the drawer, puts the book back inside, and waits for Oeillet to leave. But the seated visitor has no intention of departing.

“It is mine, sir, and I shall have it. My dear friend wished it, yet you go against the most fundamental decency of human conduct, respect for the dead. You are an atheist, I suppose. You have no notion of the immortality of the soul…”

“Do not presume to lecture me about the categorical imperative. Excuse me but I have work to do.” Adorno turns to arrange papers on his desk; the Frenchman refuses to take the hint.

“You will give it to me or there will be consequences.”

This is the most incredible effrontery. “Consequences?”

“One hundred marks for your troubles, professor, I can give you cash straight away. Otherwise…” Oeillet shrugs with the casual brutality of a police interrogator.

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“Women.” The word falls stillborn from Oeillet’s lips, vile and slimy.

“You think you can blackmail me?”

“I have names, evidence. Photographs.”

Adorno can feel the room spinning; this is simply unreal. “You’ve been following me? Spying on me? Who the hell are you? Who are you working for?”

Oeillet has found beneath his own fingernail something more noteworthy than Adorno’s pale face. He picks at the irritation, then looks up. “Just give me the damned book, that’s all. Give me it or I’ll tell your wife.”

“You pathetic bastard, she knows already. I’m not afraid of you.”

“She knows everything about you? And the faculty, do they know? Your students? The press? Would you ruin yourself on account of a few pages that mean nothing to you?”

All is apparent: the widow’s story holds a greater truth. Walter Benjamin was once in exactly the position that is now Adorno’s own, confronted by a demon persecutor. Is Adorno to be a martyr too? And for what will posterity praise and honour him? No Gestapo, no epic journey of escape. Only torrid afternoons at an apartment in an inferior part of town. You’ve lost the game, he says to himself, a game that is not worth playing. He opens the drawer, brings out the book and hands it to Oeillet who quickly glances with satisfaction at it, flicks through the pages, puts it inside his briefcase then reaches into his pocket and begins to draw out his wallet.

“Get out,” Adorno says heavily, barely able to breathe.

“I owe you one hundred marks.”

“I said get out of here.”

“I’m a man of my word.” Oeillet tosses the notes onto his lap. Adorno, broken, grasps and crumples them like a handkerchief.

“Who are you?” Adorno eventually asks.

“I told you, I’m a collector.”

“No more of that shit. Your name, your story, even that stupid eye-patch, none of them real, surely?”

“They’re all that you, your secretary or anyone else will remember of me. Far better that way, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What will you do with the book?”

Oeillet rises to his feet, puts on his hat and lifts his briefcase from the floor. “Its rightful owners will make good use of it. Congratulations, professor, you have shown yourself to be a man of action as well as thought. You have changed the course of history.”

Paige has heard it repeatedly: you only get one shot. Now she’s on the train to Manchester to meet Paul Morrow who’s giving a concert there tonight. The famous pianist is sacrificing rehearsal time to listen to an unknown student, thanks to Julian Verrine.

She gets off at Piccadilly station and isn’t sure which exit to head for, she’s standing on the busy concourse looking at the map she printed from the internet when a lady stops to help her, even knows where the music college is, and when Paige thanks and leaves her, stepping outside into grey morning light, she thinks how helplessly lost she must have looked, when she ought to be leaping with excitement.

Doesn’t take her long to walk to the area where the college is situated, Verrine said he’d meet her there at eleven. She’s got time to kill and finds a café, cheap and shabby with fixed plastic chairs and a few customers who look like they’re out of work. She gets tea in a plastic cup and chooses a seat where no one can make eye contact with her, it gives her a view of the street and the small park across the road. While she leaves her drink to cool she taps out passages of Klauer on the table’s chipped edge.

David Conroy sent the whole score, never suspected her offer of safe-keeping was prompted by a hidden motive. It’s in her shoulder bag though she won’t be needing it, all the notes are inside her head, memorised just as Verrine ordered. Could turn out to be her signature piece, he says, her big break.

If Mr Conroy knew what was happening he’d probably see it as some kind of betrayal. But he’s not of sound mind, and even if he were, he’d have no right to feel betrayed, because between himself and Paige there has never been anything except the brief, professional relationship of teacher and student. She has to look after her own interests. Julian Verrine knows the business and he’s the one she must listen to. She checks her phone messages then switches it off since she might forget later, it would be a disaster if it rang during her performance. She sips her tea and the minutes pass until she sees a familiar figure outside, Verrine walking briskly past the park, looking smart in a charcoal-grey suit. She snatches up her bag and hurries out across the road to greet him, but when he sees her he shows no warmth, instead seeming almost annoyed at being accosted before their scheduled appointment.

“I hope you’re well rehearsed,” he says as they walk together to the college. Doesn’t bother asking if she had a pleasant journey, he’s got no time for redundant niceties. Instead he gives Paige instructions for the audition. “Initially you’ll be warming up at the piano while I speak privately with Morrow in another room. I’ll bring him in and do the introductions, then leave you both. All you have to do is play the piece.”

It sounds like a military operation. “What does he know about me?”

“That doesn’t matter. Just play your best. Either he likes it or he doesn’t.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

Verrine’s chin juts forcefully as he walks. “Then we’ve wasted our time, haven’t we?”

The college is large and modern, a slab of glass and steel that could be the façade of an international business. Verrine leads the way inside. Paige waits shyly while he speaks to the receptionist, acting as if he comes here all the time and everybody ought to know him. Perhaps they do, she thinks. He turns from the desk and tells Paige which room to go to. “Take the lift,” he suggests, indicating it with a casual wave of his arm.

“You want me to go there now?”

“Yes,” he says impatiently, “Hurry up.”

She does as he says, feeling like a school kid sent to see the headmaster. Coming out of the lift she finds the room easily enough, a small studio with a piano, a couple of chairs and music stands, some recording equipment, the place sound-proofed and windowless except for a round pane on the thick door. She seats herself at the keyboard and adjusts the stool to the right height, feeling isolated and nervous. A few bars of Bach get her fingers working and let her hear what the instrument sounds like, this relaxes her a little. But she can’t help thinking that Verrine wants her to fail, she can’t understand why he behaved so dismissively towards her.