come to Vienna?’
‘No. My mother sang in a chorus of a touring German opera company. They were touring England and Scotland in 1884. She had – has – a very fine mezzo-soprano voice. She was in Glasgow performing in Wagner’s Tristan at the King’s that was alternating with the Halifax Rief Theatre Company’s production of Macbeth . They met backstage. Love at second sight, my father used to say.’
‘Why second sight?’
‘Because he said that at first sight his thoughts were hardly “amorous”. If you see what I mean.’
‘I do, I do. “Love at second sight.” A pretty compliment.’
‘Why are you asking me all these questions about my mother, Dr Bensimon? I’m no Oedipus, you know.’
‘Heaven forfend, I’m sure you’re not. But I think what you told me – what you read out to me the last time – holds the key to your eventual recovery. I’m just trying to get more context about you, about your life.’
Lysander registered the sound of his chair being pushed back. The session was over.
‘Do you remember I asked you if you’d heard of Parallelism?’ Bensimon had crossed the room into the very edge of his field of vision. A shadow with his hand extended. Lysander swung his legs off the divan, stood up and was offered a small book, little more than a pamphlet. He took it. Navy-blue cover with silver lettering. Our Parallel Lives, an introduction , by Dr J. Bensimon MB, BS (Oxon).
‘I had it privately printed. I’m working on the full-length version. My magnum opus. Taking rather a long time, I’m afraid.’
Lysander turned the book over in his hands.
‘Can you give me the gist?’
‘Well, bit of a challenge. Let’s say that the world is in essence neutral – flat, empty, bereft of meaning and significance. It’s us, our imaginations, that make it vivid, fill it with colour, feeling, purpose and emotion. Once we understand this we can shape our world in any way we want. In theory.’
‘Sounds very radical.’
‘On the contrary – it’s very commonsensical, once you get to grips with it. Have a read, see what you think.’ He looked at Lysander, searchingly. ‘I hesitate to say this, and I very rarely make this leap, but I have a feeling Parallelism will cure you, Mr Rief, I really do.’
12. Andromeda
Lysander felt uneasy and strangely unsure of himself on the day of Udo Hoff’s Vernissage . He hadn’t slept well and even as he shaved that morning he felt a little odd and jittery – uncharacteristically nervous about going to the exhibition, about meeting Hettie Bull again. He soaped his brush in his shaving mug and worked the lather into his cheeks, chin and around his jaw, wondering automatically, as he pursed his lips and ran the brush under his nose, whether he ought to grow a moustache. No, came the usual, instant answer. He had tried it before and it didn’t suit him; it made him look dirty, he thought, as if he had forgotten to wipe away a smear of oxtail soup from his upper lip. He had the wrong colour of brown hair for a moustache. You needed stark contrast, he thought, to justify a moustache on a young face – like that chap Munro at the embassy, black and neat, as if he’d stuck it on.
He dressed with care, selecting his navy-blue lightweight suit, black brogues and a stiff-collared white shirt that he wore with a scarlet, polka-dotted, four-in-hand tie. A splash of bold colour to show how artistic he was. His father would not have approved – a natty and particular dresser himself, Halifax Rief always maintained that it should take a good five minutes before anyone noticed your style or the care and thought that lay behind the clothes a man wore. Any form of ostentation was vulgar.
Lysander decided to visit the Kunsthistorisches Hofmuseum on the Burgring. It was a gesture, he knew, and a futile one at that, but he was imagining himself at the gallery for Hoff’s exhibition, the room full of people, all expert and opinionated about art,
‘No. My mother sang in a chorus of a touring German opera company. They were touring England and Scotland in 1884. She had – has – a very fine mezzo-soprano voice. She was in Glasgow performing in Wagner’s Tristan at the King’s that was alternating with the Halifax Rief Theatre Company’s production of Macbeth . They met backstage. Love at second sight, my father used to say.’
‘Why second sight?’
‘Because he said that at first sight his thoughts were hardly “amorous”. If you see what I mean.’
‘I do, I do. “Love at second sight.” A pretty compliment.’
‘Why are you asking me all these questions about my mother, Dr Bensimon? I’m no Oedipus, you know.’
‘Heaven forfend, I’m sure you’re not. But I think what you told me – what you read out to me the last time – holds the key to your eventual recovery. I’m just trying to get more context about you, about your life.’
Lysander registered the sound of his chair being pushed back. The session was over.
‘Do you remember I asked you if you’d heard of Parallelism?’ Bensimon had crossed the room into the very edge of his field of vision. A shadow with his hand extended. Lysander swung his legs off the divan, stood up and was offered a small book, little more than a pamphlet. He took it. Navy-blue cover with silver lettering. Our Parallel Lives, an introduction , by Dr J. Bensimon MB, BS (Oxon).
‘I had it privately printed. I’m working on the full-length version. My magnum opus. Taking rather a long time, I’m afraid.’
Lysander turned the book over in his hands.
‘Can you give me the gist?’
‘Well, bit of a challenge. Let’s say that the world is in essence neutral – flat, empty, bereft of meaning and significance. It’s us, our imaginations, that make it vivid, fill it with colour, feeling, purpose and emotion. Once we understand this we can shape our world in any way we want. In theory.’
‘Sounds very radical.’
‘On the contrary – it’s very commonsensical, once you get to grips with it. Have a read, see what you think.’ He looked at Lysander, searchingly. ‘I hesitate to say this, and I very rarely make this leap, but I have a feeling Parallelism will cure you, Mr Rief, I really do.’
12. Andromeda
Lysander felt uneasy and strangely unsure of himself on the day of Udo Hoff’s Vernissage . He hadn’t slept well and even as he shaved that morning he felt a little odd and jittery – uncharacteristically nervous about going to the exhibition, about meeting Hettie Bull again. He soaped his brush in his shaving mug and worked the lather into his cheeks, chin and around his jaw, wondering automatically, as he pursed his lips and ran the brush under his nose, whether he ought to grow a moustache. No, came the usual, instant answer. He had tried it before and it didn’t suit him; it made him look dirty, he thought, as if he had forgotten to wipe away a smear of oxtail soup from his upper lip. He had the wrong colour of brown hair for a moustache. You needed stark contrast, he thought, to justify a moustache on a young face – like that chap Munro at the embassy, black and neat, as if he’d stuck it on.
He dressed with care, selecting his navy-blue lightweight suit, black brogues and a stiff-collared white shirt that he wore with a scarlet, polka-dotted, four-in-hand tie. A splash of bold colour to show how artistic he was. His father would not have approved – a natty and particular dresser himself, Halifax Rief always maintained that it should take a good five minutes before anyone noticed your style or the care and thought that lay behind the clothes a man wore. Any form of ostentation was vulgar.
Lysander decided to visit the Kunsthistorisches Hofmuseum on the Burgring. It was a gesture, he knew, and a futile one at that, but he was imagining himself at the gallery for Hoff’s exhibition, the room full of people, all expert and opinionated about art,
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