The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

finally silenced him. And set the sweetest seal on his decision to stay put. For the time being.

The man with arthritis in his hips who had served them coffee proved to be the owner of the auberge. When Patricia had gone, he led his guest limping up a dingy staircase to a room that appeared to have already been prepared for him. Patricia plainly had everything well thought out and under control.

“The restaurant opens for lunch at twelve,” the landlord mumbled grudgingly as he turned to go, clearly satisfied that his duty was done with these words. And Frank was left to ponder his brief reunion with Patricia from the window of a cell that looked forlornly onto the rolling hills of this strange frontier to nowhere. He wondered what on earth might possess anyone to open a hotel and restaurant here. Certainly his landlord was not enjoying the experience. And neither the functional ambience of Frank’s bolthole nor the curious circumstances of his meeting with Patricia gave much meat for reflection. Their reunion had not been at all as he had so often imagined in rehearsal. It left him with too many questions. But without the prospect of any answers at least until Friday, he made an effort to put all the problems to the back of his mind. On balance, he had to consider himself fortunate that he had seen her earlier than originally anticipated.

It occurred to him that he had forgotten in his excitement to return her book of Baudelaire. So he took this out of his coat pocket and let it open spontaneously at the well-used page of underlined and annotated verse. Although this had no solutions to offer, and even prompted further unsettling questions of its own, it gave him the sense of being closer to her, of having a part of her still with him. A small comfort. But it kept him going. It went with him also when he ventured out into the still, sleepy air of this borderland the following morning. But by Thursday, the verse had acquired a hollowness with its constant repetition, which rendered the words as much in need of renovation and a coat of paint as the empty sadness of the restaurant. And come the afternoon, his patience was finally at an end.

Whatever the danger. However thin the ice he was about tread on. Whatever the risk of running into Breitner, he could not pass up the chance of sharing the concert with Patricia.

3 I think of my great swan, with his crazy gestures,

like all the exiles, foolish yet sublime,

consumed by unremitting desire! and then of you

Chapter 19

It was a long trek back across the border and down into the village on the outskirts of town to pick up the tram. By the time he arrived in the city centre, daylight was already beginning to fade. There was just enough time to buy a suit and new pair of shoes suitable for a fancy concert and bundle up his old clothes to leave in the left luggage at the station. ‘If I hurry,’ he told himself, ‘I might even manage a light dinner at the Gambrinushalle,’ where he had eaten with Patricia on their first date.

When eventually he reached the concert hall, there was no sign of anyone starting to arrive, so he could be certain Patricia was not already inside. He surreptitiously removed the gun from his coat pocket and slipped it into the side of his smart new dinner jacket. But this was too bulky and conspicuous for such refinement, so he tried slipping it under the waistband at the back of his trousers, where his jacket would cover it more discreetly. As a temporary measure, it would have to do. At all events, he felt safer having it about his person. And handed his coat in at the cloakroom.

Within half an hour, the foyer was thronging with concertgoers in their gowns and finery. Everything that there was to dislike about the middle and upper classes was on display that evening – the smug self-satisfaction, the airs and graces of the semieducated snob, the demonstratively loud handshake announcing to the hall at large its owner’s presence, but above all its acquaintanceships and by extension its culture. Had it not been for the sheer lack of taste, he might have missed her in the crowd. But her style shone through like the evening star as soon as she entered the foyer. She was not alone, however. A man in the early evening of his years, rather fresh-faced with a windswept, wispy look about his white hair, was deep in conversation with her. The moment she caught sight of Frank, she broke into a nervous, almost angry smile.

“I told you I’d come.”

“Yes, you did,” she said, keeping her composure. Then turning to her companion, she added: “Professor Imhof, may I introduce you to a friend of mine, Mr Eigenmann. Frank, this is my professor.”

Professor Imhof extended a hand that seemed far too large and workman-like for academic pursuit. “I’m very pleased to meet you Mr Eigenmann. Are you also a lover of Bartok?”

“No, I’m a lover of Mademoiselle Roche.”

“Er, I see. Yes, quite. I understand.” The professor was plainly lost for words and, rather than make the effort of a tiresome search, he discreetly withdrew.

“I do hope you enjoy the concert.”

Frank took her hands apologetically in his as the professor disappeared into the throng.

“Do forgive me. I just couldn’t resist it.”

“Don’t worry. He actually has quite a sense of humour. I’m much more concerned that you’re here at all.”

As the last traces of a nervous smile on her lips flickered away, an ineffably warm radiance still remained in the sparkle of her eyes. Even in her most anxious or melancholic of moments, it rarely deserted her. He would have gladly spent the remainder of that evening in the foyer, for whatever Bartok had to offer him it could not possibly surpass the obtuse beauty of Patricia.