Authors: Christopher Priest
I also came across a government notice announcing the creation of an email helpline, so that if troops had changed battalion identification it should be possible for relatives to trace them.
I therefore immediately emailed the helpline, asking for information about Jacj. No reply came. I followed it up with a letter sent by mail and I also made several more phone calls. As before, all these attempts were without response. I was terrified the answer would be that Jacj had been posted as missing or dead, but even that reply never came. Hope remained alive, but the feeling of dread was larger.
Then the day arrived when the troopship carrying the 286th Battalion was expected. I travelled down to Glaund City, intending to be there when it berthed in Questiur.
When I stepped off the train I was already concerned about being late. We had been delayed at a small station halfway along, one the trains rarely called at, and I had seen several armed police officers boarding. They walked through the carriages, regarding everyone, but saying nothing. Finally, the train had moved on. Half an hour had gone by.
At the central station in Glaund City three male army officers were standing on the platform, precisely in front of the door I was about to step out of. They looked young to me, but by their insignia and medal sashes they were clearly high ranking. I glanced at them, then away. I moved rapidly past them.
‘Sir, we believe you to be Msr Alesandro Sussken.’
Astonished, but also alarmed, I turned my head incautiously, clearly acknowledging I was who they thought I was. The one who had spoken to me remained where he was, facing me, but the other two stepped sharply forward, each of them at my side. They took my upper arms.
‘You will come with us now, sir.’
They began marching me away.
‘Are you arresting me?’ I said as loudly as I could, a wild hope that someone around us would hear, perhaps help me.
‘Not at all, sir. You are free to go about your business if you wish.’
They swept me through the ticket barrier, briefly held open by a station worker to allow us through. I was being supported so that I would not fall, but I could barely keep to my feet. If I stumbled they immediately slowed their pace, allowing me to recover. Some of the passers-by did stare at what was happening to me but they looked away again quickly. I was dragged swiftly across the concourse, swerving neatly through the crowds, then up the flight of steps to street level, a scene familiar to me from so many past visits to town. It was raining.
I was pushed hard but not roughly into the rear seat of a large, black-painted car. It had been waiting for us, the door already open and the engine running. Two of the officers sat one on each side of me, while the third sat in the front next to the driver. He immediately turned in his seat so that he was facing back towards me. None of them responded to my demands, but politely requested me to remain calm until we arrived at the place where they were taking me.
‘Where is that?’ I shouted.
No reply.
The car was a heavy, powerful machine and it was driven fast. The windows were darkened thick glass. From the thudding sound the doors made as they closed I guessed they were armoured, bulletproof. There were never many cars in the centre of Glaund City but the drivers of the ones that were there obviously saw us coming and moved swiftly to the side.
We did not travel far: a short distance down the street outside the station, a fast dash across the open ceremonial square called Republic Plaza, then a dive into the wide boulevard that led down towards the river. All this was familiar to me. I often walked along much of the same route, heading for the recording studio, whenever I arrived by train for session work.
The rain was sweeping heavily across Republic Plaza and spattered on the windshield as we accelerated along the boulevard. Then the car turned sharply off the road into a narrow access lane between two huge buildings and braked to a halt beside a side door. The rain suddenly intensified, hammering down on the metal roof and bodywork. I saw pellets of ice dancing on the hood and the narrow roadway.
The car door was opened by a man who moved swiftly out from inside the building. He was holding an immense black umbrella. First one officer scrambled out of the car, then I was pushed from behind by the other. For a few seconds I was outside in the freezing cold air, the darts of the ice storm rattling on the taut fabric of the umbrella. The sharp wind made ice water swirl along the sidewalk. Three steps through all this, then I was ushered quickly through the door.
We emerged into a large corridor, high and wide – windows to the lane outside ran along that wall, and a number of closed doors were opposite. I had barely time to look around. I glimpsed repair work going on – I saw some workers on stepladders, protective sheets draped over furniture, there was a smell of paint or plaster and the screech of power drills or sanding machines, or both. While I stood there for a few seconds, getting my bearings, while the three officers were still coming in from outside, brushing their uniform jackets with their hands where the intensive rain had struck them, a group of at least fifteen or twenty civilians appeared at the far end of the hallway. They were being conducted by two women wearing military uniforms, who led them in complete silence through one of the side doors.
I was propelled, less roughly, towards an elevator, which was standing with the doors wide open.
The doors closed against us and the elevator began to rise.
‘Msr Sussken, would you care to tidy your appearance?’
‘Before what?’ I said disagreeably.
If my appearance needed tidying it was only because of the way I had been manhandled. My hair was untidy after the dash from the car, but I usually wore it informally so that did not matter to me.
‘Before you attend your meeting, sir,’ the officer said.
I started to protest. I knew of no meeting. I had clearly been arrested for some reason. You heard of such things happening: the armed police or soldiers who arrived at your address in the dead of night, the army trucks that came and went, the disappearance of a neighbour no one would discuss, the rumours of internment or punishment camps in the mountains, the harsh treatment, the terror of the unknown. When you knew what was happening to the people around you there was always the fear that one day it would be your own turn – but I led a life of such inconsequence, wrapped up in my own concerns, enthusiasms too, that I never took it too seriously. I had no business with politics and thought the reverse was true.
As I watched the elevator’s floor indicator light climbing steadily up the array I suddenly thought: this must be something to do with Jacj!
I had spent a great deal of time recently trying to locate him, calling government departments, generally making a nuisance of myself, as one of the officials put it. I had broken a self-imposed rule, instinctively developed throughout my adult life: keep out of sight, don’t become known for anything except what you do, and therefore what you have some control over.
‘We think you should tidy your appearance, sir. There is a cloakroom available to you.’
‘No!’ I said. ‘This is about Jacj, isn’t it? Do you have news of him?’
‘Jacj?’ one of the men said.
‘I think he means his brother Jacjer.’
‘Yes!’ I said.
‘Oh no, Msr Sussken. This has nothing to do with your brother. Not at all.’
The indicator light flared briefly as it reached the top of the array. The elevator lurched and halted – the doors slid open. Directly opposite was an open door – I glimpsed a tiled floor under a glare of fluorescent light, a row of hand-basins, towels. I was not asked again about my appearance.
We turned to the right and walked briskly along a deeply carpeted corridor towards two large metal doors. We waited while one of the officers went through a code-and-accept ritual using a microphone built into the wall. After his identity had been acknowledged, he slipped a plastic card into a slot on the door, which opened it.
He was the only one of the three officers to follow me into the room beyond. The door closed swiftly behind us. We were in an unremarkable ante-room or waiting area: a few chairs, a table, a telephone, overhead lights. A house magazine published by one of the steel factoring companies rested on the table.
‘Raise your arms, Msr Sussken,’ said the officer.
I complied, feebly, reluctantly. He patted me down expertly and swiftly, then ran a hand-held detector device across my upper body. My music case was taken from me, briefly inspected, his hands fluttering around inside, sifting my papers, my journal, my pens, then he placed it on a shelf at one side.
Another door led out of this room and again the plastic card was used to open it. This time he went in ahead of me, stamped his feet, drew himself up smartly and made a military salute. I followed him in and heard a hubbub of conversation.
‘This is Msr Alesandro Sussken, madam,’ he said loudly.
The hubbub died. The officer made a second salute and exited, his feet stamping noiselessly on the thick carpet. He closed the door behind him with a sharp but precise motion.
I was in a huge, high-ceilinged room. The area where I had entered was unoccupied, but the far end, where there was a sort of low rostrum and a display of national flags, was crowded. My entry was, by the sudden silence it caused, obviously expected. Everyone present turned towards me. Many of them were holding wineglasses. All were dressed formally – I saw numerous military uniforms and most of the women not in uniform were wearing suits or long dresses. All the civilian men were wearing business suits, and several of them had the coloured sashes that indicated ambassadorial or diplomatic status.
I stood still, stunned by what I was seeing.
There was then a ripple of applause, silenced instantly when one of the women stepped forward towards me from the crowd. She was not especially large but the splendour of her military uniform made her distinct from everyone else. She had several rows of medal ribbons on her breast, a rope sash of office, brightly shining epaulettes and many other honours and insignias attached to her upper sleeves. A large golden medal of some kind hung at her throat.
She went to a lectern which stood in the centre of the room, directly opposite to where I had halted.
I recoiled inwardly. My heart started racing. I recognized her!
She was less tall than I had imagined from the television news, or from the wall posters. Her hair was shorter, and a nondescript grey. She was stouter. Her face was paler than I had thought from photographs. I felt an habitual fear of her, a deep and instinctive dislike. The press always called her madam.
She was an antagonist who stood against everything I held dear. She had power, she was dangerous, she regulated almost every aspect of everyday life. I hated her.
‘Welcome, Monseignior Sussken!’ she said, and her voice was amplified somehow so that it filled the cavernous room. The shock of seeing her made my memory temporarily fail. What was her name? Everyone called her madam. I tried never to speak of her. She was anathema to my life, my music. If I had an enemy in the world, this was she.
Generalissima Flauuran.
She was speaking, making an announcement, reading from a card which lay out of my sight on the surface of the lectern.
‘Today it is our deepest pleasure to welcome Monseignior Alesandro Sussken, the greatest living composer in the nation of Glaund. His music is beloved by us all, and includes the following major orchestral works—’
She began to recite the names of most of my compositions, with the place and date of their principal performance. I listened, I could not help but listen, stunned by what was happening, the attending crowd, the huge hall, the flags, the armed guards. Above all, stunned by hearing this woman mouthing the names of the pieces I had written. In this place it was like glimpsing loved ones held in a punishment camp. She mispronounced many of the titles, but did not stumble or hesitate. I realized that never in my life before had I ever heard the sound of her voice. She almost never spoke in public, avoiding it somehow, allowing other members of the ruling junta to speak for her. I was amazed to hear her accent: she spoke with the rough accent, the abrupt vowel sounds, of the mountain people in the far north of the country!
She concluded the list of my compositions.
‘Monseignior Sussken,’ she went on. ‘As you no doubt know we shall be celebrating next year the tenth anniversary of the establishment of the Democratic Council of Leaders, we who have brought peace and prosperity to this great nation. There will be many festivities throughout the course of the year, both public and private, and these will be announced in due course. However, the culminating event will be a gala concert of contemporary music and it has been decided that you will be granted the honour of composing the climactic orchestral piece. Do you accept this honoured commission?’
Everyone in the room was looking towards me. Everyone, I could not help noticing, except this woman. She had not yet looked directly at me. What was happening here? The whole thing was madness. I had been dragged in from the street—
‘Do you accept the honoured commission, Monseignior Sussken?’
What could I say? What choice did I have? I had never written celebratory music in my life. I had no idea how to do it. The thought terrified and appalled me.
‘Msr Sussken, do you accept the honoured commission?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
A tumult of applause and cheering broke out from the crowd, soon silenced by the Generalissima raising a hand.
She was reading from the card again: ‘We graciously concur with your patriotic desire to celebrate our nation. What you will write is entirely within your wishes and ability. Amongst other intentions we have of you we expect you to demonstrate the full range of your creativity and imagination, totally free and under no sense of duress.’
She paused for a moment, presumably to allow this to be noted by everyone present. I was barely taking any of it in.
‘However,’ she went on, still reading in her weird regional accent. ‘It is customary for a work of national importance to conform to certain expectations and in this case we do expect that your celebratory music will include the following elements. You are free to compose them however you will.’