Unity (3 page)

This was the aspect of the man with which I found it easy to identify. I too was fired with the desire to become an artist: an actor, working in the one medium that would perfectly combine my need for self-expression with the ineluctable fact that I had nothing to say. Since my schooldays, I had spent every spare hour projecting myself into the personae of people more passionate, articulate, clear-cut and, paradoxically, more alive than myself. But I was increasingly aware that a serviceable talent was too flimsy a foundation on which to build a career. As I sat, in
mid-performance
, listening to the voices of actors who effortlessly scaled the heights up which I sweated and strained, the name
green room
took on a new meaning. With my dreams of a world in which every theatre would be closed down by a regime more rigorous than the Puritans, I was able to relate to the whole ‘Is Paris Burning?’ side of Hitler: the impulse to destroy, which no one but a thwarted artist can fully comprehend.

vi.
Unity in Edinburgh

Even as I was coming to terms with my lack of talent, Luke had revealed a new one. His play, originally a token of love from a latter-day troubadour, rapidly took on a life of its own. The result was a sell-out success. We added a special midnight matinee for which, at Felicity’s insistence, the audience was required to wear evening dress. Among them – by the sort of twist that makes a family tree resemble the London tube map – was one of her distant cousins, who offered to underwrite our appearance on the Edinburgh Fringe. Fears of not finding a suitable space turned out to be unfounded when we sublet a building from a group of Texans, who were performing the
Agamemnon
in Greek. Despite its being only two doors down from the Film Festival, we expected little passing trade. In the seventies, cultural demarcation-lines were heavily policed. And we observed them as slavishly as anyone. Although we had tracked down the smallest one-man show at the most way-out venue, we had no idea what films were being shown a hundred yards away until Luke, idly flicking through the programme, discovered a Wolfram Meier
retrospective
.

Meier was an exception to the theatre-cinema divide. He had started in the theatre, and his films, while totally cinematic, employed a host of stage devices and non-naturalistic effects. No other contemporary director had a vision so framed by the proscenium arch. What’s more, he broke the cardinal
Cahiers
du Cinema
rule and gave as much weight to words as to pictures. It was an emphasis of which I heartily approved, even though the long voice-overs and trademark ‘chapter headings’ put a severe strain on my subtitle-weary eyes when Luke introduced me to a late-night season of his work. In spite of Felicity’s carping at the Teutonic lack of humour (her preference was Coward with
everything
), I was immensely moved by
The Passion of Albrecht Dürer
,
its historical intensity the equal of Bergman’s
Seventh Seal
. At the same time, I relished the ironies in his portrayal of Rosa
Luxemburg
as a gutsy Hollywood heroine, as determined to nab her
revolution
as Joan Crawford her man.

Insisting that it would be the perfect antidote to three years of Cambridge German (and lying to Felicity about its length), Luke bought tickets for the British premiere of Meier’s
Faust
which was, fortuitously, playing on the one night that we weren’t. This was a sumptuously irreverent version in which Faust was tempted not by Mephisto but by Christ; Helen of Troy was replaced by the Virgin Mary; and Gretchen’s love proved to be the greatest snare of all. It came as no surprise to learn that it had offended both literary purists and the Catholic Church.

When he took to the stage at the end, Meier turned out to be an identikit iconoclast in a leather cap and waistcoat, soiled white
T-shirt
, jeans and boots. The one anomaly was the pair of spectacles dangling oldmaidishly around his neck. It was, however, his speech that struck me most. Although it was filtered through an interpreter, it had the same squeezebox stridency that I had noted in recordings of Hitler. He deflected praise with a show of modesty and dissent with a play of failing to understand the question. To the interpreter’s mounting irritation, ‘It is not so in German,’ became the constant refrain. As I recall, his single forthright reply came when he was urged to explain the rationale behind his approach. ‘You English,’ he declared, a presumption that drew an audible hiss, ‘can produce faithful versions of the classics, with your Oxford accents and your “Britons never will be slaves”. But how can we, when we see where they lead?’

Two nights later, Meier repaid our compliment by attending a performance of
Unity
. Even now, it seems barely credible that a world-famous film director should have visited a student company – although no less so, I suppose, than that a twenty-year-old
Englishwoman should have penetrated the Nazi elite. One of the cast said that he had come because he was planning a film on Hitler. If so, he could have chosen any of the half-dozen versions of his life which were playing that – as every – year on the Fringe. Another said that it was because he was dodging a persistent
journalist
; yet another that he was sheltering from the rain. Brian Sterkin claimed that, having spotted Luke at the screening, he had been so smitten that he had dispatched an aide to seek him out. If that is the explanation I favour, it is because, like my ‘frustrated artist’ theory of Hitler, it is the one to which I can most easily relate.

At the end of the show, he appeared, unheralded, in the communal dressing-room, cast a lazy eye over a couple of
half-dressed
SS men and congratulated us on our performance in broken English which, I later learnt from Luke, was a weapon he wielded like broken glass. Then, with a shrug of apology, he declared that the language barrier made it impossible for him to talk to more than two people at once, and promptly invited Felicity and Luke to dinner. Sterkin and I were so chilled by our exclusion that we went straight back to our digs and, to our mutual disgust, slept together for the first and last time. The next day, Luke and Felicity burst in with the news that Meier wanted to film
Unity
. I tried to attribute my scepticism more to bitter experience than to sour grapes. Either way, it proved to be
unwarranted
, since further conversations with members of Meier’s entourage, the precise nature of whose functions remained as obscure to Luke as they did to me, resulted in a contract for him to fly out to Munich to work on the script.

Meier, whose impulsiveness struck Felicity as the mark of a true artist, confided, at that first dinner, that he planned to use both English and German actors. She immediately extracted a promise from Luke to make her casting a non-negotiable part of the deal.
Nervous of his bargaining-power, he tentatively intimated that he might have more success with one of the supporting sisters: a proposal that she dismissed out of hand. I knew full well that I would hardly be in line to play Hitler and, to my eternal chagrin, I lacked Felicity’s hold over Luke. Nevertheless, I felt that my contribution to the script – both in conception and performance – might be acknowledged in the offer of some lesser role: an attendant aristocrat or fascist. So I was quite nonplussed by the violence of Felicity’s response when I suggested it.

‘Can’t you just be glad for Luke? It’s always the same with success: all the little people crawling out of the woodwork, claiming to be the brains behind
Eleanor Rigby
or
Citizen Kane
.’

Two days later, we left for London on separate trains. With no asset but my degree, I made my way to the Gabbitas Thring agency
11
and to a job in a prep school so minor that they employed me on the strength of a single phone call and the promise to be with them by the end of the week. My classroom responsibilities covered the entire curriculum, with the exception of Latin and Scripture, which were entrusted to more seasoned hands. My extra-curricular duties ranged from Wolf Cubs to chiropody. At first, I was as disorientated by my change in status as a priest who swaps titles with his father, but I swiftly negotiated the transition from surname to Sir. My world was reduced to a few crusty bachelors and a matron whose moustache made a mockery of her maternal role. No hungry boy looked more keenly to parcels from home to sustain him than I looked to letters from abroad.

Reading them again over twenty years later, I can’t but wonder whether, had Meier been sufficiently impressed – that is to say, attracted – by my performance to invite me to Munich, I might have exerted some influence on the course of events. Would my
presence have acted as a restraint on Felicity: another voice to counter the chorus of the fanatics? Or would I have been too awed by the actors, too dismissive of the radicals and, as ever, too bound up with Luke?

My career as a teacher lasted for six years, although in a bid to remind myself that the position was only temporary, I avoided the more authoritative
schoolmaster
. While, to my surprise, I enjoyed considerable popularity with the boys, I never felt a comparable welcome from my colleagues. In retrospect, I admit that the fault may have been mine. My drive to succeed must have rankled with men for whom the school gates marked the boundaries of their ambition. As I gazed around the common room, my greatest fear was that I too would succumb to the fatal lure of the valedictory dinner.

Luke’s letters offered me a glimpse of a world from which I felt that I must remain forever excluded. Having basked in his reflected glamour at Cambridge, I now did so at one remove, demanding location reports ‘for the boys’ like an ageing pop fan requesting an autograph ‘for his daughter’. He responded with characteristic generosity, the very length of his letters attesting to the depth of my need. Re-reading them for the first time in years, I am struck by their exuberance, their candour, their delight in words. He failed to keep my replies, which, I suspect, is a sign of the relative weight that we attached to our friendship – although it may simply denote my greater commitment to preserving the past.

Needless to say, Felicity was not such an assiduous
correspondent
. I received a single postcard from her during the entire shoot. Depicting a group of bronzed Berliners performing handstands by a lake, it presented more of a challenge than a greeting. The letter which, according to Luke she had promised me in Cannes, never arrived. Even so, as soon as her casting was assured, our
Edinburgh
estrangement was set aside. In the autumn of 1976, when
Luke was away in Munich, she rang me regularly at the school, although her ever more unlikely guises (my sister, my mother, Barbara Castle, Margot Fonteyn) tried the authorities’ already limited patience. On one memorable occasion she drove down for a visit, boosting my credibility with the boys while exhausting my credit with the Headmaster.

The truth was that she had lost interest in me. Returning to school, in whatever capacity, offended her never-look-back ethos. At Cambridge, I had been puzzled by her failure to maintain contact with a single one of her Benenden
12
contemporaries. I long presumed that her schooldays must have been miserable until, much later, one of her classmates informed me that, on the contrary, she had been among the most popular girls in her year. A clean slate was essential to the pursuit of fresh experience, for which she possessed a voracious appetite. In any case, I was no longer of use to her. At university, I provided a necessary balance – even ballast – in her relationship with Luke. Once she met Wolfram Meier, she preferred to cast that role elsewhere.

Reading Luke’s letters alongside Geraldine Mortimer’s journal, I am conscious of a marked difference in perspective. What is less clear is how much this is a function of their individual
temperaments
and how much of a genuine ambiguity in the incidents that they record. Luke, as he freely concedes, had little time for politics whereas Geraldine was not just a political animal but a political predator – hence the far greater space that she devotes to the hostage crisis engulfing Germany. Felicity’s own interest in that crisis is self-evident. What remains at issue is whether she was driven by a genuine commitment or whether it was simply her latest – and, in the event, last – pose.

To my mind, an equally vexed issue is what could have led her to abandon Luke, although I am aware that my concern cannot be
divorced from the Derby and Derby fantasies to which, against all logic, I continue to cling. To have jilted Luke, once the pinnacle of my desire, now the lost hope of my youth, strikes me as doubly perverse. Nothing in his letters pains – or, indeed, shames – me more than his assumption that I will share his disgust at her attempt to thrust him on Meier, unless it is his related assumption that I shared his outrage at her attempt to thrust him on me. It is one of the greatest ironies in a narrative crammed with them that, while Unity pimped boys for her friend Brian Howard, forty years on it was the actor playing Brian whom the actress playing Unity pimped for her friend.

In the absence of any direct testimony, we can only speculate on Felicity’s feelings for Wolfram Meier. Luke’s report of her
declaration
of love for him is at odds with Geraldine Mortimer’s picture of professional gratitude. It is telling that Luke should have placed less emphasis than Geraldine on Felicity’s relationship with Ahmet Samif, whose heterosexuality would seem to make him a more dangerous rival. But then he may have subscribed to my own belief that Felicity would regard Meier’s homosexuality as a goad rather than a deterrent. Such a relationship would hold particular appeal for a woman whose reading of ‘The course of true love never did run smooth’ had left her with a preference for the bumpy. My personal opinion, which I offer as an addendum to those printed below, is that, contrary to usual practice, her
sexuality
was the product of her bohemianism rather than the other way round. She displayed an exaggerated respect for artists not because of an aesthetic sensibility but because art supplied the one alternative to her parents’ world that they could not dismiss out of hand. Nevertheless, in another irony, the first casualty of her action was the film.

I have reproduced Luke’s ten letters in their entirety, retaining all personal allusions (several of which still elude me), private jokes and, on occasion even, errors, altering only punctuation and, where absolutely necessary, grammar. My criterion for the use of footnotes, here as elsewhere, has been comprehension rather than consistency. The letters were extremely long and, in some cases, legibility deteriorates with length. For such a resolute man, his handwriting was surprisingly formless. From the letter of 23 September 1977 onwards, when he bowed to my request that he should type, clarity was assured.

8 München 40,

Giselastrasse 23,

West Germany.

14th Oct 1976

Lieber!

Well, when in Rome … After three weeks, I’m beginning to find my feet – no easy task in a city so overrun with bicycles. The cyclists must be the direct descendants of Rommel’s
Panzer-Division
. Sorry, cheap joke.

I swear there are more bicycles per head than in any other city in the world, including Cambridge. Perhaps you could do a comparative survey with your geography class? I’m living near the university. One girl with whom I had a near miss told me that her bike was as much a part of her as her shoes. The analogy was lost on me. Do you see your shoes as a part of you? Well, perhaps those whiffy old brogues … Only kidding. I can picture your pained expression already. The district is called Schwabing. It’s supposed to be the Munich Left Bank (as in J-P. S. and S. de B.), awash with poets, artists and bohemians various. All I ever come across are tight-lipped old ladies walking their dogs. And no, no dachshunds. Before you ask, I haven’t seen a single one since I arrived in Germany … but then I’ve never seen a British bulldog either.

I’m sorry not to have written before but I’ve been busy finding my feet … see footnote.
13
The address at the top is the one where all letters should be sent (hint!) not to mention spontaneous, unsolicited gifts such as Fortnum’s hampers. Aren’t they the
traditional
remedy for homesick Englishmen? Joking apart, should you ever find yourself near a jar of Marmite … I know that you
consider it an abomination on a par with Birmingham but it’s the one thing (present correspondent excepted) that I miss. Anyway a jar sent to me here, care of von Hirsten (very
Almanach de Gotha
) will guarantee you a friend for life.

Almost directly in front of us is the house where Thomas Mann wrote
Buddenbrooks
. It may not mean a lot to you with your Shakespeare über alles prejudices, but that was the novel that made me want to study German. I waltz down the road, to the consternation of afore-mentioned old ladies, like Freddy
Eynsford-Hill
singing
On the Street Where You Live
.

The house – ours not his – is the perfect illustration that a German man’s home is his bank: solid, impenetrable with a hint of hidden opulence in the classical frieze on the facade. Wolfram gave me a quick who’s who but, frankly, when you’ve seen one languishing maiden, you’ve seen them all. I can’t even remember whether it’s art deco or art nouveau. But, before you choke on your collected Aubrey Beardsley, just remember where I grew up.

I have never lived anywhere with so much space: two bedrooms (so, should you need a refuge from Dotheboys Hall
14
…); a drawing-room (which, in deference to the Mitford
15
connection, not to mention Fliss, I shall never again call a lounge); a panelled hall which cries out for a buxom maid with a feather duster (the tenant wouldn’t say no either); an old-fashioned bathroom straight out of a murder mystery. The corridors are hung with prints of Old Masters. My favourites are a Filippo Lippi
Annunciation
with a peacock-plumed Gabriel; a Rembrandt
bathing-beauty
Bathsheba; and the most incongruously serene Holy Family by Il Sodoma. Fliss said that it makes her think of you – for the serenity, of course.

We had the best time when she was out here last week. She seems so much more relaxed now she’s finished with Cambridge. Anonymity suits her – not necessarily the most reassuring thing to say about someone preparing to star in a film. She’s jealous of my prior involvement. I told her that it’d be the other way round come June. Like one of those night-shift marriages, I’ll be finishing work just as she starts. She promised to ring you when she got back to London. Did she? Is it allowed? I envisage Old Wackford (I hope I’ve got that right. The trouble with being away from home is that you can’t cite with confidence) standing over you with a stopwatch. ‘We’re not running a charity, Mr Arditti. You must be sure to make up the time.’ On second thoughts, I’ll stick to the post.

You were right to tell me to hold out for my own flat. No, don’t worry: no ‘number threes’. I can’t decide whether to feel flattered that you believe that everyone is after my body or humiliated that you consider me incapable of looking after myself. No means nein in anyone’s language. The truth is that Wolfram’s place is such a sty that I’d have been driven mad within the hour. I know; I know. I’m sure that you and Fliss are right and it says something deeply sinister about my character (though I still don’t see why arranging my LPs alphabetically is such a crime), but I need order. Perhaps it’s because I’m an artist. Maybe the more reckless you are in your imagination, the more regular you have to be in your routines?

Well, that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it. Though I admit it falls apart with Wolfram. He has a vast, five-storey house (also in the bunker/banker style). Lord knows how he can afford it. He appears to be on his uppers – financially as well as
pharmaceutically
(I’ll dish the dirt later). When they bought it ten years ago, the group was, at least nominally, a commune. According to Dorit, one of the founders (do you remember that advert where a woman metamorphosed into a tiger? Think Dorit), it was the sort
of commune that the French aristocracy lived in at Versailles. No prizes for guessing who played Louis. He still holds court today, although to a largely new selection of favourites. Marriage, betrayal and exile have taken their toll. The current
maîtresse
en
titre
is Mohammed, whose antagonism towards me seems to stem from a suspicion that I have designs on the king. I want to tell him to lighten up. My intentions are entirely literary. But, when I talked it over with Renate, she told me not to waste my breath. All Arabs believe that all Englishmen are gay. Do you suppose it’s a hangover from T. E. Lawrence?

You must have met Renate in Edinburgh, the evening we all went for drinks at the Caledonian. She certainly remembers a very charming, good-looking Englishman (I rest my case) … although it’s true that her description could equally fit Brian. She lives at the top of the house, in a former maid’s room, where she nurses a hopeless passion for Wolfram. That’s not just my opinion. She admits it freely to everyone. I expect she did to you – that is if it was you and not Brian. I tried to commiserate (fatal!), but Fliss was fierce. For one terrifying moment she turned into her mother as she compared her to a housemaid hauling up her skirts to show you her scars. Ouch! Renate, convinced that she has found a sympathetic audience, treats me to a description of all the
humiliations
she has endured in order to raise cash for Wolfram. It’s so insulting. Does she suppose me incapable of spotting a fantasist? Her most pathetic fantasy is that Wolfram means to marry her. They slept together a few times (it seems that he plays for both City and United). Ever since, she has stalked him like a character in a French tragedy … one of those spurned mistresses who burst in on the action without ever having to knock on a door.

Other residents include Dieter, whom I like a lot, a quiet,
sensitive
actor who is, understandably, preoccupied since he’s playing Hans Castorp in
The Magic Mountain
, and Kurt, who has composed the music for all of Wolfram’s films, apart from
The
 
Great Beast
, which was made at a time when they were deadly rivals in lust. Deadly is the word, since, according to Renate – admittedly, not always the most impartial of witnesses – Kurt took out a contract on Wolfram’s life. Fortunately, she found out about it and was able to warn Wolfram who, after confronting his
would-be
assassin, cast him as a bandit in the film. He also – amazingly – recovered his respect for Kurt … Do you know of any technical term – perhaps coined by a Hollywood analyst – for filmmakers who are unable to distinguish between the world on and off the screen?