“Will you be going out, Madam?”
“Yes, probably, it’s such a fine evening, and I suppose I may.”
“Of course, of course you may—or should I telephone His Excellency, or Dr. Faehmel?”
“I’ll do so myself, Huperts. Would you be kind enough to switch my telephone over to exchange—but for a long while, if you please?”
“Certainly, Madam, certainly.”
When Huperts had gone she opened the window, threw the key to the hothouse out onto the compost pile, shut the window, poured herself some tea and milk, sat down and drew the telephone toward her. “Come on,” she said quietly, “come on,” and tried with her left hand to steady her trembling right hand, which was reaching out for the receiver. “Come on, come on,” she said, “I’m ready with death in my handbag to return to life. None of them understood that this contact with cold metal would be all I’d need; all of them took gun wrong, I don’t need rifles and cannon, a pistol will do as well. Come on, come on, tell me the time, little voice, tell me the time, are you still that same soft voice, is your number still the same?” She took the receiver in her left hand and listened to the buzz-buzz-buzz from exchange. “All Huperts has to do is press a button and there it is: time, the world, the present, the German future. I’m excited at seeing how it looks when I get out of the bewitched castle.” With her right hand she dialed: one-one-one, and heard the soft voice say: “At the signal, the time will be five-fifty-eight and forty seconds.” Time flowed into her face and blanched it deathly white as the voice said, “Five-fifty-nine and ten—twenty—thirty—forty—fifty seconds.” A harsh gong stroke. “Six o’clock precisely, September sixth, 1958,” said the soft voice. Heinrich would have been forty-eight, Johanna forty-nine and Otto forty-one; Joseph was twenty-two, Ruth nineteen. And the voice said, “At the signal, the time will be six-one, precisely.” Careful, or I’ll really go crazy and the play will be in earnest, and I’ll relapse into the eternal Today forever, never find the way in again and go running round and round outside the leafy walls, never finding the entrance. Time’s visiting card, like a challenge to a duel—not to be accepted: September 6th, 1958, one minute and forty seconds past six o’clock, P.M. A fist full of vengeance has smashed my pocket mirror and left me only two fragments in which to see the deathly pallor in my face. I did hear that rumbling explosion, going on for hours, and heard the outraged people whispering, ‘They’ve blown up our Abbey.’ I heard the waiters and the doormen, the gardeners and the baker boys relaying the frightful news—which I don’t find so frightful. Field of fire. A red scar on the bridge of his nose. Deep-blue eyes. Who can it be? Was it he? Who was it? I would have blown every abbey in the world sky-high to have Heinrich back again, to wake Johanna from the dead, and Ferdi, and the waiter called Groll, and Edith … and to be able to learn who Otto really was. Killed at Kiev. It sounds so stupid and smells of history. Come on, old man, let’s cut out our game of blindman’s buff, this holding my hands over your eyes. You’re eighty today, and I’m seventy-one. And at a distance of ten to twelve yards anyone’s pretty sure to hit a target squarely. Come to me, you years, you weeks and days, you hours and minutes, and which second, “six-two, and twenty seconds.” I’m going to leave my paper boat and throw myself into the ocean. Deathly pallor. Perhaps I’ll live through it. “Six-two and thirty seconds”; it sounds so urgent. Come on, I haven’t any time to lose, no seconds to waste, “Hello, Miss, quick, why don’t you answer me, Miss, Miss, I need a taxi right away, it’s very urgent, help me, please.” Recording machines can’t reply, I ought to have known it. Put the receiver down; take the receiver up and dial: one-one-two—were taxis still ordered from the same number? “This evening,” said the soft voice, “Denklingen Theater will be showing that old-time film, ‘The Moorland Castle Brothers.’ Programs begin at six o’clock and eight-fifteen; Doderingen Theater is now offering you an opportunity to see that fine film, ‘The Power of Love.” ’ Hush, hush, now, my little boat’s gone—but I did learn to swim, didn’t I, at the Blücher pool in 1905, wearing a black bathing suit with skirt and frills, diving off the three-foot board. Pull yourself together, deep breath, you know how to swim. What do you have to say on one-one-three, soft-voiced one: “And if you are expecting guests this evening, may we suggest this tasty and economical menu: a first course of Welsh rarebit with ham and cheese, followed by green peas and sour cream, a fluffy potato pudding, and a freshly grilled schnitzel”—“Operator, Operator”—Recording machines don’t answer—“Your guests will appreciate you as a superb homemaker.” She dialed again, one-one-four, and again the soft voice: “… so the camping equipment all packed, the picnic prepared, and don’t forget to pull up your hand brake when you park on a slope. And now—a happy Sunday with your family.”
I’ll never make it. There’s too much lost time to be made up, my face is getting paler all the time and even if my stony face doesn’t dissolve into tears, all the time I’ve played truant with and denied is still in me like a hard lie. Mirror, Mirror,—jagged fragment of it—has my hair really gone white in the torture chambers of soft voices? One-one-five—a sleepy voice: “Hallo, Denklingen exchange, can I help you”—“Can you hear me, Miss? Can you hear me?” “Yes, I can hear you”—a laugh—“I want to put an urgent call through to the office of Faehmel, the architect, at 7 or 8 Modest Street, both addresses are listed under Faehmel, child, you don’t mind if I call you child?”
“Not at all, Madam, not at all.”
“It’s very urgent.”
Sound of turning pages.
“I have Mr. Heinrich Faehmel and Dr. Robert Faehmel—which number do you want, Madam?”
“Heinrich Faehmel.”
“Hold the line, please.”
Was the telephone still kept on the window sill, so that when he phoned he could look out onto the street and over to 8 Modest Street, where his children would be playing on the roof? And look down to Gretz’ shop where the wild boar hung at the door? Was it really ringing there now? She heard the bell, far away, and the intervals between the rings seemed endless.
“Sorry, Madam, I’m afraid there’s no answer.”
“Would you please try the other number?”
“Certainly, Madam.” Nothing, nothing, no answer.
“Then would you order me a taxi, please, child?”
“Certainly. Where are you?”
“At the Denklingen Sanatorium.”
“At once, Madam.”
“Yes, Huperts, clear the tea away, and the bread and cold meat as well. And I’d like to be alone, please. I’ll see the taxi when it comes up the avenue. No, thank you, I don’t need anything else. You aren’t a recorded voice, are you? Oh, I didn’t mean to offend you—it was only a joke. Thank you.”
She felt cold. She could feel her face shriveling, a grandmother’s face, wrinkled, tired, she could see it in the window-pane. No tears. Was time really creeping, silvery time, into her hair? I learned how to swim but I didn’t realize how cold the water would be. Soft voices harassed me, drove the present into me. Grandmother with silvery hair, anger turned into wisdom, thoughts of revenge to forgiveness. Hatred candied over with wisdom. Old fingers clutched the handbag. Gold, brought with her from the bewitched castle, ransom gold.
Come get me, dearest, I’m coming back. I’ll be your dear old white-haired wife, a good mother and a kindly grandmother who can be described to all your friends as particularly nice. She was sick, our grandmother, for years, but now she’s well again, she’s bringing a whole handbag full of gold with her.
What shall we eat this evening in the Cafe Kroner? Welsh rarebit with ham and cheese, green peas with sour cream, and a schnitzel—and will we shout ‘Hosanna, David’s bride, who has come home from the bewitched castle.’ Gretz will come and pay his respects. His mother’s murderer. He did not feel it in his blood, nor did Otto. When the gym teacher comes by the house on his white horse I’ll shoot. It is no more than ten yards from the pergola to the street—on the diagonal it can’t be muc
h more than thirteen yards. I shall ask Robert to work it out for me exactly. At all events it is within the range of maximum accuracy. Field-of-Fire explained it to me and he ought to know, our white-haired altar boy. He’ll start serving early tomorrow morning. Will he learn before then to say ‘utilitatem’ and not ‘utilatem’? A red scar on the bridge of his nose—and so he did become a captain. That shows how long the war lasted. The windowpanes tinkled when yet another demolition charge exploded and in the morning there was dust on the window sill. I wrote ‘Edith, Edith’ in the layer of dust, with my fingers. I loved you more than if our blood had been the same. Where did you come from, Edith, tell me?
I’m getting more and more wizened. He’ll be able to carry me with one hand, from the taxi into the Cafe Kroner. I’ll be on the dot. It’s six-six and thirty seconds at the most. My lipstick has been squashed by the black fist of revenge. And my poor old bones are trembling. I’m scared: how will they look, the ones my age? Will they be really the same as then, or only like what they were? And what about our golden wedding, old man, September, 1908, don’t you remember, September 13th? How do you intend to celebrate the golden wedding? Silver-haired the jubilee bride, silver-haired the jubilee bridegroom, and gathered all around them their countless flock of grandchildren, forgive me if I laugh, David. You were no Abraham, yet I feel a little of Rachel’s laughter in me. Only a little, there’s no room for a lot of it in me, just a nutshell of laughter and a handbag of gold, that’s all I’m bringing with me. Still, my laughter may be small but powerful energies are hidden in it, more than in Robert’s dynamite.…
Here you are all coming down the avenue much too solemnly, much too solemnly and slowly; there’s Edith’s son, far away in front, but that isn’t Ruth at his side. She was three when I left, but I’d still recognize her if I met her at eighty. That isn’t Ruth. People don’t unlearn the way they use their hands. The tree is contained in the nutshell. How often did I see my mother in Ruth when she brushed the hair away from her forehead. Where is Ruth, she must forgive me—this one’s a stranger, a pretty one. Oh, that’s the womb that will bear you your great-grandchildren, old man. Will there be seven of them, seven times seven? Forgive me if I laugh, you’re moving like heralds, slowly and much too solemnly. Have you come to get the jubilee bride? Here I am, ready, wizened like an old, old apple. You can carry me to the taxi on one hand, old man, but quickly: I haven’t a second more to lose. Yes, the taxi’s here already—you see how well I can coordinate. I learned that much at least as the wife of an architect—make way for the taxi now—there’s Robert and the good-looking stranger lining up on the right, and there on the left the old man with his grandson; Robert, Robert, is this the place to put your hand on someone’s shoulder? Do you need someone to hold you up? Come on, old man, come in, welcome—we want to celebrate and be merry! The time is ripe!
12
The desk clerk looked uneasily at the clock: it was past six already, Jochen had not appeared to relieve him, and the gentleman in Room 11 had now been asleep for twenty-one hours, with the card Please Do Not Disturb hanging on the door handle, and still no one as yet had sensed the silence of death behind the locked door. There had been no whispers, no chambermaids screaming. Dinnertime, dark suits, bright dresses. Much silver, candlelight, music. Mozart with the lobster cocktail, Wagner with the meat course, jazz for dessert.
Disaster lay in the air. Full of anxiety, the man looked at the clock, which was propelling the seconds much too slowly on toward the point where the disaster would erupt. Again and again the telephone: menu 1 to Room 12, menu 3 to Room 218, champagne to Room 14. The weekend adulterers were ordering the necessary stimulants. Five globetrotters were hanging about in the lobby, waiting for the bus to take them to the night plane. “Yes, Madam, first left, second right, third left—the Roman children’s graves are illuminated evenings and you’re allowed to take photographs.” Grandma Blessieck was drinking her port back in a corner. She had finally nabbed Hugo, who was reading to her from the local newspaper: “Purse-Snatcher Foiled. Yesterday, near the Memorial Field, a young man made an attempt to snatch an old woman’s handbag, but the courageous grandmother succeeded in … Foreign Minister Dulles.…” “Nonsense, all nonsense,” said Grandma Blessieck, “nothing political and nothing international, the local events are the only interesting ones”; and Hugo read, “City head honors deserving boxer.…”
Mockingly, time postponed disaster’s eruption, while glasses softly tinkled, silver dishes were placed on the tables, and fine china plates began to vibrate to the noble music. The airlines coach driver was standing in the doorway, raising his hands, admonishing, warning, while the door swung softly back into its felt-lined frame behind him. The desk clerk nervously glanced at his notebook: “As of 6:30, reserve room for Mr. M., street side; 6:30, double room for Councillor Faehmel and wife, absolutely on street side; 7:00, pick up dog Kaessi in Room 114 for walk.” The special fried eggs for that dreadful canine were just being taken up: yolk hard, white soft, and slices of sausage, crisply fried, and as usual the stinker would fastidiously turn up his nose at the meal. The gentleman in Room 11 had now been sleeping twenty-one hours and eighteen minutes.
“Yes, Madam, the fireworks begin half an hour after sun-down, that is to say about half-past seven. The Fighting Veterans’ parade about seven-fifteen. Sorry, I’m not in a position to tell you whether the Minister will be there.” Hugo read on in his high school graduate voice: “And the city fathers presented to the deserving boxer not only the Key to the City but also the golden Marsilius Plaque, which is awarded only for particularly outstanding cultural accomplishments. The dignified ceremony closed with a gala banquet.” The globetrotters were finally leaving the lobby. “Yes, gentlemen, the banquet for the Left Opposition party is in the Blue Room—no, for the Right Opposition party in the Yellow Room. There are signs marking the way, sir.” Who belonged to the Left, who to the Right? You couldn’t tell by looking at them. Jochen would have been better at such a job. When it came to labeling people, his instinct was infallible. He could spot the real gentleman in a shabby suit or the upstart in a tailor-made. He would have known how to distinguish between the Left and the Right Opposition, though otherwise you couldn’t tell them apart even to their menus. Oh, there’s still another banquet: the board of directors of the Co-operative Welfare Society. “The Red Room, sir.” Their faces were all the same, and they would all eat lobster cocktail as hors d’oeuvre, the Left, the Right and the board of directors; all would have Mozart for the hors d’oeuvres, Wagner for the main course and the taste of rich sauces, and jazz for dessert. “Yes, sir, in the Red Room.” Jochen’s instinct was infallible in social matters, but failed him beyond that. When the shepherd priestess came onto the scene for the first time, it had been Jochen who’d whispered: ‘Careful, that’s real upper class.’ And when the small, pale young woman appeared, with her long unruly hair and only a handbag and pocketbook under her arm, Jochen whispered: ‘Hustler.’ And I said: ‘She does it with anyone, but takes nothing for it, so she’s not a whore,’ and Jochen said, ‘She does it with anyone, and takes something for it.’ And Jochen was right. Jochen, however, has no instinct for disaster; for when the blonde came in, glamorous with her thirteen suitcases, I said to him as she got into the lift: ‘Do you want to bet we won’t see her alive again?’ And Jochen said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, she’s only skipped out on her husband for a couple of days.’ And who was right? I was! Sleeping tablets and a Do Not Disturb notice in front of the door. She slept twenty-four hours, and then the whispering started: ‘Dead, someone dead in Room 118.’ It’s a fine thing when the murder squad arrive around three in the afternoon, and around five a body’s dragged out of the hotel, a fine thing.
Now, how’s that for a buffalo-face! A trunk with a diplomatic air, two hundred pounds, a dachshund-waddle—and look at the suit on the man. This one fairly reeked of importance, kept in the background while two less significant birds stalked over to the desk. Mr. M.’s ro
om, please. “Oh, yes, Room 211. Hugo, come here, take the gentlemen upstairs.” And six hundredweight swathed in English woolens soundlessly glided upward.
“Jochen, Jochen, good God, where’ve you been all this time?”
“Excuse me,” said Jochen, “you know I’m almost never late. And I wanted to be on time especially tonight when your wife and children are waiting for you. But when it comes to choosing between you or my pigeons, well, I’m not so sure. And when I send six of them off on a trip, I want six back, but only five were on time, you understand; the sixth came in ten minutes late and completely exhausted, poor creature. Go on, now, if you still want to get a good seat for the fireworks. Yes, all right, I see, Left Opposition in the Blue Room, Right Opposition in the Yellow Room, board of directors of the Co-operative Welfare Society in the Red Room. Well, all right, that’s not bad for a weekend. Not nearly as tough as when the Stamp Collectors or the National Beer Brewers’ Committee meet. Don’t worry, I’ll manage them okay, and I’ll control my feelings, even though I’d just as soon warm the seat of the Left Opposition’s pants, and spit into the hors d’oeuvres of the Right and the Co-operative Welfare Society—all right, don’t get excited, we’ll keep the old house flag a-flying. And I’ll check up on your would-be suicides. Yes, Madam, Hugo to your room at nine o’clock for cards, certainly. Ah, Mr. M.’s already here? Don’t like him, that Mr. M.; without even having seen him I hate his guts. Yes, sir, champagne to Room 211, and three Partagas Eminentes. By the smell of their cigars shall ye know them! Good God, here comes the entire Faehmel family.”
Girl, oh girl, what’s happened to you! When I saw you for the first time, at the Emperor’s Parade in 1908, my heart beat faster. Even though I knew that little flowers like you didn’t grow for the likes of us to pick. I took the red wine into the room where you were sitting with Papa and Mamma. Child, child, who ever would have thought you would grow into a downright grandma, all silver hair and wrinkles; I could carry you up into the room with one hand, and I’d do so if they’d let me. But they won’t let me, old girl, too bad, you’re still good-looking.
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