And then the show was over. Meyer drove home with Margot.
“Shall we go somewhere else?”
“Oh, we’d better not, I’d get back home so late otherwise.”
“Fine,” said Meyer, so quickly as to be insulting. He was thinking of Käsebier.
He helped park the car on Kurfürstendamm.
“Do you want to come up for a moment? My husband may still be up.”
“Let’s leave it,” he said. “I still want to write tonight.”
“As you wish.”
“Thank you for the evening.”
Her husband was still awake upstairs.
“Did you have fun?” he asked sleepily.
“Oh, a disgustingly pretentious fellow.”
“I can’t stand him either.”
And then she was mad at her husband, who promptly fell asleep.
Meyer slowly wandered down Kurfürstendamm. Oddly enough, it seemed to him that it had gotten quite warm. It was raining. Three steps away from Margot’s house, right at the intersection to Schlüterstrasse, at the newspaper kiosk, he ran into Miss Kohler. They both started. Meyer wanted to walk right past her. She came up to him.
“You’re back?” she said.
“Yes, since today,” he said. “But I have no time, I’ve always got things to do, it’s terrible, obligations to my publisher, that scoundrel. No time at all.”
“Even now, at midnight?”
“No, I still want to write.”
“Can’t we sit down for a moment, at least?”
“Oh, no,” said Meyer. “I’ve got so much to do, it’s awful, and it’s so late already.”
“But Mr. Meyer!”
“Well, fine, let’s go in for a moment.”
There was a small café on the corner. Only two couples were still sitting there, as well as a very, very old gentleman who’d stacked all the newspapers next to him.
Meyer said suddenly, “How lovely to be sitting next to you. What can I get you, an ice cream soda perhaps?”
“I don’t care.”
“One ice cream soda,” he said to the waiter.
“What a beautiful round forehead you have, what a beautiful bridge to your nose, and your small smart mouth, dancing with irony!”
The waiter brought the order. Meyer picked up the spoon, heaped it with ice cream, and brought it to Miss Kohler’s mouth, feeding her. He beamed, overjoyed. How he loves me! she thought. How I love her! he thought.
“I wish I were a sculptor, just so I could sculpt this hand.” He picked up her hand and caressed it. “Can you imagine just how often I’ve tried? I know this little hand by heart. I’ve tried it with plasticine.”
Is it possible to be this happy? she thought.
“Why,” she said out loud, “did you leave like that?”
“If you knew how I—oh, I thought of you so much under the trees of Paris. I dreamed of you constantly. I always dream of you.” He took her hand.
Is it possible to make someone suffer this much? she thought.
“I couldn’t. But one day, I must show you my photographs of Paris.” He took her head into both hands, and whispered in her ear, clipped, curt, and with shame: “And since the finest has slipped away, the body will feast instead.” Then he kissed her forehead and carefully lowered his hands. “Check,” he cried. They got up and left. It was raining.
“It’s raining,” he said. “It’s always raining when we meet.”
Her bus stop was close by. She steered them toward it.
“I’ll bring you home.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.”
“Well, I’d prefer that, I still have something to do,” he said, “and besides, my mother is expecting me. I promised that I’d be there to say goodnight at least.”
“It’s no problem for me to get home on the bus.”
“We’ll see each other soon,” he said, “very soon.”
The bus had already come. She got in and waved. She suddenly understood what it meant to be beside yourself. She wouldn’t be able to work for the next eight days. She’d only think of him and her dream. A simple room with two beds in a country inn. She lay in the bed by the window while he washed himself over the washing basin. He was bare-chested and in his underwear. She watched him, noticed all of his ugliness, his underwear, his little socks, his back, which hadn’t seen a day of exercise, and loved him. He came over to her bed, sat down beside her, and kissed her. Then she’d woken up. Despite this farewell, she loved him. What else mattered? She got out at Joachimsthaler Strasse, where she unexpectedly met a good friend, Dr. Wendland, and gave her a hug.
“My dear, I’m over the moon, let’s go do something, I have to do something. Come along, let’s drink a bottle of wine.”
“Uh oh,” her friend said. “Meyer?”
“Yes.”
“He wrote you?”
“No.”
“He’s here?”
“I met him. Come!”
They went to a little wine bar. Her friend, a wine connoisseur, picked the wine. Rhenish wine, a half bottle. Miss Kohler ordered chicken mayonnaise. Her friend didn’t want to eat.
“Chicken mayonnaise this late!”
“And why shouldn’t I eat chicken mayonnaise today? I’m going to give a beggar three marks as well. Oh, I’m thrilled. One day it’ll happen, just wait! He loves me!”
“Of course he loves you, but unfortunately, he’s mad. Can you give me a good reason why you’re sitting here with me instead of him?”
“No.”
“So there’s none.”
“He has work to do, he said.”
“He said that, huh? Nonsense.”
“It’s very difficult with the two of us. Great love is always difficult.”
“Oh, baloney! He’s mad. You’re not difficult. You just choose your objects of affection poorly. But I won’t say anything else. I’m just furious at him because he’s broken you down, but maybe it’ll all work out.”
“Cheers! It has to work out. Otherwise I’ll go mad. I can’t tell you how much I love him. Do you know the saying, ‘A hair on your head is dearer to me than life itself’? That’s how I feel. And what about you?”
“I’ll be glad if I can take another vacation this summer.”
“And your personal life?”
“Sworn off.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No.”
“But why? Such a shame . . .”
“You know why.”
“Yes, but, well, that was ten years ago. Do you still see each other?”
“Sometimes we pass each other on the street, but we don’t say hello. He hasn’t gotten married either, by the way. Looks like he won’t.”
“But there’s more than just the one fellow out there, even if you loved him and maybe he loved you. Isn’t it wrong of you to get so caught up and swept away by love for one person? Especially since he’s entirely unsuitable as an object of affection?”
“You’re telling me this?”
“Yes, I’m saying it because I don’t quite believe you. You want to keep a clear head for your work, so you’ve built up an ideal in your heart on which to focus your desires. That’s an easy way out, plus you’re more productive. You’re right, of course! When we’re happily in love, not only is hair on his head worth more than life itself—worse, it’s worth more than our productivity. The truth is, you can keep falling in love. You can even love several people at once, in different ways. But have trouble admitting all that to ourselves. All the same, life is rich.”
“I agree. But do men belong in it?”
“I suppose so.”
“I don’t want a relationship, and these days, no man’s going to stick around for any time without one. Sure, it’ll go on for a while, but friendship is a rare bird when there’s no prospect of ending up in bed together.”
“And why don’t you want a relationship? It could come to you. Without your frantically searching for it, you could just be ready. I
couldn’t do without one.”
“Have you ever thought through what it means? The dependence, the fear, and what if the maid notices? A friend of mine who’s changed her lifestyle was recently told by her maid, ‘I’m always washing your silk underwear, you can do that yourself.’ No, I couldn’t bear it. If a man loves me in that fashion, there’s no reason not to get married. And I could only marry the one man with whom it’s not possible. Do I have to be afraid of the doorman’s wife when I get home late? No thanks.”
“God, I’m not trying to convince you of anything. I just think it’s a shame. I think it’s a shame for me, too.”
“Oh, nonsense, we put too much stock in it these days. When we arrived at university, we were so excited and ambitious and wanted to prove ourselves and were terribly proud. And what happened a mere fifteen years later? The Girl came along. We wanted to create a new kind of woman. Remember how we burned with excitement, knowing that at last, everything was ours, that we now could learn it all, that great big man’s world full of mathematics and chemistry and wonderful historical revelations? And now the result is that little sixteen-year-olds are sitting in my office hours and I’m just happy if they’re not sick. Their heads are just there for their hairdos. I think that female academics have fallen behind quite a bit.”
“Like all academics, and all intellectuals, and everything intellectual.”
“There’s poverty, and otherwise there’s just a big old march to bed. We’ve been let down. No, don’t deny it—we’ve all been let down, all of us who longed for the education, knowledge, and skills of men. We learned how life can open up when the search for truth becomes your guiding star. The next generation is a disappointment. Every day I see it in my office hours. I don’t miss anything, I feel fulfilled, but the generation after us forgot everything. It’s rotten.”
“But there’s a new, young generation that’s already pretty promising. They’re as engaged as the boys, sporty, not clothes horses.”
“Take a look over there, businessmen are busy coaxing trade secrets out of shopkeepers and clerks with the help of a bottle of wine. Their right paw has the pencil, and the left one is busy stroking. There are two kinds of women: those who see the pencil and give the business world the runaround, and those who fall for the wine. That one’s falling for the wine.”
“How wonderful! By the way, we could go to Grunewald together on Sunday.”
“We could indeed.”
“How lovely that you’re free, we’ll go on a great walk, it’s so beautiful outside now. You know, I’m very happy that we’re not just chatting en passant for once.”
“I agree, a real woman-to-woman talk is one of the best things in all the world. And how men fear it!”
“Really, men are such sorry animals. They don’t have this discussing and confiding and explaining, this endless glorious chatter, our only solace and means of revenge.”
“And a source of happiness too.”
“Have a good night, then!”
And then it was half past one, and Miss Kohler had to catch a taxi.
•
Meyer felt dreadful after he’d said farewell, and couldn’t see straight anymore. He wanted to take the tram toward Halensee, but it didn’t come. He waited. A young girl was waiting next to him. She paced to and fro. Meyer gazed at her. She looked at him. She was young. Clearly from a good family.
“Shall we hail a taxi?” he asked. She nodded. He waved. A taxi stopped.
“Where do you live?”
“On Hubertusbaderstrasse.”
He gave the taxi driver the address. They got in. He took her hand, and kissed it between her fingers. Then he felt for her ankle, moved up her leg, paused. Looked at her face, which was aroused, kissed it blindly, caressing her. Her fur coat was closed. He opened it.
“Can I come over?” he said just before Halensee bridge, his hand already quite far. She was silent. “You sweet thing.” They got out. He entered a dark Berlin hallway. They went up the stairs in the dark, not daring to turn on the light. She unlocked the door to the apartment.
“To the left,” she said. That was it. He turned on the bedside lamp in the white room. The girl came over to him. He saw her glow. It was over quickly.
“How do I get out?” he asked.
“Let me give you the key. I’ll have a new one made fast.”
They avoided addressing one another. He kissed her, although she didn’t want to be kissed, tenderly even, as she stood there without memory or demands. He closed the door quietly and glided down the stairs in the dark, listening for noise. Unlocked the door. Stood outside. Tried to read the house number. Couldn’t make it out, pocketed the key.
The girl, now truly exhausted, thought, That was nice after Paul, who doesn’t want me, humiliated me so dreadfully. I almost forgot to turn on my alarm, have to be at the office by eight tomorrow.
And then it was half past one, and Meyer had to get a taxi.
•
On the following day, Meyer-Paris published an article in the Allgemeine Zeitung. “Käsebier, a Singer from Berlin.” That Saturday, a page of Gödowecz’s illustrations appeared in the Berliner Bildschau. The following day, the Grossberliner Woche ran a whole article on Käsebier with photos by Dr. Richard Thame. Three photos of Käsebier, three more of “Käsebier and His Milieu.” You could see the bicyclists and Tubby Tub the clown and the acrobats photographed from below. Then, six more pictures, “Käsebier’s audience.” One could only marvel at how many people Dr. Richard Thame knew. Even Margot was there. Mrs. Margot Weissman, the wife of Weissman, the industrial magnate, with Meyer-Paris. Then came a large table: the banker Reinhardt Hersheimer, Count Dinkelsbühl, the polo and golf player, Countess Dinkelsbühl, Countess Mercy, Mr. von Trappen from the foreign ministry and Mrs. Clothilde Meyer-Lewin. The industrial magnate Menke and his wife were quite a picture! One photo entitled “Colleagues from the Opera.” Conductor Mäusebach, the alto Senta Sieger, the tenor Otto Glübart. Two pictures of “the crowd.” One table with three young couples, one table with an old couple, their daughter and her fiancée, and an elderly aunt they’d brought along.
9
A girl wanders through the city
THAT SAME day, Meyer-Paris called up Miss Kohler and asked if she would accompany him to Käsebier that evening. This request left Miss Kohler so breathless she could only manage a timid “Yes.” She dressed at great length that evening and met Meyer, who had come straight from the newsroom, at Hasenheide. At particularly exciting or beautiful moments, Meyer would squeeze her hand, and when a dancer danced the Marcelle, he uttered the word “Paris” in a melancholy tone.
“Do you know it? Yes?”
“Yes,” she said. “A bit.”
“I’m sure it would be wonderful with you.”
Then, Indian fakirs drew scarves through fire unscathed.
“I like Käsebier an awful lot,” she said.
“Well, now. I almost think he’s a bit overrated.”
It felt like a true spring night as they walked home.
“It’s so warm out today,” said Meyer-Paris.
Miss Kohler sniffed the evening breeze. “Spring really is in the air.”
“Yes, spring finally has arrived. It’s raining. It’s always raining when we meet.”
She nodded, enchanted. They got into a taxi by the church. She leaned against him.
“You sweet, clever girl,” he said. In front of her house, he waited for a moment, watching her. She looked at him expectantly. He pulled her towards him, threw himself on her and kissed her on the mouth with a desire that was new to her, that she had never experienced before, an unbridled, untamed kiss devoid of all niceties. He released her, said, “I have your phone number,” and walked away.
•
“Shall I order coffee?” Gohlisch asked.
“Yes, go ahead,” said Miermann.
“I’ll pay.”
“Fine,” said Miermann.
“Summer’s coming.”
“I’m moving into my summer house tomorrow. Aren’t you going away for a bit?”
“I’ve got no spending money as long as the German people isn’t giving me an allowance.”
“But aren’t you getting any money from the Daredevils?”
“Money? Don’t you know that there’s a nationwide plot—a league, if you will—to not read my books? Don’t you know that? I’ve always earned my money ten marks at a time. Later in life, I earned fifty or a hundred. The only time I earned three hundred at once was when I brokered a property!”
“That’s how businessmen make it,” said Gohlisch.
“How can you say that?” said Miss Kohler, who had just walked in. “What about the headaches and the losses and the thousands of futile attempts for every twenty deals that go through? Everyone always thinks the grass is greener.”
“But Miermann, you’re a famous man,” said Gohlisch.
“I could have been twenty years ago. Recently, you asked me why I treat good old Mahlke so badly. Good old Mahlke spent twenty years preventing me from becoming Miermann. For twenty years—twenty years!—that idiot was my editor at the Allgemeine Zeitung. For twenty years that ass cut my punchlines and added his Mahlke nonsense to my good Miermanns. I buried my punchlines in the middle of my articles for ten years, because I thought, He won’t notice them in the middle, he only cuts at the end. But come on, how can an article turn out well if you’re always writing sentences at the end that could get cut? I don’t even greet him anymore. And if someone asks me, I say, ‘Mahlke? An old sack. For twenty years, he stopped me from making a name for myself.’ ”
Käsebier Takes Berlin Page 9