That was how it was when I was born a second time: wanting to die in Susannah’s hair. The Drifters sang Saturday Night at the Movies and Under the Boardwalk and Some Kind of Wonderful and Please Stay and There Goes My Baby, and whenever I visited San Francisco later on I looked up the Timmermans in the phone book but never called, and a few years later Susannah’s surname was Mitchell, and a few years later still I sent her my first book, just to let her see what I was doing with my life, and many years later Susannah’s surname was Timmerman again, but we never saw or phoned each other throughout that time. We were both created for different lives, even though I sense those blackbirds taking wing whenever the thought of Susannah crosses my mind. A fluttering, rustling, infinitely gentle sound that goes right through me. But for Susannah, I would never have had a life with Ellen. Ellen would never have noticed me but for Susannah and what she made of me.
But now my life with Ellen no longer exists. It hasn’t existed for a long time. It’s all gone. I abandoned everything, destroyed everything, obliterated nearly every trace of myself. I burnt my boats. I never wanted to write again – I couldn’t write any more, and I was utterly uninterested in doing so. I took off into limbo with someone I didn’t know at all when my one desire was to roam the world with a begging bowl, and now I’m sitting here writing.
It’s very strange, almost as if you have to leave traces behind. Or as if you can’t stop being a writer even when it’s the last thing you want to be. I shall finish this however it turns out, and in the end some faulty circuit, some faulty contact may wipe it from the laptop’s memory as if the whole thing had never existed. If that happens, so be it.
What I enjoyed most about writing was the writing itself. The way you cast a spell over the world while writing. The initial uncertainty, and then the stage at which you know that nothing can stop you – that the book will almost write itself from now on. I never changed my way of life when working on a book. I did all the things I used to do in normal times, never shutting myself off from anything or anyone. But the spell persisted. I wrote my first novel when I was twenty-one. Ellen was pregnant, and Tess died that December. I couldn’t shut myself off from anything. I was demented with happiness and grief, and I wrote and cooked and argued with people and read and did the washing-up and worked as a waiter four days a week and played basketball, and later on, when Jessie arrived, I was always her father first and someone writing a book second. When Ellen was awarded a grant to study in London, we took some of the money I’d inherited from my mother because I couldn’t get a job in London for those eighteen months. Jobs were reserved for Brits, so I wrote my second novel in London on the grant from my mother. I wrote whenever I could find the time, but Ellen and Jessie always came first. And all that happened pervaded the book like a warm glow, and the book, the act of writing, pervaded all that happened.
You only love me because you love your book, Ellen often said.
And I said: I love my book because I love you. Without you I’d never write it.
Ellen said: I always thought writers were reclusive oddballs who cut themselves off from the world like St Jerome in his cell, but it seems I was wrong. It’s quite different. Everything becomes transparent somehow, and it’s infectious. When you write you make everyone around you happy.
Yes, that was it: I was a happy author. Was I successful as well? No. Harry Willemer the cabby was a great deal more successful than Harry Willemer the author. Strictly speaking, I’ve always had jobs that earn you tips – waiter, author, taxi driver. The only difference between them is, most authors get nothing but tips. They accept fees for which no waiters or cabbies would work – unless, of course, they come from the East or the Third World. Most authors can be bought pretty cheaply. They’re game for almost anything, any form of prostitution, as long as it jacks up the price a little. That’s why they harp on morality so much. I’ve driven all kinds in my taxi – rock stars, television people, parliamentarians, even the occasional writer. One night around a year ago I drove two of our younger authors to a bar after some literary shindig or other. I can’t read their stuff. I usually give up after a few pages, but they were very amusing in the back of my cab.
They were talking about a fellow author who had apparently intimated to a literary editor that the review of his latest novel ought to proclaim him Germany’s answer to Philip Roth. Oh well, said one of the two young writers, at least he’s got the hairstyle.
Really? said the other. Is Philip Roth’s chest that hairy?
We all laughed. Why can’t these guys be the same in their books as they are in the back of a cab?
* * *
What else did I enjoy about being a writer? The moment when I held my first book in my hand, of course. But that sensation doesn’t last long. Less than a week, and it only applies to your first book. I soon realized that you don’t write for yourself. Nor to please your friends. Nor for the ones you love. It was like that with me, at least. You always write for the public. You write to conquer strangers, people you’ve never heard of. It’s the old erotic syndrome: not the girl next door but someone far away, some total stranger. I don’t know how it is with women, but that’s how it is with me: someone from somewhere quite different, someone entirely unfamiliar, someone we’ve always been seeking, always knowing that they must exist. Or always fearing that they can’t possibly exist.
It’s like anonymous sex. The fact is, of course, that readers whom you may have conquered are by way of being friends (although you never meet them). So you stop writing for them. You even have to disappoint them, perhaps, and go on writing, on and on, for a succession of other total strangers. Yes indeed, writing really is quite like anonymous sex.
That’s all I liked about writing. Nothing more.
No, wrong! There were two more things I miss these days. I never wrote direct descriptions or pen portraits of people. I always thought it important to describe them in such a way that they wouldn’t recognize themselves. And then this remarkable process sets in: you invent people, really invent people who are nothing but fictional characters, and in the end, when the book is finished, they’re just as real as people in real life. You think of them and remember them like people you really know – people you’ve spent a lot of time with.
* * *
Yes, that’s all that mattered to me about writing. Nothing else. And literary criticism? Barring a few exceptions, I’ve never thought much of critics and reviewers, even when I’ve sometimes rejoiced at what they’ve written. When my first novel came out, someone called me the Easy Rider of modern German literature. That gratified me even though I didn’t particularly like the film or Dennis Hopper – or motorbikes either, to be honest. But the reviewer had a point: I belonged to the light cavalry brigade, though you probably couldn’t have raised a brigade of us. Our kind aren’t that numerous, or weren’t.
But all that has ceased to interest me. It’s not even an academic problem any more. It’s nothing at all.
Saturday
For some weeks now, Sonia and I have been going every few days to a Chinese massage parlour on Sutter Street. Our backs are giving us a bit of trouble, but I think it’s partly because of the strain we’re under.
We take the elevator to the top floor and come out in the massage parlour itself. The sign on the reception desk says they don’t accept American Express, but we can only pay cash in any case. I’m afraid we’ve only got American Express, I told them. It wasn’t necessary, but that’s how tensed-up we are – how careful to cover ourselves the whole time. We avoid attracting attention. Everything has to be explained away and ironed out.
In the cubicles we’re pummelled for half an hour or an hour by diminutive Chinese masseuses. They actually climb on top of us and trample around for a considerable time, probably because they’re so small. It’s quite sexy. No doubt that accounts for the notices on the cubicle doors, which state that “indecent behavior” will not be tolerated. We had a good laugh about that after our first visit, bec
ause the temptation was considerable. Sonia found it so too.
I didn’t feel like a massage yesterday, so Sonia went on her own. I picked her up at five. A young Chinese got into the elevator with me. I made some remark about the weather and he gave me a supercilious smile. The elegant Chinese woman at reception told me that Mrs Berlingeri would be a bit longer today, and I thought no more about it.
Then she said something in Chinese, rather sharply, to the man who had come up in the elevator with me. She produced a white bath towel, tossed it to him, and indicated the door to the shower. That presumably meant: Have a shower first.
Two minutes later the elevator door opened and a couple of sinister-looking Chinese emerged. I said Hi, but they ignored me, perhaps because they knew no English. They engaged the good-looking receptionist in a brief but heated conversation and kept edging towards the door that led to the massage cubicles, but the receptionist barred their way. That was when I first became scared.
Had they come for Sonia? Had the Mafia caught up with us already? We were trapped in here. There was no staircase – or rather, there had to be one but I’d never seen it. There was only the elevator. I waited, never taking my eyes off the two men. At last, having apparently overcome the receptionist’s objections, they strode through the door leading to the cubicles. Moments later the third Chinese emerged from the shower cubicle. He had knotted the white towel round his waist and draped his clothes over his right arm. Perhaps the clothes concealed a gun. Yes, I was sure of it! I jumped up and thrust him back into the shower cubicle. He shouted something in Chinese and the receptionist stared at me in horror. I yelled at her to press the elevator button, then wrenched the shower door open and hauled the Chinese out again. His towel slipped to the floor. At that moment Sonia came out into reception followed by a masseuse.
Harry! she cried. What’s the matter?
Are you all right? Why were you so long? Did anyone do anything to you?
No, we started late, that’s all.
I apologized to the Chinese, wound the towel round his waist and held it there until he took hold of it himself. I could almost have hugged him – in fact I felt tempted to give him a tip. I muttered something about having had a nervous breakdown and not being entirely over it yet. I wasn’t sure if he understood, but he looked relieved.
Then I apologized to the receptionist. Sonia tipped her masseuse twenty dollars.
Boy oh boy, she said when we were out in the street, are we getting jumpy! I thought you were going to kill the poor man. You should have seen the look in your eyes.
Hang on a minute, I told her.
We went into a shop across the street and watched the door of the building that housed the massage parlour. After a few minutes the two sinister-looking Chinese emerged from the narrow doorway, one after the other. They looked in both directions, then nodded and walked off. One going left, the other right.
We’re getting really hysterical, I said.
Yes, said Sonia. It really would be hysterical to tangle with the Chinese Mafia as well. We’ve got enough on our plates with the Russian variety. Then she said: Harry?
I looked at her.
Your reaction was absolutely correct, she said. Thanks. We must react hysterically, we’ve no choice.
There was a time when I didn’t react hysterically. In another life. I still recall being mugged, so to speak, in New Orleans. It was Saturday night and the streets were teeming with people, and at some stage I was accosted by a black man. Very amiably, he pointed to my shoes and enquired, with an admiring smile, where I’d bought them. I had proudly worn Clarks for years, and I told him so. Great shoes, he said. I’ll shine them for you right now. It’ll cost you twenty dollars. Payable in advance.
He looked round, still smiling, and I saw that another three black men were watching me expectantly. I hadn’t much time for reflection. I said: Twenty dollars is over the top. You can have five, and you needn’t shine my shoes. I gave him five dollars and disappeared into the crowd.
I told Sonia that story.
Cool customer, she said in English. She really was learning fast.
We were all cool once upon a time, I said, but now we’ve got to turn over a new leaf.
How do you propose to do that? she asked.
We must do something with your money or we’ll be completely stymied. As things stand, all we can do is bolt from one hotel to the next.
With our money, she said. We’re in this together, Harry – Raimondo, I mean.
We need a bank account and some credit cards, I said. The money’s no good to us without them. But we’re foreigners. We don’t have a fixed abode – far from it – and I’ve no idea what one needs to open a bank account in the States.
So? said Sonia.
I know someone in San Francisco who may be able to help us. I don’t know what she’s like these days, but it’s a possibility.
She?
Yes, an old girlfriend.
An old girlfriend?
A very old girlfriend. We haven’t seen each other for thirty-five years, but she’ll help us if she’s anything like the person she used to be.
For old times’ sake?
For old times’ sake.
I see, said Sonia.
I could call her, I said. She may be away, but I’ll call her.
And then?
Then I’ll try, very cautiously, to find out what we can expect of her. How much we can afford to tell her. There was a time when I could tell her anything.
In that case, said Sonia, let’s hope she hasn’t changed. How old were you then? Sixteen, seventeen? A child.
I was an infant prodigy, Sonia. Bear that in mind.
You don’t sound hysterical any more, she said. Not in the least.
Tuesday
Fritz! Susannah’s voice on the phone. Is it really you? And you’re actually here in San Francisco? Jump into a cab and come over right away. Or shall I pick you up? We must meet up at once. I haven’t painted my face yet, but I’ll be relatively presentable by the time you get here.
Susannah called me Fritz from the start. It was the nickname they gave me in school because they called all Germans that. I didn’t resent it. My grandfather’s name was Fritz, so in a way I felt proud to be called Fritz. Very proud, in fact.
It completely disarmed them, Susannah told me at the time. They thought it would bug you, but you accepted the name as if it had been made for you.
The others have probably forgotten me long ago, so Susannah is most likely the only person in the world who still calls me Fritz.
She lives in one of those handsome houses on El Camino del Mar, out by South Bay. I told her it would be better to meet on neutral territory.
Oh, she said. Are we at war?
We aren’t, Susannah, but I have to be careful. I’ll explain later.
Okay. Let’s meet at Enrico’s, then. Two hours from now. I’ll book us a table on the terrace.
I walked to Enrico’s by way of Chinatown. Susannah was already there, sitting on the terrace. She got up when she saw me and came to meet me. Red lips and big, dark eyes. She came right out on to the sidewalk, and a flock of blackbirds soared into the sky. Fritz, this is lovely. This is wonderful. I never thought it would happen. You’re looking tired, though.
She led the way back to her table. Enrico’s is my favourite place, she said. I’m a smoker, and one can smoke out here on the terrace. It’s probably the only public place in the States where you can smoke sitting down – unless you’re prepared to sit on the steps of some church like a wino.
She was very much the old Susannah. We ordered champagne. And some scallops as a starter. Now tell me your life story, she said. Tell me all that’s happened in the past thirty-five years. She laughed. No, first you must tell me why we had to meet on neutral territory.
I told her. I told her the whole story, from the moment when Sonia got into my cab. She listened quite calmly, sipping champagne and smoking. No, I didn’t try, very cautiously
, to find out how much we could afford to tell her. I told her everything.
When I was through she said: The Russian Mafia? This is a bad business. Why do we let these people into the West at all? Anyone would think we didn’t have enough crooks of our own. But … if you’ve been away from Munich for so long, won’t anyone be missing you?
No, Susannah, but that’s another long story. Another bad business. Nothing I can tell you right now.
I understand, she said. Well, if I’ve got this straight, what you need right now is a bank account or somewhere to stash the four million safely. You also need some credit cards. Opening a bank account would probably be too risky at the moment, but you could give the money to me. I could tuck it away for you.
Wouldn’t it raise too many eyebrows if your bank balance suddenly jumped by four million?
I’m a wealthy woman, Fritz. A very wealthy woman, and our local brand of capitalism is pretty permissive. I’ll tell you a story. A few months ago a friend of mine wanted to buy a house in Berkeley. A pretty little house, guide price one million dollars. The realtor was expecting another bid at the weekend, so my friend said, if the other bid was higher he was prepared to pay more than the million they’d provisionally agreed on. On the Monday he called the realtor to clinch the deal, only to be told that the house was already sold. My friend was pretty annoyed, having wanted a chance to increase his offer, but the realtor told him that the other party, a guy from Silicon Valley, hadn’t just offered a tad more, he’d offered two million cash. It turned out that he hadn’t wanted the pretty little house at all, just the site. He wanted to buy the view, that’s all. He’s had the house demolished and is currently building himself a new one on the site. All I meant to say was, I won’t have any great difficulty in shoving your four million into an account.
The Russian Passenger Page 16