Waltenberg

by Hedi Kaddour

  Through de Vèze’s slow, careful delivery is evoked a world of small meadows, grey hills, the baying of hounds and turreted castles … ‘how beautiful the banks of the Cher looked…’ hedges, copses, a lawn … ‘a wide, closely cut lawn where it seemed there was room only for endless games…’ knowing Kappler, old man, I was expecting something more acerbic than this old picture postcard stuff, he traversed the century and he got a Frenchman to read out bits of an adolescent novel, it doesn’t surprise me, you know, there are at least two Kapplers, the man who wrote those virtually unreadable great works between the two wars, crisis of values, crisis of the novel, a martyr to chiaroscuro, and the bestselling author after ’45, the easy turn of phrase, realist transparency, his last period, stories that everyone can read, he even wanted to launch a literature series which rewrote great books in everyday language, they would have been condensed, pruned, he even wanted to do it with Ulysses and The Magic Mountain, I think he’d even have simplified his beloved Grand Meaulnes, tell me, any idea what will happen to French foreign policy now de Gaulle has gone?

  Then the same funeral director said:

  ‘I now call upon Monsieur Max Goffard.’

  Three days earlier, the notary had summoned Max:

  ‘Your name is expressly mentioned in connection with one of your friend’s last wishes, Herr Kappler requested that you read out a brief passage from the Scenes from the Life of a Good-for-Nothing, he specifies, I quote, “Once Max has stopped protesting you might add that the passage from Eichendorff is to be read in German, he’ll like that very much, from the time we first met all our discussion were in French, now it’ll be my turn to listen to him speaking German and have a good laugh.” Herr Kappler only wants these two readings, Monsieur de Vèze and you.’

  *

  At the Waldhaus, Lilstein’s face is calm, you have both finished your portions of tart at the same time, like an old married couple. He gives you a kindly look, then he stares out at the cable cars and the village below the hotel, those large pale eyes come back to you, he yawns, a little laugh:

  ‘The advantage of big funerals like Herr Kappler’s on Friday next is that they allow the expression of deep feelings. In our line of business, that’s refreshing, I shall be burying one of my two greatest friends and I will have every right to be red-eyed, whereas in normal circumstances we must unfortunately avoid showing fine sentiments, our fondest hopes, gush can lead to disaster, I mean to the catastrophic dashing of illusions, I don’t want you to end up like that, I don’t like it when you’re discouraged, but I surely do not want you going in for displays of fine feelings, speaking for myself I have learned to show my feelings only at funerals, you can’t do our kind of work with an artichoke heart. Shall we order more wine?’

  You don’t really want to take up Lilstein’s suggestion. White wine doesn’t particularly agree with you. But you’re feeling anxious. You say yes. Lilstein raises one hand, a young Waldhaus waitress arrives with the new drinks, sets them down, leaves, you want to look at her legs, Lilstein watches you, you reach out your hand to your glass to avoid catching his eye, good legs that waitress, you turn back to face Lilstein, his eye has not wavered, he smiles.

  ‘You must be wary of the finer feelings, young man. A woman I knew before the war, Austrian, fought against Nazism, old aristocratic family, became an administrator for the Soviets, she had fine feelings, one May Day she’d paraded in Red Square, tears in her eyes, a Marxist with an artichoke heart, you’ll see if I’m right, she worked for Red Army intelligence.

  ‘One day in 1937 or ’38, in Frankfurt, the leader of her network showed her a letter from Voroshilov, that’s right, already the absolute head of the Red Army, a handwritten letter, this happened by a small lake, in a public park, to the casual observer a women is reading a moving letter, she reads it, reads it again, tears in her eyes, her network boss averts his gaze modestly, a fine letter, “I wanted particularly to thank you in the name of the USSR and comrade Stalin for all the sacrifices you are making, for your devotion to the cause of proletarian internationalism and the cradle of socialism”, her network leader speaks to her again, must tear up the letter, small pieces, for the waters of the lake and the little ducks who at first think they are bits of bread and then swim off, dive and show their backsides.

  ‘But the big ducks haven’t moved, they can tell the difference between bread and bits of paper, Voroshilov in person, “I wanted particularly to thank you.” A few years later she comes face to face with Voroshilov, tears in her eyes, she thanks him in turn, that letter meant a great deal at a very difficult time, it was nothing, comrade, nothing out of the ordinary, oh but it was, those were very difficult days, Voroshilov has no wish to be reminded of those days in detail, but she carries on regardless, that letter was worth ten times more to me than all the gold in the whole wide world, it was the beating heart of the proletariat. Voroshilov smiles at her, she senses that he hasn’t understood, the penny drops, the letter was a sham, she cursed herself for being so gullible, Voroshilov turned on his heel, she can’t even lay the blame on her network head, he had been shot, so let’s be wary of fine feelings, even if they count for a lot, can you see yourself, in tears, on the little bridge just outside the village, holding a letter from my minister, the bastard?

  ‘Who was the network head shot by? Guess. As to her, she stopped doing good work, and she disappeared. I don’t want you to end up like that.’

  *

  When the funeral was over, collation in Grindisheim’s main hotel, Max and Lilstein have ordered tea, they have looked round for Frédérique’s daughter, haven’t located her.

  ‘Her mother was a very impressive girl,’ says Lilstein, ‘Hans was genuinely in love with her. She wanted to fall in love but didn’t want to make it the big thing in her life. Was she really Merken’s mistress?’

  As far as Max was concerned, that was all tittle-tattle, people had it in for Madame de Valréas, for being so close to the Merkens, Huns, she’d entrusted Frédérique to them for a year at Heidelberg, La Valréas was official mistress to the great philosopher, people made the most of this to stoke up a scandal, Merken sleeping with the mother and the daughter, gossip.

  At the time Frédérique scares the professor, but only when philosophy is involved, she can recite back to him an article of his, twenty pages, two hours after reading it, Max and Lilstein remember, superb intellectual equipment, very passionate tone of voice, very much at home in the 1929 Waldhaus Seminar, an idea a minute, she believed Merken was the greatest philosopher of his time, she held it against him for competing for a job with Regel, the Berlin chair, she would have preferred him to be above that sort of thing, at Waltenberg she spoke to him about reactions to the news from Berlin, on the whole people don’t care for this sort of wrangling over a job, they don’t like it to be talked about, they defend Regel who is made ill by the idea of not getting the job, they even say he’s more or less gone mad, Merken says it’s nothing to do with him, Frédérique knows that a majority of the professors prefer Regel, by appointing Merken the Minister would be ignoring this majority.

  Merken doesn’t like the idea that one of his students should be so outspoken, this fuss over the job is trumped-up, and if Regel really is in as bad a way as people say it’s not because the Minister is about to do something high-handed, people like Regel have a permanent need to stand up to high-handed behaviour, it doesn’t mean they’re mad, they just like it, in fact Regel can’t say what really happened during the professors’ meeting which was held behind closed doors, that would be wrong with regard both to the institution and faculty rules, but truth still exists even if it cannot be made public, and the truth is that Regel did not come top of the list for the Berlin job, he ought by rights to have had the biggest vote but he only came second, it’s nothing to do with Merken, the fact is Regel’s friends were split, they wanted to use the ballot as a marker for another colleague, younger and more left-wing and very deserving.

  It was very u
seful to have a junior colleague’s name put on this prestigious shortlist, yes, the result of the vote is published, but not the minutes of the discussion, not the line of argument developed by each member of the committee, so there was a third thief, the supporters of Regel split and some voted for the third thief.

  One of Regel’s best friends, a political friend and holiday companion, made out a very solid case in favour of the deserving junior colleague, a member of the same union as he himself belonged to, but it was another of Regel’s best friends who felt it was his duty to report all this to Regel over the phone the moment the meeting was over, no one actually wanted to elect the young colleague, it was merely to put down a marker, so it is quite true to say that the majority was favourable to Regel, Merken knew this, he merely put his name forward as a matter of principle, so that there’d be a debate about ideas under cover of the election, but Regel’s friends split, the vote gave third place to the third thief, with Regel second and Merken heading the poll, although the majority were not for him.

  Regel’s friends were happy with this first round of voting, and in the second round, the final vote, they would all unite behind the name of Regel, and Regel would be elected.

  Except that faculty rules did not allow for a second ballot, there could be a second ballot only if there were more than three candidates, a first round to test the water, a second round to select three names, but there were only three candidates, therefore the first vote was the sole and final vote, rules are rules, as everyone knew, except that Regel’s friends had forgotten it in their fine haste to raise the profile of their promising young colleague, Regel was not the victim of highhanded interference by the Minister, they called the Minister on the telephone and the Minister very legally refused them permission to organise a second ballot.

  It was the stupidity of Regel’s friends which made Regel lose, he was the victim of the genial goodwill of his friends.

  It’s what is called a three-cornered election, it cannot be made public, because the deliberations take place behind closed doors, but that was the truth of it, and it was that which sent Regel off his head, caused him to dance a jig in public, the young woman told Merken that it won’t stop his, Merken’s, enemies laying the blame at his door, or telling him that he’d connived with the brutal way Regel was treated, no, it’s just words, people who don’t like Merken have had their words ready for a long time, whatever he might do, Merken and young Frédérique are on one of the terraces on the north side of the Waldhaus, the discussion is animated.

  They are alone. Where is Frédérique’s mother this morning? Surely not with Regel? No, but she is in a shaky state too, all through today’s discussions Madame de Valréas has behaved as she used to when she suspected her daughter of stealing her bras, she has not let her out of her sight, someone must have said something to her, Merken does not like idle whispers, at the back of them there’s always somebody but never anybody, a monster, with eyes proliferating cancerously by the million, millions of viper’s tongues and one singular vocal cord, gossip-mongering, ah what misery!

  Frédérique protests, is it enough to make her miserable?

  ‘My dear Frédérique, it’s not for philosophy to save anyone, it does not have to take over the role of Christ after retrieving it from some ancient shelf, philosophy is there to return us to nothingness, everything else, lust for life … will to shape the future … just fairy stories.’

  Frédérique resists:

  ‘That’s no reason to let ourselves get discouraged.’

  Eulogy of despondency by Professor Merken, it gives us the strength to throw the inkwell at our looking glass, Merken wishes to withdraw, to return to the lounge, Frédérique detains him, she hadn’t wanted to make the professor angry, she can’t understand all this business about despondency, Merken remains on the terrace, all thought is despondency, the moment we cease behaving like dogs we become sad.

  ‘Did she make a scene?’

  ‘Frédérique!’

  ‘Did my mother make a scene?’

  ‘That’s not the point…’

  ‘Why “sad”? It’s insulting! Dogs? The bitch salutes you, Professor! Go sleep with the bitch!’

  Frédérique leaving the terrace, departing in disarray, Merken catches up with her.

  ‘Frédérique, the situation…’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to lose! Everyone assumes I’m still running after you, you are sad, it’s all over, let me be!’

  ‘It’s not those people who are at issue, it’s deeper than that.’

  ‘I don’t like this sadness of yours, it’s out to get me.’

  Frédérique is mistaken if she thinks it’s that easy, Frédérique will not listen to reason:

  ‘Picture it, Sir comes back from his walk, Sir meets up with his sweet Frédérique and Sir’s sad! What a shame!’

  The poor man begs Frédérique not to shout, in vain.

  ‘Sad are you? When a man is sad it’s because he’s found another woman, you’re sad because you’re forcing yourself to stay here with me, you don’t like me making a noise any more, you didn’t always say that!’

  ‘Please, Gretchen, don’t shout, there’s no one else.’

  Each of them says ‘no one’, Frédérique so that she can go on yelling, her anger feeding off her anger, and the poor man also says ‘no one’, he means his life in general, without anyone else but Frédérique.

  ‘Don’t shout, I need you.’

  ‘He needs me and he’s sad, though you’re really quite attractive with those creased trousers and the feather in your hat, come here, nearer, there’s nothing to be sad about, your cheeks are red, a pleasing mix of melancholy and the heat, and you’re unhappy, come along now, let’s have this little chagrin out in the open, let’s wrap it up in ribbon for the lady, let’s take a walk under the trees, the cool Alpine air blowing on your little chagrin.’

  ‘Frédérique, we’re becoming ridiculous.’

  It’s Merken’s turn to try to walk off the terrace. Then Frédérique: ‘Has the Professor really got no more bullets left to shoot?’

  ‘Don’t be crude.’

  ‘And who started calling the other person “my little beaver”?’

  She has shouted the last word.

  It’s at this exact moment that La Valréas came out on to the terrace, she understood.

  ‘Frédérique, you will never convert the professor to your silly nonsense, stop pestering him with your revolution and stop shouting, young women nowadays are insufferable, they want everything, and they want it straight away, has she been annoying you?’

  ‘Certainly not, my dear.’

  ‘We were talking about Thought, mama, and about the sadness of the tasks it requires us to perform.’

  Chapter 12

  1969

  Twice as Strong

  In which Lilstein tries to worm out of Max secrets of his private life.

  In which the net tightens around the spy who is there at the funeral.

  In which the man named Walker comes up with a muscular plan to capture the spy.

  In which Max pieces together the life of his friend Lena in the years between the two wars and during a short period after it.

  In which Lilstein again warns you to beware of noble sentiments.

  In which a clear idea emerges of Lena’s talents as a singer of Lieder.

  Grindisheim, October 1969

  The girl that he loved

  Walked into the night

  With the man she loved

  Victor Hugo, ‘La Fête chez Thérèse’

  In the hotel at Grindisheim, Max and Lilstein sit in a secluded corner, next to a sideboard on which the head waiter has just carefully set down a large bilberry tart, sprinkling it with sugar from an antique-style sugar-shaker, crystal cut-glass sides and silver spout, the dark surface of the sideboard, the silver, the transparencies of the glass, the ochre rim of the tart dish, the dark red of the bilberries, the golden sheen of the shortcrust pastry. Lilst
ein:

  ‘That tart might just reconcile me with this place, I loathe this new fashion for putting neon and plastic everywhere, they tear out old wood panelling to make way for it, you remember the Waldhaus, Max, the lounge-cum-library, Hans loved it, he used to arrange to meet Frédérique there, the french windows opened on to the terrace, the lake, the mountains, with the coffee and bilberry tart on low tables, they hadn’t started serving Linzer at that stage, the bilberries covered with icing sugar in the corner by the glass door, wooden floor, Hungarian marquetry, the settees, the worn club chairs, instead of all this formica rubbish!’

  ‘Misha, in those days you called it bourgeois comfort, you wanted to destroy it, you despised teak-lined walls, the engravings of William Tell, the wire-fronted bookcases full of Balzac, Goethe and Dickens.’

  ‘And the books about botany, Max, do you remember the books about botany? And bound sets of L’Illustration and the Neue Zürcher Zeitung. It was so restful, and how about the piano? The grand piano on the small stage? The room with the red and gold easy chairs, a dark brown piano, marquetry also, always well-tuned.’

  Max has sneered at Lilstein’s nostalgia for bourgeois values, the comfort of the privileged. Lilstein protested, library, piano, old armchairs, no one rates that kind of privilege any more, the privileged now have different tastes, they want loudspeakers and screens, things you have less need to learn, they finance them, they sell them to the masses and they borrow them back from the masses, it promotes the idea that privilege is no more, they no longer need long novels, engravings, teak, the piano, all that, and icing sugar on bilberry tart will become a thing of the past.

  ‘Look, Max, here they’ve kept just one piece of furniture to give the impression of a library but it’s pathetic, I had a look, full of drivel, large-print, conspicuous by its absence is anything literary, Reader’s Digest, would you believe, a library that contains no literature, a brand of literature which has been stripped of literature so that a place for it will be found in libraries where there’ll be no literature.’