On the Edge

by Markus Werner

  Normally, I thought in the car driving towards Agra, I am a person with a clear head and an analytic intelligence. At the moment I am no such person. At the moment my brain is in a tangle, and that’s why I also forgot to pay for the two Camparis. I turned the car around and drove back to the Bellevue, where I paid the bill with trembling fingers.

  At the house I took a long, cold shower till my overheated emotions cooled. The facts were essentially clear and their synopsis simple: Loos had stood me up. We had gotten close to each other; we had spent two long evenings in intensive conversation with each other, getting more personal by the hour; we had practically become friends—and nevertheless Loos had stood me up and disappeared without a goodbye. This was the one fact that cried out loud for an interpretation. But a second more egregious fact called out even louder: Loos—a cultivated and seemingly respectable, if somewhat perverse, person—had been staying in a hotel under a false name.

  I considered first whether I could have said something on the previous evening, something that rankled him to the point that he wanted to see no more of me. Nothing came to mind. There had been disagreements, of course, but that was no ground for feeling injured, and certainly no ground for a rupture. It seemed more probable that, like me, Loos had simply felt a sense of surfeit in the morning, that he wanted to be alone and quiet, and had crept off somewhere where he could think about his dead wife undisturbed. But it also seemed possible that he took flight out of a mixture of embarrassment and disgruntlement. It often happens that a person who has confided in and revealed himself to someone is later embarrassed about it and feels an aversion to the person he’s brought into his confidence. We don’t always like people who know our secrets, and we can resent the fact that we have practically shown ourselves naked in front of them. And that sufficiently accounted for the first fact. The second was a harder nut to crack. What could have caused Loos to register under a false name? I looked first for the more innocent reasons. Maybe this sort of masquerade was just a whim. He might have found it fun or a release to shed his real name and go incognito, at least for a few days. I couldn’t really imagine myself doing it, which of course means nothing—there are a lot of eccentricities that I have a hard time identifying with. But it was easier to believe in this interpretation than the more outlandish one that envisioned Loos on the run from the police, possibly even an escaped convict, who was driven by an inner compulsion to visit the vicinity of the crime, the place where his wife in some way or other—but by some act of his—had met her death.

  Seized with a nervousness I’d never known before, I started pacing the house and garden. Suddenly I stopped. Suddenly it struck me: Loos had in fact stayed at the Bellevue for a few days last year. So they must already have known him—there was no way they could have forgotten such a striking man, or his name either. So how could Loos have dared to register under another, false name? That had to be excluded. But if I excluded that, only one conclusion remained—one that chilled me. It was I, then, I was the one who had been deceived. He had passed himself off to me as Loos, but his real name, in all probability, was the one in the guest book. I lay down on the sofa, but stood up again after a few minutes, because I can’t think straight lying down. I was trying to figure out why the thing rattled me so much. Although it was a matter of deceit and deliberate misleading, I felt no moral indignation. That’s not typical of me anyway. Besides, it was completely indifferent to me whether Loos’s real name was Meier or Müller, a false label doesn’t change what it’s attached to. But I was disappointed nonetheless, and I couldn’t avoid asking myself: What can I believe coming from a person who has made himself known to me under a false name and conversed with me for two long evenings? Doesn’t the false label have to raise suspicions that he’s told me still other fairy tales? But I ruled this out: there wasn’t the least ground for it. Only the story of his wife’s death raised doubts, and only then, if I thought he was to blame or shared the blame for her death. Otherwise, everything I heard from Loos—I stay with this name for now—seemed credible.

  I brooded over it a while longer, till I was forced to capitulate, to admit that I could find no answer to the central question. If it was after all true that Loos was not really named Loos, then what reason did he have to introduce himself to a complete stranger, an unknown—which I certainly was to him—under an assumed name? I could no longer accept a simple, whimsical mood as the explanation: my intuition spoke against it. My intuition said that Loos’s name was Loos. What was an alias supposed to disguise? But there was no sudden flash of insight, and a growing inner tension, a restlessness I could hardly endure, obliterated what was left of my power to think.

  I reached for the axe and chopped wood like a maniac till I was soaked with sweat and felt calmer. Then I took another cold shower, put fresh clothes on, and sat down behind the wheel of the car. As if by remote control—practically without my participation—it drove itself to Cademario.

  I stood at the hotel bar and drank a double Fernet because my stomach was all in a knot. It was in this health resort that the decisive event played itself out, I said to myself. Where if not here will I learn the truth? Only why does it actually matter to me? Why should I care? I’ve never been curious in my life. Why the hell can’t I manage to just slam the door on this whole thing, that has nothing to do with me? I only had to push myself, I had to rationally decide to let go of the matter, and I’d be free. So I pushed myself, finished my drink, and steered myself to the exit. But something pulled me left to the reception desk just before I got there. I asked whether Eva, a respiratory therapist—her last name had escaped me—still worked here at the sanatorium; I was an acquaintance of hers and would like to see her for a few minutes if I could. They asked me for my name, which I gave along with my title and was immediately told that Eva Nirak was off, since it was Pentecost, but was in the building somewhere, probably in her room. I waited in the big reception lobby and made a mental note not to blurt things out. I didn’t want it to seem that I only came to ask her whether a fatal accident had occurred at the indoor pool a year ago. I wanted to chat with her for a while and then slip my question in somewhere as if in passing. She would have to know about it—she belonged to the staff. That she didn’t say anything about it a year ago when we had our little roll in the hay meant nothing, since that afternoon we naturally kept our talk to a minimum.

  I hardly recognised Eva now when I saw her approach. Her loose platinum blonde hair was now chestnut brown and pinned up over her neck. She looked austere, almost bourgeois, and her gray suit strengthened this impression. Her eyes were cool, her lips unglossed and unsmiling, her handshake limp: I was clearly not welcome. Before I could say a word, she asked, “Have you come because of me or because of her?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “You’re too late,” she said, “she left an hour ago.” “But who, for God’s sake?” “Don’t pretend. You found out somehow that Valerie spent the Pentecost holiday here. She’s gone now, and I hardly think she wants to see you again. Leave her in peace!” “Eva, I had no idea that Valerie was here. I don’t even know where she lives now. I haven’t heard another thing word from or about her since last year, since we broke up.” “Then you’re here to see me, how flattering. Let’s sit down.”

  I followed her out to the panorama terrace feeling slightly dizzy. I ordered another Fernet, Eva a glass of red wine. “Why did Valerie come here?” I asked her. “To visit me, of course,” Eva responded. “So you’re still in touch, amazing,” I said. “She’s my friend.” “But still, then you … you know what I mean. Did you tell her?” “There are things,” Eva said, “that are too meaningless to have to mention.” “Thank you,” I said. “Which doesn’t mean,” she went on, “that I wasn’t surprised at myself then, at least afterwards. It shocked me that I could be like that.” “We simply attracted each other,” I said. “That can happen, don’t be so austere. Did Valerie tell you about our separation, I mean already then?” “Yes, she did, on t
he same day I was with you. What reason did you have for not telling me?” “I probably thought it was a special turn-on for you to seduce a man in a relationship.” “A sharp number like you,” said Eva, “always sets our kind on fire, in a relationship or not.” “It strikes me as a little strange when someone later casts a mocking light on the sharp number she was once so set on. I don’t know how to account for your aggressiveness.” “It has nothing to do with our little romp,” Eva said, “but with Valerie.” “You’ve going to have to be clearer,” I said. “Did she say something bad about me?” “Have you ever heard her say anything bad about other people?” “Actually, no,” I said. “She protected you” Eva said. “She took all the blame on herself for her misery.” “Misery! Please. We had a beautiful time together, and when it ran its course, Valerie accepted it, with composure. She too clearly realised that we weren’t suited to each other, not for the long run anyway.” “Yes,” said Eva, “you should have seen how serene she was the day after your visit. She didn’t howl, she didn’t tear her hair. Man, you don’t have a clue. And I of all people—she didn’t know anyone else here—I had to take her in my arms and console her, though I probably still smelled of you. You can imagine how shabby I felt.” “I hope you’re not making me responsible for that,” I said. “If I’m not mistaken, you enjoyed your time with me on a totally volunteer basis.” “That’s true,” she said. “At least I realised, thanks to you, how little the quick trip suits me. It was a new experience for me, although I’m sure you believe the opposite.” “You radiated the opposite.” “Possibly so,” she said, “but let’s drop that. Are you really not aware of the desperate condition you left Valerie in?” “I told you, she looked composed. She didn’t shed a tear, and in the time since there hasn’t been a single sign of it—no reproach, no lamentation, and no request to talk it out with me again either.” “You’ve interpreted all of that in your own way,” said Eva, “a way that’s comfortable for you. The image of the silent Valerie, who calmly and without complaint goes on to the next item on the agenda, has spared you all empathy and all scruple.” “I’m not a mind-reader,” I said indignantly. “How can I know that someone’s in pain if she doesn’t show it in her face? And anyway, you’re pretty well getting on my nerves. I have trouble with sermons.” “You can leave anytime you want,” she said. “Yes,” I said, “that would be the smarter thing to do.” “And yet it seems something is holding you back.” “How do you get that?” “Because you’re constantly biting your lower lip and because I don’t necessarily believe that you came here just to say hello to me.” “Hmm,” I said, and Eva asked, “Have you really heard nothing about Valerie?” “Not the slightest thing.” “She’s moved far away and lives alone. She’s never gotten over the separation.”

  We stayed quiet for a while. Then I said that, though I was convinced that Eva was exaggerating and trying to make me feel guilty, I was very sorry that Valerie had taken our separation so tragically. To hear that I meant so much to her was a surprise to me—she had never expressed anything like that.” Apparently, said Eva, only what was said counted for me, for anything else I was blind. Valerie too was blind, of course, but in a whole other way. I said it was nevertheless a charming caprice of nature when two blind people found each other. Eva didn’t take me up on that. A small misunderstanding, as she put it, had crept into our discussion: the separation Valerie hadn’t been able to get over was the one from her husband, not from me. I swallowed dryly and asked Eva why, then, she had just now—and in dramatic tones to boot—reported on Valerie’s pain and desolate condition after our separation. Because it had happened like that, she answered, because Valerie really was desperate. She had—and these were her exact words—loved me with a “baffling ardour.” And yet she had always known that something in our relationship wasn’t right. She had once told her, Eva, about a scene that she and I had witnessed at a children’s playground. A child was sitting on the swing, while her father stood next to her, buried in a newspaper, and mechanically gave the swing a push from time to time without lifting his head. I hadn’t noticed how lovelessly lethargic and disengaged the father was acting. She, Valerie, overlooked this at the time, as with much else that she saw about me and turned a blind eye to. Her heart with all her wits seemed to have run off with her, is how Valerie had literally put it. She had enjoyed the whole process in a thoughtless way, and it very soon became clear to her that she couldn’t impose herself on her husband in this state. And so she left him—although not with the feeling that it would be final—and suppressed her guilt feelings. Maybe I now had the impression, Eva continued, that Valerie had confided with her in everything having to do with me and her husband, but that wasn’t the case. She had in truth told her very little, and very gropingly, as if she were trying to remember a dream. Especially with regard to her marriage with Felix—his name was surely known to me—she had spoken practically only in hints.

  I knew what she was talking about, I said, she was like that with me too. She never came right out with anything, she preferred to keep things shrouded in mystery, which struck me more and more as an affectation and got on my nerves. It was a mistake, Eva observed, to draw conclusions about others based on ourselves. That much of my own behaviour was disingenuous didn’t give me the right to interpret Valerie’s behaviour in that sense and to talk about affectation. I asked Eva if she was taking psychology courses. She said she was sorry she couldn’t help me there, but she would heartily recommend that I take one, although she didn’t really think that empathy could be learned. In any case, she saw Valerie’s behaviour and hesitant way of speaking primarily as a sign of her embarrassment and sense of tact. And to that were added her intuition and experience, which told her how infinitely difficult it was to get ahold of something as contradictory as feelings with words. There was a chaos reigning in Valerie—she had told Eva that herself—she felt both innocent and guilty, happy and oppressed, fulfilled and empty, and very often all simultaneously. And this was only an approximation of her real condition at the time. We really ought to be glad that she came out of it just with nervous problems instead of having a mental breakdown. I said I had caught on to her nervous condition, but that Valerie had explained it in a totally different way. There had been no talk of a chaos of feelings, and I had had so little sense of it that I found it rather difficult to give it any credence.

  Eva sighed, the way people do when they want to let someone know they find him tiresome and think it senseless to have any more to do with him. Nevertheless, I still asked—though it was actually more to the point to finally bring the conversation around to Loos—whether Valerie had turned to me because of a crisis in her marriage. Eva said she didn’t know, because Valerie hadn’t given her much of a glimpse into the inner reality of her relationship either. She had put up a protective wall around the marriage, as it were, and she, Eva, had respected it and not tried to penetrate it. But if Valerie ever happened to casually speak of Felix, her tone became warmer, and you had the sense you could hear love behind it, so that it was completely obscure to her, Eva, why this woman was driven to throw herself into somebody else’s arms. She could speculate, but didn’t want to do that now. She could say with assurance, however, that neither a simple appetite for change nor the seductive arts of a skirt-chaser were the cause. I passed over the “skirt-chaser” and said I thought it was a shame that the marriage didn’t get back into shape. I had actually assumed and honestly hoped it would, wishing it for both their sakes. “ ‘Noble be the man, helpful and good,’ ” said Eva. I passed unruffled over this remark too and added that, on the other hand, I could appreciate Felix’s position. Not every man was capable of giving a warm welcome to an unfaithful wife when she came knocking at the door again. He had been capable of it, Eva said, he had received her with a virtual bouquet of roses. Did that mean, I asked, that Valerie didn’t want to go back to him again? So it seemed, Eva said. On the other hand, unmistakable signs suggested that Valerie did want to go back to him, but wo
uldn’t let herself. If that was the case, I said, then I’d be eager to know the reasons. They were filigree and hard to get at, Eva said. Did she know them then? I asked. She said she could feel them.