A Book of Memories

by Peter Nadas

  "Another exciting little adventure?" Father asked.

  "Something like that," he sighed.

  "Tell me about it," Father said.

  "An actress," he answered.

  "I wager she is blond and indecently young"—thus Father.

  "Oh, that's the least that can be said of her!"

  And he would have continued, too, describing the affair not just in general terms but in great detail, as I had the good fortune to hear him do on another occasion, but at that moment they had to turn toward the wide staircase leading from the park to the terrace, cutting the conversation short just when it promised to turn most exciting—for, returning from her leisurely afternoon coffee break, Mother had appeared in the company of Fräulein Wohlgast, with a clear air of shared intimacy as they slowly walked up the stairs, and the young lady, in her usual loud manner and somewhat raspy voice, was launching into a playful attack: "Oh, the men," she exclaimed at the bottom of the staircase, her words almost coinciding with Frick's last sentence, "just when we are discussing such weighty matters, too; I am telling you, Frau Thoenissen, there was a time when men held our destiny in their hands; those days, I daresay, are over; while we make plans and reach important decisions, they engage in frivolous chitchat, or am I wrong? will they be honest with us, might I ask them not to tell us fibs just this once?"

  But all this happened much earlier, maybe two or three summers earlier than the afternoon I referred to before, at least that's how my memory has preserved it, and since a child's mind can't absorb all the cleverness and foolishness of adults, my imagination has had to fill in the white spots of this scene of long ago.

  Much earlier, I've said, alluding hesitantly to some of the more distinctly remembered details: everyone knew that Fräulein Wohlgast had lost her sweetheart in '71, in the war against France; he was said to have been a dashing officer, and she, in patriotic zeal, had vowed to mourn him for as long as she lived, "until the grave and beyond," forever reminding the world of the "infamy perpetrated not only against me but against us!"— and she wore dark gray clothes, no longer black, though every year the gray got lighter, until on a certain afternoon when, thanks to Mother's venomous outpouring, we arrived at the station in quite a state, crossing the splendid glass-covered and at that hour pleasantly cool stationhouse just as the squat engine and its four red cars pulled in, and she appeared in a stunning, lace-trimmed, lily-white dress.

  By this time Mother's unanswered, bristling sentences were sticking out of Father like the arrows out of St. Sebastian in some romantic illustration, penetrating deep under the skin, into the flesh, and still quivering in the air: the only sentence he managed to squeeze out was something about turning back, but Mother pretended not to have heard that, and of course everything played into her hands, because there was no time to catch their breath here, either; once again they had to greet acquaintances, had to keep smiling; there was quite a gathering on the open platform, people coming to meet the new arrivals (there weren't that many anyway) and to enjoy the lively spectacle offered by this little marvel of modern science; they acted as if their brief afternoon stroll could be properly terminated only here. I cannot imagine what the spa's guests did for entertainment before this railroad line was built (it connected the charming old town of Bad Doberan, also the Prince's summer residence, with the lovely-sounding Kühlungsborn); anyway, the buzz of conversation died down and, as if sitting in theater boxes, everyone watched in fascination as nimble conductors threw open the doors, lowered the steps—ah, the moment of arrival!—watched the porters, too, as they vanished and reappeared in the clouds of steam emitted by the puffing, screeching engine, hurriedly unloading the heavy pieces of luggage; soon, though, after a few minutes of idle waiting, while words of greeting and farewell intermingled on the platform, at a signal from the stationmaster the steps would be pulled up, the doors slammed shut, and leaving behind the pleasant fatigue of arrival among those who had disembarked and the sad silence of distant longing among those who welcomed them, and with some more whistling and clanging, the engine's puffing gradually accelerating to a steady clatter, the whole brief show, like a momentary vision, would disappear around the nearest bend, and once more we would be left as we were, this time unmistakably by ourselves.

  Peter van Frick was standing in the open door of one of the red railroad cars, the first to appear, and surveying the crowd on the platform, he noticed us right off—I felt and also saw that he did this, picking us out of the throng of friends and acquaintances who had come to welcome him—but then he immediately turned away, his face more serious and sullen than usual, his dark complexion more pallid; he was wearing a well-tailored traveling suit that made him look even taller and more slender; as he stepped gracefully off the train, one hand casually holding his hat and valise, with the other he quickly reached back to help somebody else down; who that was we couldn't yet tell, but a moment later there she was, none other than Fräulein Nora Wohlgast, yes, no doubt of it, dressed in white, like a bride; it must have been the first time I saw her in white (and, it must be said, as a result of the rapid and drastic turn of events, also the last): if Frick's arrival was considered an extraordinary event because of the delicate role he had played in exposing the recent double assassination attempt against the Kaiser, about which the vacationers at Heiligendamm had learned only in newspapers and whose precise details and wider ramifications they were now hoping to ascertain firsthand, well then, this dual appearance was an out-and-out sensation, bordering on scandal, though in light of his very special position and his momentary popularity people were willing enough to close their eyes and pretend either not to see what in fact they could not avoid seeing or to make believe it was mere coincidence, and in any event, the reputation of society's darlings is always enhanced, their superiority confirmed, by a little scandalous behavior; they rise above and rule us precisely because they cross boundaries we dare not, but the Fräulein! how could she have wound up on that train, when this very morning she had breakfasted with us at our regular table? and why in white all of a sudden? and so conspicuously white, to boot, which on account of her age she had no business wearing, for she was closer to thirty than to twenty! why this sartorial provocation which seemed so unlike her, why? could it be that she and that inveterate bachelor, the councillor, were secretly engaged, or might he have already married her? prompted by this flood of questions, I looked first at Mother, then at Father, hoping to read the answers on their faces, but Mother's face was unresponsive and Father's showed such shock and agitation that, without realizing why, I automatically grabbed his hand, as if to hold him back from doing something dreadful, and he let me, yielding helplessly, turning pale, ashen, though his eyes, bulging out as if mesmerized, kept staring at the couple who were unmistakably together; his mouth dropped open and stayed open, and all the while we were getting closer, for they were heading our way and we were moving toward them, and a moment later, as if pushed along by the rather exaggerated and overly enthusiastic shouts and exclamations, we found ourselves part of the colorful human ring surrounding Frick, as scores of unfinished, interrupted sentences clashed and tangled above our heads, as they all besieged him, of course, asking about his trip and expressing delight at seeing him, alluding to his "extremely exhausting work" that must have accounted for his "wan" complexion; in this platitudinous atmosphere, overheated by noise and mawkishness, no one could be expected to look at that other face, Father's foreboding countenance, not even Frick himself, but they all had to see and hear Father, who, having snatched his hand from my terrified grip, leaned very close to Fräulein Wohlgast's face and, though he might have liked to whisper, shouted, "What are you doing here?"

  As if no emotion were powerful enough to penetrate the armor of appearances, there was no outburst and no scandal, nobody screamed and no one became violent, even if the propensity for sudden hysteria lying dormant in human nature may have warranted it, rather, it was as if Father's question had never been asked, or that it was the
most natural question in the world put in the most natural way possible, although they knew only too well that Father wasn't, couldn't be, on intimate enough terms with Fräulein Wohlgast to permit himself such a question, and in public, too, using the familiar form of address! or could he be? was something dark and confusing being exposed here? for all I knew, it wasn't just the two of them but perhaps a curious threesome or, counting Mother, a foursome; yet no, it wasn't so, for no one seemed to notice anything, everyone finished their sentences and launched animatedly into new ones, assuring the purity of the proper social overtones produced by the music of their chatter; what is more, I could detect the effect of propriety even on myself, for I suddenly felt so faint I had the distinct impression that the scandal had already erupted, the abyss had opened up, and there was no escape; not only did I feel that we would be falling—that ominous feeling experienced so many times before—but that this was the fall itself, we were in the midst of it! I wanted so much to close my eyes and stop up my ears, but I could do nothing, the sense of propriety being stronger than I, and my having to remain in control, while as for Mother, her performance was simply brilliant: as Frick bowed slightly to kiss her hand, she could even bring herself to laugh heartily, gaily: "Oh, Peter, we are so delighted that you can be here at last! If not for those important affairs of state, we'd probably never forgive you for depriving us of your company for so long"; and in fact there was no stopping now, the situation rolled on: stepping before Father, smiling a self-satisfied smile over the answer he'd just given Mother—"And I shall do my best to make up for lost time"—Frick offered to shake Father's hand, no hugs on this occasion, of course, while Father, speaking even louder than his friend, said, "Affairs of state? Nonsense!" and rather than letting go of the privy councillor's hand grasped it even harder, staring into his eyes with an impenetrable look, and then lowering his voice to a whisper: "You mean a criminal affair, Herr Frick, don't you? which is not so hard to uncover, provided the assassination was well organized."

  "You are a witty man," said Frick, laughing deliciously, as if he had just heard the most amusing jest, and once again the situation was saved; members of our little party were now ready to help things along, determined to ward off further attacks from Father, so their chattering grew louder, became a frantic hubbub, until an elderly, highly respected lady, who must have weathered quite a few storms in her time and had ample practice at saving the day, took Frick's arm and cried, "I am going to snatch you away from here, sir," and with that she jolted the whole company out of any lingering shock; becoming aware of the changed mood, people were ready to gloss over the momentary unpleasantness, though the word "scandal" must have still been buzzing in their heads, and though when Mother took Father's arm she seemed to be restraining him, which he needed, for he looked as if he was about to hit someone or start screaming, but the dowager chimed in again: "I know it is beastly of me, but what I have to say is important and should mitigate my rudeness— the Prince, you see, is waiting for you!" and the old lady's pleasantly tremulous voice rose above the din; by then our company began to move, treading on the crunchy gravel path leading to the white stationhouse, and only two of us were left behind, almost abandoned: Fräulein Wohlgast, who, still paralyzed from the earlier situation, could not take advantage of the improved, more favorable one, and I, of course, whose presence made absolutely no difference to anyone.

  "Let's get out of here, and quick!" Father snapped, and promptly began walking with Mother in the opposite direction, but an unpleasant white apparition blocked their way, the Fräulein herself, who in this latest confusion somehow ended up in front of Mother and, having cast about in her stunned mind for a plausible explanation, seemed just at that very moment to have hit upon the answer: "You won't believe this, but after breakfast I felt like going for a long walk, and I didn't stop until I got as far as Bad Doberan, and who should I meet there?!"—her chatty tone in the circumstances sounded like an absurd parody—"You have behaved scandalously, Fräulein!" Mother said, with an air of superiority, looking calmly into her eyes, but then Father pushed Mother along, and the two of them swept the young lady out of the way; I hurried after them across the railroad tracks, as in complete silence and almost running, we let the forest trail lead us on, and only after making a detour long enough to count as an excursion, via the marsh, did we return to the spa, well after dark.

  Oh, what a terrible night was to follow!

  I was startled from my sleep by someone standing in the open terrace door behind the translucent curtain—or was it just a shadow, a ghost?— and thinking that even a flickering eyelid might be noticed, I didn't dare close my eyes again, even though it would have been much better not to see or hear what was to come; the terror of the previous afternoon returned, adding to my fear; and then the curtain did move, and a shadowy figure entered and hurried across the room, in the dark, a night without light, footsteps tapping on the bare floor, then muffled on the soft rug, and I recognized Mother in the shadowy figure, heard her reach the double door leading to the hallway; she must have put her hand on the door handle and even pressed it down, because a sharp click shattered this deepest silence of the night, in which the lazily rolling sea could barely be heard and even the pine trees had stopped whispering, but then apparently she changed her mind, crossed the room again, the high heels of her swansdown-trimmed slippers tapping resolutely, as though she knew exactly where she was going and why, she was wearing her flowing dressing gown, which she must have hurriedly thrown over her nightgown, I could hear the silky rustle; when she got back to the terrace door and stayed there motionless for a few seconds, I wanted to say something, but no sound would leave my throat, just as in a nightmare, except I knew I was fully awake; then cautiously, with the attentiveness of a spy, she pulled the curtain open, but instead of stepping out on the terrace she turned around quickly, hurried across the room again toward the double door leading to the hallway, pressed down hard on the handle, the sound was unmistakable, but the door didn't open, she turned the key, the lock clicked open, yet evidently she thought better of it; without venturing into the hallway, she headed back to the terrace, while the door left ajar produced a slight draft, making the curtains flutter in the dark; I sat up in bed.

  "What happened?" I asked very quietly, perhaps too quietly, because of the shock, far greater than mere fright, that seized my neck and throat, but without responding—she may not even have heard me—Mother now walked out on the terrace, took a few steps, and, as if the irritatingly loud tapping of her slippers made her stop, rushed back into the room; "What happened?" I asked again, louder this time; and now she was at the front door again, opening it, and once more turning around, and at this point I simply had to jump out of bed, I had to try to help her.

  Moving fast in opposite directions, our bodies collided, and for a moment we clung to each other in the middle of the dark room.

  "What happened?"

  "I knew it, for five years I've known it."

  "What?"

  "I knew it, for five years I've known it."

  We were holding on to each other.

  Her body was terribly rigid, I could feel the tension in it, and though for a brief moment she hugged me and I tried hard to yield to her by hugging her back, I sensed that our physical contact was of no help to her, that my eagerness was in vain, that though I could feel her she could not feel me, I might as well have been a table or a chair she was using to regain her balance and resolve, resolve bordering on hysteria, to propel her on to carry out her will, and still, not wanting to let her go, I pressed my body to hers, as if I knew precisely what she was about to do, what awful act I had to keep her from committing—it made no difference to me what it was, I had no clear idea what it might be, but my instincts told me to protect her and keep her from doing whatever it was she now seemed desperate enough to do—and it felt as though my persistence did affect her, as if she had finally recognized me as her son, as someone who belonged to her, and she bent down and ki
ssed my neck passionately, almost biting it, but the next moment, as if having drawn strength from that kiss and from my quaking body, tore my clinging arms from her waist and pushed me away—"Unhappy boy!" she cried, and ran out the terrace door.