by Uwe Tellkamp
‘Do you smoke? There’s a hell of a stink again.’ Judith Schevola tapped a few cigarettes out of a Duett packet and offered them to Meno when he nodded. ‘Impressive the way you described the ways these venomous tropical spiders have of killing. I must read that again later. I bought your Old German Poems. The Old Man of the Mountain spoke to me about it just now. I think he has a pretty high regard for you. Although immediately afterwards he told me you’d rejected one of his projects.’
‘That wasn’t me, that was the publishing section in the Ministry. I hope he told you that as well.’
‘I understand. How stupid. I’ve no matches on me.’ Schevola went through her pockets, the cigarette stuck between her lips.
‘Just a minute.’ Meno lit a match. She bent over his hand that was shielding the flame. He lit one for himself as well, took a deep pull, blew out the smoke with relish. ‘Oh, wonderful. Thanks. I left mine at home.’
‘I hope you like it. What do you usually smoke, when your memory doesn’t fail you?’
‘A pipe. Orient when I’m outside.’
‘My grandfather used to smoke a pipe … I’ve always liked the smell. – In the afterword to your book you twice omitted the subjunctive; as far as I know “as if” is followed by the past subjunctive so you should have written “as if it were” and “as if it were to start”.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes,’ Schevola said cheerfully, ‘it was a pleasure to pick out those mistakes after you pointed out that kind of nonsense in my first manuscript that I sent to Dresdner Edition. You rejected it because of those minor slips!’
‘Just a minute, that must be a mistake.’
‘But your name was the one at the bottom of the letter of rejection.’
‘Oh, I see. That does happen. Let me explain. We have pre-printed letters we sometimes have to use for that kind of communication because we’re short of normal writing paper. It can then happen that someone will sign without correcting the name on the pre-printed letter. In your case it was probably Herr Redlich, our senior editor.’
‘The signature was illegible, an “R” was recognizable. I thought of you at once. But surely you’re not going to slip away now. Perhaps you’re afraid I’ll strangle you?’
‘Then the cigarette was an offer of reconciliation?’
Schevola blew out a cloud of smoke, stared out into the garden. ‘Have you seen the dogs? He’s got kennels down there. A funny guy. Sometimes I wonder whether he believes what he says. Or whether he’s only here because they gave him an institute. – Do you like bullfighting?’
‘Only in Hemingway and Picasso.’
‘Do you find it too brutal? Too bloody?’
‘Too cruel. The crowd bawls because a living creature is being slaughtered.’
‘Slaughtered? How melodramatic. The torero and the bull are equal opponents. Each of the two has a chance and the one that dies goes down fighting and in full public view. Neither the torero nor the bull can hide anything, neither a moment of bravery nor one of cowardice. That’s honest and it’s a good death.’
‘Maybe. But I still find the ritual repulsive.’
‘You can’t bear the thought of death. And that we have to fight if we want to live. That is the idea bullfighting makes clear and I find that honest. But many people refuse to face up to that truth. And get outraged instead. And never ask themselves where the leather for the shoes they’re wearing comes from while they’re getting outraged.’
‘It may be honest to accept death and display it. But it isn’t great.’
Schevola looked up and surveyed him in surprise. ‘Then for you to lie is great?’
‘Send me your manuscript.’
Her expression darkened abruptly. She broke out into an ugly laugh. ‘Tell me, do you think I’m chatting to you in order to palm my stuff off on you?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’
Schevola put her hands to her temples and started to massage them. ‘You’re tired and I’m being a nuisance …’
‘May I join you?’
‘Of course,’ Meno said, ‘Herr Doktor Kittwitz, physicist – Frau Schevola, writer.’
‘We know each other from previous Urania meetings,’ the physicist said. He’d brought three glasses and a bottle of champagne. ‘Crimean champagne, the very best. The old man’s really pushed the boat out. No expense spared. Don’t you want to eat something, Herr Rohde? You’ve earned it and people are already asking where you are. Herr Altberg and Herr Sperber would both like a few words with you, your boss as well. You’ve got a little interview list already. Cheers, Judith, Herr Rohde.’ They clinked glasses, drank. ‘In cases like this Arbogast takes off his watch, puts it down where he can see it and says: Please excuse me but I can’t give you more than four minutes and thirty-one seconds.’
‘You seem to like him a lot again, Roland.’ Judith gave one of her ugly, grating laughs. ‘How’s your project going?’
‘I really do like him. You could say he’s got his little quirks, but you have to give him one thing: he takes trouble. We handed it in for publication. Two weeks later they called to say they couldn’t print it at the moment since their paper allocation is limited and they first of all have to see where they can get some for the next issues. How does this sound to you: In the Institute here we make a fundamental discovery …’
‘Oh, my dear Roland’s getting modest in his middle age and says “we”?’
‘Judith … please don’t. A fundamental discovery! But only something that gets published is recognized, Herr Rohde, and the priority goes to whoever is published first … And do you know what’s happened? There’s a group in Bremen. A few days ago Arbogast took me to one side and told me he’d spoken to a colleague there. They’ve made the same discovery as us, four weeks after us, but it will be published sooner … Just because there isn’t any paper in this country again … I really hit the roof, believe you me.’ He hastily gulped down some champagne and poured himself some more. ‘It was our, it was … my discovery, Judith. And it’s being taken away from me.’
‘Didn’t he tell them, on the telephone, that you were quicker?’
‘Of course he did. Answer: My dear Arbogast, we know the equipment you have at your Institute and, by and large, we know your colleagues … Surely you’re not trying to dispute our right to priority. Of course we’ll have to accept it if you publish your results before we do! Arrogant arseholes! We can’t do any top-level research here, this is the useless Zone … And do you know what we get told here? Funding? For flow research? Of what concrete benefit is that to the national economy? We’re sorry, but we can’t see the benefit. Huh.’ Kittwitz went to the edge of the balcony and grasped the balustrade. ‘D’you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to get away.’
‘There’s supposed to be a billion-mark loan from the Bavarian State Bank coming. In return we’re to drop the minimum currency exchange requirement for children.’
‘How incredibly humane. Yes, our state was always good to children. Franz-Josef Strauss, the arch-imperialist, loans us a billion in hard exploiter’s currency. Suddenly the road to the promised land goes right through Catholic Bavaria … So that’s what their principles are worth!’
‘Moreover they say they’re going to make it possible for citizens of the GDR and foreigners to marry, also for them to make a complaint if that should be refused. Now if that isn’t progress!’
‘Then you can hook yourself a capitalist millionaire at the Leipzig Trade Fair. Shouldn’t be difficult with your charm, Judith. And if you don’t get your class enemy, you can write a complaint. Or how about a gunrunner, buying supplies for Iraq from us. Cheers.’
‘You’re drinking too much, Roland. Just remember: “But scarce those words my lips had ’scaped –” ’
‘ “I wished I’d kept them in my breast.” Schiller, or something like that. As Herr Rohde knows. No offence meant.’ With a black look, he raised his glass and drank to Meno.
‘Oh, there you are, Herr Rohde. Do come in, you’ll get cold out there.’ Frau von Arbogast waved from the study window. ‘And Fräulein Schevola and Herr Kittwitz. Young people stick together, of course. But do come and join us, otherwise they’ll be talking of nothing but politics, cars and prostate glands in here.’ She closed the window.
‘Fräulein!’ Judith Schevola muttered indignantly. Kittwitz laughed. ‘For some reason she seems to like you. Come on, we’ll finish this bottle together.’
‘My God, lilac-coloured hair. Do you know what she asked me, Roland? Why I didn’t have mine dyed. Whether it was some disease. Of course I said it was just that there was too much ash in the air.’
Inside, Frau Knabe, a tall woman with short black hair, morello-cherry lipstick and a necklace of blue wooden beads slung several times round her neck, was talking about the advantages of matriarchy and the Feldenkrais method. Her husband was standing beside her, head bowed, fingers intertwined, staring at a pineapple that Professor Teerwagen and Dr Kühnast had approached to within a few fractions of an centimetre. ‘… all it comes down to is the oppression of women, for centuries and centuries, oh, since the beginning of time. And of course it’s a woman we have to thank for the expulsion from paradise and there’s this rule I’ve learnt: mulier tacet in ecclesia! Women are to keep silent in church, it says that in the Bible. The cheek!’
‘Perhaps the prophets will have had their reasons?’
‘Your smile doesn’t improve your joke one bit, Herr Däne. What do you have to say about it, Frau Schevola? Isn’t it about time to put an end to the rule of men? Especially of old men!’
Judith Schevola raised her glass.
‘Aha, and there is Herr Rohde. We were just talking about connections and breaking through the barriers between me and thee. As you were saying earlier on, about those nerve spiders or whatever: something is injected. It makes me think of anaesthetizing the nervus mandibularis. – Open wide, a little prick, wait five minutes and all quiet in the upper storey. But this in-ject-ing’ – Frau Knabe drew the word out, eyes wide – ‘this sting, pleasant pressure then something from outside dribbles into us, the bitter or the sweet poison … Toxic! I couldn’t help thinking about sex when you described it.’
Those around grinned.
‘Not with you, Herr Rohde, you’re too skinny for me and you’ve had too much of a classical education. Do you know that some patients find the sharp pain, when you use the three-finger grip and gently push the needle into the mucous membrane, energizing?’
‘I have to say that I recently read something like that by a doctor, Georg Groddeck –’
‘That’s right, Herr Däne, so did I.’
‘The Book of the It, Herr Dietzsch?’
‘Yes! And I thought it was interesting what he had to say about successful treatments, every treatment of patients is the right one, they are always and under all circumstances correctly treated, whether according to science or the method of a shepherd skilled in the healing arts – the cure doesn’t come from the prescriptions but from what our “it” does with the –’
‘You’d be the ideal doctor for our medical services here,’ said Frau Knabe, returning to the fray. ‘But, you know, recently I got terrible twinges from my musculus latissimus dorsi and unfortunately my “it” made absolutely nothing of it! It demanded painkillers and a correction of the wrong motion grid that caused it … Grid’s an interesting word, isn’t it? A mot juste. Thought grid, experience grid and motion grid, of course. Which takes us back to Feldenkrais. You interrupted me.’
‘But there’s always an incalculable element to humanity, Frau Doktor Knabe. Science can’t count or measure everything or even mark it on a grid.’
‘Who is saying it can, Herr Däne? But Feldenkrais doesn’t simply put forward unproved assertions. All it comes to in the end is that they say “it” – is a man.’
Meno went to the buffet. Judith Schevola was standing, laughing, in a group of scientists in white coats from the Institute, Sperber, the lawyer, was nearby talking to the Baroness and Teerwagen. Slices of cold roast meat, ham, Hungarian salami cut wafer-thin, several kinds of cheese, all appetizingly set out on plates with a garnish of lettuce leaves, hard-boiled egg halves, caviar and tomatoes, crispy fried chicken, Margon mineral water, beer, wine, Crimean champagne and bread giving off a nice smell. In addition, large bowls of fruit salad, Waldorf salad, grapes, bananas, fruits Meno didn’t recognize.
‘Not bad, is it?’ That was Malthakus, with a faint smile. ‘What you’ve got in your hand there’s called a kiwi fruit. Comes from New Zealand.’
‘Never seen one before, Herr Malthakus.’
‘Me neither, not until this evening. That is – just a minute. On a New Zealand stamp … Or was it a bird on it? You have to peel them or spoon them out. Have you tried the potato soup yet? A treat, really herby. Those are the things I like best. Simple dishes. Ones you even get in wartime. Bread, jacket potatoes, cream cheese, stew, potato soup. Though I suppose bananas aren’t to be sneezed at either.’ Putting his hand over his mouth, he laughed a quiet, bubbling laugh. ‘I’ve already polished off five and purloined a few more.’ Malthakus gave Meno a sly look. ‘For the kids. There’s nothing in the dump down the road.’ The ‘dump down the road’ was the greengrocer’s on the corner of Rissleite and Bautzner Strasse, across the road from the Binneberg café-cum-cake shop, and ‘nothing’ was Golden Delicious, salsify, sugar beet, beans, carrots, cabbage and a large tub of dirty potatoes. There was also juice, a red fizzy drink known as ‘Lenin’s sweat’.
‘It’s genuine Malossol caviar, by the way. Would you like a bagful? I always take some back with me when I’ve been to Arbogast’s. He’s on the supply programme of those over there. The Michurin kitchen complex. It completely bypasses normal shops.’
‘I know.’
Malthakus glanced up in surprise, a look of suspicion flitted across his face. ‘Oh yes. I see … My girls were friends with Hanna, when they were little. Later on they weren’t allowed to be with her any more. Haven’t seen her for ages.’
‘She’s in Prague, working as a doctor in the embassy.’
‘In Prague is she, and a doctor in the embassy … ? Yes, well, tall oaks from little acorns grow. I can still remember you and Hanna coming to the shop and buying picture postcards. You of Prague and London, Hanna always of Paris. Always of Paris, yes, yes.’ Malthakus adjusted his glasses, surveyed Meno reflectively. ‘You quoted a poem just now. That kind of thing doesn’t usually mean much to me, most of it’s above my head. I’m sure our modern poets are all very cultured and advanced but I’m sorry, I just don’t understand them. A simple line by Eichendorff or Mörike, that’s my limit. But the one you quoted –’
‘A Japanese haiku. “Oh, this sultry heat! / The spiders’ webs hanging hot / on the summer trees.” The poet was called Onitsura, he lived in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.’
‘Aha. Don’t you think it’s terribly hot in here? But that’s what I can’t get out of my mind: the hot spiders’ webs. You’ll have to forgive me if I couldn’t concentrate properly on the rest of your talk, it was going round and round in my head all the time. You get taken in by this Mr, what did you say? – Mr Onitsura. You believe in his hot spiders’ webs. Until you realize that it’s only a body that can get hot. But a spider’s web doesn’t have one, so it can’t get hot! … And yet you trust the fellow, somehow the line makes sense and that irritates me. Oh, I think the Baron would like to talk to you. In the meantime should I … act on your behalf?’ Malthakus looked round quickly and pulled the corner of a plastic bag out of his pocket. ‘We have the same way home as far as Wolfsleite – then the hand-over of the goods in question.’ Meno had to laugh at the stamp dealer’s innocent blue-eyed look, the words whispered behind his hand.
‘Well, Rohde, my friend, have you thought over my offer? Your boss would have no objection.’
‘I need a little time, Herr von Arbogast.’
Schiffner raised h
is champagne glass and drank to Meno. ‘We also have to have a talk about the Association conference, my son. The regional office has already been on the line asking where our response to the meeting on the election report is. And there’s some work coming your way soon. From our talented up-and-coming young writer.’ Schiffner nodded in the direction of Judith Schevola. Arbogast and he exchanged glances, grinned. Sperber and Altberg came to join them. ‘She wants to publish a book with us. Have a look some time. I mean at the book.’ Arbogast, Sperber and Schiffner began to laugh. ‘And just you be careful, my son, talent can be infectious.’ The three of them laughed even louder.