‘Let’s say: she isn’t excessively polite.’
‘That’s as it should be.’ François clapped his hands together as if he had just concluded a profitable business deal with himself. ‘She has to keep people off my back. Otherwise I won’t have a minute’s peace here, and won’t get a stroke of work done.’
‘Sorry to disturb you, then.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ François must have been in a particularly good mood, because apologising wasn’t normally his way. ‘Make yourself comfortable. As best you can, I mean. I’m not set up for guests here.’
Unlike his house, where he had commissioned the architect to design everything as impressively as possible, regardless of the cost, François’s office was practically Spartan in its furnishings. The furniture wasn’t as old as the pieces in Chanele’s office in Baden, but with the best will in the world one could not have called them distinguished. There wasn’t even a chair for visitors. The only place to sit was a couch covered with greenish material which reminded Arthur of the treatment couch in his surgery. Mina had once told him that François slept in his office if there was a lot to do there. He hadn’t made it very comfortable for himself.
François followed his gaze and laughed. ‘Not exactly luxurious, is it? But I’m not putting another rappen into it. It’s going to be very, very different anyway.’
‘You plan to rebuild?’
‘Perhaps.’ François made the wouldn’t-you-like-to-know? face that Arthur knew from childhood. Then, when François had something particularly good on his plate, a chicken leg, for example, or the slice of birthday cake with the sugar icing, then he had always left it there for a long time and waited, with exactly that face, and it was only when Hinda and Arthur had eaten their portions and stared enviously at his still-full plate that he asked, ‘Would anyone like some more?’ Woe to anyone who said ‘yes’, because it was only then that he ate it all himself, cut very small pieces off to prolong the torment of the others, chewed carefully and noisily, like a wine connoisseur savouring the taste of a good wine, and it was only the fact that they had to watch him enviously that made his relish complete. It was only if one didn’t answer, and acted as if one were far too full to take an interest in what was left on his plate, that one had any kind of chance.
So Arthur asked no more questions, and instead got straight to the reason for his visit. ‘I have wanted to talk to you about this for three months, but then this business with Désirée and Alfred got in the way.’
‘That’s all been sorted out. I hear from my friend Charpentier that Alfred is working very sensibly in the shop. I asked him to introduce the boy to the various houses, you know what I mean. That will distract him. Until he has forgotten the girl in a year.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘You’ll see. So, what did you want from me?’
‘Well . . . The thing is this . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s a bit embarrassing to have to ask you for money, but . . .’
‘Is the practice going so badly? From what one hears, you aren’t very popular with your patients.’
‘I don’t need the money for me!’
‘Oh, back to the good? Is my brother out to improve the world again?’ François didn’t mean it nastily, but almost with a hint of pity, as if Arthur’s inclination to be concerned about other people were a regrettable weakness, which one must accommodate in a brother, but with a heavy heart.
‘It’s about the Jewish gymnastics association.’
‘Not this business with the flag again! Papa told me about your begging. I’ve never understood where your sudden enthusiasm for the sport comes from, but each to his own.’ François sat down behind his desk, straightened his notepad and screwed off the cap of a thick fountain pen. There was something condescending about it, as if he were granting an audience, and Arthur wondered if he himself came across like this to his patients as he prepared to listen to their case histories.
‘So you’ve bought this flag.’
‘Not bought as yet. We would like to, but . . .’
‘Hang on! The flag consecration ceremony has already been scheduled. I read that in the Wochenblatt.’
‘You still read that rag?’ Arthur asked in amazement.
‘Just because the occasional baptised reader looks into it, it doesn’t make it treyf. So you’re having a flag consecration ceremony, but you have no flag. In other words: your collection campaign was unsuccessful.’
‘I would have expected it to be easier,’ Arthur admitted with embarrassment.
‘It’s never easy to get hold of other people’s money.’ François said that like an art critic who wants to win back an unjustly undervalued work into the canon. ‘It either takes a lot of skill, or . . .’
‘. . . which I plainly lack . . .’
‘. . . or a miracle. But perhaps . . .’ François laid both index fingers to his upper lip and from there ran them along the sides of his cheeks. Arthur knew that gesture as well. It dated back to the days when François had worn his moustache long, in the dandy style, and meant that he was very contented with something, usually a business deal. ‘Perhaps today is one of those miraculous days.’ He bent over his notepad and looked quizzically at Arthur. ‘How much does such a flag cost? And how much have you managed to get together?’ François wrote the two sums down, one below the other, drew a careful line and then announced the result of his calculation: ‘You will have to put off your ceremony. By about fifty or a hundred years.’
‘I had hoped you might be able to help me.’
‘As a goy?’ François raised his eyebrows.
‘As a brother.’
‘I will have to think about that.’ Carefully and without haste he removed a bit of fluff from the gold tip of the pen, drew a few experimental curlicues on his note pad, and only went on talking when the line was clean and slender again. ‘Such a flag always has a sponsor,’ he reflected. ‘I won’t say “godfather”, because I’m sure you would find the connotations unpleasant.’
‘Sponsorship is customary, that’s right,’ Arthur said carefully. He didn’t yet know where François was taking this.
‘And this sponsor – correct me if I’m mistaken – is generally the donor who made the biggest contribution. Is that not correct?’
Arthur nodded with some anxiety.
‘Fine, then I will now write you a cheque, and at your big occasion I will solemnly hand the flag over to the association.’
‘You?’
‘Perhaps with a nice little speech.’
‘That’s impossible!’
‘Why?’
‘You . . .’
‘Yes?’
Arthur didn’t reply, and François suddenly started laughing. ‘Why don’t you just say it? You would take money happily enough, but a baptised godfather – sooner not.’
‘I thought,’ Arthur said awkwardly, ‘we could appoint the department store as the donor. That would be a good advertisement.’
‘Of course.’ François smiled with ironic politeness. ‘If you all buy your gym vests from me, my turnover will reach unimagined heights.’
‘Then please forgive me. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your valuable time.’
‘Just wait a moment. You’re always very quick to take offence.’ François grinned. He had once again been playing one of those games to which only he knew the rules, he had won and was very pleased with himself. He took a chequebook from a drawer of his desk, opened it, wrote in a sum and signed with a flourish. Then he tore the paper from the book, waved it in the air to dry the ink, and held it out to Arthur. ‘Here. I’ve rounded up the sum. Things always cost more than it says in the estimate.’
‘It’s really out of the question, having you as flag sponsor.’
François carefully screwed the lid back on his fountain pen and put it back in its case. ‘I’m not interested in that,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to see your face as you imagined the potent
ial embarrassment. Jus tell your people you got the money from Papa. Let him make a ceremonial appearance at your party. He likes that kind of thing.’
Arthur still didn’t take the cheque. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Because I’m in a good mood,’ said François, and let the cheque flutter to the desk. ‘Because today I’ve had a piece of news for which I’ve been waiting for a very long time.’ Again he clapped his hands as if applauding the successful conclusion of a business deal. ‘Old Landolt has died at last. Isn’t that wonderful?’
Waiting in the corridor was a man with a big portfolio tied with black ribbons, which he was holding on to with both hands. He might have been waiting there for a long time and hadn’t even been able to sit down because the chauffeur was still snoring on the old sofa. The severe woman whose blouse collar was too tight came shooting out of her room and glared at Arthur; he had probably taken a schedule that had been puzzled over with a lot of time and effort and recklessly thrown it into confusion by having too long a discussion. She pulled open the door to François’s office and said to the man with the portfolio, ‘Please, Herr Blickenstorfer!’ Arthur noted with surprising relief that she was just as unfriendly to other people as she was to him.
François had the sign painter rest the cardboard against the wall, where the best light fell on it from the window behind the desk, and looked at the drawing for a long time. He felt Blickenstorfer looking at him anxiously, and enjoyed not showing how pleased he was straight away. And in fact it was perfect. Just perfect. That was exactly what the trademark of his new department store should look like. Solid, elegant and memorable. No garlands or ornaments of the kind that was so fashionable nowadays, but a clear form. He would have them painted on all the windows of the new building, not too big, but quite understated. Stylish. A company like his didn’t need to boast. ‘The form is like a seal,’ he thought, and he liked the idea. ‘The seal of quality.’ He would have to write the phrase down later.
He wasn’t superstitious, but he thought it was a good sign that the designer had brought it today. The day he had had the news of Landolt’s death. The young heirs would come round. He had already put out some discreet feelers, and they didn’t seem unwilling. They were modern people, for whom business was more important than hand-me-down prejudices. Of course they weren’t going to give him a special price, but that was fine too. Money shouldn’t be the clincher. It would be hard to pay off the debts, but then debts were nothing but figures on a balance sheet. The plot of land was the important thing. The perfect plot of land for the perfect department store. Nothing would get in the way this time. Not this time.
He must have been absently shaking his head, because the sign painter asked in alarm, ‘Isn’t this what you wanted, Herr Meijer?’
No, it was. Exactly what he wanted.
A circle, and in it, horizontally and vertically, the letters M-E-I-E-R, arranged in such a way that the two words shared the central I. Meier. Trustworthy and local. A Swiss name. ‘Let’s go to Meier’s,’ that slipped off the tongue nicely. Or, before one went shopping somewhere else, ‘Let’s go and look in Meier’s first.’
‘Well done, Blickenstorfer,’ said François. And he added the highest praise he knew. ‘You can send me your bill.’
There was already someone else waiting outside, but this visitor didn’t knock. He just walked through the door without first opening it, and sat down on François’s desk with his legs crossed.
‘Pretty,’ said Uncle Melnitz, holding the drawing with the new company insignia in his hand. ‘Really very pretty. But haven’t you forgotten a letter?’
‘You’re dead,’ said François. ‘I don’t have to talk to you.’
The old man shook his head as only a dead man can shake his head: the loose skin stayed where it was, and only the skull behind it moved. ‘I’ve died many times,’ he said without moving his mouth. ‘This is something quite different.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I want to remind you of your good name.’ said Melnitz. In his mouth his faded teeth formed the shape of a smile. ‘Your name is Meijer.’
‘I know what my name is.’
‘One becomes forgetful when one has oneself baptised. You’ve forgotten the J. Or the yud, if you want to write it in Hebrew. You’ve lost a yud. You didn’t want to be Meier with a yud.’ He laughed as if reading his laughter from a book, one syllable at a time, in a language he had never learned.
‘I’ve just simplified the name,’ said François. ‘For business reasons.’
‘You’ve simplified a lot of things for yourself, haven’t you? Were you at least able to sell your yud? Did you get a good price for it? Such an exclusive letter.’ The old man held the cardboard with the new company insignia up to his face and moved his jaws under his weary skin as he spelt it out. ‘Meier. How ordinary! Mass-produced goods from the bargain bin. Couldn’t you have come up with more noble material? Silberberg? Goldfarb? Or something fragrant? Rosengarten or Lilienfeld? In the old days people scraped together all their money to buy themselves a pretty name. I remember it very clearly. I remember everything.
‘It was back then,’ said Melnitz, making himself comfortable in François’s director’s chair, ‘when the law suddenly decreed that everyone must have a new name. Not the good old one, which linked one’s own first name with that of his father, just as you are called Shmul ben Yakov, or your son’s fiancée Deborah bas Pinchas. It had to be a modern name, one that could be recorded neatly in a list and a family tree, that’s right. You had to go to the register office, stand in front of a desk and make a deep bow, and then the official dipped his pen in the ink bottle and assigned you a name.
‘My name is Melnitz, and there’s a special reason for that – but I’ll tell you another time. I didn’t have to go to the register office, but many people had no other choice. You could have a name given to you for free, you only had to pay the fees, but something that costs nothing is also worth nothing, and that was what those names were like. In such offices people got bored, of course, and to pass the time those officials came up with funny jokes, or jokes that they thought were funny. “Your name is now Stiefelknecht” – Boot-jack – they would say when a little Jew stood in front of them and hadn’t even brought them a gift out of politeness, or, “You’re now the Futtersack – Feedbag – family.” And there was always some underling who would laugh loud and long and praise their humour because he wasn’t a Jew, and already had a name that no one could take away from him.
‘But the people in the offices were human beings too, and human beings can be talked to. Not that they were corrupt or anything, officials never are, but crossing a line out of a list and writing another one, that takes effort, particularly if it’s to be a pretty name, and no one could possibly object if they liked to be rewarded for that effort. Anyone who brought enough money could be called Blumenfeld or something else nice, and when he came home with a new name a bottle of bronfen was opened to celebrate the fact that they had got off so lightly.
‘Yes, Shmul Meijer,’ said Melnitz, ‘buying a name is an old Jewish tradition. But buying oneself a Meier, a quite ordinary Meier, is something I have never heard of.’
‘You’re dead, Uncle Melnitz. I don’t have to listen when you talk.’
‘You’ve written your new name in an original way,’ said Melnitz and studied the drawing. ‘So wonderfully symbolic. Your name as a cross, how appropriate. And such a pretty circle all around it. Is that the circle you’re moving in now?’
‘You’re dead!’ shouted François, and wasn’t sure if he had really shouted or not.
Uncle Melnitz put the drawing very carefully back against the wall. Where he had touched it, the bones of his hand were depicted as if on an X-ray. ‘I wish you the best of luck with your new name, Shmul Meier,’ he said. ‘Yis’chadesh. May you wear it gesunderheit.’
50
The stage curtain smelled musty, like an old woman’s dress. The soft, dark re
d fabric of the curtain condensed the chatty chaos on the other side into a broth of words and laughter; you could imagine that down in the auditorium everyone had only mouths, but no faces.
‘Where have you got to?’
Since the success of the evening was obvious – more than six hundred tickets sold, when the gymnastics association would have covered its costs with five hundred – Sally Steigrad had started adopting an unpleasantly bossy voice, like the one the regional director of his insurance company used when he gathered the representatives together for their annual conference. ‘I have had enough of having to check every single detail myself,’ this tone said, ‘but with staff like these I have no option.’ Even a few weeks previously, when 28 June was approaching at great speed, Sally had been secretly anxious about the association’s finances, but now, with a full house, he saw himself as a born organiser, and was already planning new feats, a tournament with Jewish sports clubs from all over Europe, or at least an association trip to the Olympic Games in Berlin.
‘All the parents are asking after you, Arthur,’ he said crossly. ‘They want to know when their little ones will have their turn.’
The children had been another of Sally’s ideas. In the name of the festival committee he had put an advertisement in the rag – ‘For the arrangement of a flag ceremony we need a large number of boys and girls’ – and had given Arthur’s surgery as an address for applications without asking him first. ‘People are happy to entrust their children to a doctor,’ he said when Arthur complained, ‘and besides, who knows, you might even get some new patients out of it.’
Then, of course, Arthur had had to do all the work. Sally had thousands of even more important things to think about, the decoration of the hall, the list of guests of honour to be invited, but above all the collection of donations for the big tombola, which for an insurance salesman was very discreetly associated with customer care and acquisition. He had also raised a considerable number of attractive prizes, from three pairs of almost high-fashion lace-up boots (Schuhhaus Weill) to twelve bottles of sweet wine from Palestine (Pinchas’s contribution). The main prize, presented in the foyer on a pedestal decorated with colourful crêpe, was a very respectable bellows camera with tripod.
Melnitz Page 54