David's Revenge

by Hans Werner Kettenbach

  I told her Herr Hochgeschurz had told me at the reception.

  “So how do you come to know him?” I replied that Tassilo Huber had introduced us at the reception. Herr Hochgeschurz was obviously very loquacious, I said, and he had confided to me that he works for Internal Security.

  She said nothing for a while, and then put her book aside. “Of course I ought to have told you. But I was sorry for David. He asked me not to say anything about it.”

  David, I now discovered, isn’t feeling at all happy. He’s encountering serious obstacles in his attempts to find a German publisher for Georgian literature. There’s obviously not much interest in what he has to offer. He has already had three rejections from the addresses suggested to him as hopeful prospects by a Hamburg journalist who visited Tbilisi. The journalist was just making empty promises, and didn’t even mention David’s forthcoming visit to those publishers after he returned to Germany.

  “Is Lyra one of those firms?” I asked.

  She was silent for a moment and then enquired, “You haven’t been snooping around after him, have you?”

  “Snooping around? What do you mean?” I shook my head as if her question verged on the insulting. “He told me its name himself.”

  She nodded and plumped up her pillow. “Lyra is not a publishing house to be taken seriously. The books they bring out are hardly ever designed to appeal to the general public. What’s more, they pay peanuts.”

  She fell silent. I said, “But I still don’t know what Ninoshvili was looking for, going to that trial. And why did he tell me an hour earlier that he had an appointment to see a commissioning editor?”

  She sighed. I now found out that David feels… well, you’d have to call it ashamed when he talks to me. His pride won’t allow him to admit his failures to another man, and one who is his host as well. Maybe that kind of pride is a Georgian characteristic, she doesn’t know, she understands so little about the Georgians. Anyway, he’s ashamed, and he’s also ashamed because I’ve already caught him once idling about during the day.

  I said, “I’m sorry, but I rather got the impression he enjoys idling about.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not doing him justice.” And she told me that on the morning in question, as soon as I had left the house, David told her his troubles. He confessed that he didn’t have an appointment at all, and once that was out he obviously couldn’t keep any of the rest of it to himself: his disappointments, his humiliating experiences. As he told her all about it, the tears kept coming to his eyes. “It was really dreadful. I felt so sorry for him.” She wanted to spare him having to hang around town somewhere to kill time while he was supposed to be keeping his appointment, she said, so she offered to take him to the trial with her.

  Apparently Julia didn’t want to give me the impression that David Ninoshvili had been doing nothing but killing time in the courthouse too. She mentioned the intelligent questions he had asked her afterwards, during lunch, and that’s how I came to hear all about the hairdresser’s little run-in with the driver of the brewer’s truck.

  At the end of her story she turned to me and put her hand on my arm. “Will you do me a great favour?” I looked at her in silence. She said, “Please don’t let him know I told you all this.”

  I shrugged. “Well, fine, if you think it’s so important.”

  She switched off her reading lamp and moved closer to me. “Is he going to ask for political asylum?” I asked.

  She raised her head and looked at me, wide-eyed. “What makes you think that?”

  “The two of you spent rather a long time talking to the head of the asylum authority.”

  “Yes, but that had nothing to do with David personally! The problem interests him. I should think anyone from abroad would be interested to observe what goes on in this country.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t mean he wants to settle here himself. He’s anxious to get back to Tbilisi as soon as possible. After all, he has a wife there.”

  I switched off my own reading light. Julia kissed my ear. “You of all people ought to understand why he wants to get back to his Matassi as quickly as he can.”

  “Why me of all people?”

  She laughed. “You’ve been telling fibs, darling. You certainly haven’t forgotten how beautiful she is. David told me how you made eyes at her. And he said the two of you got on very well together.”

  Chapter 24

  If Elke Lampert were to hear of my latest exploit she’d probably feel confirmed in her view that I am a good person. But I’m not about to pretend to myself: I did only what seemed advisable, so as to bring this macabre guest performance in my house to an end as quickly as I can and be rid of the lead actor.

  This morning, when Ninoshvili appeared at breakfast (in good spirits, or that was my impression), I asked him whether he’d like to give me one of his manuscripts to read. He acted as if there was nothing he’d rather do. Yes, of course, my opinion would matter a lot to him and would certainly be very helpful. As he was obviously aware of the awkward fact that he had so far kept his pearls of Georgian literature locked away from me, he added that if he hadn’t asked me to do this very thing before, it was only because he didn’t want to impose on my valuable time.

  When I came home at midday, I found the thicker manuscript—a novel—and two stories on my desk. I speed-read the novel and read the stories in full. The German of the translations (which Ninoshvili didn’t do himself) would need revision, and the novel strikes me as rather too heavily weighted with reflections, but the two stories aren’t at all bad. One of them even impressed me, for instance in vividly conjuring up old Tbilisi waking on a summer morning: we hear the cries of the tradesmen in the streets, milkmen, men delivering paraffin, bakers, all fervently praising their wares, their trades and their way of life.

  That afternoon I phoned Gerd Buttgereit and asked if he could suggest a publisher who might be interested in such works, because they were definitely unusual. And the public knew a little more about Georgia these days, I pointed out, although unfortunately only because of the war. Gerd said, as I had expected, that he was afraid he couldn’t see any opening for them on his own list just now, but he gave me the names of three publishing houses, two in Frankfurt and one in Darmstadt, and also the phone numbers of people there with whom I could get in touch. I was to give them his regards.

  Ninoshvili, damn him, did his best to blunt any idea I might entertain of having done a good deed. He came back from town late in the afternoon, after a heavy shower, wet through, his hair dripping, his shirt sticking to his skin, his trouser legs stiff and soaked with rain around his shoes. He said the storm had taken him by surprise in the street. Maybe, in his desperation, he had gone to see Dr B. Unger in his suburban office again, and preferred to save the taxi fare back.

  He was a pitiful sight. Nothing was left of the handsome man of the reception. He unbuttoned his jacket, flapped it in the air as if he could get it back into shape that way, looked down at himself, glanced up, and smiled with some embarrassment.

  I told him I had spoken to three publishers who might be interested in his manuscripts, and had said they were willing to see him. He looked at me incredulously, then began to beam like a child who has felt outcast and now receives unhoped-for comfort. “My friend! You did this for me?” He came closer to me, spread his arms and hugged me to his wet chest. After kissing me on both cheeks, he put his head back and looked at me in expectant suspense. “Did you really think those three manuscripts were good?”

  I said I thought them very interesting. He said, “Thank you, my friend!” and shook his head in silence, as if he were too deeply moved by my friendship to utter another word. Then he turned away and climbed the stairs, stiff-legged.

  I felt sorry for him. I almost offered him a foam bath in our tub on the first floor to refresh himself.

  God knows, all I needed was to give way to such mawkish emotions. I could hardly commit a greater folly than to take Julia’s version of events on
board without querying it. So Ninoshvili is suffering in secret, is he? He needs and deserves help, proud man that he is, holding his head high by day but weeping into his pillow by night because he doubts himself ?

  Well, David Ninoshvili is not so much in need of help as all that, or so noble and so deserving of sympathy. It struck

  me only later that I hadn’t found his passport during my researches in the spare room, or his purse or wallet. Either he took them into the bathroom to share his foam bath, in which case he harbours suspicions which would be unfounded if he had nothing to hide, or he has actually hidden those items in the spare room in some safe place that won’t be easily found. In that case I certainly ought to ask myself what else he keeps there, ready to be brought out at a given time.

  Chapter 25

  I have always been sensitive to close contact, to people’s physical aura, that almost indefinable mixture of body aroma and warmth and something that can’t be pinned down. In women I usually find it stimulating, in men it often repels me.

  That provincial court judge, for instance, the one who tried to get his paws on Julia until I warned him off—I disliked him, and not just because of his sheer effrontery or his penetratingly astringent perfume, presumably concocted using the sexual secretions of animals. Even before I knew what part the man was playing and what he was trying to do, I had noticed his aura. It forced itself on you even from a distance.

  Maybe it was to do with his body language: the way he moved his greying head and looked around the hall. At least, I felt I could see the tanned skin not just of his face but his chest and stomach too, still taut over the beginnings of love handles; his pubic hair, as black as his moustache; his prick and balls. The man’s aggressive virility seeped out of every pore. As soon as I saw him he made me want to puke.

  Of course it could be claimed that I worked all this out only later, and my dislike was the result of plain jealousy when this brute tried to fascinate Julia. But I’ve had similar experiences of insuperable physical antipathy before, for instance with my colleague Philippovich, who could never appear to me a rival for the simple reason that he’s never met Julia.

  I can’t cite any rational grounds for disliking Philippovich, I can’t even say he annoys me or gets on my nerves; I often even think the malicious remarks he regularly makes about our women colleagues amusing. I suspect him of thinking of his comments in advance and polishing them up at home. But whenever I see him, I seem to catch a sour, cheesy smell, I see his feet with their long, bony toes as he moves them about in his shoes, I notice the sharp hipbones standing out under his white skin. I’ve never seen Philippovich naked, and my suspicion that he doesn’t wash his feet is entirely unfounded. I just find him physically repellent, and there’s nothing I can do about that.

  I assume that this sensitivity of mine comes from the sexual area. Perhaps my disposition is over-heterosexual. The fact that I have equally intense feelings, although most of them of a contradictory nature, with women would back up that theory. Erika, for instance—if only she’d stop wearing her cloying perfume I might possibly feel tempted, in spite of the hectic way she behaves. She gives off unmistakable sexual signals even at a distance, just like the provincial judge, and what puts me off him could attract me in Erika—yes, even in her.

  I am afraid I shall not succeed in playing down my prejudices against Ninoshvili by classifying them with such experiences. It’s certainly obvious that I felt distaste at the sight of his strong, bare knees and muscular hairy calves, as glimpsed yesterday evening when he had showered and was indulging himself with a little time spent in front of the TV set wearing his dressing gown, his hair freshly washed and combed—those knees and calves, and I feel distaste for the evident signs of his virility too. I freeze at his hugs and cheek-kissing. Yes, no doubt about it, David Ninoshvili’s masculinity repels me.

  But I won’t make it so easy for myself. Don’t I also dislike the idea of having a Georgian living in my house with me? A foreigner anyway.

  A foreigner who seems to me a barbarian because his background is not the same as my own. A foreigner who challenges me to concern myself with his existence, just as asylum seekers, the disadvantaged and those on the margins of society also do. Someone different who disturbs my peace and quiet, my self-satisfaction.

  I have tried to establish an easier relationship with Ninoshvili. Today, on a cool Sunday morning, I asked him if he felt like a good walk. He was enthusiastic, disappeared into the spare room at once and came back in a smart casual sweater. I drove to the Katharinenforst, where we parked the car and set out on a woodland walk of about ten kilometres. It’s ridiculous, but I deliberately chose a way-marked round route which I knew is busy at weekends with people out for the day.

  Ninoshvili was in cheerful mood. He had me in difficulties once or twice by asking what the name of this tree or that grass was, but he laughed when I confessed that botany wasn’t one of my strong points, and even excused the gaps in my general knowledge by saying that the same thing often happens to him when he is showing a guest around at home, it’s only such incidents that show you don’t know all about everything, even in your own country.

  I asked him if he knew the work of Gustav Radde, and he surprised me by delivering an extensive and knowledgeable encomium on the activities of “that great German explorer”

  in Tbilisi. “He taught the Georgians a great deal, my friend, we’re grateful to him.” He had never heard of Herr Hinzenberg the head gardener and his botanical tables recording the flowering of Iris caucasica, but he thought what I said about him was very important, “very instructive for a nation that—as you know—was sadly neglected by Europe for a very long time, and so in the past people couldn’t learn from the rest of the continent, although they always wanted to know more”.

  I refrained from asking whether he knew about Herr von Bodenstedt and his contributions to the study of the phenomenology of the Georgian people. Instead I asked him how he felt here in Germany, and what his strongest impressions had been to date.

  He stopped, smiled at me. “You really don’t know that, my friend?” No, I said, unfortunately I hadn’t found enough time to look after him. He shook his head. “You’re too modest, my friend.” Then he said, “I feel very comfortable in your country. And my strongest impression has been of all you’ve done for me. You have opened doors for me that I couldn’t open for myself.” I said it was nothing worth mentioning, it had cost me only a few telephone calls.

  “No, no.” He shook his head and walked on. I hoped he wasn’t going to pursue this subject, which was a little embarrassing to me. However, he had more to impart. He said, “I couldn’t ask you for such a service. A guest is sent by God, but he must not abuse the laws of hospitality. You did me that service of your own accord. You owe me nothing, so you did it out of friendship.” He looked at me. “Or were you thinking you did owe me some kind of debt?”

  I felt hot under the collar. I said it was nothing to with owing a debt, but after all, I had enjoyed his own hospitality in Tbilisi. He didn’t reply to that.

  All of a sudden he stopped, picked up a branch that had broken off a tree, and looked at the wood where the break showed. I didn’t know what kind of tree the branch came from, but he told me its Georgian name and said that very elaborate carvings were made from this wood in Georgia. While I was still looking at the yellowish wood where it had broken off, he put his hand in his trouser pocket.

  He took out the flick knife and made the blade spring out. I took a sudden step backwards. There wasn’t a soul in sight on the woodland path either ahead of us or behind us. He looked up, glanced at me, then turned back to the branch and began whittling away at the broken surface. He carved it until it was pointed, and held it critically up to his eyes. “Very good wood.” Then he threw the branch away and put the knife back in his pocket.

  Later, after we had walked on for a while in silence, I forced myself to ask whether he always carried that knife about with him. “No, n
o.” He smiled. “A legacy, you understand. From my great-grandfather. A valuable work of art.” He took the knife out again, flicked the blade out once more, and showed me the ornamentation on the handle. “You know superstitions? I have a superstition that this brings me luck.”

  Chapter 26

  Ten minutes ago, at three fifteen on Monday afternoon, Herr Hochgeschurz rang. He asked how I was, and when I said I was afraid I was in a hurry he apologized. He’d only wanted to give me some information that might interest me, he said. Yes, well, I said, what was it about, please?

  The agent told me he had found out that Herr Ninoshvili had given a lecture on the Georgian civil war in Herr Schumann’s summer house. The occasion had been well attended, and there had been lively discussion afterwards. Herr Schumann and his young people, as well as some older guests, had obviously been greatly impressed by Herr Ninoshvili, said Hochgeschurz, and he was warmly applauded.

  I forgot to ask the agent the date of this talk. It must have been the evening when Ninoshvili and Ralf had apparently gone to the cinema and then to a bar—“very interesting atmosphere, very folkloric”, I’d been told.

  Now I have to go to my drama group. Max Blümel is indeed moving to Hamburg with his father, so Christian Berkhan has to get through his first rehearsal in the part of Mercutio, and Günsel Özcan called in sick just now.

  I feel like failing out all round! I’ll turn that sly Georgian out this very evening. It has nothing to do with racism or Julia, or Matassi, or the KGB. The man thinks he can play games with me!

  Chapter 27

  When I got home Julia was sitting in her study with Ninoshvili, who was at her desk with the phone receiver to his ear while she sat in the chair beside the desk. She gestured to me not to disturb him. I stood there for a while. Ninoshvili said, “Hello? Hello?” and then put the receiver down on its rest. “Call interrupted again.” He picked the receiver up once more and began dialling a long number, pausing after each digit.