by Walter Abish
Sometimes I really can’t understand the Germans, said Daphne. I speak the language. I read Brumhold, yet … despairingly she shook her head … I can’t make you out. Is this the new Germany? she asked mockingly.
My brother Helmuth studied architecture at Northwestern. He likes to wear button-down shirts. One day he hopes to design a sixty-story office building with an underground garage, in Detroit. I guess he’s the new Germany.
But what about you?
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22
In addition to killing two postal employees, the explosion of at least twelve to sixteen sticks of dynamite in the new post office also totaled four recently acquired sorting machines as well as two dozen sacks of unsorted first-class mail. Had the explosion taken place an hour earlier, a great many more people might have been killed. As it was, the damage to the building designed by Helmuth was considerable. Half an hour after the explosion, a woman called the local radio station and announced that the newly formed 7th of June Liberation Group took full responsibility for the action, which had been designed to draw attention to the plight of the eight imprisoned members of the Einzieh group, all sentenced to long jail terms on the 7th of June, one year ago. So a year had passed. Ulrich had just reached page 73 of a manuscript that was entirely based on events that had occurred since then. Up to now he had felt pretty confident that nothing would interrupt his work. He would simply go on writing the book until he was ready to submit it to his publisher, and then take a brief vacation, perhaps Morocco or Portugal, after which he would start thinking of the next book. Now he was no longer certain.
With one explosion the name Hargenau made all the papers again. Great outrage at the senseless killings and the mutilation of thousands of letters. Those letters would never reach their destinations. Naturally there was also some speculation as to the identity of the members of the recently formed 7th of June Group. As was to be expected, Paula’s name kept cropping up. She could be behind it all. But why pick on postal employees and mutilate and destroy innocent letters that may have been carrying checks to war widows and other people in dire need?
On the evening of the 7th he had dinner with Daphne in his apartment. They listened to music on the radio. They ate Schnitzel. He asked her, quite inexplicably: Don’t you have any friends? Why do you ask? she looked at him questioningly.
It was all in his diary. He didn’t keep a journal. He just jotted things down in an office diary. Dinner with Daphne. Jägerschnitzel mit Pilzen. That seemed adequate for his purposes. Also mention of the newsflash. Two dead in an explosion at the post office. 7th of June accepts responsibility. Coffee and Fürst Puckler Torte. Watch the late news on TV. Make love.
Do you still love her? Daphne wanted to know.
Who?
Paula, your wife.
What made you ask me that question?
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23
The first thing Daphne said to him the next morning when he opened his eyes was, I know nothing about you … absolutely nothing.
You’ll find everything in my books.
Is that true?
No.
This would have been the time to ask her about her father. If he didn’t it was because he really didn’t care. For often what people had to say about themselves became, in time, an impediment. If only Marie-Jean Filebra had not answered all of his questions. If only the Einzieh group had not taken his statements at face value.
She dressed in his presence, unconcerned that he was watching her every move, and then, as if they had been living together for years, walked to the door of his apartment. Not angry, not pleased, merely matter of fact. Before leaving she turned to look at him, at his possessions, at his apartment, to which she now had a key. As far as he was concerned, everything was at a complete standstill as his brain, feeding voraciously on the present, on the now, made room for Daphne, naked, white legs parted, absorbing the image of this experience with the same ease that it absorbed and incorporated the images he had formed of the explosion at the post office. The image of the explosion and their making love were linked or connected by the date on which both events had taken place, and possibly by the conviction he always had that nothing is what it first appears to be.
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24
The following Sunday Daphne and he visited his brother, Helmuth, and his family at their house in the country. Helmuth in an exuberant mood. Daphne, after all, was a new potential admirer. Helmuth, in a most cavalier manner, dismissed the bombing, explaining that he had never been quite satisfied with the design of the post office and secretly had always wanted another go at it. Of course, it was too bad about the two men who died, and all that mail. God only knew how much of it had been intended for him. Before dinner Helmuth, Leica in hand, had them pose on the terrace overlooking the forest. Did Daphne know that Brumhold spent his summer months in a cabin he had built when he was a young man in a clearing in that forest? For all he knew, as they stood obediently waiting for Helmuth to photograph them, Brumhold might have been at his desk in his workroom in the cabin, pondering over his next sentence, over his next thought. Helmuth offered to drive Daphne to see the house the following day. Knowing that she was an American he spoke at great length of his stay in America. How much he had enjoyed being at Northwestern. His trip to St. Louis. His stay in Montana, Arkansas, and Southern California. One amusing anecdote after another. Then, when she seemed least to expect it, he began to question her about herself and her family. Helmuth smiled encouragingly as she described the town in Illinois where she had grown up, her friends, her decision to come to Germany after a year in Geneva.
Geneva? Ulrich said.
Yes, she had a number of friends in Geneva. She also had given English lessons in Geneva.
Why did you never mention Geneva? Ulrich looked at her questioningly. I was under the impression that you had—
His brother interrupted. To return to your father.
Ulrich left the room.
Could she conceivably have met Paula?
It seemed unlikely.
It seemed preposterous.
Farfetched.
The kind of connection only a devious brain would arrive at.
After all, why should Daphne—shy, reticent Daphne, or at any rate, appearing shy and withdrawn, interested in Brumhold, apolitical as far as he could determine—have met Paula?
What did they have in common?
Answer.
Answer immediately?
One had so little control over the irresponsible meanderings of one’s brain, over the improbable connections that are activated as thoughts by impulses from the brain, yet, occasionally, these remote, farfetched, hypothetical links had a way of coming true. Almost anything the brain can conjure up is plausible.
Daphne living in Geneva.
Daphne moving into the building where he was staying.
Why that particular building?
Because the apartment she had rented had been advertised in the local paper.
But had it?
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25
On Tuesday afternoon, when he returned from the library, the Hausmeister informed him with a little smirk that Daphne had moved out of her apartment during his absence. Once in a while there are things the brain simply refuses to accept as being true because they appear too improbable, too unlikely, too preposterous. The Hausmeister felt the need to explain that since she had not given any notice she was, of course, forfeiting one month’s rent. How had she left? Ulrich wanted to know. A young man in a station wagon helped her move some of her belongings. Briefly Ulrich stared at the Hausmeister, wondering if anything was being withheld from him, then turning abruptly, he walked to the elevator. He pressed the button to her floor. Had he really expected her to answer when he rang the doorbell? He knocked repeatedly on her door. A neighbor opened a door and looked at him angrily. He recognized the woman. Usually he would greet her whenever they met in the elevator or in the lobby. On this occasion he stared at her until
muttering something to herself she shut her door with a bang. On Sunday Daphne had promised him a key to her apartment. She intended to have a duplicate made that morning. He found it in the letter to him that she had slipped under his door. The letter addressed to Ulrich von Hargenau. It was in her handwriting, a handwriting that was still unfamiliar. Every word she used conveyed an otherness, a distance, something that he could understand yet failed to make more tangible.
Why the von on the envelope?
What was she trying to say?
Could her use of the von be anything but hostile? A reminder? Of what?
Dear Ulrich,
I am returning to America, in part because I do not wish to become emotionally entangled with you at this time. I do not feel happy in a role that is so devoid of any certitude. I do not like to feel that I am depending on another person. Please feel free to use the key to my apartment and take anything I have left behind. I may continue with my studies in America. I wish you had not taken me to visit your brother and his family. I did not enjoy the interrogation. Daphne.
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26
He was the first to admit that he did not know Daphne. In a vague sort of way he knew what she thought of Brumhold and of Germany. To some extent he knew her taste in music, in art, in books, in clothes. In everything she exercised a certain restraint and unwillingness, it seemed to him, to let herself be swept away. If he knew little else, it was because he failed to show much interest in her initially and did everything to avoid engaging her in a conversation, as his brother had, in order to elicit from her why, precisely why she was in Germany, and what she felt about her father. That is not to say that he had ruled out ever asking her those questions, but until he received this letter, he had felt quite content to leave things as they were.
How?
As pleasantly as possible. By that he may have meant the pleasantness, what else, of unbuttoning her silk blouse. Then watching her undress. Then, in that split second of penetration, saying: Why did we wait all this time? Perhaps speaking only to diminish the distance she always preserved. As a defense?
Anyhow, until now he had been content to sit back and muse over Daphne, the young earnest-faced American in Germany—a not altogether unfamiliar type—who never once asked him about his dead father or about his own dubious role in the Einzieh trial, although she must have known about it: let’s face it, she could hardly have not known when everyone in Würtenburg knew everything there was to know.
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27
The Hausmeister took a certain pleasure—just doing his duty—in informing him that Daphne had left. He scanned Ulrich’s face to see how he would receive the news. Ulrich turned and stiffly walked to the elevator, pressing the button to the fifth floor, followed by the unforgiving gaze of the Hausmeister, who was in a position to follow Ulrich’s ascent on the floor indicator above the elevator door.
Having read the letter she had slipped under his door, Ulrich walked up one flight and using her key let himself into her apartment. It was cooler than his. She had left all the furniture behind: the things that had been there when she moved in as well as the things she had acquired, the desk, the dining room table, the chairs, the bookcase, the carpets, the lamp. In one corner a pile of books. He examined them carefully and derived a slight satisfaction at not finding his books among them. The kitchen was well stocked, and he fixed himself a cup of coffee, then drank it while looking at her possessions. The telephone was still connected. Any moment now someone might call. A student. A friend? Even she might call. A last-minute change of plan. What explanation would she provide? From the looks of it she must have packed in a hurry and driven straight to the airport. In her letter she had also added a P.S. that he found somewhat painful. I wouldn’t care to be another woman in your life who ended up in one of your books. In his usual careless way, he must have left his manuscript lying on his desk, and she had probably glanced at it or, worse yet, at the notebook he kept in Paris.
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28
He drove to the airport and checked with a number of airlines if anyone by the name of Daphne Hasendruck had booked a flight to the United States. She had not, at least not under her own name. Not satisfied, compelled by a German sense of Gründlichkeit to investigate further, he inquired at Lufthansa if a Miss Daphne Hasendruck had booked a flight to Geneva that morning. He mentioned that she, his niece, had promised to call him on her arrival in Geneva. Since he had not heard from her, he was inquiring if, in fact, she had left for Geneva or, as implausible as it sounded, had a sudden change of mind. The clerk was sympathetic. She was not taken in by his story. It was a trifle too familiar. His niece, indeed. She was not supposed to provide him with the information he requested. He smiled. Your niece, she said, after having checked a list, had taken the late afternoon flight to Geneva. One stop Zurich. Arrival 8:05 in Geneva.
Had she flown there to join Paula? Anything was possible.
Helmuth did his best to talk him out of flying to Geneva. Whatever it is, you don’t want it. Whatever it is, you don’t need it. You’re free. You’re in the clear. Moreover, she may not know Paula, he argued. She may just be drawn to the Alps, or the abundance of chocolate. Besides, what’s the difference? Do you always go into such a flurry when you finally score with a female?
Do you have anything else to say? Ulrich asked.
You’re really attracted to the neurotic type.
Can you let me have some money? asked Ulrich.
He left for Geneva the next day. As he had expected Paula was not listed under her name in the telephone directory. Without giving it much thought he checked into the hotel where he and Paula had once stayed for a couple of nights. But he could not remember the floor. The hotel was conveniently located near the Quai du Mont-Blanc. The first thing the next day he purchased a ream of paper and a map of the city. As he rather aimlessly walked around the downtown area in the vicinity of the Jardin Anglais he kept asking himself if he was in Geneva in order to locate Daphne, or his former wife, or was he simply collecting fresh material for his next book? On the third day he found the small restaurant he and Paula used to frequent. He also found a store where the Würtenburger Zeitung was sold. He was still in Geneva when another bomb went off in Würtenburg. This one destroyed an entire floor in the fingerprint section of the new police station. When he spoke to Helmuth on the phone, his brother in a weary voice suggested that he remain where he was for the time being, adding his cautionary: And Ulrich … Please don’t fuck up … do you understand what I am saying? I know it’s your speciality, but try not to this time.
He sat in his hotel room, prepared for every eventuality. He had a ream of paper and a rented portable Hermes, but could not write a line. It seemed to him that his brain and body had stopped functioning. Everything around him was at a standstill. On one of his walks he had picked up a second-hand copy of Victor Segalen’s René Leys. He began the book in a café on the Rue de Rhone.
The book’s narrator, a Frenchman living in Peking in 1911, was contemplating an action that in certain respects paralleled or, at any rate, appeared analogous to his own endeavor in Geneva. Living in the Chinese capital when the Forbidden City was still closed to all foreigners, the Frenchman’s one overwhelming desire—in order to understand what he kept referring to as the “Within” of the Chinese Empire—was to enter (penetrate would be the right term) the Imperial Palace and observe everything that had all along been withheld from him. Although, in Ulrich’s case, the Forbidden City within Geneva was less tangible. No. What he at present shared with the Frenchman was a compulsive need to know, to understand, to see. A clarification of what was being withheld. Yet, by drawing this somewhat specious comparison to the Frenchman in René Leys he was also indulging in a favorite habit of his—namely, attempting to view and place his personal affairs in a literary context, as if this would endow them with a clearer and richer meaning.
But why had Daphne left for Geneva? Warum Genf?
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/> 29
The day Brumhold died it was in all the French, Swiss, and German newspapers. Lengthy obituaries. Germany’s greatest thinker since Hegel. Photographs of Brumhold in his log cabin, which was only a twenty-minute drive from the country house Ulrich’s brother had designed for himself. An entire page listing Brumhold’s philosophical achievements. To Ulrich’s surprise the editors had not omitted mention of Brumhold’s somewhat reprehensible and morally questionable role during the coming to power of the National Socialists. Later that day, in a section of Geneva he did not know, Ulrich came across a small but well-stocked bookstore. He was pleased to discover that they had a number of Brumhold’s books, both in French and in German. After some hesitation he chose Jetzt zum letzten Mai and Ohne Grund, an early work published in 1936. Upon leaving the store he caught a brief but unmistakable glimpse of Daphne in the passenger seat of a passing bright yellow Porsche. He ran after the car, waving his hand, calling her name, and narrowly escaped being hit by a delivery van. Several people on the street stopped to stare at him. The car did not slow down. Most likely Daphne had not seen him. Hours later, when he returned to the hotel, the desk clerk gave him a hand-delivered note that had been left for him. He recognized Paula’s handwriting. It simply stated: You’ve taken enough. Leave us alone.
Us? Us? Who was us?
Answer.
Answer immediately.
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30
The interviewer arrived punctually at three. He had a foreign-sounding name which Ulrich promptly forgot. Could it conceivably have been a Jewish name? The interviewer was in his twenties. Dark hair, dark glasses, wearing a very worn-looking tweed jacket. Ulrich had no reason to feel distrustful of him. He had been through too many interviews. Ulrich smiled at him, aware all the time of the latter’s thick spectacles, his unkempt appearance, his disconcerting stare, his tape recorder dangling from one shoulder, all weapons that Ulrich wished to disarm with his cordiality and candor. The tape recorder was a cheap one. Hardly the kind a professional would use. From the very start, the difficulty lay in trying to establish who exactly was interviewing whom. The tape recorder set on the table picked up a trite, meaningless exchange. The young man looked around the room, noting Ulrich’s few visible possessions: Hermes typewriter (rented), a ream of paper, a small pile of books, underwear drying on the back of a chair, shoes on the floor, a guidebook on the bed. Ulrich offered him a glass of wine, but he declined. Ulrich offered to order tea or coffee, but he said that he had just eaten. He was not rude, at least not intentionally rude. Ulrich lit a cigarette, poured himself another glass of wine, and walked to the window, staring at the street below, in a sense disassociating himself from this intruder who joined him at the window.