by Walter Abish
How did you happen to find me in Geneva? asked Ulrich.
I was lucky. This remark was accompanied by a tiny, self-congratulatory smirk quickly effaced.
How so?
Someone from the magazine recognized you on the street and passed on the information to me. I called a few hotels. I tried some of the more luxurious ones first.
There are quite a few hotels in Geneva, Ulrich remarked.
As I said. I was lucky.
Ulrich stared at him skeptically. What is the name of the magazine for which you are writing?
He repeated the name of a popular Swiss magazine which as a rule did not publish interviews with writers. And they asked you to interview me?
You’re welcome to verify it, if you wish.
No, no. Sure you don’t want anything to drink?
The man sat on his bed, but quickly apologized and moved to a chair when Ulrich asked him not to sit on the bed. Ulrich had no reason to dislike the man. None at all. Still, Helmuth in his place would have asked the man to leave. No problem. He would have said, I really don’t care for your face, and that would have been that. Ulrich pulled up a chair. He sat facing the young man.
You mentioned on the phone that you have a book coming out next year.
I’m just putting the finishing touches to it.
Are you intending to write about Geneva as well? Include it in the book?
I don’t think so. In general I prefer to write about a city only after I have put some distance between myself and the city in question. On the other hand Segalen, whose book I am just reading, managed to produce an extraordinary novel set in Peking, while staying in that city.
Segalen? Swiss?
No, French.
He jotted the name down on a small yellow pad, then avoiding Ulrich’s eyes remarked that he had been informed that Paula was at present living in Geneva. Is that one of the reasons why you are here? And have you been in touch with her?
Ulrich took a puff on his cigarette. He felt lightheaded. He felt comfortably relaxed on his chair. From where he was sitting he could see the street below. It reminded him of Tanner’s films … the kind of nondescript street Tanner liked to use in his films.
No, said Ulrich. My wife and I are separated. I don’t know where she is. We have not seen each other since the Einzieh trial.
Does she blame you for the excessively long sentences handed out to the group?
You’ll have to ask her.
As the only writer in the group, were you ever tempted to keep a diary or a journal during the period of time you were … associated with them?
I see no point in discussing the group. They belong to the past. Moreover, Paula’s and my decision to separate had nothing to do with the Einzieh group, or the outcome of the trial. Most political trials, I have come to realize, are badly in need of some sort of a scapegoat to deflect the questions that try to probe a little deeper … This trial was no exception. What I had to say at the trial was not said under any duress, contrary to what most people believe. I was never an actual participant or member of the group.
Is it a coincidence that the two public buildings recently blown up by the 7th of June Group had been designed by a Hargenau?
I doubt that the action was aimed at Helmuth or at me. It certainly wasn’t aimed at my late father, who is something of a hero in Germany.
Your father was a writer as well, wasn’t he?
He wrote a number of books, but never considered himself a writer.
Didn’t he write a book in the late thirties that was considered controversial?
The book in question is, Germany: The New Orient. In it he questioned the influence of …
The Jews?
No. Of … outsiders. I hardly think that this is the time to discuss my father’s somewhat ill-considered and impulsive writing on history.
To return to you. Do you plan to stay in Geneva for the time being?
Yes, I hope to complete the novel in Geneva. As to why this city? No special reason. I’ve been in Geneva before, and liked it. Incidentally, Paula and I stayed in this hotel several years ago. I remember feeling pleased when I discovered that Musil had stayed here briefly upon his arrival in 1940.
What is the title of your forthcoming book?
The Idea of Switzerland.
The idea of Switzerland?
Well, it’s based on something I read about Paganini. Apparently Berlioz loved the idea of Paganini but was revolted by his music.
How does this apply to Switzerland?
Oh, Switzerland is simply a catchword.
That leads me to an interesting question. A number of critics have referred to the element of ambiguity that permeates much of your work. One reads your books, always feeling as if some vital piece of information is being withheld.
I’m not sure how I can respond to that. If someone withholds information, surely it is not merely for the sake of withholding information. All the same, characters, like people, frequently misread each other’s intentions. Anyhow, The Idea of Switzerland would neutralize these misreadings. I am, of course, thinking of the image Switzerland evokes in people. A kind of controlled neutrality, a somewhat antiseptic tranquillity that even I find soothing. Obey the laws and there is nothing to fear. Of course, I may also have been influenced by the films of Tanner.
But he is fundamentally a politically oriented filmmaker. His films are never devoid of a political content …
Yes?
Well, then …
Yes?
What kind of a political statement are you making in your work?
I’m sorry, my mind was on something else. What did you say?
What kind of a political statement are you making in your book?
I don’t believe in making statements. Least of all political ones.
The young man, belligerently: You just said …
A novel is not a process of rebellion. Just as it validates and makes acceptable forms of human conduct, it also validates and makes acceptable societal institutions.
Does that trouble you?
Not at all. Should it?
When are you planning to return to Germany?
As soon as I complete the novel. I am, you might say, searching for an appropriate ending. In yesterday’s paper there was mention of a young woman who jumped to her death from the fourteenth story of an office building only a few blocks from this hotel. Incidentally, someone on the seventh floor, or was it the eighth, sitting at his desk near the window, actually made eye contact with her. I mention this only because in life jumping out of a window is an end, whereas in a novel, where suicide occurs all too frequently, it becomes an explanation. The interviewer picked up his tape recorder, first pressing one button then another, then with a look of distress which was not feigned explained that he had neglected to press the record button. Could we possibly go over the interview again? Just briefly …
Yes, why not, said Ulrich condescendingly. What a bloody twit, he thought.
An hour later, after the interviewer had left, the phone rang, and when he picked it up, ready to welcome any interruption, any small diversion, anything that would keep him from sitting down and trying to write, he heard his brother Helmuth on the other end of the line, at that hour presumably still in his office, calmly saying, I just thought you might want to know that your Daphne Hasendruck is not Daphne Hasendruck.
Of course she is.
She might be, she could be, she ought to be, but she isn’t. Daphne Hasendruck … it’s really an absurd name … anyhow, we’re now speaking of the real Daphne … and she is married to the head of Dust Enterprises in Spain. His name is Wheelock. Plan Wheelock.
Plan?
Yes. Plan. P…L…A…N… They live in Madrid. They have three children. Actually Daphne is her middle name. Her first name, would you believe it, is Rose. She speaks German with a Spanish accent. His brother laughed hysterically.
You spoke to her?
I was just being thorough.
>
Then who is our Daphne?
I haven’t the vaguest.
Did you happen to mention this to your father-in-law?
Do you take me for an ass?
You spotted her that weekend. You saw through her. Was that the reason for all those questions?
No. I’m just thorough. I don’t want you to fuck up. It takes too much of my time.
By the way, said Ulrich. I’m sorry about the police station.
We’ll patch it up. But I’ve been told that they lost all their files in the blaze, including yours.
.
31
This is Switzerland, he said to himself, as he set out for a stroll later that afternoon. This is the place where Musil died, where Rilke died, where Gottfried Keller lived and died, where Jean-Jacques Rousseau was born, and where only a few years ago Nabokov lived, as much a prisoner of the past as I am a prisoner of the present.
PART THREE
Sweet truth
.
1
A glorious German summer.
Oh, absolutely.
A scent of flowers in the air.
Isn’t it marvelous.
Easily the most glorious summer of the past thirty-four years.
And how relaxing.
When his father was executed in Offenbach by a firing squad, his last words were, “Long live Germany.” At least that is what Ulrich had been told by his family. He was killed in August 1944. What was the summer like in 1944? Active. Certainly active.
One of the Dürers that had been in their possession for ages was recently sold at an auction in London for one hundred and forty-two thousand dollars. It was now in a museum in Texas. One hundred and forty-two thousand is nothing to sneeze at, said Helmuth.
His brother, Helmuth, is working away on his next project, a museum in Brumholdstein and a small college in Mackleburg. What about the bombed police station? Ulrich inquired. Oh, they decided to award the commission to someone else, Helmuth replied. Perhaps they were afraid that I might jinx the building.
The 7th of June Liberation Group sporadically, every couple of weeks, blows up a bridge or a car just—or so it would appear—to keep in practice. But despite all their activity they have slipped from the front page, and accordingly slipped from everyone’s attention. In general, everyone’s attention span seems to be low. Besides, as Helmuth pointed out, the insurance companies seem to provide an adequate measure of financial protection for the owners of property that had been damaged or destroyed. Where would we be without adequate insurance, Helmuth asked rhetorically on the occasion of yet another explosion, this one in the warehouse of a cut flower distributor.
Paula was last seen on a beach in Ohlendorf by a schoolteacher from Brumholdstein.
How on earth do you know?
But his brother had his sources.
And Daphne?
Helmuth didn’t know. You really liked her? He slowly shook his head to indicate his surprise. We have such different taste. You like them frail and a little bit helpless.
Paula is hardly helpless, Ulrich pointed out.
Yes, Helmuth conceded. I guess she was the exception to the rule.
I wonder what she’s up to now?
I suspect that she would cheerfully blow your brains out, Helmuth said with a grin.
Oh no. Never. But he said it without much conviction.
Helmuth, accustomed to living in splendor, was staying at the Savoy. Where else? Two large rooms overlooking the lake. Why two rooms? Had Helmuth come to Switzerland just to see him … or was he combining this trip with some business? Was he fishing for a client and a commission in Geneva?
I feel at home here, Ulrich said almost defensively when Helmuth visited him. It’s a nice little apartment. And it’s only an hour by air from Würtenburg. Nice little nook, his brother said condescendingly after inspecting his place. You seem to like rundown neighborhoods and the tired-looking people who inhabit them. He looked out of the window and grimaced. Quaint. How long do you plan to remain? Don’t you find Switzerland suffocating? Go on, admit it.
Why did Paula marry me? Ulrich asked.
Frankly, it’s always puzzled me.
I didn’t have money.
Ah, but you had a good name.
You’re really attached to our name, aren’t you?
Most certainly, Helmuth said heatedly, staring at him. Challenging him.
What I found unbearable, said Ulrich, was Paula’s stubborn, unyielding, really demented need for action. Really a need for attention: she pretends that she is still on the run, although there’s no one pursuing her.
Why don’t you come and visit me, Helmuth suggested. You’ll like Brumholdstein. Meet new people. He looked at Ulrich appraisingly. We all could do with new people.
You know, Dürer never made it to Geneva. He only came as far as Basel.
Fuck Dürer, said Helmuth.
Ulrich, unconcerned, continued: But he made it to Venice via the Brenner Pass, and to Bologna where, as he mentioned in a letter to a friend, he intended to study the secret of perspective. His actual words: Danach werde ich nach Bologna reiten um der Kunst in geheimer Perspective willen, die mich einer lehren will.
You actually memorized all that shit? Helmuth asked.
Anyhow, Dürer never made it to Geneva, said Ulrich. Alone or with his wife he visited Aachen and Cologne and Bamberg and Aschaffenburg and Mainz—
Stop, said Helmuth.
And Colmar and Augsburg and Bruges and Ghent and Brussels and Zeeland, where he hoped to draw a beached whale. Always returning to Nuremberg.
Sometimes I wonder what makes you tick, said Helmuth moodily.
And Brumholdstein. Did Dürer ever visit the site of Brumholdstein?
I wouldn’t be surprised, said Helmuth. He may have passed the place on his way to Italy. He may have stayed in one of those picturesque inns that now only exist in picture books. For all we know, he may have drawn a few sketches of the attractive landscape with the mountains in the distance. Brumholdstein is, let’s face it, a nice piece of real estate, despite what you may know about it …
Despite the lager?
Yes, despite Durst, named, incidentally, after Erschwanger Durst, a coal merchant …
Erschwanger … I don’t believe it.
In the 1800s it was just a railroad juncture. Naturally after the Durst lager was built, it began to acquire greater and greater significance.
I wonder if they used architects to design concentration camps?
I don’t care for your innuendo, said Helmuth angrily. My work is strickly limited to the design of buildings. Moreover, morality is not an overriding issue in architecture.
Helmuth waited till lunch to break the news that he had left his wife. By the way, he casually said, I’ve left Maria. You waited all this time before telling me that you have left Maria? said Ulrich. Helmuth looked past him, at a couple sitting at another table, or at the waiter, or out of the window. The waiter brought the wine list. Helmuth ignored him. Really, he said to Ulrich, Maria and I had a very different view of life. We could not agree on anything. The dog, the education of the children. Of course, I left her the house and everything in it. Every bloody thing including the new stereo, which cost me a fortune. I even threw in the records. But we’re on good terms. I know it’s a blow for the kids. But, I must tell you, I was beginning to be taken for granted. To be admired, yes. Even revered. I may have been compared to the rock of Gibraltar. But taken for granted. I mean, the rock is not going to disappear overnight. I resented that …
Why don’t we order some wine, said Ulrich.
Do you understand what I mean? Helmuth looked at him searchingly.
It makes absolute sense.
You’re an asshole.
What do you want? Ulrich asked.
You never liked her much, did you? Admit it.
Who, Maria? She’s all right.
Admit it. The forced gaiety. The competence, the optimism, the vitality, the exaggerate
d belief in me?
I don’t admit anything. Exaggerated belief in you? You love exaggeration. You thrive on it …
Oh well, may as well order the wine. Do you have any preferences? Ulrich shook his head. Well, said Helmuth with a forced cheerfulness, what have we here? as he studied the wine list.
It wasn’t easy giving up the house, Helmuth said after the waiter had left. I had put so much work into it. It’s the best thing I ever did. I won a prize for it, did you know?
Yes.
Designing that house gave me a great deal of satisfaction. I felt, at the time, as if I was planning our entire future. Our future successes. I never had any doubt that I would succeed. I suppose I could have put up a fight. Still, it’s so to speak in the family. But nothing can prevent her from selling it … All she needs is a good offer. And she’ll do it just out of spite, I’m convinced of it. First chance she gets. Screw Helmuth. Screw the rock of Gibraltar.
I’ll come and visit you, said Ulrich. How about next month?