by Walter Abish
The children took it in their stride. They didn’t seem to take sides. We see each other every few weeks. They come to Brumholdstein. They like my place … it’s not in Brumholdstein proper. Just a short drive away. You’ll see it …
Yes, how about next month?
That’s fine. Helmuth craned his neck around to look in the direction of the kitchen. They’re taking their time, aren’t they. Where was I? He looked at Ulrich questioningly.
Talking about your place.
Yes, I love it. Can’t wait to show it to you. I like being alone again. I have an office in Brumholdstein and a small staff. Several draftsmen and a secretary.
Attractive?
No. Nothing like that. I don’t want any attachments.
Why Brumholdstein?
It came at the right time. The police station in Würtenburg was the final straw.
You mean its destruction?
No. That I didn’t get the commission to rebuild it. It was my design. Those bastards destroyed my design. You’d think the city would want me to work on what is, in essence, my building. With my contacts, after all I was their favorite, I should have been expected to receive the job.
Naturally, in private, everyone expressed their profound regret. Depend on it. All with grave-looking expressions of tender concern. A bunch of shitheads. You know, the familiar story. My hands are tied. I have no influence … the City Council felt it in the interest of Würtenburg that the job go to someone else, someone not so closely related to the events. What events? What do you mean? All my friends blamed the bureaucracy. Hell, they are the bureaucracy. He raised his hand, signaling to the waiter. They’re terribly slow, he said. What are they doing in the kitchen? We should have taken a table on the terrace—the service, for some reason, is better out there.
We can have our coffee on the terrace, suggested Ulrich.
That’s a thought. But next time …
After their entrée was served, Helmuth kept glancing at the people on the terrace. As soon as they had finished the main course Helmuth was out of his chair, heading for the terrace, where he picked a table, and after once circling it with his head lowered, selected a seat facing the entrance to the dining room they had just left.
Helmuth leaned back, eyes shut, face up to catch the sun. I bet you’re still mystified by my decision to leave Maria, he said with a certain smugness.
You’ve just explained it, said Ulrich, feeling trapped by the unbearably familiar exchange. Trapped by the language that seemed to guide his thoughts, his responses. Oh, to live somewhere where they spoke a language he could not understand. A waiter approached their table, and Helmuth asked Ulrich what he would have.
Coffee.
Would the gentleman care for anything else?
Something with flakey dough, brooded Ulrich and settled on a napoleon.
Helmuth ordered coffee and a cream puff.
You’ve been here before? Ulrich asked.
Yes. And their pastries aren’t bad.
When were you here? Was there a certain resentment detectable in his question?
Oh, some time ago, said Helmuth. I don’t really remember. Then flashing his wide smile: Why?
No reason at all.
I insist you tell me. Helmuth laughed and Ulrich, still carrying this unreasonable resentment inside himself, joined in. Ha ha ha.
Brothers.
A family reunion.
Have another, said Helmuth. Come on. I insist.
I couldn’t.
You must. Helmuth signaled the waiter. This time he ordered an éclair.
So when are you coming to see me in Brumholdstein?
How about next month?
When.
Whenever you like.
Helmuth pulled out his pocket calender, studied it with a frown, then after repeatedly shaking his head as his fingers kept flipping the pages, he settled on the eighteenth.
Suits me. I’ll fly over.
Good. I’ll pick you up. Then, squinting in the sun, Helmuth leaned forward: Did you know that the house I designed for Gisela and Egon is on this week’s cover of Treue? Before Ulrich could say anything, Helmuth stopped him, raising his hand. Just one minor omission, perhaps an oversight. He laughed. Would you believe it? There’s not one mention of my name. They’ve left out my fucking name.
I don’t understand.
Oh, it’s an article on Egon and Gisela and their lovely house, and their lovely dog, and their lovely Magritte painting, and their lovely friends, and their good taste. The new Germany, you know. But not one line about Helmuth Hargenau. Now you’d think as the architect, the man who designed the bloody house, I would be mentioned, so that the four hundred and fifty thousand readers would have a chance, if they ever strike it lucky, to get in touch with me. Perhaps the magazine has it in for the Hargenaus. Perhaps they prefer to write about us only if we are involved in some sordid political mess. Anyhow, it’s nice to see the house on the cover. You’ve met Egon, haven’t you?
Yes. I’ve met him and his wife. Has he been out to see you?
Exaggerated facial response. Has he been out to see me? How did you think I got the commission to build the museum? Egon is my contact. He’s the friend of the mayor. Helmuth toyed with his half eaten éclair. They’re not as good as the éclairs in Würtenburg. He looked at the lake, then standing up, excused himself. I feel a bit sick, he said. It must be the sun.
When they left the restaurant, Helmuth asked if he could drop him somewhere. No, said Ulrich. I’m not going anywhere. Well, said Helmuth with a nervous laugh, quickly glancing at his wristwatch, I’d love to join you … but I must be off. One appointment before I return to Brumholdstein.
Business?
If I can’t drop you, then let me say good-bye. Till next month.
Thanks for the lunch. I’m sorry about you and Maria. Helmuth, hand raised, signaled to a cab. It was bound to happen. I am rather enjoying my freedom, he said as he stepped into the taxi. I’ll see you on the eighteenth.
Helmuth did not mention Franz Metz.
But he may not have had any reason to.
I’ll be in touch, Helmuth said through the window of the taxi. Avoid problems.
He had mentioned Maria and Paula and Daphne and Egon and Gisela and his children but not Franz.
Why does Ulrich remember Franz?
Because he wore bright red suspenders.
Because sitting at the large table in the kitchen he would arrange his evening meal the way an officer assembles his troops, with a loving exactitude. Radishes, Radischen, to the right. Scallions, kohlrabi, pickled herring to the left. Blutwurst next to the brown bread. Liptauer. Butter. Cheese. Beer.
Because on one occasion Ulrich found him facing a mirror in the dining room, repeating over and over again: Don’t mention it. Please don’t mention it.
Because after Franz had been with them for God knows how many years, their mother—Ulrich was told of this only much later—on one of her impulsive tours of inspection, had found him in bed in the maid’s room. A small room. A tiny room. Hardly enough space for the bed, the chest, the tiny table, and the two chairs. Astonished, she had asked Franz: What on earth are you doing here? If you’re sick why aren’t you in your own bed?
Because after listening to Franz’s explanation, their mother, indignantly, had told him to pack. I can’t possibly tolerate this sort of thing. What would people say?
Because the following day, someone, some anonymous person, had broken seven of their ground-floor windows. Smashed them with a wooden club that was found in the garden. The village policeman who had come to inspect the damage observed jocularly that it was clearly not a case of attempted burglary. No need to break all those windows. Eh? Are you making a report of this or not? asked their mother.
Because in 1943 his father, Ulrich von Hargenau, in a cheerful letter to his wife had written: Guess whose working as a waiter in the officer’s mess?
Because Franz taught him and his brother to swim underwa
ter in the lake.
Because in 1948, quite unexpectedly, Franz had turned up after a year’s stay in Hamburg, where he had been married to a “dancer.”
Because for a long time all the Hargenaus had spent hours discussing Franz’s mysterious marriage in Hamburg. Why was he so closemouthed? What was he trying to hide?
Because when everyone was still scouring the countryside for something to eat, he would bring them canned goods he had stolen from the American officer’s mess, where he worked as a waiter.
Because, as Helmuth would say, everyone has a weak spot in their heart for a loyal retainer. Ah yes, of course, our retainer, Ulrich had said, and Helmuth had punched him in the ribs.
Because he had stayed with them for four or five years after the war, and God knows how many before he and Helmuth were born.
Because their mother’s anger at finding Franz lying naked in the maid’s room had been out of all proportion.
Because he had a son named Obbie from his brief marriage in Hamburg. Obbie. What an absurd name. Who on earth would want to name their child Obbie, their mother had said.
Because eventually they all forgave him for breaking the ground-floor windows … They reasoned that it was the result of an enormous rage. Because, after all, he was almost a member of their family. An adopted son.
Because their father had been fond of him.
Because Franz spent his free time in the kitchen reading books he had borrowed from their father’s library.
Because, after all was said and done, he had married their maid Doris, the one in whose bed he was lying when their mother entered the room, without first knocking on the door.
What would have happened had their mother not entered the room during the maid’s absence?
What would have happened had their mother been less inclined to check on the maid?
Was it really to inspect her room? If only she had been less shocked, less outraged …
Naturally, they did not attend the church wedding of Franz and Doris, although they had received an invitation. How odd, their mother had said, looking at the handwritten invitation. I never expected to receive an invitation. She then sent Franz and Doris a silver sugar bowl that had been in the family for ages. Ulrich had found nothing strange about her gesture at the time, but now, when he thought of it, it seemed quite incredible.
They remembered Franz for his stories. For his description of Switzerland, where he had worked for six months as a waiter in a hotel. Because Franz seemed to prefer them, him and Helmuth, to his chubby son Obbie, who was living with Franz’s mother. He may have preferred them to his son because Obbie was a bit slow on the uptake, because Obbie could not even catch a ball properly. He lacked the coordination. Because most likely Franz could not look at or speak to Obbie without being reminded of his first wife in Hamburg.
Because each year he sent them a card for Christmas. To the family von Hargenau. Never, never omitting the von.
Because while still living in their house, Franz had announced that he would bash the head in of anyone he caught trespassing on their property, and looking at his face they knew it was not an idle threat.
Because they once saw Franz carefully taking aim with their father’s hunting rifle at a dog that was foaming at the mouth, hitting it square between the eyes.
Because on Franz’s desk in his room in the attic they, he and Helmuth, had found a large thick notebook in which every single lined page was covered with Franz’s handwriting, a cramped, frantic hand that to their eyes remained indecipherable. What did it say?
Because Franz, at the time, was the only one in the household with a driver’s license, and so they depended on him. Franz, who could not permit another car to pass him, who regarded every other driver on the road as a challenge.
Because their mother would often speak in front of Franz as if he were not there. Not intending to hurt his feelings, just oblivious of his presence.
Because Franz was the last person they knew who had seen their father before he was killed.
Because sometimes sequestered in his room Franz would howl. In time, Ulrich, his brother, and his mother grew accustomed to it. They would say, It’s Franz at it again, and laugh nervously. Since they were living in the country, people passing their house concluded it was an animal howling. But an animal in their attic?
Because Franz liked to taunt the delivery boys.
Because Franz’s father had been a fisherman.
Because Franz preferred him to his brother Helmuth.
Because Franz could down two large pitchers of beer without a blink of the eye.
Because Franz could skillfully replace the cane seat on a chair.
Because Franz had a .32 Magnum in a leather holster hidden in his room.
Because at one time their mother kept saying, When anything has to be done, just leave it to Franz.
After Franz left she said, I don’t want his name mentioned in this house again.
But in their hearts, he and Helmuth had remained loyal to Franz.
They would not let anyone denigrate Franz.
One day, when they became successful, as they were bound to, they would make it up to Franz.
.
2
Franz rarely mentioned the Hargenaus. But once in a while, when he got into the mood, and then only to his wife, Doris, who was the sole recipient of his innermost thoughts. Every once in a while, for no particular reason that she could discern, Franz would go off on one of his erratic and compulsive verbal journeys to the past, to the Hargenaus, for they represented a kind of triumph, an apex of achievement, in which he—in his own modest way—had participated, having assisted and guided them for a time—or so he believed. He would minutely describe for her the Hargenaus, what they stood for, as well as their life, their houses, their day-to-day activities, as if she had not been a participant, as if she had never met them, as if she would benefit from his explanation, absorbing his understanding of the household, the tradition, the family, the furniture, the paintings: portraits of their ancestors. And when she, after an hour of listening to his harangue, finally disputed one of his extravagant exaggerations, interrupting him—for to speak up was to interrupt his continuous flow of words—he would angrily say: You were simply the maid. You could not have been privy to the things I saw.
And Doris? She accepted his version of life, his interpretation of the events, his derision of her experience, of what she had seen, as she had always done, and thereby avoided his anger as much as possible. It was as simple as that. Which was why she never reminded him of how he had left the Hargenaus, ignominiously, tail between his legs, only to return the following night to smash the windows, to leave the imprint of his anger for them to see. But it was not right what Frau von Hargenau had done, entering her room during her absence. It was not right. The sugar bowl, gleaming in the oak vitrine, was a reminder not of her wedding, or of the munificence of the Hargenaus, but of an intrusion, an unwarranted entry into what had been her private space, albeit a tiny space, but her space, her tiny room with all her possessions.
As for Franz, whenever the opportunity presented itself he would turn to their guest, the occasional, the infrequent guest, and say: That, by the way, was a gift from the Hargenaus. What, you’ve not heard of the Hargenaus? Ah … An old, old family I once knew. They shot the old man in 1944. He was one of the Stauffenberg group …
.
3
They did not live in Brumholdstein, where he worked as a waiter, but in Daemling, a town ten kilometers north of Brumholdstein. Six nights a week he would catch the ten-twelve back to Daemling. Daemling, Daemling where rests my heart; Daemling, Daemling, we will never part. At that hour the bus, running every fifty-four minutes, was generally empty. Never more than five or six passengers. By now Franz was on greeting terms with several. Once in a while they would even exchange a few words, indicating a shared experience, an understanding. Looks like rain, or, Didn’t think I’d make it in time tonight, or, Did you
watch the soccer game last night. Franz preferred the front seat. He liked to stare at the road ahead, at what was illuminated by the headlights of the bus, watching houses, trees, street lights, signs, posters, and occasionally people and the cars from the opposite direction serve as indicators of the speed at which they were traveling, being given—at the rate they were going—only seconds to recognize and muse over a house, a parked car, a man on a bicycle. He also liked to sit in front because he was on good terms with the bus driver, who knew that he was a waiter at the Zur Pflaume restaurant. In fact, once in a while, perhaps once every two weeks, the bus driver would show up at the Pflaume and order a beer. There were a number of far less expensive places in the vicinity of the bus depot, but the driver, for reasons of his own, preferred to walk to the Pflaume, although, quite truthfully, he did not feel as comfortable there as he did in the more casual atmosphere of the bars near the depot. On a number of occasions the driver had mentioned to his wife that he had dropped in at the Pflaume for a beer and that one day, if they ever found themselves in Brumholdstein, they might stop there for dinner, since the food there was said to be exceptionally good. Actually the driver had never eaten at the Pflaume, but each time he went there he made a point of looking at the long handwritten menu, which was changed daily. He also, as inconspicuously as possible, looked at what other people were eating and at what the waiters were carrying on their trays. The first time he visited the Pflaume he had picked up the menu intending to order something to eat, only to be taken aback by the prices. Even if one assumed that the Pflaume served a better cut of meat than the average restaurant and perhaps used better ingredients in the cooking as well, and then, if one added the cost of the help, a headwaiter, a sommelier, eight waiters, busboys, and kitchen help too numerous to count, not to mention the expensively decorated interior dining rooms, one illuminated by five chandeliers that had once hung in a castle in Austria, the prices were still outrageously steep. But, evidently, that did not prevent the place from being packed each day with diners—all quite prosperous—many residents of Brumholdstein, although a considerable number came from miles away, which was not that surprising given the reputation of the restaurant.