by Walter Abish
Although Franz never failed to make a show of being friendly when the driver came to the Pflaume, he did not greet the driver with as much warmth as he did when he took the ten-twelve. This the driver understood. Yet, for some reason he continued to come. Call it obstinacy. Not that anyone had ever actually objected to the presence of the driver or made him feel ill at ease because he was wearing his uniform, well, not his full uniform, for invariably he arrived at the Pflaume without his visored cap. Unless a diner recognized him, and this seemed unlikely, or took the trouble to read the words stamped on his metal badge, it was safe to conclude that most of the people in the restaurant would assume that he was a guard, perhaps a guard employed by the restaurant. The driver was not discontented with the table he was given, always the same small table a short distance from the men’s room. He had come to consider it his Stammsitz. It was always unoccupied when he entered the Pflaume. Sometimes Franz would serve him his beer, but on most occasions the beer he ordered was served by a younger waiter, since Franz was occupied serving dinner.
The driver Hagen was fond of Franz. He had developed an instant liking for Franz the first time he had set eyes on him. It is hard to explain these things. He liked Franz’s immaculate appearance, and the way Franz, once he had observed him at the Pflaume, handled himself: the unobtrusive way he served dinner, the skillful way he offered suggestions to diners, all without a trace of servility, and finally, the way he accepted a tip without a trace of deference. One of these days, the driver promised himself, instead of my usual beer I will order an appetizer and perhaps a glass of white wine. I will tell the waiter, if it happens to be one of the younger waiters, that I only have time for an appetizer, that—regrettably—I don’t have the time for the full course dinner. Then, after taking care of the check, I’ll leave him a decent tip. It wouldn’t surprise me if the waiter mentions it to Franz. And then later that night, when Franz catches the ten-twelve he’ll greet me as usual, and I will make some comment about the good food at the Pflaume, whereupon he, wagging a finger at me in reproof, will reply: But you are far too generous a tipper. Then, twenty minutes later, when I let him off at the third stop in Daemling, which is only a short walk from where he lives, Franz will say: Well, another day shot. See you tomorrow.
Of course the Pflaume was by no means the only decent restaurant in the area, and had Franz wanted to, he probably could have gotten a job in one of the better restaurants in Daemling. Certainly, it would have been more convenient, since he would no longer have had to take the bus to Brumholdstein. On the other hand the tips would be smaller, although, now and then people in Brumholdstein, when they wanted some diversion without having to make the long trip to Munich, drove to Daemling, which in addition to the dozen or so local places also had one Turkish and two Italian restaurants. Some people Franz knew once visited the Turkish restaurant and reported to him that the food was quite good and the decor, in general, surprisingly attractive, and that for a foreign place, they stressed the “foreign,” it was remarkably clean and the service quite up to standards, not what you might expect from the Turks. All the same, they would not go back, but they had enjoyed it, and what is more it was not terribly expensive. On the walls, they had said, there were large not too badly painted murals of Istanbul, and there were also candles on each table. Franz mentioned this one night to the driver, who had never been to the Turkish restaurant. He knew of its existence, but it was not a place he felt strongly tempted to visit. He did not, he explained, especially care for exotic foreign foods. True, there were exceptions. Once in a while in France during the Occupation. Food is one thing, remarked Franz, but you won’t catch me working together with any Turks. Strictly speaking this was not true, since the dishwashers at the Pflaume were Turks and the man who cleaned up was Yugoslavian and the busboy, Nicol, was Greek.
In general the passengers on the bus respected Franz’s right to speak to the driver, although this was strictly against the rules. There was a sign to that effect above the windshield. They also respected his right to the front seat so as to be able to converse with the driver while the car was in motion and, at the same time, have an unobstructed view of the highway ahead. Once in a while a passenger, someone who may not have taken the ten-twelve before, would try to join their conversation, only to be instantly rebuffed by Franz and the driver. Next to the sign that read, Do not speak to driver while the bus is in motion, there was another sign that said: No smoking.
But at 10:12 things were more relaxed and several of the regulars sitting in the back would light up, something the driver would pretend not to notice. It was a very relaxed atmosphere. Some passengers called the driver by his first name, which was Rudi, something they would not have done under any circumstance in the daytime. The driver kept wondering if one of these days Franz would also call him Rudi, and on a number of occasions he had been on the verge of suggesting to Franz: Come on, let’s call each other by our first names—but he could not bring himself to say it. Once Franz mentioned having worked for an even more expensive restaurant, but he had quit after a falling out with the headwaiter over a matter of principle. Franz explained that one could not dismiss matters of principle with a shrug of the shoulders. He also declared that he firmly believed in the rules that govern one’s behavior as well as the behavior of others. Without rules we would have anarchy. He was a socialist at heart, he told the driver, but that did not mean that he was willing to surrender to chaos. Once the driver asked Franz if he had any children, and Franz, confused, flustered by the unexpected question, reluctantly admitted that he had a son, and then added that it was a son from a previous marriage. The driver at once regretted having asked the question. He did not want to pry. He wondered what Franz’s wives, the first and the second one, looked like. I wouldn’t be surprised, said Franz in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, if my son has been a passenger on your bus. Does he resemble you? asked the driver, and then instantly regretted that question as well. He’s heavy, said the waiter calmly. He’s heavy and clumsy. He looks and acts like an oaf. The driver laughed uncomfortably, not sure how he should accept this piece of information. Well, said Franz when he got off, another day shot. See you tomorrow.
.
4
On one Sunday in June, Franz and his wife had taken the bus to Gwunden to visit his wife’s second cousin Gina. To his dismay, there behind the wheel, beaming broadly at him, was Hagen. I thought Sunday was your day off, said Franz accusingly, and then, having handed the driver the tickets, he inquired angrily: And what are you doing driving to Gwunden? That’s not your route. The driver, still smiling, explained that he was filling in for a friend who was on vacation. For some reason Franz felt unhappy at being seen with his wife, as if he wanted to keep his private life and his job as a waiter as far apart as possible. Off to the horse show in Gwunden? asked the driver. Yes, said Franz, all the while glaring at his wife, as if fearing that she might contradict him. He had not even known that there was a horse show in Gwunden. When Doris, who had preceded him into the bus, was about to select two seats near the driver, Franz gripped her by the shoulder and firmly steered her toward the rear. Is that the driver you speak to every evening? she asked in a voice that carried to where Hagen was seated. Yes, Franz said curtly. But pipe down. I don’t want to talk about it, d’you understand? She nodded mutely, but in getting off at Gwunden smiled at the driver and sweetly said, good-bye. We had some trouble with our car, so we took the bus, Franz felt obliged to explain while getting off. To the driver, who knew that Franz had no car, it seemed as if Franz with this encounter revealed something he would rather not have seen. During the trip the driver had picked up a few words of the exchange between Franz and his wife, but although he could not understand what they were saying to each other he caught or sensed in Franz something that did not in any way conform to the casual, rather graceful man he saw each evening and once in a while in the restaurant. Hagen did not particularly mind not having been introduced to Franz’s wife, although h
ad the situation been reversed, he most certainly would have introduced his own wife. It was, in any event, not a big issue. Fine looking woman, he told Franz the following evening at 10:12. Naturally Franz wondered what the driver’s wife looked like. And his kids. But as far as he was concerned, the biggest mystery about the driver was his inexplicable presence, every two weeks, at the Pflaume. Why does he keep coming back? he asked himself. What does he want?
One evening when Franz was delayed, the driver kept the bus at the terminal for another eight minutes. And most likely he would have waited still another eight had Franz not shown up. He informed the passengers that he was waiting for Franz, the waiter at the Pflaume. Just for a few minutes. No one objected. No one seemed to mind. In fact, several passengers thought it a nice gesture on the part of the driver. It made the bus service a bit more human. The system was less of a machine. Fuck punctuality when it came to friendship. For if Franz missed the 10:12 he would have had to wait for the last bus, which left at 11:10 but not for Daemling. It headed for the depot, which was a mile south of Daemling. Or, he could take a taxi to Daemling, or call someone in Daemling and ask them to pick him up, or stay overnight in Brumholdstein, which was not as simple as it sounded, since the only hotel, which had twenty-three rooms, was terribly expensive, catering to the friends and relatives of the people who lived in this wealthy community. At 10:12 the passengers in the bus were mostly, if not all, workers returning to Daemling.
While they were waiting for Franz, one of the passengers mentioned that the waiter had at one time worked in the amusement park in Tropf. Amusement park in Tropf? Are you sure? asked the driver shaking his head in disbelief. Who would have thought it. Absolutely, said the man. It’s not so long ago. Three or four years. I took my kids to the amusement park, and there was Franz selling frankfurters. Nothing wrong with that, he added virtuously. Then Franz showed up, all out of breath, delighted to find the driver waiting for him. He thanked Hagen and then apologized for having kept them waiting. The subject of Franz’s having worked in the amusement park was not brought up again. It was entirely possible that Franz had worked in the amusement park, thought the driver. Everything is possible. It could have been a temporary thing. He might have been in between jobs. After the war the bus driver had started out as a photographer. He had taken a course in photography and then started to photograph whatever he thought he might sell to the newspapers or magazines. After he got married, to make ends meet, he became a bus driver. He had driven trucks in the war, he told the man who interviewed him for the job. Crete, Italy, then Russia. He often wondered what Franz had done during the war. But why speak of the past? One day in July the driver had rolled up his sleeves and Franz had seen the deep indentation of a scar that could only have come from a bullet or shrapnel. Nothing surprising in that. Lots of people around with all kinds of scars. Scars were quite common in Germany. Franz was one of the few who emerged from the war without any visible scars. Not the slightest scar. Not even a scratch. Once in a while, not so often now, Franz would begin to howl, just a plain loud continuous howl. The neighbors found it disconcerting. They even complained. Fuck them, Franz said to his wife. They haven’t even read Marx. What can they know about history.
.
5
On the eighteenth, the day Ulrich arrived in Brumholdstein, Franz returned to Daemling on the 10:12 as usual. Another day shot. See you tomorrow. He waved to the driver, then walked home as fast as he could. Doris, Doris, he called as he entered the house, and she came running from the kitchen where she was preparing his nightly cup of cocoa. It’s nice and soothing to have a cup of cocoa before going to bed. I drop off at once …
What is it, she asked, recognizing that wild animated look of exhilaration, that familiar look that so often preceded his howls. Only she was aware that his howls were in fact not uniform. Only she could immediately classify the howl and determine its cause. Only she could read on his face the howl that was to follow … this particular wild look signified a momentous encounter with the past.
Guess what, Franz said.
Hargenau, she answered.
Crestfallen he stared at her. How on earth did you know? Then suspiciously: He got in touch with you.
No.
Admit it. Ulrich von Hargenau wrote that he was coming and you kept it from me.
No. He didn’t write. Why should he write? You don’t exist for him.
You’re jealous, he said. You resent my relationship to the Hargenaus. You have always resented it.
Your cocoa is getting cold.
I don’t want any cocoa.
Are you going to stay up all night and howl? she asked.
.
6
Helmuth was waiting for him when he landed in Lundheim, the airport closest to Brumholdstein. Helmuth was accompanied by his daughter, Gisela, and Anna Heller, a school teacher in Brumholdstein whom he introduced as a fan of Ulrich’s. She’s read them all, Helmuth said jovially. Ulrich was annoyed. Why had his brother brought her along? On leaving the terminal Anna Heller and Helmuth discussed the best route back to Brumholdstein, agreeing that he, Ulrich, would prefer the scenic drive, although it entailed an additional ten-kilometer drive to Brumholdstein. Ulrich sat uncomfortably beside his niece in the rather cramped back seat of Helmut’s new Italian sportscar while Gisela kept eyeing him expectantly. Not having known that she would be there, he had come empty-handed, except for a bottle of brandy for his brother. They headed for the scenic route, he—in the role of uncle—asking the obligatory questions of Gisela, who in her young girlish voice tirelessly fed him information on her school, her friends, her projects, her outings, until he began to feel distinctly unwell, having been—so it seemed to him—forcibly thrust into this cramped car which his brother drove with great dexterity at great speed while carrying on a lively conversation with Anna and his daughter, Gisela, whom he kept correcting, and with Ulrich. Both Anna and Helmuth took turns to point out to him the scenic attractions, an old castle, a windmill, a large estate, a new bridge, with Helmuth obligingly slowing down to permit him a quick view of what they were pointing at. Uncle Ulrich, you look so pale, said Gisela at one point. What were you up to last night, yelled Helmuth.
Ulrich shut his eyes. Now Uncle Ulrich is falling asleep announced Gisela. It’s something I ate, Ulrich explained, breathing deeply, eyes still shut. He only opened them when Helmuth in a voice clearly directed at him explained that they were now driving parallel to the old railroad tracks that used to link Munich and Daemling, and then, in case Ulrich had missed the point, adding: That’s how they brought the poor wretches to the camp at Durst.
Poor wretches? he said.
I mean the Jews and others.
Uncle Ulrich is sick, announced Gisela.
Ulrich, I’m so glad you finally decided to come, said Helmuth in his exuberant voice, pretending not to have heard Gisela’s remark. But it seemed to Ulrich that the remark was also intended for Anna. Then, to her evident embarrassment, or so it appeared to Ulrich, Helmuth informed him that it would be more convenient (he stressed the word “convenient”) if he, Ulrich, were to stay in the town. For one thing you’ll be within walking distance of everything instead of being dependent on a car.
Whatever you say.
You’ll be much more independent. Come and go when you please. He turned in his seat to look at Ulrich, winking one eye.
Absolutely.
The mayor has this place—it’s a furnished apartment for visiting VIPs, and he’s quite willing … No … he corrected himself … He’s more than pleased to make it available to you. We’ll all have drinks at his place tonight. Then, as if the thought had just crossed his mind: By the way, the place is free. They’re so pleased to have visitors … and a well-known writer.
The brother of the architect, Ulrich said.
Just ask Anna, said Helmuth. She’s been dying to meet you. She’ll probably have you visit the school …
Anna, taken by surprise: Yes. You must come and
see it …
I think we’ll stop at the Pflaume for something to drink, said Helmuth, eyeing Anna with a tiny smile. Their private joke.
Uncle Ulrich are you really sick? asked Gisela, more out of curiosity than concern.
We’ll be there in another five minutes, promised Helmuth. Coffee, if nothing else, ha ha ha, will revive you.
What could he mean, if nothing else?
No, you first, Helmuth insisted as they entered the Pflaume.
How long did it take Franz to recognize him?
Instantly. His eyes widened. He smiled broadly. Then tray in hand, he approached Ulrich.
Herr von Hargenau. What a great pleasure.
What a surprise … I never suspected …
It’s so good to see you, sir.
You haven’t changed one iota. You look just as you did when I saw you the last time. How long is it?
I knew, said Franz, once I had seen your brother, that sooner or later you too would come here.
I wish it had been sooner, said Ulrich, and then turning to Helmuth asked: Why didn’t you tell me that Franz was here?
I wanted it to be a surprise.
Ulrich ordered tea and toast; Anna, a glass of wine; Gisela, cocoa and cake; and his brother, coffee. And then, walking to the glass case where the cakes and pastries were on display, he stood contemplating the large selection, his lips moving as if speaking to himself, as he prepared to make his selection.
Will you be staying in Brumholdstein for some time? Anna inquired.
A week or two.
I hope you and your brother will come and visit us, Franz said to him as they were leaving. Doris will be so pleased to see you again.