How German Is It

by Walter Abish

  Your brother mentioned that you are working on another book, the mayor said to Ulrich.

  I see you still haven’t put any doors in the rooms, said Vin to Helmuth when she entered the room.

  Ah, this time you’ve been upstairs, he observed.

  Later.

  Vin asked Ulrich: Where did you and your brother live after the war?

  We stayed in our country house near Würtenburg. The other house, in Würtenburg, was completely destroyed.

  The mayor helped himself to a peach, and then proceeded to peel it with a most exacting thoroughness.

  Ulrich’s brother lit a cigar. In the room in which they were seated, Helmuth had hung a large reproduction of the destroyed police station in Würtenburg. The Hargenaus do not forget anything. They continue to bear grudges. They cling to every slight. One day …

  Vin with narrowed eyes followed Anna’s movements as she gathered the plates and stacked them neatly on a tray. Can I help, she asked, making no effort, however, to rise from her seat. Helmuth, eyes somewhat glazed, opened another bottle of champagne.

  Helmuth mentioned, said Vin, that the waiter at the Pflaume had been a servant in your house in the country.

  Franz? Yes, ages ago. We liked him and—

  He stayed with us, Helmuth interjected, until our beloved mother found him one day lying naked on the bed in the maid’s room.

  Is that really true? Vin asked Ulrich.

  Apparently.

  And your mother? Were you close to her?

  Don’t say another word, warned Helmuth. She’s pumping you.

  Why is it that you don’t ever wish to speak about your mother?

  .

  11

  Later, after coffee, Ulrich returned to the chair in the garden, blankly staring at the tennis court. Why hadn’t Helmuth put him up here? The sun bounced off the upstairs windows. Deciding to explore the upper floor, he entered the house by the rear entrance and climbed the backstairs, stopping midway when he heard a woman in a pleading voice say: Please, don’t leave me. Please … The man’s response was too low for him to understand. He hesitated briefly, then as loudly as possible continued his ascent in time to see the back of Vin as she walked rapidly to the head of the stairs at the other end of the corridor.

  In the dining room the mayor was eating a large slice of a rich-looking chocolate layer cake. Wherever did you get this? It’s delicious.

  In Daemling, this morning, said Helmuth.

  Make a note of that, the mayor said to his wife as he helped himself to another dollop of whipped cream.

  Helmuth was stretched out on the couch, feet resting on a cushioned stool. Too bad that Jonke couldn’t make it, said the mayor. You have to meet Jonke, he said to Ulrich. He’s our intellectual-in-residence. I’m sure he’s read all your books.

  I believe his father was in the Einsatzkommando, said Helmuth.

  Oh, not that again, said Vin.

  The mayor took another mouthful, then with his forefinger explored a rear tooth. Damn it. Have to see the dentist again.

  It’s all that chocolate cake, said Vin.

  Have you ever tasted the walnut cake at the Pflaume? the mayor asked Anna.

  Has anyone told you about the waiter Franz’s grotesque project? Vin asked Ulrich.

  You mean his model of the Durst lager.

  Isn’t it too awful for words.

  Helmuth to the mayor: That’s exactly what we need, isn’t that so?

  If you really want my opinion, said the mayor, I think this hobby of his is simply an expression of his detestation. I’ve got him down for a real antisocial type.

  What? Franz? Helmuth asked with an exaggerated look of surprise for the benefit of Vin. Surely you don’t mean that.

  Next.

  The mayor and his wife Vin were the first to leave. We must repeat this soon, promised the mayor. We’ll get together in a few days as soon as our place has been painted.

  I’ve been meaning to ask you for the name of your painter, said Helmuth. I’d like to get someone to paint this place. It needs it, don’t you think.

  Our man is getting on in years, said the mayor. Painstakingly methodical but slow. Not someone I’d recommend.

  I doubt that Glich would be interested, said Vin. He’s retired. Works only a few days a week.

  Of course he might know of someone else, said Anna.

  And Helmuth, pen in hand, a card in the other, waited while the mayor looked in his notebook for the telephone number of the painter. No, I don’t seem to have it, he said. Give me a call at the office tomorrow.

  After they had left Helmuth handed his brother the current issue of Treue, which contained a number of letters to the editor attacking the recent article on Egon and Gisela. In one letter, the writer to the editor inquired if the omission of the architect’s name, Helmuth von Hargenau, was deliberate. I still have a few supporters, said Helmuth.

  Sure you didn’t write this yourself? asked Ulrich. Left to himself, he stepped into the garden, and with a sigh sank into the most comfortable chair. After leafing through the magazine and reading the letter which mentioned Helmuth, he leaned back and stared at the house, the trees, the sky. When he went back inside, Anna and his brother were nowhere in sight. He started to climb the stairs, then changed his mind. Returning to the living room, he poured himself what was left of the champagne and settled down on the couch with a book on Angkor, by Myrdal.

  Next.

  There you are, said Helmuth as he entered the room followed by Anna, who had changed into a heavy sweater and trousers. She avoided Ulrich’s gaze.

  I’ve asked Anna to drop you off, said Helmuth. And then, in a concerned voice: You do like your place, don’t you?

  It’s a great little apartment, said Ulrich.

  Good. I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable …

  Well then, see you tomorrow.

  How about lunch, suggested Helmuth. We’ll have the mayor join us. He’s a good fellow.

  The following day when Ulrich mentioned to his brother that he liked Anna, Helmuth said, Of course you do. But then you like mousy women? Starched blouses and somewhat on the timid side. Oh, I mustn’t forget, and serious … not to mention … unexpectedly passionate in bed.

  Paula was hardly timid, was she? And I don’t recall any starched blouses. But haven’t we been through this before?

  Sorry, my mistake. Helmuth bowed in mock apology. But how was Paula in bed?

  How are you?

  Me. He grinned. I’m a tiger. Ruthless. You should have guessed by now.

  .

  12

  A little more on the subject of German painting

  I am using a less expensive latex paint, the painter, Hermann Glich, explained to Frau Vin Kahnsitz-Lese. His feet were firmly planted on the third and fourth rung of the old aluminum ladder streaked with paint, and the wide paintbrush in his large hand was dripping as he stared persistently at the wall opposite him, thereby avoiding her look of refined distaste—or was it displeasure? A faded rectangular area on the wall facing him indicated where the mirror had hung. The painter’s left hand rested on the half-opened five-liter can of paint, his stubby forefinger nervously moving back and forth along the moist inner rim. Inquisitively, her eyes moved for a fraction of a second to his paint-stained hand, as if to place or locate the familiar hand with its curly red hair in some time-frame of her memory. It’s really good paint. Just cheaper, he repeated. There was no innuendo or special meaning attached to his emphasis on its being cheaper. He simply assumed that she would want to use a cheaper paint. He looked at her, then at the opposite wall while she closely, almost suspiciously inspected the section he had just painted. In all candor I must tell you, she said finally, that I feel embarrassed at having you here. I mean in your present capacity. Why couldn’t you be reasonable and stop working? You have a pension. At the very least, you might have declined to come.

  He gingerly took another step up the ladder, carefully shifting his bulk so
that he leaned securely against the wobbly ladder. With an unexpected forcefulness, he said: I’ve been painting houses for over forty years, not counting the war … and several years following the war …

  Spare me the details, please. She did not hide her impatience, her disapproval, her antipathy. Are any of the upstairs rooms ready to be painted? Have the ceilings been sanded? Albert wants the left wall in his study painted a light blue. Only the left wall as you enter. I wish I could talk him out of it. As she was leaving, she turned to look at his averted face, at the white hair beneath his snugly fitting painter’s cap. I wish you had more than one assistant. The one who’s working here seems to be a buffoon. If I know you, you’ll both take ages.

  Obbie is reliable, he said. And he’s not a buffoon. He has a problem.

  I’ll say he has a problem.

  His father is the waiter Franz at the Pflaume.

  Is he really. I must remind you not to forget the semigloss paint on the wood trim. The last time we had this place done, the painter forgot and then had to come back to do it over again. But I expect that you would enjoy that.

  Upstairs the maid was vacuuming the carpet.

  Exasperated by his silence, unable to contain herself any longer, she burst out: I have never before been placed in such a difficult position.

  Well, he said mildly, your husband asked me to come. He called me twice. I concluded that you would know about it. As you know I’m not desperately looking for places to paint.

  Shall I tell you why you were asked? For only one reason. He did it to humiliate me.

  Are you telling me to leave?

  She, shrilly: Go. Go to blazes. Do what you please. Just be sure this house is properly painted. Don’t think that just because of our special relationship you can overlook a second coat.

  Vin, he said. Be reasonable. When your husband, the mayor, called me, listing everything that was to be done in the house, I assumed that you …

  You assumed that I wanted you here. How very touching. The great reunion. We would celebrate our reunion in paint. Clearly, since there aren’t any other painters available, we have to dig up an old man now living in Daemling.

  You could have stopped me, he said earnestly, tears forming in his eyes.

  Oh please, not tears. Stopped you indeed. Weren’t you just dying to come here. What a great honor to be invited. You will stay for dinner, I take it. Just the family tonight. No special guests, sorry. If I had a few days notice.

  No, he said. The “no” was emphatic. He swayed slightly on the ladder. She watched his white paint-encrusted forefinger glide back and forth over the rim of the large half-open can of paint. Well, if you change your mind, she said, remember—for once—no stories. I know your predilection for stories. But this time try to restrain yourself.

  The maid upstairs, having finished vacuuming the carpets, began to roll them up as neatly as possible. She was twenty-two and, like most of the servants, came from Daemling. She did not suspect a thing. Vin’s daughter, Erika, was playing in the garden with her best friend, Gisela. The painter, holding the brush in a familiar grip, a grip he considered most comfortable, had resumed painting the hallway. Why the hallway? Because, in this instance, he decided it to be the most convenient place. By no means the best or the most logical. Merely the most convenient, it being so close to the door. He could, if called upon, make his exit in less than four minutes.

  Albert, returning from the office, found Vin upstairs in their bedroom moodily staring out of the window. He certainly seems a good painter, he remarked cheerfully. When she failed to answer, he said: And methodical too. One of the old school. Not at all like the slapdash group we had two years ago. Remember? You said, We’ll never have them back. Remember?

  And what school are you? What school do you belong to?

  Ah, you’re angry. I can see you’re angry at someone.

  Angry? Why should I be angry? Because my father has been asked to paint our house? That could hardly be a reason, could it?

  But you kept on complaining how sloppy and careless the other painters were, he pointed out. They arrived late, they left early. They broke your favorite mirror. Furthermore, you kept telling me that up till then you had never appreciated how good your father really was. How was I to interpret that? You said, and I’m now quoting you, people like your father belong to a generation that still took pride in their work.

  Shit, she said.

  Well, he said patiently, what time did your father arrive this morning?

  I didn’t clock him.

  He brought along a young assistant. Have you seen him?

  Would you like me to go down and inspect him?

  Clumsy-looking fellow.

  Great.

  It may amuse you to know that he’s the son of Franz, the waiter at the Pflaume. You remember Franz, don’t you?

  Yes. Would you like me to invite him over as well one of these days?

  You’re really angry.

  I’m not angry. I’m furious. There is a distinction.

  Franz’s son was raised by Franz’s mother. Odd, don’t you think? Which would lead me to believe that he must be the child of a previous marriage. Pleased with himself, the mayor looked at her for confirmation.

  You’re a font of knowledge. How marvelous. Nothing remains concealed from you.

  I don’t know about that. She stiffened as he kissed her on the back of the neck. I think we should ask him to join us for a bite, don’t you?

  She, startled: What, that young twerp? Are you out of your mind.

  Darling, he said. I meant your father. He is your father, he reminded her. His hand firmly pressing her against his side. She, keeping her face averted, replied angrily: I am not at all convinced of that. He happened to be married to my mother when I was born. That is not sufficient proof to me. I don’t resemble him in the least. Go on. Tell me that I am wrong.

  Vin. Please. No fights in front of the children.

  No fights. You embarrass them and me. The only time they meet their grandfather is when he comes to paint this house.

  Look, he said, leaning out of the open window. There goes Obbie. Watch him waddle. What a funny-looking man.

  Well, he certainly doesn’t resemble Franz, she said.

  Taking this comment to mean that she was prepared to change the subject, he squeezed her arm gently. My little pet. Just look at him walk. Every five steps or so he seems to shift an invisible weight from one shoulder to the other.

  Albert.

  Yes?

  Tell me truthfully. Why did you ask my father to paint our house? Why not any other painter? I want to know. She banged her fist on the window ledge in exasperation.

  The maid can hear us, he pointed out in his mild voice.

  I want to know, she screamed.

  He grimaced, then raised his right hand as if taking an oath. It was entirely an impulse.

  You really expect me to believe that?

  It happens to be the truth.

  In the garden Erika, laughing wildly, was chasing Gisela. In comparison to her, Gisela was by far more agile, more inventive. He found his daughter’s laughter vaguely disturbing, as if it spelled out a possible future derangement. Erika, he called from the window. Erika, stop it immediately. But she could not or did not want to hear his voice.

  You really believe you can change the subject, just like that, said Vin. Sometimes you disgust me.

  Does Helmuth ever disgust you? he asked mildly.

  Why did you ask that question? Her voice brittle and sharp. Why?

  You know, you may be right after all. Hermann Glich is probably not your father.

  And a little more on the subject of German painters

  Why had he accepted the mayor’s invitation, no, the mayor’s request to paint this house? Was it curiosity? Just sheer curiosity? A desire, finally, to see the interior of the house? Was that it? Or did he want to claim what was essentially his right, namely, entrance to the house of his daughter, Vin? Visit the gran
dchildren? Or did he interpret the mayor’s request as a challenge? Or could it be nothing else than an almost childish inability to say no? No, I bloody well won’t come to paint the interior of your house. Get someone else. I am retired. I only paint in Daemling. I only paint when it pleases me to paint. I select the houses I paint. Not that it wasn’t well known that the mayor’s father-in-law was a painter in Daemling. No, he didn’t paint on stretched canvas, he painted walls and ceilings. Nothing wrong with that. Not if you belong to the union. He had to admit that the mayor had never concealed the identity of his father-in-law, or the latter’s occupation. On one or two occasions the mayor had even referred to it on TV. Mentioned it with a slightly self-conscious laugh. To indicate, perhaps, that he was one of the people. The new democratic Germany, where people were no longer measured by class, upbringing, loyalties, but by their achievements as human beings. Though the mayor had failed to say on TV that his father-in-law had never seen the inside of his house. Well, at least that was now being rectified. His father-in-law was now seeing every nook and cranny of the house. Nothing escaped the sharp eyes of the father-in-law. A photographic memory. No head for figures or dates or names, but otherwise, he could remember the interior of every house, every single interior, he had ever painted. As he painted he kept adding visual information to the storehouse in his head. This the mayor did not know. A certain satisfaction could be derived from this knowledge. How are you doing, Obbie? he called to his assistant. It was intended less as a question, more of an encouragement. Everyone needed encouragement these days. He put down his brush and descended the ladder. He had a slight problem with his bladder. Not unusual for a man in his late sixties. Otherwise in excellent shape. Strong as an ox. Not to worry, Dr. Kretschmer had said. Just don’t hold it in. So Hermann Glich in the middle of a brush stroke (no fancy rollers for him) would put the brush down and tell Obbie: Just going to take a leak. Usually Obbie’s response was a grunt. Obbie was not terribly bright, or quick or agile, but hand him an assignment, explain it to him, and come hell or high water he would see it through to the end.