How German Is It

by Walter Abish

The bathroom, one of three in the building, still remained to be painted. The floor tiles were a pale blue. Why this passion for pale blue? The painter lit a cigarette and then stared contemplatively at the uneven stream of urine he was aiming above the waterline of the light-blue porcelain toilet bowl. What would they serve for dinner? he idly wondered, feeling a slight pang of hunger. He tossed the partly smoked cigarette into the toilet and walked out without flushing.

  An hour later, still wearing his painter’s overalls, seated on his daughter’s left, he genially beamed at his son-in-law, the mayor, and at the maid who had entered the room ceremoniously carrying the large roast on a tray.

  Guten Appetit, he said politely to Vin and her husband and the children, Dieter and Erika, and their friend, Gisela Hargenau.

  Why are you wearing overalls? Gisela asked politely in her talking-to-grownups voice.

  Because I am painting the house, he replied equably.

  The mayor went to the sideboard and opened a bottle of Moselle. If Hermann Glich’s presence in any way disrupted the dinner, he remained unaware of it. Glich had two glasses of wine and a second helping of young potatoes with parsley, cucumber salad, and roast beef. Erika called him “Grandfather” when she sweetly asked if she could have her room painted a pale yellow with a pale blue border along the ceiling and floor. He smiled at her and said that if her parents consented he would be happy to paint it the way she wanted.

  Vin pressed the buzzer on the underside of the table, and the maid entered to clear away the dishes. She was accustomed to addressing Vin or her husband, the mayor, as Gnädige Frau and Gnädiger Herr. Secretly she hoped that she would not have to speak to Hermann Glich. When she served the fruit, coffee, and dessert, the painter Hermann Glich said to his daughter: This is very nice. Very nice indeed. You really excel as a cook. She laughed, not hiding the condescension she felt toward her father. I don’t know how to cook. The cooking is done by our cook Hilda, who by the way, like you, also lives in Daemling.

  Indeed? said Hermann Glich, not at all put out. But that’s hardly surprising. One would not expect a cook to live in Brumholdstein. Eh? And he looked questioningly at the maid, who became flustered and spilled some of the coffee. Angrily, Vin was about to ask him what he meant by that remark, a remark that was open to various interpretations, when Albert Kahnsitz-Lese announced that Egon was coming to visit.

  And Vin, forgetting her father, protested: but that’s out of the question. You’re beginning to treat this house as if it was a hotel. You might have mentioned to him that we’re having the place painted.

  He’ll be staying with Helmuth, said her husband.

  In Helmuth’s house without doors? Absurd. She laughed shrilly. Spitefully. Is he also bringing Gisela?

  Not this time. He’s coming with a friend. A photographer.

  Male or female? Vin wanted to know.

  Why don’t we have a cognac and a cigar in my study, the mayor suggested to his father-in-law.

  Gisela is my best friend, Erika said to her grandfather referring to the other Gisela. And her father, the architect Hargenau, is my father’s best friend. Is Obbie your best friend?

  No, he’s my assistant, said Hermann Glich with a deep laugh. He mixes the paints, carries the ladders, and in general tries to make himself useful.

  The mayor, rising from his chair, looked pointedly at his wife. I guess Erika and I are the lucky ones. We have good friends.

  Vin rang for the maid and then told the children to play in their room.

  The only one left at the table, she carefully watched the maid pile the dishes on the tray.

  Gnädige Frau, please forgive me, said the maid.

  For what?

  For spilling the coffee.

  But that could happen to anyone, Vin said with a dazzling smile of forgiveness.

  The mayor, having seated Hermann Glich in his favorite chair, poured him a cognac and offered him a cigar. Bit strong, but good, said the painter after a few puffs.

  You mustn’t feel too badly about Vin, said the mayor. She’s just irritable because I neglected to inform her in advance that you were coming.

  Hermann Glich quietly sipped his cognac while curiously looking around the room.

  It’s a comfortable little space, wouldn’t you say? said the mayor.

  Hmm. Very nice.

  I come here to be by myself. Do a little reading. Just relax. Spend an hour or two with a friend.

  Hermann Glich stared at the books, then at the ceiling, finally at the floor. Nice carpet.

  It’s an old one. My father acquired it before the war. Lots of things were quite reasonable before the war, I’m told. What with so many people suddenly deciding to leave the country …

  I wouldn’t know, said Hermann Glich moodily. We never had any money to speak of.

  I often wondered what happened to those people, mused the mayor. They were neighbors. Well, not exactly neighbors. My father was the caretaker … Imagine, suddenly, being able to acquire furniture, china …

  Caretaker? Your father was a caretaker? Hermann Glich looked at the mayor with sudden interest. I didn’t know.

  We bought everything they had to sell. I mean, all the stuff they couldn’t fit into their suitcases. I guess what my father offered them was better than nothing. But I was too young to remember. Anyhow, my share was a toy train that had belonged to their son. He laughed.

  Good cognac, said Glich.

  Have another.

  No, no, I ought to be getting back to work.

  Not at this hour. It’s time to close shop. Come on. Another cognac won’t hurt you. He walked to the liquor cabinet and returned with the bottle. Do you know why I really asked you to paint our place? the mayor asked as he poured his father-in-law another drink.

  No. I don’t have the slightest idea.

  Because Vin has been keeping you under wraps all these years. Don’t deny it.

  Under wraps?

  Every once in a while she dashes off to visit her family—which, now that your dear wife is dead, means you. But she doesn’t talk about you. When I inquire how you are, she says, He’s fine. Or, He hasn’t changed at all. Or, He still eats too much. He really should lose some weight.

  Eats too much, said Glich angrily. She has a nerve.

  She wouldn’t permit me to attend your wife’s funeral … well forbid is too strong a word. Let’s say, she dissuaded me from going. I’m sorry I …

  She’s ashamed of me, said Glich. He carefully studied the carpet at his feet, as if engrossed in the pattern. She was always ashamed of us.

  Well, said the mayor with a forced joviality, from now on I would like you to consider yourself our official painter. By appointment, as the English would say, to the mayor of Brumholdstein. Ha ha ha. I’ll expect you to hire a few competent men and on mutually acceptable terms undertake to paint all the public and city-run institutions in Brumholdstein. The schools, the police station, the clinic …

  I couldn’t do that at my age, protested Hermann Glich. I only paint three days a week. Four at the most. I have to rest between jobs. I no longer even carry the ladder.

  But my dear fellow, I don’t expect you to lift a paintbrush, said the mayor. You’ll be the administrator.

  Glich looked at his paint-streaked hands and shook his head. I can only do what I have done all my life. He seemed to struggle to find the words.

  And … what I know … I mean … all I know is how to paint … it’s what I know, what I understand. It’s familiar.

  How the familiar is perceived in the house of Mayor Albert Kahnsitz-Lese

  By eleven the mayor was in bed going over his prepared speech for the following Monday’s memorial ceremony honoring Ernst Brumhold. On this sad occasion, I, as mayor of Brumholdstein, would like to quote from a letter written by the late philosopher Ernst Brumhold to Clara Lohn, executive secretary of the Brumhold Society. My dear Miss Lohn. I am grateful for … With his pen he scratched out one line, then another, then with one stroke t
he entire reference to the letter.

  Downstairs, Vin in her white nightgown stood at the entrance to the dining room. Don’t you think it’s time you went home, she said to her father, who was perched on top of the ladder vigorously painting the ceiling. When he failed to respond, she walked to the ladder and shook it. I don’t know what I did to deserve this, she said.

  Lovely children, lovely husband, lovely house, crooned Glich. You’re a lucky woman.

  Go home, she said angrily. D’you hear me? I said, go home.

  As soon as I finish the ceiling, Glich promised, his perspiring face pointed upward as he rhythmically slapped his wide brush against the surface above his head, slap, slap, slap, the sound, that familiar sound, invading her ears, her brain.

  I can’t deal with you, she said finally, turning away. You’re too much.

  The mayor was so preoccupied with his speech that he failed to hear Vin run the water in their bathroom. Later, when she entered the bedroom, she remained standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, staring at him until she caught his eye.

  She had put on her transparent black negligee … The black negligee was a signal that could not easily be ignored or dismissed. Still holding the pages of his speech, he looked at her inquiringly, not really in order to elicit an answer but to give himself enough time to respond to her signal.

  Albert, let’s not be childish. Let’s not fight. Please.

  But darling, what on earth makes you think that I would want to fight?

  When she sat down at the foot of the bed, she seemed unaware that the nightgown had parted in front, revealing her breasts. The dark brown nipple on each quivering white breast conveyed a message, an urgent message to the mayor, arousing him from his self-induced torpor.

  What else was familiar?

  His intial reluctance. At present he was too preoccupied for sex. There was the speech on Brumhold. She leaned forward, nuzzling his neck. She embraced him. My hard-working love who won’t make time for his wife, who won’t put aside his speech. And so on. She now on the bed, still in her negligee, legs parted. With a practiced motion of her hand she guided him into her. He murmured something into her ear. As she pushed a pillow under her buttocks, the yellow pad with his handwritten speech caught his eyes. There, you see, it can be fun, she said as he proceeded slowly with pistonlike motions, and then more rapidly, the sound, a not unfamiliar sound, merging in her mind with the sound she had heard earlier. His brain struggling with the information of his excitement, as it located the segmented surface of her kneecap, her tightened calf, the pressure of her hand on his buttocks, all agreeable details that in the final frenzied thrusts merged with an amazing clarity.

  But did anyone give one single thought to the picture of the father, her father, still perched on top of the metal ladder, doggedly, persistently painting a surface that was only three, at the most four feet below them?

  A loud shriek, then another, this one somewhat muffled.

  Afterward. Why did you tell him that your father was the caretaker of the building in which you were living?

  Oh, did he mention that? Well, I thought it would please him.

  It’s a lie. Your father owned the building.

  Yes. But at that time he was also the caretaker.

  What are you up to? she asked laughing, her hand touching his limp penis.

  Did he interpret this as another signal?

  Afterward. Do you really insist on having one wall painted blue in your study?

  He looked surprised. But I thought we had agreed.

  If you insist …

  But darling.

  I just think that it makes the bookcase too conspicuous. But it’s your space.

  He was about to respond in defense of the blue wall, when they both heard the heavy thud from below.

  Did you hear that?

  Then the unmistakable sound of a crash, a metallic sound, but lighter than the previous thump.

  The ladder, he said standing up, slipping into his robe. But your father left ages ago.

  He insisted on completing the ceiling. He wouldn’t listen to me. He can be as stubborn as a mule.

  Let’s hope he didn’t fall off. He looked at her quizzically.

  I suppose I should …

  No. Stay in bed. It’s probably nothing.

  Annoyed, she got out of bed, tossing the damp negligee on a chair and walking naked to the closet. She heard him running down the stairs. In his rush he had neglected to shut the bedroom door. For a brief moment she glanced at herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door.

  Next.

  The ladder, forming a huge A, lay on its side, its apex resting squarely on the motionless back of the painter Glich, who lay face down on the large dropcloth in a pool of white paint.

  You better give me a hand, said the mayor when she entered the room.

  Her first words: Why did he have to do this to me.

  Let’s turn him over.

  She hesitated, then took hold of her father’s arm and pulled.

  The paint-covered face reminded her of a clown’s mask. The mayor unbuttoned the overalls, opened Glich’s shirt, exposing a white hairy chest, then gingerly, trying not to get paint on himself, crouched on the ground, pressing his ear to Glich’s chest.

  He did it deliberately, she said. Then, when the mayor said, I think he’s dead, she burst into tears. He planned it. You both planned it to humiliate me.

  Go upstairs. Call an ambulance.

  I blame you for this, she said.

  Go upstairs.

  He’s not dead. She stared at the body on the floor. Some of the paint had gotten on the floor, and she realized that they were tracking white paint wherever they stepped.

  For God’s sake, she said, don’t come upstairs until you’ve wiped your feet.

  He died at his work, he said. Isn’t that the best way to go?

  The house is an absolute mess, she said irritably, with tears streaming down her face. An absolute mess. Now this.

  Well, we can’t help that, the mayor said contritely, not wishing to become embroiled in a fight.

  I told him to knock off, she said. But he had to do the ceiling. What are you going to tell everyone?

  I’ll say that your father was visiting us, and that he had a stroke.

  In his overalls, covered with paint.

  What do you suggest?

  I suggest we clean him up a bit.

  What if he isn’t dead?

  You are going to drive me insane. You just said he was dead.

  I could be mistaken.

  I’ll call the ambulance, she said.

  Forgive me, he said. It’s not what I had in mind.

  The ambulance took twenty minutes to arrive. Better watch it, the mayor said to the two men who rolled the stretcher into the room. There’s paint all over the floor.

  Why that’s old Glich, said one of the men. The other stared at the ceiling. He almost finished it, he said. Almost.

  .

  13

  Why don’t you and Gisela take a walk, Helmuth suggested, and Ulrich replied: Sure, that would be nice. How about it, Gisela? And then he asked her, Where would you like to go? As they set out, Ulrich realized that he had hardly spent any time with her and that he had come to regard her not as his niece but as he would any other ten-year-old. With an amused detached tolerance he listened to her as she explained that she never felt bored. Even when there was absolutely nothing for her to do. Even when she was waiting for a friend and the friend happened to be twenty or thirty minutes or even as much as an hour late, she was not bored, because she would sit down and think things over. There’s a lot to think about, she said seriously. I think about what I will do the next day and the day after. She also liked to make lists. Or she would pick up a book or a magazine. Or she might, on the spur of the moment, walk to the garden and dig a hole in the ground and then plant something in the hole. In her own rambling way, without any urging on his part, she explained that her father was
now building a museum in which they would hang large paintings of naked women. Some by French, some by English, and some by German painters. She also explained that whenever her father received a commission he would keep on drawing the building until he was satisfied, until he was able to settle on a particular design. Then he would have someone make a model of it. Once in a while, when he was not satisfied with a model, he would give it to her or to Magnus. My father, she said, wears sweaters. He likes gray, green, and blue sweaters with a V-neck and also with a turtleneck. My mother knitted two sweaters for him, but he never wore them. She giggled at this. He left them behind when he left the house, and my mother was very angry. He didn’t even take the sweaters, my mother said, and then she cried. Magnus said that because my father is so nearsighted, he may not have seen the sweaters in his hurry to leave before my mother returned. She looked at Ulrich to see if he was amused. I like to be with my father because I never know what will happen next. He is never boring, but he is easily impatient. Hurry up, he’ll say to us or to my mother, when we are dressing to go out somewhere. He likes to do things immediately. He doesn’t like to wait. When he asks people over to play tennis, he will often say: Come over right away—and then when they are late he gets terribly upset. He once used to play soccer. He was center forward. But now he no longer even watches soccer. When an old friend calls up to invite him to join them in a game he always thinks of an excuse. He has twisted his ankle. He has mislaid his car keys. My mother lost all interest in tennis, because she found my father too competitive. If only he could just enjoy the game, she used to say. My father always knew that he would be famous one day. Are you famous too? It can be fun. For instance, my father knows that we are being observed whenever we go out together. He knows that people are saying: There goes Helmuth Hargenau the architect and, at his side, is his daughter, Gisela. But because he is famous, he pretends not to notice. He pretends not to pay any attention. Sometimes he makes conversation in order to be overheard. So that people can listen in to what we are saying. It is a game we often play. He will ask me: Gisela, where would you like to go this summer? If I say, India, he’ll reply: Why not? Let’s go there for four months. I can always build them another ruin. He is always testing me. He is also always asking me how much I like this or that. He wants an exact answer. He wants to know why. My mother did not like to play that game. He would always ask her what she thought of his suit, or his new shirt, or the color of his tie, and when she said: I don’t know. I can’t concentrate—he would get angry.