by Walter Abish
Gisela and Egon.
He, tall, blond, a rugged face trying to dispel the suggestion of weakness in the petulant pout. The pale blue eyes, the strong jaw, the cheekbones, the nose twisted to one side, bent to the left (the result of an accident?) in sharp contrast to the weakness that is implied or conveyed by the protrusion of the lips, expressing a private resentment, a pique. And she, on the thin side. Sharp angular features, thin lips. A familiar—or so it seems to a spectator—an overwhelmingly familiar restlessness. Hoch gespannt, the German for high pitched, or highly strung. A tendency to move quickly, also to overreact. A sudden high-pitched laugh that has not as yet freed itself from its earlier association with hysteria. But that is only to be surmised. It may not be true. All in all, the photographs, the pictures in Treue are an invitation—what else?—to reinterpret Germany. A new Germany. Certainly not the Germany that was once firmly ensconced (the saddle, after all, is an appropriate metaphor) in the Prussian tradition of honor and obedience, old money and authority, the saber, the crumbling castle overlooking the Rhine.
Egon and Gisela.
A picture, really, of the new democratic Germany. This is made abundantly clear as they stand (posing for Rita?) in front of their villa, with the bright red flowers demarcating the curve of the gravel path, the bright red also providing (on the magazine cover, anyhow) a necessary (?) counterpoint to the white Mercedes, the white suit, and Gisela’s black leather trousers. The viewer cannot remain unaware of the tasteful arrangement of all these possessions and of the combination of colors: the yellow villa, the red flowers, the black trousers, and the black dog. Colors that are and always have been quintessentially German—Schwarz, Rot, Gold. Black was our past, red is the present, and gold is our future. Not that everything—colors aside—need to be taken at face value. Still, it is pleasant to contemplate this attractive setting, this attractive combination, this attractive couple, especially knowing that there is no overwhelming reason to suspect or doubt their political affiliation (they are echt Deutsch), or fear—for instance—the possibility that they might be concealing in their attic or cellar, a member of the Einzieh, a group which has taken responsibility for the recent horrendous bombings of the post office in Würtenburg. Not that living in a villa or driving a Mercedes can automatically exclude one from such suspicion.
Egon and Gisela’s daily schedule. A red leather-bound appointment book next to the white telephone. It lists the occasional visit from her mother, now living in sunny Italy. A daily record of luncheons, dentist appointments, tennis games, cocktail parties, birthdays, new acquisitions (shower curtains, a small house on the Costa Brava), weekends with friends in the country. In Egon’s firm hand, under Thursday the 28th: Rita Tropf-Ulmwehrt 12.30. Lunch?
Something that is not shown is a shot of Gisela sulking. Gisela close to tears. Gisela crouching in a corner of her room. An atavistic return to the corner of her childhood? Mouth tightly clenched, body perspiring, tense. Eyes focused on some distant point in space.
Well, how long do you intend to crouch in that corner, Gisela? Egon asks amiably. I mean, and this is said reasonably, at some point you will have to go to the john, or to the mirror to comb your hair, or to the kitchen, or to answer the phone. You can’t very well spend your life in a corner because you disagree with me.
I only disagree with your concern for other women, she says in a near whisper. Who is it now. Your secretary? Or Rita Tropf?
Tropf-Ulmwehrt, not Tropf.
Go away.
Why don’t we drive to that Thai restaurant you like so much and have a leisurely dinner, then …
I disagree with your head, she whispers. I disagree with the way you think.
Or how about a nice invigorating walk in the woods.
You’re just waiting for me to inherit the money.
I can’t possibly stand here all day and humor you.
Who is it now? She asks.
Egon.
Let me put it this way, Egon says to Rita Tropf-Ulmwehrt. Above all, I fervently believe in an intrinsic harmony. A harmony that takes precedence over everything else. In other words, I believe in the harmony of my friendship to Gisela rather than in the binding force that the institution of marriage is said to represent. I believe in the fundamental harmony that permeates our house. It is a harmony that enables me to assess myself and my intentions in a fresh light. It is also, I might mention, the intrinsic harmony of our society that has enabled me to understand the dimensions, the full dimensions, of the terrorist threat to Germany. Clearly the Einzieh Group intends to overthrow our system of government by destroying Germany’s newly acquired harmony. For harmony spell democracy, if you will, but democracy, alas, is a word that has been depleted of its meaning, its energy, its power. If anything can be said to represent the new Germany, it is the wish, the desire, no, the craving to attain a total harmony.
Let me put it this way, says Rita Tropf-Ulmwehrt with a tiny smile, as she places her hand once again on that sensitive and by now to her familiar juncture between his legs.
I’m so pleased, he says, without precisely stating what pleases him.
Another picture of Gisela and Egon that is not shown.
Spring or summer. The fragrance of those red flowers in the garden below fills the bedroom with a sweet and somewhat cloying scent.
Egon in a white shirt, trouserless, selecting a necktie. A serious undertaking. Gisela in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, turns to him and asks breathlessly: Shall I wear the leather suit?
Egon: No.
I thought you liked it?
Must you always wear leather trousers?
Dumas is restlessly pacing back and forth in the garden. A silver clock on the bureau methodically shreds time. A wedding gift from her mother, it bears the inscription, Jeder seiner selbst. Eiti sorgenfreies Leben. Each unto himself. A life without sorrow.
Gisela: Admit, you love the cover. Admit it.
Egon, remorselessly: For some peculiar reason you still seem to believe that black trousers are the latest thing. Everyone may be wearing them, but—
Gisela, chanting: Admit, admit, admit, admit …
The telephone rings downstairs. Someone answers it. If it is for him, whoever it is will call again. When Gisela wears her high heels, which she does frequently, she is three inches taller than Egon. She measures his moody face as he continues to examine his neckties. In effect, his displeasure can be linked to their evening ahead. With a calculated thin-lipped smile, she walks while still brushing her hair to where he is sitting on their bed, inserting her upright body between his parted legs. Absent-mindedly he embraces her, gripping her bare thighs, turning his face to the window.
Of course, there is always the unexpected.
One of these days I am going to build you a tiny, tiny house in the corner of this room. It will contain a tiny blanket and a little pillow and maybe a miniature closet for your hairbrush, Egon says to Gisela tenderly.
If you promise to stop making love to Rita, she says, I’ll promise to behave.
An hour later Egon leaves her crouching in the corner of her room. I’ll tell them that you have a headache. I’ll tell them that you will call up tomorrow. She embraces her legs, bringing her face closer and closer to her bony knees.
Egon.
At dinner the woman seated on his right asks him: Do you ever regret having been too young to have fought in the war?
I don’t know. He stares at her in wonder. I have never asked myself that question.
Later, in Rita’s apartment, he repeats the question he had been asked.
Do you know when I first fell in love with you? she asks.
No.
Not when we first met. No. It was when I had the two of you standing next to your car, posing for me. I don’t know why. But that’s when it happened. It was so delightful.
Will you have dinner with us tomorrow night? He asks.
Dinner? With you and Gisela? Whatever for?
I don’t know. I
thought it might be fun.
Fun? You’re not serious are you?
No. Of course not.
You know … sometimes you worry me.
Egon and Gisela.
I meant to tell you last night, says Egon, I really love the cover.
Do you mean it?
Absolutely.
I’m so glad. I’m so glad.
So am I. It’s us.
Exactly. Yes. It’s us.
.
16
What does Egon know?
Egon behind the wheel of his Mercedes, hurtling down the four-lane highway that, to his eyes, splits the landscape in two: low hills, cultivated fields, and then for miles and miles a thick impenetrable pine forest. It is late afternoon, and they encounter only two or three other cars on the highway. What is visible to Egon and to Rita sitting at his side are the tall pine trees on either side of the road, and the blue sky above, and now and then an opening, a clearing in the woods to their left, revealing the deep glare of the setting sun. Also visible, of course, is the instrument panel on the dashboard. It is reassuring to know that a red warning light would blink the instant anything went wrong. The light enables the driver to assess the damage and reach a decision whether to stop and wait for help or to proceed at a crawl to the nearest gasoline station. But given the unpredictability of life, does it occur to them that at any moment, someone from behind one of those trees might be tempted to puncture their spotless windshield with a bullet, to puncture the perfection of their trip, this drive at great speed which forces the car’s occupants to adjust their love of nature, their love of fields, pastures, hills, trees, and an occasional winding brook or river, to the constant steady motion with which all the things they love stream past, an endless flow, a satisfying almost unseen backdrop to their existence. Yet, something one can label as being both familiar and perfect.
You’ll like Helmuth, Egon assures Rita. We grew up together. As for the mayor. He can be quite amusing. Just stay clear of his wife.
.
17
What does Rita know?
But for how long has Gisela been crouching in a corner of her room, Rita wants to know. She and Egon are having breakfast in their hotel room. Rita watches Egon spread marmalade on a slice of toast. With a slight frown he carefully examines the toast, then turns to her. Her Leica is resting on the mantelpiece, its leather strap dangling from the beveled marble ledge. A view of the small town square from the open windows. Are the two of them at all aware of what is on view? A section of the Romanesque church, a patch of blue sky, and in the square below a flower vendor in front of the rectory.
Why is it, muses Egon, that I am only attracted to women that are taller than me?
For how long has Gisela been crouching?
Egon, showing his annoyance. I really don’t know.
You don’t know?
I don’t remember.
You don’t wish to remember.
Precisely.
Don’t you feel she ought to see a doctor about it?
Why? She feels safe in her corner.
Does she know that we are here?
Here? You mean in this hotel? Here? Now? She can hardly know that. But does she know that we are on our way to Brumholdstein? Well, yes. Most likely she has put the pieces of the puzzle together. Most likely she has concluded that that’s what is happening.
Why don’t you just leave her?
He looks at her uncomprehendingly. What an extraordinary thing to say.
Rita Tropf-Ulmwehrt photographs the hotel room before they leave. She photographs the unmade bed they have slept in, the table from which the traces of their recent breakfast have not yet been removed, the bathroom, the closet, but she pointedly avoids photographing his scowling suspicious face. He, in turn, with a great deal of self-control, restrains himself from asking her what she thinks she is doing. What, after all, is the purpose of this documentation? At this stage, if he could have gracefully, the key word here is gracefully, changed their plan and headed back home, he would have done so. Not because he had lost interest in Rita Tropf-Ulmwehrt—he would not lose interest in her as long as she retained any sort of interest in him. But because it suddenly occurred to him that he was being maneuvered. That it was not he who wanted to go to Brumholdstein, but she. Not he who wanted to see his old friend Helmuth, but she. Not he who wanted to visit the mayor, but she.
Initially, he had accepted her statement, that she wanted to see Brumholdstein, at face value. Why not? We can go there next weekend. I’ll call Helmuth tonight. He’ll put us up. We can stop overnight in a small hotel I know. And she enthusiastically: But that would be lovely. I could do with a few days’ rest.
What are you thinking?
My mind is a blank, he says as he starts the car. She turns to look at the hotel. The windows of the room in which they had stayed were wide open. From one of them the maid is watching their departure.
Did I tell you, she says, that I met Gisela a few days ago.
No.
She rang me up and said that she would like to buy me lunch.
Was it a nice lunch?
Well, for one thing, we spent most of our time together discussing you, she said smugly.
Saying all kinds of nice things?
She told me that you beat her. She didn’t make a big fuss about it. She just wanted me to know. Well? Do you?
Oh, absolutely. Quite regularly.
No. Occasionally. You get upset, and you slap her around. Is that true?
Are you asking me these questions for your next article in Treue?
Must we drive this fast? She asks.
Do you believe her?
Can’t we pull up somewhere for a minute and look at the landscape? It’s so beautiful over here. And when he obligingly stops the car, she embraces him and carefully plants a kiss on his lips, a kiss that he accepts as an article of faith.
Now, she asks with a smile, what did you want to know?
.
18
One day, after a particularly heavy downpour the pavement in front of the Karl-Mainz Bakery on the Geigenheimer Strasse in Brumholdstein caved in, exposing a ruptured sewage pipe. Things like that were bound to happen. They could happen anywhere. No one was really to blame. In any event, the Department of Public Works was not interested in attaching blame to anyone—first thing the following morning they sent an inspector and a repair crew consisting of four men and a large truck filled with equipment to the site. They inspected the damage, checked their maps, put up a temporary barrier, closing the street to all traffic, and then built a ramp that would enable shoppers to reach the bakery. What they could not seem to control was the stench. When school let out, many students, attracted by the yellow warning lights that blinked on and off, walked over to investigate the mishap and stayed to toy with the lights and, much to the shopkeepers annoyance, run back and forth over the temporary wood structure that led to the bakery’s entrance. The baker toyed with the idea of closing the store. Because of the stench, business had fallen off slightly. No one liked the inconvenience, or the smell, which, whenever anyone opened the door, penetrated the bakery. When young Gisela arrived at the scene, the owner of the bakery was standing behind the glass door gloomily staring at the students. The rain had not let up.
This being a small and efficiently run community, the mayor was promptly informed. Dutifully he showed up in the afternoon. He inspected the buckled pavement, the ruptured pipe, made some remarks about the odor to his aide, and then, having been spotted and buttonholed by the owner of the bakery, somewhat reluctantly entered the bakery. Fine mess, isn’t it, he said to the owner’s wife. But we’ll have it fixed in no time. My people tell me that they expected this would happen. Well, I ask you, why the hell didn’t they do something to prevent it?
This remark elicited approving nods from the people in the bakery. Now that the mayor had arrived, it was suddenly full of people.
I mentioned to the inspector that I saw cracks
in the pavement three weeks ago. I reported it, but no one came, said the owner.
There you are, replied the mayor. I’ll have a report on my desk tomorrow morning. I’ll give you a ring as soon as I know how long it will take.
If only they had listened to us, remarked the baker’s wife. We reported the cracks a couple of times. I told my husband … just you wait and see … before you know it, the pavement will collapse, and sure enough …
It’s the heavy rain, explained the mayor. All that water. Then the pipe corroded …
But we saw it coming, said the owner of the bakery. We could see it coming. The mayor nodded sympathetically.
Actually, no one felt any animosity toward the mayor. He was well liked. Furthermore, he and his wife made a habit of shopping in the smaller stores. Clearly, whatever the reason, the mayor was not to blame for the incident. If anything, the people on the street realized, it was the mayor who would press the Department of Public Works to complete the repairs as rapidly as possible.
The mayor drove a 1975 Audi. He preferred conservative dark gray or blue pinstriped business suits. Once in a while, on a festive occasion, he would wear a colorful tie. Like Helmuth, he had his hair cut at the barbershop near the school. It was not uncommon for the students, on leaving school, to see the mayor, their mayor, in the barber’s chair getting his semi-monthly trim. Whenever he spotted Gisela, the mayor would wave to her. Gisela had blonde hair and resembled her mother. She was only ten, but already accustomed to authority, to power, and consequently without the slightest trace of awe of the mayor whom, after all, she would see several times a week whenever she stayed with her father in Brumholdstein. She vaguely realized what it meant to be the mayor. But she did not have a precise idea how to compare it in importance to her father’s profession.