by Walter Abish
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34
An hour or two before dinner Egon went up to his room, and shut the door, the newly installed door, the door that had been thoughtfully provided by Helmuth, the door that was to conceal from everyone in the house what Egon and his beloved Rita did during the day, during the heat of the summer afternoon in the privacy of their chamber. All now past. Not the heat or the summer but the passion. Egon shut the door, this they knew, although they were all in the garden, pretending not to observe him as he stormed upstairs. They also knew, or surmised, that he was presently packing his bags and that within a short while, twenty or thirty minutes at the most, he would come down and most likely—this inference came from past experience—slip out by the side entrance, thereby avoiding those somewhat painfully protracted good-byes. No need to say good-bye to Rita, since in a sense they had already parted the moment he had lost her—the word “lost” was to be understood as part of a still prevailing although somewhat dated terminology of love. Men evidently keep losing their women to other men, occasionally to other women. It comes to the same thing. It is an irretrievable loss. In any event, women seem to go along with this terminology, for don’t they also say: That’s when he really lost me.
Conceivably Egon, from the very start had run the risk of losing her by bringing her here, one might say for Helmuth’s approval. Perhaps it had been intended as a test. Who knows. Perhaps Egon had brought her here because he wanted to lose her. He may have liked the pain of losing her. Not that one can lose a woman without her consent. In this instance she acquiesced. So the three of them in the garden, Rita, Helmuth, and Ulrich, pretended not to be aware of Egon’s anger, or Egon’s intentions. Pretended not to hear his footsteps as he descended the steps at the back, carrying his suitcase and a box containing God knows what.
Now and then, and that was quite understandable, Helmuth would throw nervous glances at Rita, to make sure that she did not have any last-minute pangs of guilt. Then, Egon’s quick steps on the gravel path leading to the garage. A satisfying crunching sound. No change of mind. No—all the same, thanks for the invitation. One minute Egon was here, the next he could be seen rapidly walking in the direction of his car. Then the sound of the car’s trunk being slammed shut. But not slammed, it should be pointed out, with an unnecessary vigor. Then the car door, also slammed. When the three of them stopped talking, it was to Ulrich the first admission that they acknowledged Egon’s abrupt and unannounced departure and were breathlessly waiting for the sound of the engine to follow the sound of the slammed car door. Was it still remotely possible that something, a malfunctioning engine, a flat tire, an electrical defect, might delay Egon’s departure? He could yet return, hand outstretched and say: This is absurd. Let’s all go down to the Pflaume for dinner … The engine started noisily. Then the exit. A bit too rapid, too noisy, too uneven. To the end Rita had hoped he would do it more gracefully. Hoped he would do it after dark. In fact, earlier, she had urged Egon to at least stay for dinner when he had toyed with the idea of leaving. Only toyed with it. I thought I might go back today, he had said to her, perhaps hoping that she would dissuade him from doing so or, failing that, ask if she could come along. Instead she suggested that he not leave on an empty stomach. For her, leaving on an empty stomach made it so much worse. Two hours before dinner. He would get something on the road, he said. No, there was no pressing reason for him to leave. No emergency. No threatening calls from Gisela. Not this time. He was simply fed up with her and Helmuth. Fed up with their game of seduction, a performance which would—he suspected—lose much of its allure once he had left, unless they chose to continue the charade for the sake of Ulrich. Life had been quite enjoyable as long as he and Rita had still been taking their daily naps, those delicious naps after lunch, and Helmuth, unkempt and unshaven, had roamed around the house like some forlorn abandoned dog. But ever since Helmuth had reached the decision to make a play for Rita, possibly based on some signal he may have received from her, it had become intolerable.
Two nights before he left, Egon woke up to find Rita getting out of bed. I have to get some air, she explained. She couldn’t fall asleep. Hours later when he woke up again, she was still gone. When he went down to join her half an hour later, she was not in the living room, the dining room, the library, the study. He could hear laughter, muffled laughter, as he entered the kitchen … He opened the door to the garden. Stars, moon, and more muffled laughter. He almost stepped on them as he walked in the direction of the large elm. Helmuth was not put out. On the contrary, saying: We didn’t want to wake you up. But now that you’re here, join us. Which he should have done. Which would have been the sensible thing to do. And which, had he done so, would to some extent have taken the steam out of Helmuth’s mischievous play for Rita. Instead, repressing his indignation—he wasn’t even sure who was to blame, Helmuth or Rita?—he returned to the house, letting the kitchen door slam. Subdued, she entered their room some twenty or thirty minutes later and slipped into the bed, saying—no, she whispered: Is sweety angry with me? Is sweety angry because I went down to get some air, or because I spoke to his best friend …
And he: And smoked a little dope.
You are angry.
Oh, shut up.
To his annoyance, she promptly fell asleep, while he kept tossing about until the sunshine gave shape to the space in which they were lying.
Before going down for breakfast he had prepared a little speech. If you want to fuck Helmuth, fine … But don’t make a bloody fool of me. Don’t play games.
You’re really indignant. You’re really put out because I went down last night to get some air. I couldn’t help it if Helmuth happened to be in the garden …
I don’t like anyone doing a number on me, he said.
What number?
But that afternoon she felt disinclined to take a nap. He heard music coming from the garden. And there were Helmuth and Rita dancing barefoot, while Obbie in his overalls and his friend Willie watched, appreciatively clapping to the beat of the music.
Join us, said Rita, hands above her head clapping, while seductively wiggling her hips.
As a matter of fact, I’m off to town.
Now.
Care to join me?
No … I think I’ll stay … Sure you won’t change your mind?
Did they stop dancing to watch him walk to his car and drive off?
Not having anything better to do, he drove aimlessly around Brumholdstein, stopped for a drink at the Pflaume, and then an hour later found himself in Jonke’s bookstore.
The usually taciturn Jonke greeted him. Aren’t you the publisher of the Möglich Verlag? I recognized you from the photograph on the cover of Treue.
Terrible article, said Egon.
I wouldn’t say so.
Giving the readers what they want.
Readers are curious. What a beautiful house you live in.
It was designed by Helmuth Hargenau. But in the article they failed to mention that the roof leaks and that the heating is inadequate.
It’s still beautiful.
Cracks are forming in the walls. Can you imagine, a new house, and there are cracks?
Jonke, deciding to change the conversation. Are you staying in Brumholdstein.
Yes, briefly.
I hope you enjoy your stay, and if there is anything special that you are looking for, let me know.
No, if I may just browse.
Since Egon had nowhere to go, he stayed until Jonke closed at six.
If you are free, said Jonke, perhaps you’ll join me for dinner.
At the Pflaume?
Oh no, at my place.
Whatever could these two find to say to each other? What indeed?
Well, one being a publisher, the other a book dealer, they probably discussed books. Recently published books. Imported books from America. Books in translation. The problems of distribution. Out-of-print books. First editions. Rare books. Who knows? They might have touched on all the abov
e. Who knows? They might also have discovered a mutual dislike of the Hargenaus and spent the evening discussing Helmuth, his brother Ulrich, and the father who was executed in ’44.
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35
Is the only time we’re not standing at attention when we are asleep?
Was Gisela, who spent as much time as possible following Rita around the house, able to detect in Rita’s complaint about the bathroom door … It sticks when I close it … a devise for getting attention? Was Rita complaining in order to goad Helmuth? Or was she simply trying to hold his attention.
I keep telling you, she said. It doesn’t open when I turn the knob. The bloody door which you had installed gets stuck every time I close it. I have to bang on it for someone to let me out.
Then don’t shut it, said Helmuth. We won’t peek, will we Ulrich?
Twenty minutes later she could be heard calling Helmuth from behind the closed bathroom door. Ulrich tried to open the door but found it stuck. Are you turning the knob? He asked.
What is it? Helmuth yelled from the bedroom.
The bloody door, said Ulrich.
With a great bellow Helmuth launched himself at the door from the other end of the corridor. Ulrich hearing him coming quickly stepped aside as Helmuth, like an enraged bull, charged at the door, splintering the lock and part of the panel.
Rita, her face as pale as the freshly painted white walls, stepped out. Indignant. I really believe you’re insane.
Now or never
Why don’t we hop into your car and drive away? Ulrich said to Anna the next time they met.
Where to?
Anywhere. How about Würtenburg? I still have an apartment there.
Is that where you wrote Now or Never?
No. I was still together with Paula.
I would if I knew you meant it.
He met her wide-eyed stare unflinchingly. I mean it.
You don’t.
But I do. He laughed.
There, you see. You don’t.
What do you mean?
You laughed. You found my question funny.
I did not.
Then why laugh?
I don’t know why I laughed. Perhaps I was amused by your determination to doubt what I say.
She, gravely: I have every reason to doubt what you say.
Why?
Because I’m not really good enough for you. I’m O.K. for now. But for a Hargenau … admit it … Something more is expected. Right? That’s absurd. You don’t mean it?
But I do.
Now or never?
By now Rita Tropf-Ulmwehrt had more than enough photographs for an exhibition or a book. There was a market for illustrated books, books of photographs, books with titles such as: In Another Place: Brumholdstein, or Coming to Terms with the Present, or The New Germany: Brumholdstein, or Past and Present, or Now or Never. No, the last happened to be a novel by Ulrich Hargenau. Received quite decent reviews. Anyhow, for a book of photographs to become a success what was needed was a handsome binding, large format, and an emphasis on the startling, on the shocking, on the erotic, on the unexpected. A woman in a black nightgown looking at an open door, a look of surprise etched on the fine-boned white face. The gown is parted, exposing one of her breasts. The window behind her has been smashed by a stone, which is lying on the floor at her feet. Or a photo of a man in lederhosen climbing the steps of an apartment building, with a hunting rifle in his hand. The man’s evident determination can be discerned from the way he mounts the steps, two or three steps at a time, and the way he grips the hunting rifle, and in general from his short, stocky appearance as seen from the back. And this action set, or caught, in the immaculate cool interior of the Treppenhaus, with two doors on every floor and an ornate metal grill covering the elevator shaft in the center. Yes, the German gift for presenting an exaggerated menace to the prevailing order. Another shot of a comfortable bourgeois interior. The living room of a businessman or lawyer. Large leather sofa, rugs, candlesticks on a sideboard, an oil painting or two, but in everything on display an imposed order, the kind of order that rejoices at perfect symmetry. Only the cracked windowpane with a hole that conforms to the exact outlines of a face introduces that element of uncertainty, that element of picaresque terror that all photographs in order to satisfy the longing for the unexpected, the unfamiliar, must nowadays convey.
Of the photographs Rita had taken, a few were in color, but by and large she preferred black and white for Brumholdstein, doing the printing and enlarging in the makeshift darkroom on the second floor. Several times a week, Helmuth, Ulrich, Egon, Gisela, and even Obbie, when he was still in the house painting the walls, would gather around and critically examine the latest additions to her Brumholdstein collection, as she referred to it, comparing them to some of the former ones she had taken, and in discussing them help her assess and shape her stay in the community.
Gisela and her father and Ulrich studied the prints on the large table. A shot of the railroad station elicited a grunt from Helmuth. It was not merely the old disused station. That was understood. It was the memorable Durst station at a particular angle, a low angle, allowing for a subtle interplay of light and shadow, the bright sunlight disclosing the thin cracks in the weather-worn wood pillars, and the initials and dates, all since the war, carved into the wood.
Why was it called Durst, not Brumholdstein? asked Gisela.
A shot of Gisela stretched out in a hammock in the garden. Gisela wrinkled her nose. I am too bony, she said at last.
How about this one? Rita offered her another shot as a substitute.
Grudgingly, Gisela said: Not bad.
A shot of the mayor and Helmuth in deep conversation at the Pflaume, both apparently unaware of the presence of Franz, who, standing at their side, tray in hand, eyes half shut, appeared to be meditating.
Meditating? He’s simply listening in, said Helmuth.
Then a shot of the mayor, stiffly self-conscious, sitting next to Vin on a settee that had been placed on a dropcloth in the center of the partially painted room, with Obbie in his overalls on a ladder at their rear painting the wall.
In poor taste, said Helmuth.
Ah, the arbiter of bad taste, commented Rita. You liked it two days ago.
I’ve just changed my mind.
Another shot of Vin, in a black clinging silk nightgown, parted slightly to reveal a glimpse of her breasts, as she stood staring at herself in the bedroom mirror, one hand on her hip. The familiar look of calculation more pronounced than ever.
You posed her, Helmuth said accusingly.
Then a shot of Egon, shortly before his departure, sitting naked on the window sill in their former room, scowling.
Did you notice, he was getting flabby, said Helmuth.
Then Ulrich’s unmade bed and the newspaper clipping with Paula’s face taped to the wall.
Helmuth groaned. Why did you tolerate it? he asked Ulrich.
A shot of Jonke in his store window, beaming.
Fascist pig, said Helmuth.
What’s a fascist? asked Gisela.
Then a shot of a single railroad boxcar on a siding next to an unloading platform.
What are we up to here? Helmuth looked at Rita.
Rita seems to like railroads, said Gisela.
A shot of Franz, stiffly at attention, next to his partially completed matchstick model of the Durst concentration camp.
You went to see him, Helmuth accused her, without a word to me.
Then shots of water towers.
Of a stone bridge.
Of a horse standing in a lake, in one or two feet of water, with its muscular erect bareback rider wearing a visored military cap and looking into the camera’s lens.
Why is he riding in the water? asked Gisela.
That’s the one, cried Helmuth. The son of a bitch who took a shot at me.
Rita bent over to look at the print. Must be something about you that brings out the worst in people.
S
he might not have showed them the photographs of the pile of skeletons removed from the mass grave had not Gisela left the room and had she, Rita, not felt confident of her ability to handle any of Helmuth’s outbursts of indignation. To her, taking the photographs represented a photographic achievement, since it had taken all her ingenuity to get past the guards at the road block on Geigenheimer Strasse, and then to shoot the activities on the street from an unoccupied second-story apartment, using a fast film, hoping that the street lights and the two spotlights on the ground would provide enough light for her to photograph the soldiers, all wearing gas masks or white sanitary masks, as they dumped the skeletons onto the lift gate of one of the two heavy-duty trailer trucks. I was afraid someone might hear the clicking of my camera, said Rita, but they were making a lot of noise … In all, I found them quite inefficient. You’d think by now they’d know how to handle this sort of situation.
Gisela returned to the room in time to see Rita mixing all the prints together in one pile like a giant deck of cards, and it was this act more than anything else, this deliberately casual, deliberately nonchalant uniting of the prints, this deliberately careless combining of skeletons lying at the bottom of a long open trench that had been dug in the pavement, or being loaded unto the truck, and photographs of Helmuth in the garden watching Gisela playing with Erika, that so infuriated Helmuth.