by Walter Abish
What are you planning to do with them?
Oh, I don’t know; she said, taking a certain pleasure in provoking him. What do you suggest? Treue would probably find them too grim.
Aren’t you forgetting that you are here as my guest, not as a professional photographer?
Aren’t we sensitive, she replied. I may be a guest. But that hardly prevents me from also functioning as a photographer. Or do you object?
That depends. What do you intend to do with them?
Try and place them, of course.
You’ve been accepted in Brumholdstein because you’re staying with me. If not for me, you wouldn’t have been in a position to take these shots.
Oh, I don’t know about that.
I do, sweetie.
And what are you trying to suggest?
That you tear up the ones that leave the viewer with a bad taste in his mouth. You can do what you want with the others. Some are not half bad. Isn’t that so? He looked toward Ulrich.
Fuck you, she said.
Can I see them, pleaded Gisela, as Helmuth stretched across the table, attempting to pull the photos out of Rita’s hand. Holding them to her chest, she made a dash for the stairs, closely followed by Helmuth, who succeeded in grabbing one of her legs as she was reaching the top of the first flight of steps.
Let go of me, you bastard, she yelled as he pulled her down the carpeted steps.
In tearing the photographs out of her hands, he also tore her denim shirt. When he took the prints to the table, under the watchful eyes of Gisela, tiny dots of blood formed a beaded arc on his left cheek. Screaming, Rita lunged at him, clawing at his face, while he laughingly defended himself with one hand, with the other gripping the jumbled pile of photographs, some bent, some torn.
You bloody bastard.
Why don’t you give her the photographs? yelled Gisela.
Finally, after wildly throwing an ashtray in his direction, Rita made a dash for the stairs.
Look here, there’s no need to tear them, said Ulrich. They’re hers. Helmuth, having torn one or two, pushed the pile in Ulrich’s direction. Here, you may wish to retrieve the one she took of your bed. He then followed her up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. More screams, more yells, interspersed by the sound of heavy objects hitting the ground. Then the sound of windowpanes being smashed. Uncle Ulrich, aren’t you going to stop them? Gisela asked.
No. But I’ll buy you a chocolate cake at the Pflaume.
But she ran out of the room with tears streaming down her face.
When Helmuth, flushed with triumph, came down the steps, his face and bare arms covered with the multiple scratches of his second encounter with Rita, he was waving aloft several celluloid rolls of 35mm. negatives. Did she really expect to get away with these?
What now? asked Ulrich. Do we kiss and make up?
Twenty minutes later a taxi drove up to the house. Helmuth let the driver in. She’s upstairs, he said. You might go up and give her a hand. Rita came down a few minutes later, quite jaunty as Helmuth put it, in her white linen outfit, with lots of makeup to cover the bruise under her eye, the camera dangling from one shoulder and followed by the driver carrying her suitcase.
Had Ulrich half expected her to turn as she was leaving the house and in her inimitable style aim the camera at them?
How about moving in, said Helmuth.
Ulrich, looking at the pile of prints on the table and floor, said: Sure, I’ll think of it.
I mean it, said Helmuth. I realize that you may have wondered why I didn’t ask you all along, but as I said … He kicked a table leg. Oh shit.
At dinner, Gisela sitting between Helmuth and Ulrich asked if she could have some of the photographs.
They don’t belong to us, said Ulrich.
Possession is nine tenths of the law, Helmuth reminded him.
Does that mean I can have them?
No, said Helmuth.
As they got up from the table, Gisela asked: Is Uncle Ulrich staying?
Ask him, said Helmuth.
Not tonight, said Ulrich.
Busy? asked Helmuth.
As a matter of fact, yes.
Not Anna, by any chance?
As he was leaving, Gisela in a loud voice asked: Can someone tell me why Rita kept asking me all sorts of questions about Grandmother?
Our mother? said Ulrich. What did you tell her?
Nothing.
Go on, said Helmuth. What did you tell her?
Just that she lived in a large house near Lucerne. That’s it.
What else.
That one of these days I’ll visit her again.
Yes, yes …
And that she has a pet dog named Gandhi.
What else?
That she is very old, and has gray hair … and that she speaks French and Spanish and English and Italian … and …
And?
And that she only speaks of you and Uncle Ulrich as if you still were small children.
What did Rita say? asked Ulrich.
She said that it all seems to fit.
What everyone knows
Gisela has told her father that she would like to return to Würtenburg.
And her father, after thinking it over, said: Fine. I’ll get more work done without any distractions in the house.
That’s all you ever think of, said Gisela, and went upstairs to pack.
Next
Did Helmuth, after seeing Gisela off at the bus terminal, insist on showing Ulrich something of interest, something he had come across on one of his recent outings?
At the last moment Gisela coyly suggested to her father that she might be able to stay for another day or two, only to burst into tears when Helmuth replied that she might have better luck manipulating her mother.
What is it that you want me to see? Ulrich asked when they left the bus station.
Something that will bring back the memories of childhood. Something that will blow your mind.
Is that what I need?
When Ulrich mentioned that he was planning to return to Würtenburg to finish his book, Helmuth said: I’d be off like a shot if I didn’t have this damn commitment to complete the museum.
How’s it going?
I don’t know. I don’t seem to see much of the mayor anymore. No more cozy lunches at the Pflaume. It’s annoying. I used to go over for dinner at their place at least twice a week. But the invitations have stopped coming … It’s unsettling, since the mayor was the man who invited me to design the building.
Has Vin anything to do with it?
She might.
A resentful mayor. Watch out.
When they reached the heavily wooded area north of Daemling, Helmuth turned left on an unpaved deeply rutted country road. Then another ten minutes’ drive until they came to a clearing where Helmuth parked the car. Then, on foot, in a westerly direction. Now and then Helmuth stopped to get his bearings. Around them tall pine trees. Absolute silence. Reluctandy Ulrich followed his brother, carefully stepping over the toppled trees that lay in their path as if they were mines. It’s not too far from here, Helmuth said, sensing his misgivings as they increased the distance between themselves and the car. They must have walked at least two kilometers before reaching their destination. Once again they were out in the open. Bright sunshine. They were, Ulrich discovered, on high ground overlooking the valley below. They walked to the edge of the cliff, searching for the footpath that Helmuth said was nearby. He had stumbled on it by accident the last time he was here. Nicely hidden, isn’t it, said Helmuth. The winding path led them at a downward angle across the face of the cliff to the huge concrete bunker that had been built, or so it appeared, into the rock.
It’s really an architectural inspiration, said Helmuth. What’s more, it’s in perfect condition. Store rooms, crew’s quarters, generator room … Ulrich was the first to spot the man standing in front of the line of fir trees, a rifle in his hand. I think we have company, said Ulrich. Yes, I know,
replied Helmuth. Just pretend you don’t notice. When Ulrich looked in the man’s direction, he saw that he was now leaning against a tree while following their movement toward the bunker.
Ulrich stopped.
You have to keep going, said Helmuth.
Ulrich watched the man raise his rifle and sight it at a bird flying overhead, and then, still gazing along the sights of the gun, in a slow downward arc bring the gun to bear on them. At one moment playfully pointing it at Ulrich, the next at Helmuth. Get down, Ulrich shouted to his brother, who waved to the man. Hello there. Is it all right to walk here? Ulrich, crouching, ready to dive into a patch of tall grass, watched the man again playfully point the gun skyward, following an imaginary bird, only to lower it. Relax, said Helmuth. He won’t shoot … Helmuth, now less than forty meters from the entrance to the bunker, quickened his step. Ulrich, following close on his heels, when the man shot. Ulrich fell to the ground, clutching his upper right arm, screaming, God damn you, as much at Helmuth as at the man who had shot him.
The son of a bitch really shot at us, said Helmuth, kneeling at his side.
Us, screamed Ulrich. He didn’t shoot at us. He aimed at me.
And Helmuth, calmly: Well, he seems to have gone. Don’t worry. I’ll get you back to the car.
Ulrich, watching with a certain satisfaction the thin rivulet of blood trickling down his arm, said: Does this finally make us blood brothers?
As they slowly made their way back up the path Helmuth turned to look at the bunker. Now I’ll never see the inside of it.
The doctor in Brumholdstein who extracted the small caliber bullet from his arm said: Consider yourself lucky. You might have been killed.
The mayor, who came with Vin to visit him later that afternoon, said jovially: I hear that one of our boys took a pot shot at you. Did you get a good look at him?
No …
You were trespassing.
I don’t think so. I was following Helmuth. He’ll tell you where we were.
People round here are a suspicious lot. And, they’re not fond of people from Brumholdstein. The doctor told me that it was only a flesh wound. If I were you I’d forget it.
Do I have an option?
That’s the spirit.
I think it’s dreadful, said Vin. I think he should report it.
Why do they dislike Brumholdstein?
Because they think we are about to devour them.
Aren’t you?
The mayor laughed. In time. In our sweet time.
Can I bring you something to read? asked Vin.
No thank you, I’ll be out of here tomorrow morning.
I wish you’d let me bring you something to read, said Vin.
.
36
On Thursday Ulrich was shot in the arm. Why had the man not also taken a shot at Helmuth?
Most likely it was Gumpert, the warden, said the mayor when he came by to see him. But it could have been any one of a number of men who farm in the valley and consider the woods their turf. Ulrich should have known better. By going there, you were inviting trouble.
Yes, said Ulrich. That would describe Helmuth.
I really wouldn’t want anything to happen to him, said the mayor. At least not until he’s completed the museum.
I wish you wouldn’t say things like that, said Vin.
I really don’t know why you are making such a fuss, Helmuth said when he came to visit. It’s only a fucking flesh wound.
Fucking flesh wound? I almost suspect you of having set it up.
And Helmuth, incensed by the accusation, rising from the seat next to his bed. You twerp. What do you intend to do now? Crawl back into your hole?
Why did he stay on in Brumholdstein?
Franz at the Pflaume: We are distressed to hear that you were involved in some unpleasantness.
Anna visiting him in the apartment. Are you really working on something, or just pretending to?
Why should I feel the need to pretend?
For the sake of appearance.
The mayor invited Ulrich to dinner. Ulrich asked if he could bring Anna.
Anna? Why certainly.
But she declined.
To his surprise, he was the only guest. Vin mentioned that she had ordered his book but that it had not yet arrived. She excused herself and left the table when the mayor laughingly remarked that quite a few windowpanes had to be replaced in Helmuth’s house after Rita’s departure. Have you seen your brother recently? he then asked.
I’ve spoken to him on the phone.
I hear he has someone staying with him in the house.
Oh. Anyone we know?
I don’t think so. I doubt it. The mayor smiled. Helmuth has a gift for making friends.
Yes. Sometimes with the most unlikeliest people.
The last time he saw Anna before leaving she wanted to know if, as a child, he had ever beaten anyone up.
Yes, once. He was my best friend. In a sense, I still regret it. Then staring at her. You ask such odd questions.
He borrowed Anna’s car and drove out to see Helmuth. Next to Helmuth’s car were a couple of motorcycles. A dilapidated pickup truck, its tires missing, was sitting in the middle of the neglected-looking garden. Ulrich stared in disbelief at the man who, from one of the upstairs windows, yelled at him: What the hell do you want! He was convinced it was the man who had tried to kill him a few days ago. As Ulrich turned and walked to his car, did he expect to be shot in the back?
Later, when he spoke to the mayor, he mentioned the incident.
Is everything all right? he asked.
Oh, didn’t I mention it before? He’s one of your brother’s new buddies.
PART FOUR
Could everything be different?
.
1
When Ulrich, on his return to Würtenburg, visited Maria, she greeted him at the door with a stony face. I didn’t think you’d ever make it over, she said, not taking the trouble to conceal her impatience or her hostility. I suppose you’ll want to inspect the premises to let Helmuth know the condition of his precious house. To which he had not responded. What was there to say? Her voice, unaccustomed to irony, lingered on the word “premises” as if fearful that he would miss the point.
Had anything really changed. That is, aside from her voice, now petulant, complaining, and aside from her appearance—five kilos heavier? The living room appeared crowded. Had she added some pieces of furniture? Had there always been so many pillows on the large sofa? He couldn’t recall.
I’m deeply sorry about what happened. I had no inkling that Helmuth and you had separated until he mentioned it when he visited me in Geneva.
What? She laughed shrilly. I find that difficult to believe. You mean to say that you didn’t sense that anything was wrong when you came to see us with that woman?
You mean Daphne. No.
You couldn’t tell that poor Helmuth was straining at his leash? Simply dying to have more fun. Dying to put an end to his responsibilities, even if it meant abandoning his favorite architectural achievement? … What is your brother up to now?
Last I heard, he was working on the museum in Brumholdstein. Complaining bitterly because it was not going as smoothly as he had anticipated.
You know, that’s not what I meant.
I don’t know what he’s up to. We had a slight falling out, and I haven’t spoken to him since I left Brumholdstein.
What is slight? You always qualify everything you say. That innate Hargenau politeness. That Hargenau bullshit. She mimicked his voice. A slight falling out. Then, in a changed voice: D’you know, since he’s left, I haven’t slept with a single man. The day he left, I said to myself, O.K., I am going to have a good time. I am not going to shut myself up in this house and play the role of the abandoned and deprived housewife. And it’s not because there haven’t been any opportunities. No … It’s because I feel a disgust … I can’t quite describe it … whenever I come close to a man. An unbearable disgust
at myself … at my gullibility. After fourteen years—the perfect Hargenau. I should have known … She broke off when Gisela, his niece, entered the room ceremoniously carrying a tray on which she had placed an assortment of shells, small polished stones, a few beads, several foreign coins, a pine cone, the skeleton of a frog. Uncle Ulrich, Uncle Ulrich, she said, in that clear voice she loved to adopt for certain special public occasions, will you pick out one of these … the one you like best … I am conducting a test.
Gisela, not now, said Maria. Uncle Ulrich has only just arrived …
Gisela, holding her ground, not accepting the dismissal: O.K. I just want him to pick one. Then I’ll leave.
The two glared at each other. You can at least say please if you want someone to select an object. Maria looked at Ulrich for support.
He examined the tray Gisela was holding under his nose. Among the shells and coins he spotted a tiny swastika, perhaps the one that his father had at one time worn in his buttonhole. It was doubtful that Maria had noticed it. Isn’t that a tear vase? He asked, pointing to a small glass object.
Yes, said Maria. Isn’t it remarkable. A gift from her grandfather. It’s Roman. The deputy chief of police is an amateur archeologist. He dug it up in Würtenburg.
Is that your choice? Gisela asked gleefully. Is it?
You bet your life it’s not, said Ulrich, selecting the tiny eraser that was encased in a plastic case made to resemble a bomb.
A perfect choice, said Maria. Trust the Hargenaus.
Gisela left them, talking to herself: Magnus took the pipecleaner, Rose took the cufflink, Mother took the tear vase …
I did not, screamed Maria, then apologized for losing her temper. Gisela can drive me up the wall.
An hour later, he stood up to leave, but then let Maria persuade him to stay for supper. Only then, when it was too late for him to change his mind, did she inform him that her father would be over at seven. Every Tuesday, she remarked. And every second Sunday. If not for him … the rest remained unsaid.