How German Is It

by Walter Abish

  I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. I have to run to catch the boat.

  I might be busy … Had you considered that?

  Yes, and dismissed it as well. Remember, only the best restaurant will do.

  Are you drunk?

  He laughed. Someone mentioned a new fish restaurant in your vicinity. We might give it a try.

  I’m told it’s overpriced and crowded.

  Have you eaten there?

  No.

  Then, that settles it.

  I hear the food is terrible.

  Make reservations.

  You are drunk, aren’t you?

  Could everything be different?

  Her next-door neighbor, Dr. George Haffner, could not remember seeing her in a dress before.

  She can be quite pretty, he remarked to his wife. A little makeup, a new dress …

  Is that carpenter still there? she wanted to know.

  A one-track mind, he murmured to himself.

  What does Gottfried know?

  He knows, with a certain resignation, that all things die. He also knows that his brother, Günther, is building cabinets in Daphne’s house. And that his sister-in-law has complained that no matter how much Daphne pays him for the cabinets, it would not cover the labor, not to mention the supplies. What else does he know? He knows when to keep his mouth shut. He knows when to raise and lower the bridge. But he is only human, and once in a while he will be carried away by the inequities in the world … When Daphne and Paula had visited his control room on the tower, it was Paula who asked him: Is this what you will be doing for the rest of your life? Raising the bridge for the yachts, the pleasure boats, with nothing to show for it except a small pension at the end of thirty-five years? He pointed out that most of the boats during the off season were fishing trawlers, not yachts.

  When Paula returned by herself the next day to bring him a few political pamphlets, he recognized her. She had changed the color of her hair, but he recognized her as Paula Hargenau, the woman whose photographs had appeared in Der Spiegel, in the Frankfurter Rundschau, as well as in the local sheet. What should I do? he asked his wife. Should I mention it to Günther? And what do I tell him?

  I just think, she said, that from now on you mind your own business. No more visitors to the control room. Keep the door closed.

  But I need some air.

  Keep it closed.

  People will notice.

  What will they notice? That your metal door is closed?

  And my brother?

  Well, his carpentry will have to come to an end some day?

  When Daphne walked past the control tower on the bridge and found the metal door shut, she at first assumed that no one was on duty, and then concluded that Gottfried might have been replaced by someone else for the day. But on her way back she spotted Gottfried’s face in the window. Hello, Gottfried, she yelled, waving her arm to attract his attention, but he did not appear to see her. The next day the metal door was shut again. When she asked Gottfried’s brother if everything was all right, he did not seem to understand. Sure, he said. I mean with your brother. I noticed he no longer leaves the entrance open. Oh that, he said. God knows what bug got into his mind.

  Could everything be different?

  Gottfried’s brother, face flushed from the exertion of hammering in a crouching position, awkwardly stood up when Daphne and Dietrich Mertz entered the room. This is Günther, Daphne said. My master carpenter. But she failed to introduce Dietrich, who closely inspected the partially completed window seat. Very nice. Looks like it will outlast us all. Then beaming at Günther: She’s lucky to have you.

  When Daphne introduced Dietrich to Dr. Haffner, the latter promptly recognized him. Weren’t you one of the attorneys in the Einzieh trial? I remember reading about you in Der Spiegel. Didn’t they refer to you as one of the bright young men of the prosecution?

  In that case, said Dietrich, smiling, I won’t on this occasion dispute Der Spiegel’s account.

  Nice old duffer, said Dietrich after they had stepped inside her house. Now tell me, why have you come to see me?

  For personal reasons, he said picking her up and whirling her around the room.

  In the next room, the carpenter looked up from his work on the window seat. With an impassive face, he rapidly absorbed the information of Dietrich’s presence. An old lover?

  If everything really could be different, how different would it be?

  Dietrich, inspecting her house. Acting the potential buyer. Very nice. Very nice indeed. Knocking on a panel, testing a door. Seems in order. Then, in her bedroom: I admit, as a little hideaway it’s perfect. Is that why you bought it? To keep out of sight? To play house?

  What did Daphne say when she caught a glimpse of the pistol Dietrich carried in a shoulder holster? I’m not going anywhere with you if you carry a gun.

  Since the Einzieh trial, I never go anywhere without it.

  You’ll just have to make an exception, tonight, won’t you?

  Are memories only unreliable when they serve as an explanation?

  I warned you, she said when they returned to her house. The food would be lousy.

  You haven’t changed.

  How do you mean?

  Willful, independent, rebellious.

  How do you mean.

  I was thinking of your meeting with Paula.

  What about it? She looked at him suspiciously.

  How you carried it off.

  But that was easy.

  No. You knew that she was fond of the beach. Fond of that untidy working-class beach.

  I no longer remember, she said with a faraway look.

  Sure you do.

  I no longer remember.

  If you concentrate hard enough, it’ll come back to you.

  Are memories only unreliable when they serve as an explanation?

  The end of summer. Here and there a young woman, serious face, alone, clinging to the fading summer for one more day. Face thrust upward, toward the sun, eyes closed.

  The massive concrete bathhouse resembled one of those World War II bunkers in which Daphne had played as a child. Despite the overcast sky there had been several dozen people on the beach. Some dressed in shirts and trousers. But despite the chill, the majority of the women were in their bathing suits, stretched out on beach towels, others shielded from the strong gusts of wind in the large covered wicker beach chairs. No radios. No children. Everyone careful to maintain a distance between himself and the next person on that small oval-shaped beach that resembled, when viewed from the entrance to the bathhouse, the massive heel imprint of a man’s shoe.

  The end of summer, now two years ago. The green metal doors of the bathhouse were shut. Only the door of the administrative office and the door leading to the women’s dressing room and toilet were still open. The men who wished to relieve themselves would step to the back of the building and there, stationed in one of the closed doorways, discreetly piss against the ribbed metal shutters. From the discoloration of the step leading to the closed entrances one could see that this was a common practice.

  Daphne had brought a book along. She selected a spot on the beach. Every few minutes, as the clouds shifted in an easterly direction, a burst of sunshine. To her right, a couple in animated conversation. As he spoke, the man’s eyes, as if temporarily out of control, kept darting back and forth, every few seconds landing on her and then rapidly shifting to the bathhouse, then to the large Doberman racing wildly about on the sand, the dog’s owner nowhere in evidence, then alighting on two young women in their swimsuits, both lying on a large towel, while their small black poodle, intimidated by the frenzied behavior of the large dog, remained huddled between their legs. Then the man would glance in her direction again, perhaps trying to make out the title of her book. She could only hear snippets of the couple’s exchange. Of course, I would gladly go, the man said at one point.

  Later, when she looked up, the man—his eyes resting on her—was about
to leave … She glanced at the woman, who evidently planned on staying.

  Daphne had remained on the beach for another hour until a sudden downburst of rain drove everyone still there to the safety of the bathhouse, where they stood in a tight cluster in the yellow-tiled entranceway to the women’s dressing room. Then, at five, when that entrance was closed by a guard, most of the people remaining made a dash for the nearby administrative office, a large L-shaped room with wood benches, several battered filing cabinets, a cigarette dispenser, and on a metal shelf above a huge old desk, the public address system, the old-fashioned massive microphone and stand resting on the table.

  Daphne had looked around for the woman who remained on the beach after her friend or acquaintance had left. Not seeing her, Daphne assumed that she must have left shortly before the heavy downpour. Daphne’s initial reluctance to approach the young woman when, quite suddenly, she did appear in the office was not due to a sudden loss of nerve or shyness. She had momentarily, so it seemed to her, forgotten her lines.

  How did she then strike up a conversation?

  Daphne did not. The other woman did. The other woman, still nameless, spoke of the downpour. Daphne spoke of the bathhouse that reminded her of the bunker where she used to play as a child. Where did you grow up? An innocent question. She mentioned a village that was near the French border. Really. I know the area very well. I spent a number of years in a town not far away from there.

  When it had stopped raining they both walked to the water, and then with the other woman leading the way, they continued along the narrow causeway that led to a group of large buildings in the distance. On one of the buildings Daphne spotted a solar unit. The wind had subsided, but the water remained choppy. On the causeway, which was still under construction, several elderly men were fishing. The two of them continued until they reached a wire-mesh fence that enclosed the five or six institutional-looking buildings.

  Let’s take a closer look, the other woman had said to Daphne. So they followed the dirt path that ran the length of the wire fence from where it branched off at right angles from the breakwater. In fact—if anything at all—they both seemed to welcome this exploration, since it gave them something to do. The wire fence was supported by heavy metal pipes sunk in concrete and evenly spaced three or four meters apart. Spotting a tear in the fence where someone in order to gain entry had cut the metal links alongside one of the upright metal poles, but in such a way so as to conceal the tear, the woman suggested to Daphne that they have a look around inside. She did not say: Let’s enter. She merely said: Why don’t we have a look around? The buildings appeared deserted. Paula expertly gripped the loose fold of the fence and tugged until it swung open.

  Later, considerably later, Paula said to Daphne: You know, you almost let me slip away after we met. Almost. Indicating with her fingers how close they had come to parting.

  I did? said Daphne in astonishment.

  Are memories only unreliable when they serve as an explanation?

  But you fell for her, said Dietrich.

  I came to like her.

  You fell for her. You let her win you over to their side.

  No.

  You found her … how shall I put it … irresistibly attractive.

  Haven’t we been through this before?

  Sorry.

  You came here to ask something of me. Another demand.

  No.

  Questions?

  Not really.

  No questions?

  None.

  How long will you be staying?

  If you can put me up for another day or two.

  Is that all?

  Yes.

  Then I’m free. To continue my life, undisturbed.

  I promise.

  The following day, when Daphne and Dietrich walked to the beach, the door to the control tower on the bridge was again ajar. Hello, Gottfried, she yelled up, and Gottfried came running down the stairs. They stood chatting until a boat signaled that it wanted to enter the bay. Could we come up and have a look at the control room? asked Dietrich, and to Daphne’s astonishment Gottfried said, Yes.

  While she sat on a stool Dietrich and Gottfried spoke about everything under the sun. She had never seen Gottfried so animated, so communicative, so willing to answer questions about himself, his family, his likes and dislikes, and how the bridge worked. Every detail. What was Dietrich up to?

  Would you let me open the bridge for the next boat, asked Dietrich. I’d love to work it one time. I have always loved bridges … and then, as they were finally leaving, Dietrich in parting, said: Well, if I’m ever in this area again I’ll come and pay you a visit, if I may.

  Any time, said Gottfried. Any time, the door’s always open.

  Not always, Daphne reminded him. Not last week.

  A real character, said Dietrich when they left Gottfried.

  What would you be if you spent your life raising and lowering a bloody bridge?

  They were getting into her car when Dietrich said: I’m still waiting for you to mention Paula’s visit.

  How did you know?

  Someone recognized her.

  Nothing to tell. She looked me up. Somehow she had gotten hold of my address … You didn’t arrange to slip it to her somehow, did you?

  But you weren’t going to mention her visit.

  Is that why you are here, to question me about Paula’s visit?

  What did you do?

  We visited the islands … Spent a day cycling around …

  Yes.

  We spoke of the past … Our first meeting … then the subsequent meetings … everything … Switzerland … friends … Ulrich …

  You’re still fond of Ulrich, aren’t you?

  What has that got to do with it?

  Go on …

  Oh, yes, this is terribly funny … Daphne laughed … Paula tried to recruit Gottfried.

  The Gottfried we just visited?

  None other.

  She wasn’t seriously trying to recruit him, was she?

  Paula is always serious. But I think it was for my benefit. To prove something to me.

  What?

  To prove her continued commitment to the cause.

  By the way, Ulrich is on the island … he’s staying with some people I know. Friends of his.

  I suppose you intend to slip him my address.

  Dietrich laughed. How did you guess?

  And what will be his response?

  You tell me.

  No. You tell me. You have a better view of the future than I do.

  Well, he’ll either come to see you or he won’t.

  And if he does?

  You’ll either go to bed with him or you won’t.

  And if I do?

  He’ll either be useful in some future capacity or he won’t.

  And if he is?

  That remains to be seen. The Hargenau’s are an unreliable lot.

  And I. Am I still considered reliable?

  As reliable as the rock of Gibraltar …

  You mean permanent, not reliable.

  Maybe I do.

  They had reached her house but remained inside her car. It’s really a nice house, said Dietrich.

  When we were on the island together, said Daphne, Paula pulled out a pistol—

  What make?

  Oh, I don’t know. What difference does it make? She pulled it out of her bag as one might a surprise gift. Then, aiming at me—

  Where were you at the time—

  Will you stop interrupting. We were on the beach, which was quite deserted. Anyhow, she aimed it at me, saying: Do you have any idea how easy it would be to pull the trigger …

  Then?

  She put it back in her bag. I treated the incident as a joke. Later, on the boat ride back, while we were having coffee on the deck, she said, You’ve betrayed us all along, haven’t you. I didn’t think that she would pull out the pistol again. In fact, her statement, it wasn’t really a question, was almost matte
r-of-fact. Not an accusation. I said no. Then Paula said that they had known about it all along. From the very beginning.

  Why would she tell you this?

  I think she came to say good-bye.

  Is she returning to Switzerland?

  I don’t know.

  She liked you.

  I like her, said Daphne.

  And Ulrich? Is he a kind of bond between you?

  Why bring up Ulrich?

  .

  4

  How different could everything be without it necessitating a change of boundaries?

  When Ulrich accepted Egon and Gisela’s invitation to spend two weeks in a beachhouse they had rented for the season on one of the East Frisian Islands, could he have had anything else on his mind?

  Gisela meeting him at the landing: I almost forgot that you were coming at three. Do you think I’m scatterbrained? Egon does.

  Absolutely not.

  Good. Egon keeps on saying that he can’t rely on me for anything.

  Well, you’re here, aren’t you, he pointed out.

  I almost wasn’t, she said.

  In the beachhouse they had rented, the only thing on view that was theirs was the framed photograph taken by Rita for the cover of Treue.

  You do know, Egon explained later that afternoon, that I am not really mad at Helmuth.

  Ulrich said that he understood.

  I mean to say that I have every reason to feel pissed. But I am not.

  Do you get up early? Gisela wanted to know. We breakfast at nine.

  That’ll be fine.

  Toast, eggs, orange juice.

  Great.

  If you like, you could have your coffee in bed.

  When Gisela took him up to his room, she also showed him theirs.

  I hadn’t expected anything so luxurious, he said.

  Oh, Egon insisted on it, she said.

  I did not, shouted Egon from below.

  Could everything be different?

  Yes, of course. Less modern. Less derivative. Less ostentatious. Less distant. Less removed. Less formal. Less garish. Less antiseptic.

  In Ulrich’s room a white wall-to-wall carpet, a white telephone on a white night table, and in a corner at the foot of the bed a small white television on a white base. An inexplicable faint smell of paint. From the wide window facing the sea, he could see Egon and a woman in a black bathing suit. Something Egon said caused the woman to laugh. Then, to her continued amusement, Egon crouched on the sand. The door to Egon and Gisela’s bedroom was open, and when Ulrich passed the room he looked in and saw a crack running diagonally across their window and in the far corner, to the right of the window, Gisela crouching. Their eyes met.