by Ingo Schulze
Although I didn’t have to answer any questions, I was glad when the meeting ended.
The baron has invited Jörg, Marion, and us to join him at the Wenzel next week. He pleaded fervently with me not to hide my wife away again this time.
We talked a good while as we sat in his new car—I’m to keep his old one until I can afford to buy my own.151 He had to admit that he didn’t know the rules of the game in the East, but the longer he thought about the fact that half the firm had been as good as foisted off on me, the more he was inclined to look for some attached strings that were dangling so close to our nose we couldn’t see them. I told him what I knew—that neither Jörg nor Georg had needed his own ten thousand marks and both had already returned the money to their mothers. Steen’s twenty thousand D-marks were news to the baron. The more details I told him, the less believable the whole thing seemed to him.
But be that as it may, he finally said, from now on at any rate I wouldn’t be sleeping so soundly. He didn’t want to have to reproach himself later, which was why he needed to make clear to me, even at this moment of my greatest happiness, that according to civil code co-owners in a company were fully exposed. “You’re liable down to your wife’s last blouse, to your son’s last pair of pants.” He swore he wasn’t implying anything, but I should be prepared for the tricks and treachery of this new world. Sometimes just a roofing tile or a banana peel can lead to a firm’s ruin. His motto was: “the limited liability corporation, a GmbH!” He traced the letters on the fogged-up windshield and went on with his lesson. Then he rummaged in the glove compartment and, as a farewell gift, handed me a paperback published by dtv. From long use it opens to the law covering limited liability.
Hugs,
Your Enrico
Sunday, April 8, ’90
Dear Nicoletta,
I awoke a little while ago with a strange sense of joy. It was in anticipation of something, and do you know of what? Of now, of this moment, when I can write to you. It’s as if you have just sat down beside me. And through you what I tell you takes on its own special color. I share my memories with you and you alone. To whom else should I tell these things?152 And each time I do, I find myself just this side of writing you real love letters. It takes every ounce of will not to. You entered my life, and yet before I could even stretch out my arms to you, you were taken from me again. Without you I feel incomplete, like an amputee.153 And I’m afraid that you will have forgotten it all when we meet again […] and won’t even recognize me. To keep from becoming a stranger to you, I shall go on writing.
In October 1980—I was in the twelfth grade—I received a telegram. Geronimo asked if he could spend the night at our place that coming Saturday, and noted his time of arrival. It’s not as if I had expected a visit from Geronimo, but I wasn’t surprised either.
Geronimo had definitely grown, he was clearly taller than I, his hair fell down over his shoulders and was so greasy it glistened, so that my mother asked if it was raining.
When we sat down to coffee, he polished off our weekend supply of rolls and scraped the last bit of honey from the jar. My mother covered her faux pas with a steady barrage of questions. Each began with “Johann,” as if she were calling on him in class.
After he had eaten his fill, we retreated to my room, about which he had no comment, not a single syllable, in fact he didn’t even seem to notice the splendor of my books and pictures (the latter on loan from Vera). I asked who he planned to visit in Dresden—no one except me. Was there a concert or a play he wanted to attend—not that he knew. He answered every question with monosyllables. If I fell silent, he remained mute too. I didn’t know what to do with him. My question about where he intended to study theology154 arose from the same awkwardness as the rest of my inquiries.
I assumed he was fed up with my queries and that that was the reason he was staring at me so angrily. And then Geronimo began his monologue. The sentences were declarative, but their intonation was that of questions, as if he expected to be contradicted. Life wasn’t worth anything if death was the final station. “Without eternity,” he said, “our life is meaningless.”
Geronimo went on and on and seemed somehow furious with me. What was he getting at? I saw only his desperation, which culminated in his assertion that it didn’t matter to him if he went on sitting in his chair or threw himself out the window. I realized that for him God and the meaning of life were still one and the same thing.
My shrugs only increased his rage. He pressed his lips together and stared at me as if my silence were the same silence into which he used to maneuver me three years before. What did he want from me? So I did exactly what I had been prepared to do.
I opened my desk drawer and took my treasure from its hideaway. I was scarcely still capable of listening to Geronimo. My fingertips tapped the pages into place. I barely cast him a glance as I said that this stuff was what held me above water. I handed my work to him, to my important reader—and slipped out into the kitchen.
When I returned to my room with two glasses, Geronimo was sitting there just as before. Finally he raised his head. He wouldn’t have had to say a single word, and certainly not a string of adjectives, all he had to do was to look at me like that, shaking his head in disbelief. It wasn’t a success—it was a triumph!
It wasn’t Vera and her entourage who made a poet of me, it was Geronimo. I believed him. He said things that it would be ridiculous to repeat today, but at the time were tantamount to my consecration—and his subjugation. That he was able to offer me such praise surely came from the fact that he himself had lost his footing.
The whole evening Geronimo talked about nothing except my poems, as if it were up to him to convince me how extraordinary they were. And I made every effort to reciprocate his pathos as best I could. I could tell him now just how overwhelming my response to him had been at one time, how much I had longed for him to be my friend.
There is a kind of openness that finds every trace of distance to be a blemish. After Sunday breakfast, my mother asked me if Johann had been crying.
We talked and talked without letup, but neither was there any letup in my fear—that with one false word, one nod given too quickly, our euphoria would be transformed into a will-o’-the-wisp. As the conductor flung the door closed behind him, I felt almost as if I had been redeemed, as if only now was his praise irrevocable.
Although that weekend might be regarded as the date of the true founding of our friendship, out of tact I also never reminded Geronimo of that evening.
When I got back home I sat down at my typewriter and began my first letter to him. “Dear Johann,” I typed, left one line blank, and placed my fingers on the keyboard the way I had been taught in typing class. “Darling Johann,” I said softly. “My darling Johann.”155
Trusting that you’ll continue to listen to me, I send warmest greetings,
Your Enrico T.
Tuesday, April 10, ’90
Dear Jo,
The weekend was a nightmare! Now that the panic is over, even I can see that I looked somewhat ridiculous. But first the good news: We’ve found a new—admittedly ramshackle, if not to say dilapidated—domicile for our headquarters. It’s a miracle! After even Fred’s connections as a hometown lad proved futile and except for innkeeper Gallus—whose job it is to keep his guests in good spirits—no one even dared try to keep our hopes up, it was once again the baron who helped out. I’m gradually getting used to it.
When, he declared, would we finally understand what a newspaper is for: ads and local news! He would, needless to say, put at our disposal all replies he had received to his real estate ads. Unfortunately only one was worth our consideration. It sounded to us like music of the spheres. The baron came just short of apologizing for having rented a splendid villa for himself without having first offered it to us.
Once we heard his proposal, it took us barely half an hour to find our way to Moskauer Strasse 47,156 which runs between the Weiber Market and Jüden Ga
sse. As we waited for the owner, we were like children waiting to open their gifts—and got a nasty surprise. Who showed up? Piatkowski! Him and a long drink of water.
Piatkowski was panting as if he had had to drag the long drink of water the whole way all by himself. Even after Piatkowski and the baron shook hands we still didn’t want to believe that this was the person we had been waiting for.
Supple with the joy of enterprise, the baron gave his hips a roll and asked Piatkowski to lead the way. The first issue was whether the building pleased his clients, and then we’d see what we would see. The long drink of water shouted that he and Herr Piatkowski had already come to an agreement. We were to keep that in mind, please.
The long drink of water had a trained voice that carried very well. One after the other the heads of a father, mother, and daughter appeared in the display window of the private hardware store located on the ground floor. They watched the proceedings without returning my greeting. Passersby slowed their steps.
The baron paid no attention to anyone—neither to Fred’s babbling about urgency and being a local, nor to the other fellow’s booming voice. He gave Piatkowski a smile.
Unable to shake us off, the long drink of water stuck close to Piatkowski’s side, amiably and politely bending his ear, but he was the first to slip into the darkness that now opened up behind one panel of the wooden door. His voice echoed as he praised the ancient plaster. “Fantastic!” he exclaimed. “Fantastic!” His footsteps faded, but then quickly returned. “What’s wrong?” he asked Piatkowski. “Aren’t you coming in?”
The baron had come to a halt in front of Piatkowski and stared at him before admonishing us: “Keep your eyes peeled. If you see any shortcomings, we’ll ask for the rent to be reduced.”
The building is nothing but shortcomings. The long drink of water, however, found it all fascinating, enchanting, and “an exciting opportunity”: the smithy in the rear courtyard, which along with roof tiles, dust, and cat shit contains an anvil on a massive wooden base; the half-timbering—absolutely worth keeping!—and then there was the plaster, over and over, and at every mention it aged a couple of hundred years.
Piatkowski stood leaning against the newel, sucking on hard candy. The building had belonged to his in-laws, there had been a greengrocer here at one point, with first-rate connections to the farmers of Altenburg as well as of the more distant reaches of Saxony. They themselves, Piatkowski and his wife, had never earned a penny from it. There had been nothing but squabbles about the rent. And now this dump belonged to all four siblings, so there wasn’t anything left to speak of. The hardware store downstairs, and up in the garret a married couple, refugees back then, from Silesia—but the town had been full of them. “Ah,” the long drink of water said, “Silesia,” and buttoned up his coat.
The stairway is drafty and dark as a chimney, the light switch doesn’t work. On the second floor, two doors lead off a small vestibule to rooms looking out on the street. The one on the right, the smaller of the two, is twice as large as our editorial office. The door on the left opens onto an almost ballroom-size space with high windows and a door to another room almost as large.
“With windows like these you might as well just move out onto the street!” The baron stuck a fingertip into his mouth and then held it up to a windowpane, as if trying to determine the wind direction. “A pretty kettle of fish you’ve got here,” he chided Piatkowski, who took a deep breath and nodded twice.
“But I’ll take it! As is! With the shop downstairs. Agreed, Herr Piatkowski? Agreed?” The long drink of water gesticulated wildly.
“Have a look at the rest,” Piatkowski replied, and then warned Fred, who had shouldered open a warped door, “It gets a bit risky, leave that to me.”
We entered a long windowless hallway. To the left a wallpapered door opens onto the vestibule, so that you can move in a circle. Along the right are some tiny rooms—which Fred declared to be storage space.
Suddenly it turned bright again. The hallway ends in a room with windows facing a courtyard, and beyond it the rear walls of buildings lining the market.
Piatkowski remained in the doorway. The little room that I would have liked to move into then and there has been declared off-limits by the police—both the floor and the exterior wall are in danger of collapse. We all had a look before beating a dark retreat.
“Dear Herr Piatkowski, you actually want rent for that? What if my life insurance company were to hear about it!” The baron called back his wolf, who was sniffing in nooks and crannies. Even the long drink of water fell silent this time.
“Rubble!” the baron declared. “Quite simply rubble.”
The rent they had received up till now had barely paid the chimney sweep. And they’d put every penny into a new roof, Piatkowski said by way of apology.
“And now you want more rent? Who should I tell that to?”
The long drink of water shouted, “I’ll take it!”
“I’m really very sorry,” Piatkowski repeated.
“Are you even listening? I’ll take it!”
“Let’s go on upstairs,” Piatkowski proposed. We waited till we had lined up in our accustomed sequence, but this time the long drink of water backed off. He wasn’t about to play this game. He would rent it for a year, and that was that. He was sure they’d come to an agreement about price.
“Whereas I,” the baron said, “am unwilling to buy a pig in a poke.” He insisted on being led upstairs.
“But of course, but of course,” Piatkowski said, trying to mollify him. And that was why the long drink of water entered both rooms well behind the rest of us. Each of these rooms was likewise entered via a vestibule.
“How much do you want for this?” the baron asked, tugging and chewing at the hairs of his mustache. “It might work for the summer.”
“Now listen here…” the long drink of water broke in. He evidently no longer knew whom to address.
“What are you willing to offer?” Piatkowski asked.
“Not much, right?” The baron looked at me and then at Jörg. “Three hundred at most, 250 East-marks?” Jörg nodded, I nodded, Fred and Ilona thought that this was way too much, while Kurt wandered from window to window, digging his thumbnail into the putty and then blowing off the flaking paint.
“A thousand,” the long drink of water shouted in relief, “one thousand West-marks! Agreed?”
That was out of the question, the baron replied angrily, it would be the ruin of the market here, offering a thousand for a dump like this, totally off the mark, it was immoral, a man couldn’t do that, truly he couldn’t. If that were to set the pace…For a moment the long drink of water looked exasperated, but then triumphed over his response and said, “It’s a market economy.”
“Yes,” Piatkowski said, 250 would be about right, he really didn’t want to ask for more than that, he wasn’t a moneygrubber and the place needed some serious investment—250 East-marks, that was all right with him, but always in advance, on the first.
The baron held a hand out to him. “Starting May first,” he said. “May?” Piatkowski asked, but then shook hands.
The long drink of water gave a shrill laugh. “Herr Piatkowski! Herr Piatkowski? A thousand West-marks, agreed?”
“Yes,” Piatkowski said. He had understood him, calling the long drink of water by his long and melodious name, but surely he must realize that this was among locals, and just in general, it’s how we were used to doing things around here.
“Yes,” Fred said, “we’re locals!” Kurt nodded, one thumbnail cleaning the other.
The long drink of water gave a snort, stepped up to the baron, extended him a hand like a knife to his stomach, and bellowed, “Congratulations, really, my congratulations!” Since the baron was pressing his attaché case against himself with both hands, the long drink of water made do with some vigorous motions of his head, turned around, and vanished like a shade into the gloom of the vestibule. Piatkowski handed us the keys, and we said o
ur good-byes.
Fred immediately started planning the renovation. If we gave him and Kurt a free hand, it would be completely taken care of within two weeks, completely. Jörg asked me to keep working on my article on Piatkowski, who was still deputy chairman of the Christian Democrats, even if he was our landlord now. He had promised Marion.
The baron is proud of his achievement. As soon as he has his new stationery he’ll send us his bill as the agent, one month’s rent—standard is three—his first earnings in the East.
The old married couple in the attic have yet to let us know if they are happy with their new co-renters. The hardware store people don’t seem to care one way or the other.
Furniture is no problem—Helping Hand is selling off the inventory of the Stasi villa cheap. And there’ll be more than enough parking spaces. We just have to clean up the area at the upper end of Jüden Gasse.157
And now about the weekend. I wanted to check in on Fred and Kurt, who have been renovating since Friday, and on Saturday I drove over to the new building with several boxes of cookies and a bag of coffee. Ilona had mobilized her husband and children. They were ripping off wallpaper as if there were nothing they’d rather be doing. Kurt was plastering holes in the walls with stoic equanimity. Pringel was happy that I could see him in his mechanic’s jumpsuit. Fred was already painting the office. Next to the shashlik and Ilona’s cream torte my cookies would have looked pitiful, so I just left the coffee.
Jörg, Marion, and I had worked till midnight on Friday, and the twelve pages for Monday were as good as finished. I don’t know myself why I drove back to the office—maybe the others’ enthusiasm was infectious. As always I first went through the mail, slitting one envelope after the other with Ilona’s Egyptian letter opener, stamped readers’ letters, inquiries, manuscripts as “received,” and sorted subscription forms and small ads. Like some bonus, the last envelope was embossed with a coat-of-arms on the back.