by Ingo Schulze
I didn’t even suspect anything when I saw the list of names on the letterhead. I read the “in Re,” the salutation, moved on to the name of our newspaper, and the all-too-familiar generalization: “swinish business”…read ever more quickly, skimming sentences until I drew up short at the number 20,000 followed by the symbol DM, plus the words “twenty thousand” spelled out in parenthesis. This was soon followed by a “forty thousand” in numbers and words and, after a skipped line, a “Best Regards” and a signature with two big loops that tied up the name like the ribbon on a present.
I reread it from the top and, after a moment, a third time. A law firm was suing us for libel on behalf of their clients and threatened that if we were to make public such assertions yet again (that is, part two of our article on the hog farm), a fine of forty thousand D-marks would be assessed.
When I got to the door I had to go back, because I still had Ilona’s letter opener in my hand. I drove to Jörg’s place. No one answered. When I tried again a half hour later, a neighbor woman told me that they and the girls would be in Gotha until tomorrow, visiting grandma and grandpa. No one at the Wenzel knew when Barrista would be back, but he had booked his room for another week.
Why for just one week? And why had Georg thrown in the towel on account of that article? It seemed to me that everyone but me had seen this turn of affairs coming. I envied Jörg and Marion for their ignorant bliss, for an evening with their parents and children. In the crazy hope that I would see the baron’s car standing at the door, I headed for the new building—but then drove on past. I spotted Ilona at the window. I felt like crying.
If they had at least written marks and not D-marks!
Luckily Anna, the author of the article, was at home.
“Our further existence,” I said, “is in your hands.”
While she read the lawyers’ letter, I took a deep breath for the first time. When she said she would swear that she had reported everything exactly as it was told to her, and that her people were reliable, absolutely reliable, I found myself feeling almost cheerful. She fulfilled my deepest wish by emphatically repeating “absolutely, absolutely reliable.” With tears in her eyes she promised to reconfirm everything—I needn’t worry.
No sooner was I back in the car than my angst welled up again.
When I woke up Sunday morning at four, I realized I still had that damned letter in my pocket, that the goddamn thing had spent the night here with me, so to speak.
It took every bit of energy not to drive to the Wenzel right then—or at six, or seven, or eight o’clock. I had set my goal at ten o’clock, or nine thirty…158
Herr von Barrista had left the hotel shortly after nine…Was there anything else they could do for me?
I shook my head, I was fighting back tears. I looked for the baron in the line of people waiting to buy a Bild tabloid at the train station. I reconnoitered the neighboring streets. I returned to the Wenzel. I wrote the baron a few quick lines, fervently begging him to stop by the office. The file with the mail was still lying on the desk. I folded the letter up and shoved it in. When Georg appeared to say that Franka wanted to know if I would be staying through the noonday meal, I declined the invitation. In a burst of chivalry, I told myself that he no longer had anything to do with it—spare him the worry.
Yielding to sudden inspiration, I drove to the building where—as the baron had pointed out to me—Manuela, the blond waitress, lives. She’s now working at Referees’ Retreat. But no one answered the door.
Around seven I returned home. I could hear music even from outside the door. When I entered Astrid the wolf was lying under the mirror console. She didn’t even raise her head. The baron had presented Robert with a CD player plus speakers, which they were trying to place to best effect. In their baseball caps they looked like professional installers. Michaela had a performance.
“And where were you?” the baron asked. He had missed me at the opening of the exhibition at the Lindenau Museum. So many local VIPs! It’s called working your contacts.
“And? Are they right?” he asked after I had poured out my heart to him—and then calmed me down at once. Anyone who sent something like that in the mail was not to be taken seriously in the first place. But shouldn’t we respond all the same? I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “by ripping up that piece of trash and forgetting it. Who’s to say you ever even got it?” And might there not be some other solution?
“If you like,” he said, “I’ll take care of it.” That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.
“But that always costs money, a letterhead like that unfortunately costs one hell of a lot of real money.”
I asked him about part two, whether we should print it or not. “Of course,” he said, “if it’s good. Otherwise don’t.”
So now we have our little scandal issue, because Jörg’s article about a teacher named Offermann is on page three. If we go under, it will be with flying colors.
Hugs, E.
Maundy Thursday, April 12, ’90
Verotchka,159
I have to calm Mamus down every couple of days. Even with a hundred dead, the chance something has happened to you isn’t even one in a thousand. Mamus will be here for Easter.
Once the telephone is connected in our new offices, we won’t have to worry about imposing.160 It’s strange, but I find it difficult to leave the old one behind. It’s been with me for so many hours, filled with so many hopes. The dial, the spiral cord, even the receiver, they all belong to your voice, your breath, to everything that you and I have said.
Verotchka, it won’t be long and I shall lay the world at your feet. At least some little piece of it. Your friend, the baron, has dropped a couple of hints, and I’ve responded accordingly—it’s quite possible that we, you and I, will soon be going on a trip. I don’t want to let the cat out of the bag yet, it sounds crazy and absurd, but I’ve learned to believe things for that very reason. You’ll see, it’ll all work out!
I’m so grateful to you for remembering Robert. He even wears the jacket in the apartment, it hangs on his bedpost at night.
Michaela attributes his “unimaginative” desire for money to my influence. What else is Robert supposed to wish for? He knows that within a few months he’ll be able to fulfill entirely different wishes.
A couple of days ago, Michaela admitted that she has been carrying around a letter from Robert’s father. She recognized his handwriting on the envelope.
I met him just once, that is to say, I saw him at the theater when he came to pick up his Christmas pyramid and his old candelabra. At the time it was beyond me how Michaela could have fallen for a man like him. The incarnation of the wannabe artist—gray ponytail, flashy ring, three-day beard. He was forever going on about Pablo or Rainer or Hanna,161 and if someone asked him about it, he took offense in the name of his gods. Robert would wait until ten or eleven at night in the theater canteen,162 until Michaela had removed her makeup. His father never had any time for him, because he was hot on the trail of another one of his inspirations or chasing some high school girl. All the same Robert was very attached to him.
But now Robert didn’t even want to read the letter. He cursed his father and cried. But at some point he’ll make the trip to see him. And I’ll have to let him, if not in fact encourage him.
Last night Michaela joined me at the Wenzel. We just now got home.
On the way there she claimed that by now half the town is making fun of Barrista, and that I should protect Robert from him. She’d put it euphemistically and called my nobleman a pushy, funny duck who’s so ambitious that he can hardly walk in those silly boots of his.
I’ve learned from Nicoletta (short, brunette, with cornflower blue eyes, and unflattering but expensive glasses, she knows everything, can do anything, and does it, but basically is more helpless than a child, always afraid she’ll miss out on something, and thankful just to get any “job” she’s hoping that with the help of the Lindenau Museum she can pu
rsue a career in art history)163 —from Nicoletta I’ve learned that he must have a skeleton in his closet, at least he’s not allowed to do business on his own and works through a whole network of straw men. Did you know anything about that? But this flaw only adds to his attraction, at least for poetic souls—as best as I can read them—especially for Johann. He downright lusts to hear about mysterious, inscrutable types who have a finger in every pie, and are successful at it, whether in business or with the ladies […] And when I describe Barrista’s limp, Johann regards it as somehow diabolical and talks about his “dark luster.”
Even Michaela couldn’t hide the fact that her tirade against Barrista was really just the reverse side of her curiosity—that she couldn’t wait to be introduced to him. And so I found it quite amusing to watch how quickly Barrista won her over.
Before he kissed her hand (and later on he would rave about her hands), before she was seated at the place of honor at our table—yes, more or less even as she was making her entry into the restaurant—the two of them were already playing their game. He likewise knows how to work an audience, without ever casting it a glance.
The baron handed us what he called the “bill of fare,” on which he had had the hotel print in gold lettering: “In honor of the rebirth of the Altenburg Weekly and in honor of Michaela Fürst and Marion Schröder.” Inside was a list of six courses, on the left in French, on the right in a German translation—that makes an impression.
Wasn’t this laying it on just a bit thick, Michaela asked brusquely, only to immediately announce how happy she had been to accept his invitation. But first she wanted to make sure she didn’t forget to thank him for the splendid flowers, which in their own way were as seductive as the names of these mystifying dishes.
Marion jumped in to say that she had not yet expressed her thanks for the largest cyclamen in all of Altenburg.
“When it comes to flowers,” Michaela resumed, “no one can hold a candle to Herr von Barrista.” I was strangely touched to hear his name coming from her lips. From then on everything was really quite clear.
During the main courses he entertained us with travelogues. In the fall he always flew to the U.S., to the East Coast for lobster. He described the inns, the little harbors, the various landscapes and the play of light, pumpkins in the fields, red foliage…His narrative was as vivid as it was lively, and without interpolated questions it flowed along like nonstop dinner music, wrapping itself around me as I basked in my dreams of you.
When we got up from the table, the baron laid a hand on my shoulder—the restaurant had long since closed, tables were being set for breakfast—and asked if we would like to finish off this extraordinary evening with a nightcap. The bar wasn’t worth much, but he had done some upgrading over the past few weeks. It would make a happy man of him if he could put a cocktail shaker to good use for us. “Why not?” Michaela responded like a shot out of a pistol.
“Well, that’s an answer!” the baron said in triumph. An arm linked mine, and I found myself in the bar at a table that was just being cleared.
The baron dedicated the next minutes to me with something very like fervor. More than the words themselves, I recall the pleasant, almost tender lilt of their melody. Yes, he literally wooed me. And I realized: He isn’t nearly as old as he seems, he’s much younger!
When I woke up, Michaela and the baron were snorting and giggling. Except for a couple of waitresses and a man as thin as a rail bent over empty glasses at a neighboring table, we were alone.
“We were just talking about the theater,” he said, as if I had just returned from a brief trip to the restroom. With one hand on my knee, he leaned over to me. I could smell his unusual perfume. It was five a.m.—which for me is relatively late.164
He pried us into his car. Michaela chattered away, giggling to herself. As we rode along I tried to support her head from behind—it kept slipping off the headrest whenever we took a curve.
As we got out, she sank into my arms. I felt like her footman.
No sooner were we in the apartment than nausea brought her to. She was so weak I had to brace her forehead above the toilet bowl.
“Are you jealous?” she asked, and apparently thought she ought to gaze especially meaningfully into my eyes. I begged her not to kneel on her dress and tried to help her out of her coat. She reached into her coat pocket and held up an envelope. “That’s how much my name is worth,” she cried, “one thousand dee ems!” She was to receive the sum monthly as manager of Fürst & Fürst Real Estate.
When we were counting out the money later and I asked her if she knew what she was getting herself into, Michaela said that she trusted me, after all I had taken her with me, he’s my friend, that was the only reason she had agreed—only to add a little later: “He’s so ugly! Don’t you think he’s incredibly ugly?”
Do you think he’s ugly?
Kisses,
Your Heinrich
[The following handwritten lines are on a separate page and undated. Since the preceding letter was written early in the morning, immediately after their return from the Wenzel, one can presume this should likewise be dated April 12th. According to V. T., they both arrived by fax.]
Michaela had a miscarriage this morning. She immediately went to the hospital, I didn’t learn about it until several hours later. Maybe it would have been better if I never had—but of course that’s nonsense. I feel it’s my fault for dragging her with me to the Wenzel. I can’t understand how Michaela hadn’t noticed anything—surely she must have known! It can only have happened in Offenburg, nowhere else.
Michaela didn’t even want to be comforted, she’s very cool and collected. In a show of tenderness, the hospital put her in a room with three women who had just had abortions, there were no other beds available.
In a certain sense we’re both grateful that we didn’t have to face that decision. Which is why we don’t talk about it. Robert seems to be the one who’s saddest.
Verotchka, my dear sister! H.
Good Friday, April 13, ’90
Dear Jo,
Friday the thirteenth. I’m sitting here in my bathrobe, drinking coffee, and enjoying the quiet. I can’t remember what I wrote to you in my last letter.165
On Wednesday the baron invited us to dinner yet again. There were several things to celebrate—our new building, my new position, Barrista’s real estate firm.
No sooner had we arrived than he spotted Michaela and couldn’t keep his eyes off her after that. I really believe he was surprised to suddenly see me right behind her.
Marion, who made a special trip to the hairdresser, looked more severe in short hair. She was wearing a lot of makeup and a muted red dress that pinched her under the arms. Jörg also seemed out of place in a gray suit that was a little too large on him.
Barrista, who was in the best of moods, cleared the long side of the table just for Michaela and asked Jörg to move down a seat, and then seated himself in his spot. He placed me next to Marion, who was already showering Michaela with compliments. The far side of the table was left empty.
There were always two or three waiters tending to our needs, young fellows who marched through the dining room with shouldered trays and, as they served up plates at breathtaking speed, removed the domed silver covers with a coordinated grand gesture as if on command. One of them would then solemnly announce the name of the dish.
Twice, without any consideration shown to other guests, the lights were turned off. The first time flames danced above the shoulders of our waiters, the second time the spray of sparklers glittered, followed by noisy minifireworks at the table. It couldn’t have been more spectacular. Michaela applauded like a child each time.
We would barely take one sip of wine and the baron would refill our glasses. He was pleased with himself and the world and led the conversation with a sure hand on the reins.
He revealed to us a few of his habits. He sleeps till nine, likes to take long walks out of fondness for the wolf, spend
s several hours in the city archives, and then rewards himself with an hour in the museum. Granted, whenever he and the hereditary prince had talked about his visit, the prince had insisted that he, the baron, seek out the museum, but had never been able to give the baron a true conception of what he had missed in life until now—nothing less than the key to happiness! We really should have our ears tweaked. Why had we not taken him by the hand on that very first day and led him to the museum, for it would have spared him many a gloomy hour of helpless brooding over the fate of the town. “What you have here,” he said, “is a Louvre en miniature, don’t you know that?” And segued at once to his Madonna again, which is slowly becoming an obsession with him.
As if to spare us further reproach, Jörg began to talk about Nietzsche’s father, who had been a teacher at the castle. Jörg didn’t get very far, however, before the baron interrupted him. Out of the blue he offered to write an article for our local pages. From the attaché case so familiar to us all he extracted a couple of photographs that he first showed to Michaela and Marion. He wouldn’t have had to say another word. Marion tried to shy away, Michaela stared at me, as if comparing the picture with me. The baron explained in a chatty voice that they were taken in February ’41. On Altenburg’s Market Square—the savings bank and the steam-driven Winkler Wurst Factory could be made out in the background—a woman’s hair was being lopped off before an assembled horde. Another photo showed her seated on a horse-drawn wagon, surrounded by a crowd of about two to three hundred spectators, maybe more. In the second picture she still had a headscarf on, and her chin was resting on a sign: I HAVE BEEN EXPELLED FROM THE PEOPLE’S COMMUNITY. A third photo showed her and an older man, with a hat and glasses, who was cutting her hair, after having first bound a traditional white cloth around her shoulders. The fourth also showed him “hard at work.” In the fifth her head had been shaved bare. The sixth picture was of her walking through the town. She was accused of having had intimate relations with a Pole; her husband was a soldier.