New Lives

by Ingo Schulze

  A couple of black sheep are trying to sidle up to the hereditary prince behind our backs. Half of them want to touch him up—which, according to the baron, the prince wouldn’t even regard as brazen impudence.

  The baron has bought two large apartment houses, one adjacent to the other. On the north side, facing the street, they are black with soot. And his enthusiasm likewise remained a riddle as we stood in the stairwell. The high ceilings with their ornamental plaster and antique doors made the deal more plausible. Every apartment has two wooden balconies, one of which is to be converted into a winter garden. And the view! To the south it’s a direct shot to the castle and—on clear days—to the crest of the Ore Mountains. The facade of the castle glistens like a snow-capped peak in the twilight. In the distance, a dark blue streak. And as if that weren’t enough, down below is a meadow filled with fruit trees and ending in a rocky drop-off ten or twelve foot deep, which marks the beginning of the backyards of properties down in the valley. Renovation of his favorite bit of real estate will be done around the clock, since he pays in cash.

  Even though I think I’m hardly pampering myself, in comparison to others I live an almost contemplative life. Andy not only wants to open a second shop, he’s also taken it into his head to open a car dealership just for 4×4s—something you won’t find anywhere around here thus far. Even when I drive home at midnight, the lights are still on in Cornelia’s travel agency. You can book with her now too, and not have to pay until July. People stand in line outside from morning till evening. Her husband, Massimo, wants to open up a pharmacy in the polyclinic, which is why he commutes back and forth two or three times a week between Fulda and Altenburg. Recklewitz-Münzner is recruiting partners here, offering continuing education classes, and buying up one piece of property after the other for himself and others. Together with his friend Nelson he’s reconnoitering for places to put gas stations. Olimpia, Andy’s young wife, who speaks every language on the globe, is doing research for Jewish organizations at the land registry office. And Proharsky, the Ukrainian, has gone into debt collecting on behalf of his whole family, and thus for us too. Need I even mention that all these threads come together at Fürst & Fürst Real Estate?

  I gave the baron a copy of my calculations for a free paper financed by ads, and assumed it would evoke no more than a smile. He gave it a once-over, said it was perfect, handed it back, asked, as he riffled through his attaché case, what I thought of the reunification of Yemen296 —about which I hadn’t heard a thing, was clueless as to the point of his question—and pulled out his own figures, which, he suggested, reached conclusions similar to mine. The only entries I had forgotten were the interest on credit and the rent.

  The baron invited me to accompany him to visit Dr. Karmeka, our new mayor. He guaranteed it would be interesting, since he planned to make him a proposal—and I should watch the mayor closely as he made it—that could prove crucial for the future of the town.

  Karmeka, who’s actually a dentist and switched to politics because of a bad back, has fired as many members of the city administration as he could. Only the “antechamber” has survived. Along with two secretaries there’s a personal assistant, Herr Fliegner, a pallid, frail young man who was busy sorting papers on Karmeka’s desk and didn’t even look up as we entered.

  Karmeka, as everyone knows, receives all his visitors with the same ritual—no sooner have you taken a seat than he pulls out a pack of cigarettes (he smokes Juwels, an old GDR brand) and, holding it and his lighter up, asks, “Do you mind?”

  In lieu of a reply the baron handed him a shiny brown leather etui. “A little something.” Karmeka (the accent is on the first syllable) froze, laid his own toys to one side, extracted a cigar, and sniffed as he drew it under his nose. With our permission, he proposed as he slid the case back to Barrista, he would smoke this delicacy come evening, in peace and quiet, which during work was almost out of the question—for although our presence was of course most welcome and ought not be considered work in any real sense…then he took a puff on his cigarette and forgot to end his sentence.

  The baron led off with a complaint about the flood of petitions that had followed the announcement of His Highness’s visit. He himself had been forced to devote a great deal of time to them, since it was not something one could ask of the hereditary prince. Further lamentations of much the same sort followed. The vertical crease that began in the middle of each of Karmeka’s cheeks, ran past the corners of his mouth, and ended at his chin, began to twitch every now and then.

  Things had in fact gotten so bad, the baron exclaimed, that our valued friends from the Altenburg Weekly were being subjected to something close to extortion to get them to publish His Highness’s home address. He mentioned this vexation only so that one might have a very clear picture of what all the visit would demand we be prepared for.

  In response to Barrista’s palaver Karmeka’s gestures grew increasingly guarded and limp. He cautiously extended both arms to accept the schedule for the visit—a suggestion, merely a suggestion—contained in a folder of the same fine leather as the cigar case. And the instant his fingertips touched the leather, he was seized with a coughing fit that caused him to draw his arms up and hunch over as if he were being beaten, until he rotated to one side and finally, still bent over, stood up and turned his back to us.

  The baron was relentless. “His Highness will not be arriving empty-handed,” he exclaimed, but since he was trying to drown out Karmeka’s coughs it sounded more like a reprimand than a promise. His face fiery red, his head tucked as he fought for air, Karmeka stared at us wide-eyed. He hadn’t understood what the baron had said about the hand reliquary. The solemn ceremony itself had not merely been a subject of discussion with the church, but indeed enthusiastic preparations—for the procession, for the transfer of the object—were already underway. “Can you—please…I didn’t…I mean—repeat that?” Karmeka managed to gasp.

  “We’re bringing Boniface home!” the baron shouted, and with a smile handed the folder back to an exhausted Karmeka.

  “Just a moment!” I heard a voice above me say. Fliegner had stepped between us and Karmeka with a glass of water. Fliegner shielded him so deftly that we couldn’t even see him take a drink. “Ten minutes,” Fliegner said, addressing Karmeka, and stepped soundlessly back.

  “Please,” Karmeka said, now obviously recovered, “where did we leave off?”

  The baron handed him the folder with the schedule one more time. Karmeka laid it down in front of him and gazed again at the baron.

  “And now an offer,” the baron said. “I have an offer to make to the city.” And with a glance at Fliegner he added, “And I expect the greatest discretion.” Karmeka just kept smiling steadfastly at him. The baron appeared to be considering whether he should even continue the conversation. There was the sound of papers being reshuffled on the desk.

  “A three-figure sum in millions, currently invested abroad in dollars, will become available this year,” the baron said. He was considering parking the lion’s share of it here, yes, here in Altenburg, and of course in D-marks, with the proviso that the city come to an understanding with the local savings and loan and offer him—given the size of the sum and its investment over several years—terms appropriate to such a transaction. “Altenburg is dear to my heart,” the baron concluded.

  Karmeka’s attention was now directed inward, his tongue probed a molar. As he attempted to stub out his cigarette, it broke and lay still fuming in the ashtray. Fliegner had once again stepped soundlessly behind Karmeka and now bent down to whisper something in his ear.

  “How can I reach you?” Karmeka asked. The baron pointed to me and bowed, as if thanking me for my services ahead of time. His smile flickered and died.

  Karmeka, who was the first to stand up, grasped the baron’s elbow, as if to help him to his feet. “I shall enjoy your cigar this evening in my garden.” His eyes sparkled with cordiality. “See you soon,” he said. Turning to me, he whisp
ered, “Keep up the good work!”

  In the reception room Fliegner caught up with us to return the cigar case. We departed without an exchange of greetings. We crossed the main hall of the Rathaus in silence.

  “Incredible,” the baron sighed as we stepped out under a blue sky. “Have you ever seen the like? Of that shyster? Plays the village idiot and the next moment gives us the cold shoulder.” The baron groaned. “Now that’s a humbug, that’s a bamboozler!”

  I had never seen the baron so peeved.

  “You need to send a shot across his bow, otherwise he won’t know whom he’s dealing with here. ‘Keep up the good work!’ How dare he! Did you notice that proboscis as he sniffed my cigar? But no, no luxuries, these Protestants can’t handle those.”

  I would have liked to inform the baron that Karmeka is a Catholic, but there was no holding him back. “‘City Hall Turns Down Three Hundred Million!’” The baron punched the headline word for word in the air. “A shot across the bow, a nasty one!”

  At our portal he blocked my path. “Do you know how much I hate that? How I hate to be kept waiting?”

  “But what had you expected?”

  “I hate it, hate it, hate it!” he shouted.

  But then, when Frau Schorba opened from inside, the mere sight of her sufficed to make a total gentleman of him. Astrid the wolf came trotting up behind her. Frau Schorba takes care of her during the day. The dog lies under her desk, waits to be fed and taken for her midday walk, and to be played with. She never tires of fetching her green ball. In the afternoon Georg’s boys or Robert take her for a walk. These walks are a regular fountain of youth for her. Of an evening the baron stops by to pick her up.

  The baron’s concern for our welfare did not prevent him from making a less than decorous attempt to steal Frau Schorba from us. But she swore she would never forget the trust I had placed in her, not for all the money in world.

  She visits Käferchen and the old man at the hospital every day. Käferchen has pneumonia or something even worse; she talks as if she’s delirious with fever and babbles on about not knowing where she’s supposed to go now. Frau Schorba tries to talk the old man out of his craziness and hopes she may actually be able to speak my name in his presence soon. Leaving aside her warm heart and her gifts as a secretary, she would make an ideal advertising rep or a good bookkeeper. She’s the most inconspicuous student during computer classes, never interrupts with some silliness, never inattentive.

  Andy began our first class two weeks ago by clipping on a little name tag and pulling a telescope ballpoint out to full length. It was as if he were talking to a hundred people. Each answer to his incisive questions was exuberantly affirmed with a “Rishtick, zerr goot!”

  In Andy’s eyes we’re all equal, all pupils, and everyone has to take his or her turn in front of the screen—sort of like being called to the blackboard. Pringel is head of the class, has always done his homework, is always eager to give an answer, his childlike face beaming. Jörg has much the same, if not a better grasp of the material, but is calmer, not quite such a grind.

  I feel a lot like a paterfamilias,297 who would rather ask for something to be repeated and assume the role of the slow learner so that everyone moves with the class toward our common goal. Marion is inhibited. Some criticism early on in front of the whole class ruined any interest she had, so that willy-nilly she’s at about the same level as Ilona, who never even gave it a try, but enjoys the cooperative spirit of the class collective and sees all criticism and scolding as a kind of special attention. She sits ramrod straight on the edge of her chair so that, whether her answer is right or wrong, she can plop back again with a happy groan—“I’ll never catch on, never, huh?”—luring Andy’s gaze to the hem of her skirt almost every time.

  We’re paying Andy a hundred marks an hour—doing a friend a favor, as the baron says, although neither Jörg nor I see it that way. But he did manage after three sessions to get us to the point where we could print out a perfect newspaper page, spread out over two standard letter pages. Quod erat demonstrandum.

  We then cut and pasted and stood around gazing at it as if it were the baby Jesus in his manger.

  Hugs, Your E.

  Thursday, May 31, ’90

  Dear Nicoletta,

  As long as I was still having dreams that I could remember in the morning, they stood in direct contrast to how I felt. If I was miserable, my brain spun out the most cheerful images. Days that I took to be good ones were often followed by horrible nights.

  Early on the morning of October 8th—I was still in Dresden—the doorbell wrenched me out of my paradise. It was my habit to leave the key in the lock. Which explained why my mother couldn’t get in. I unlocked the door—but there was nobody there. I got dressed, went downstairs in my bare feet, found the front door ajar, looked out, nothing. Even today I would swear I heard the doorbell.

  Back in bed I tried to find my way back into my dream, back to a table where Vera and I were peeling apples and cutting them in the shape of little boats and then dipping them in honey. But that was only the backdrop. The true joy lay hidden within a world whose logic fell apart on awakening. And yet what was left of it in the other so-called real world was a sense of warmth so palpable that I could actually console myself with it.

  I woke the second time to the ringing of Sunday church bells. I found a glass of honey and toasted some stale bread. I went for a hike in the Dresden Heath—I hadn’t walked most of its paths since my school-days—and then around one o’clock drove by way of the Platz der Einheit and Pirnaischer Platz to the Central Station. What the radio and Mario had reported, including any trace of a demonstration the evening before, had vanished like a ghost. A half hour later—I had stopped at Café am Altmarkt, one of Vera’s favorite spots—it looked as if something was brewing on Theater Platz. The Dimitroff Bridge298 had already been closed off. After keeping an eye out for Mario’s turban for a while, I drove home via the Marien Bridge. I wrote my mother a note saying I was sorry we hadn’t been able to go on our outing to Moritzburg. After reading it I almost tore it up again, but then decided I was happy to have put anything to paper.

  I never went over sixty on the autobahn, obeyed all other posted speed limits, listened to music, and for fractions of seconds thought I actually had seen Vera the night before.

  Robert was waiting for me in Torgau. With a plastic bag in each hand, he ran ahead of me to the car. One contained some pastry, the other a pot secured in several layers of cellophane bags and canning-jar rubbers—stuffed peppers, Robert said, all of it for me. Why for me, I asked. “For all of us,” Robert said, “but especially for you.”

  He asked what I had done. Just as I later told Michaela, I said that my friend Johann had sent a telegram asking me to come see him. And so I had driven to Dresden. He asked about my mother, and I said she hadn’t been at home. We drove to the train station.

  Michaela got off the train directly in front of me. I could tell from the way she diligently avoided looking at me, from the way she kept brushing her hair behind her ear, and only then finally greeted me, that she was deep into a role, her new Berlin role, which she was now going to perform for us. Robert came running up to her, his backpack bobbing up and down, and even before giving her a hug asked if she wasn’t feeling well—because Michaela’s role now included looking exhausted, even as she summoned what little energy she had left so that we wouldn’t notice her weariness.

  The only thing I talked about in the car—and she has held it against me ever since—was the stuffed peppers and the pastry. Months later Michaela accused me of having left her in the lurch and of behaving like a total idiot. Even though she ignored every one of Robert’s questions and just kept repeating that Thea sent her love and said we should definitely come along the next time.

  I saw nothing disconcerting in the fact that immediately after we got home she withdrew to the bathroom. I put the pot on the stove, set the table in the living room, Robert spooned the sour cr
eam into a little bowl and lit the candles. And just for us he put Friday Night in San Francisco on the record player. He called Michaela to come join us several times. After I turned the volume down, we could hear her sobbing.

  She finally appeared trailing a streamer of toilet paper, as if she needed a whole roll to dry her tears and blow her nose. She opened the balcony window—the odor of food was making her sick to her stomach—collapsed onto the sofa, and pulled Robert to her. She gazed out over his head into some remote distance where she evidently saw what she had been keeping from us.

  Before the birthday party was to begin that evening, Thea, Michaela, and Karin (another actor) had spent a couple of hours in Thea’s favorite pub on Stargarder Strasse, not far from Gethsemane Church. They had stayed there until seven o’clock, and Thea had talked about her guest appearances in the West—successful productions that nothing here could compare to. And the audience had been much more spontaneous and open, too. Tipsy not so much from beer as from her stories, they had stepped out onto the street only to be confronted by a phalanx of uniformed, helmeted men armed with shields and truncheons. They turned around, but there was no way to get through in that direction either—Schönhauser Allee had been blocked off at the same point. They walked back and asked the helmeted men to let them pass, they really needed to get home. Thea even showed her ID and said it was her birthday. There was no response. They tried again on the other side of the street. The uniformed men there had neither shields nor helmets.