New Lives

by Ingo Schulze

  If everything goes according to plan, our newspaper will be in my mailbox for the first time today around nine o’clock. At nine thirty, then, a big breakfast spread in the garden, where we’re expecting the hereditary prince. He can drink his tea here with a view to the same windows behind which he used to awaken at one time. Robert will sit next to him. The prince calls him his “young friend,” and sometimes he addresses our mother as his “dear, esteemed friend.” She refused the money the baron offered her in compensation for feeding the prince. By the way, he isn’t nearly as fragile as he occasionally appears. Otherwise he would never have survived yesterday’s strenuous program.

  And we’ve been talking about you and Franziska too. On Friday they removed all the nonsupporting walls in your apartment. It’ll take less courage to begin anew than you think. Gotthard Pringel will be a helping hand for everything. (I’ve done away with his pseudonym.) And Robert can hardly wait to play something on the piano for Gesine.

  My dear Jo, I can’t describe it all for you, at least not at the moment. The morning at the museum and the enthronement of the Madonna is a story all by itself, especially because Nicoletta suddenly appeared.370 She wanted to surprise me. The museum has hired her as its photographer until further notice, as partial reimbursement for her expenses in researching the altar project. And so there they suddenly stood, all three: Nicoletta, Vera, and Michaela. And what did I do? I had an argument with the museum director, because the mysterious Madonna from the parsonage was not at the entrance to the “Italian Collection,” where it had been agreed it would be hung—and as our article reports it is—but at the end of the gallery. I didn’t want to hear the reasons the director offered. And she refused to yield on any account. Even when the baron—who took the matter rather lightly—sent a man from the district council to my aid, a fellow who has some executive power over the museum, she couldn’t be budged. She would rather resign her position than obey instructions of this sort. The baron played arbitrator to the extent that was possible. We’ll have to admit “our error” in our next issue—or then again, maybe not. Let them all ask why the Madonna isn’t at the entrance.

  A young woman played the cello, then speeches, speeches, speeches, each ending with special thanks to Barrista and the newspaper, followed by rejoicing and cheers for the hereditary prince. More cello. People chattered away the whole time. Nicoletta shot roll after roll of film. She whispered to me to stop pulling such a face, otherwise she wouldn’t have any pictures she could use.

  When the hereditary prince, with madame director in the lead, began his tour of the collection, Massimo made a snap decision, grabbed the two museum guards posted at the first archway by the sleeves of their powder blue uniforms, and then, with the corners of his mouth tucked in deep resolve, took up a position directly behind this living shield.

  As cries of “Highness” rang out louder and louder and people told stony-faced Massimo what they wanted to show or present to “Herr Hereditary Prince,” I myself was witness to a small miracle.

  When he arrived at the panels of Guido da Siena, the hereditary prince threw back his cover, braced himself on his wheelchair’s arms, raised himself up all on his own, and took a step in the direction of the panel. “And so we meet again,” he said.

  Each panel was a reunion. There wasn’t one before which he did not stop to spend some time, not one about which he didn’t offer some comment. As a young man he had spent entire weeks here.

  On madame director’s arm, the hereditary prince spent an hour strolling past the paintings, until he arrived at Massimo, whom he called “our brave warrior of Thermopylae.”

  Those who had waited for the hereditary prince stepped back as if before an apparition.

  Massimo presented the pleas of several “unhappy souls” who wanted to add their signatures to the hereditary prince’s copy of Georg’s reprint and refused to be put off until Sunday.

  I’ll not write about the little drive Nicoletta and I took, or about the arrival of our first issue from Gera, or about all the preparations that proved necessary right up to the last minute, yes, right up to the very start of the grand reception.

  Ah, Madame Türmer has awakened…Yesterday, before the reception, she spent an hour or more rubbing herself down with a so-called moisturizing lotion, from brow to toe, applying it as meticulously as if she had staked her life on not missing a single pore. The West makes women more beautiful, I can see that with Vera, can already notice it with Michaela and even my mother. The little wrinkles that once nestled at the corner of her mouth, threatening to draw it closed like a sack, seem to have vanished.

  But now on to the reception:

  At ten minutes before six Andy and I carried the hereditary prince up the stairs. We had the main staircase all to ourselves, the invited guests had already been seated five minutes earlier. Olimpia stood guard at the door to the Bach Room.

  While I was trying to figure out whether the prince’s fragrance was from his own perfume or came from the lingering scents of others, the baron advised us not to drink any alcohol, even during the dinner to come, so that we could maintain full concentration until the end. Cornelia, who acted as maître de plaisir, had prepared for us bottles of champagne filled with a mixture of mineral water and apple juice.

  “Don’t let anything take you aback or frighten you,” the baron admonished Vera, Michaela, and me. “No matter what happens, what’s said, what you hear, no matter, whether you like these people or not, you have to be pleasant to them all, without exception. You have to believe they have your best interests at heart. These people have no greater desire than to stand in your good favor. They truly hunger for your glances, your smiles, your nods. Just ask Cornelia.”

  “Clemens, Clemens, what sort of tales are you telling now,” the hereditary prince sighed, and suggested the two ladies could brace themselves on his wheelchair at any time.

  Michaela fought back her stage fright with breathing exercises. Her nervousness—and, even more, the baron’s agitation—had an almost calming effect on me.

  Then the clock began to strike six. The baron and I stepped up to the pair of small folding doors. The murmurs in the hall died away, all I could hear now were rustling sounds. Vera and Michaela stood up straight—and then I saw it: both were wearing transparent, or better, translucent dresses. From up close the fabric looked substantial—but the moment you stepped back just a few steps, the drapery revealed breasts, ribs, and the pubic region with a clarity beyond anything pure nudity could have accomplished.

  “Türmer,” Barrista hissed. I hadn’t been counting the chimes of the clock.

  It was so utterly still it was as if we were alone in the castle. One after the other, at close intervals, various other church bells struck the hour. I thought about how I ought to learn in what sequence they actually came, and that a description of it would likewise make a good beginning for a novel, since it would give rise to an effortless topography of the town.

  On the baron’s nod I unlocked the door with a quarter turn of the handle as we had rehearsed. Each pulled at his panel at the same time and the music began. Vera and Michaela smiled and pushed the hereditary prince past us and into the hall, where the guests applauded as they rose to their feet.

  With a practiced set of movements we closed the door behind us. Michaela swung her rear end as if she were playing the whore in a vast open-air theater. Their faces almost contorted with enthusiasm, Mother and Robert clapped frenetically. All I could see of the hereditary prince now were his hands clasped in gratitude.

  The applause wouldn’t stop. The audience finally took their seats only after the baron and the mayor signaled them to. At the back to the right, just in front of the orchestra, I saw our newspaper staff and Georg’s family; to the left, toward the door, I spotted Olimpia and Andy, Cornelia and Massimo, Recklewitz and family, Proharsky and his wife.

  I wouldn’t have even noticed Marion without Jörg at her side. Her face was pale and seemed altered somehow.
She was probably under the influence of medication.

  “Thank you,” the hereditary prince called out, “thank you so much for your welcome.” Mayor Karmeka, who was stroking the back of his left hand as if rubbing it with lotion, took a deep breath and began his greetings with an excurses on the proverb: “Better late than never.” I hadn’t said anything about the contents of his speech in my article, so it was of no concern to me what he said, except—he just wouldn’t quit. The program read: “2. Brief Welcome by the Mayor, 3. Music (The Hereditary Prince’s Favorite Piece, Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik), 4. Address by the Mayor.”

  Was this the welcome or the address? The conductor—the poor man is actually named Robert Schumann—was watching us with a craned neck, ready to hit the downbeat at any moment. Whenever I thought Karmeka was winding down, he would toss his head upward for a new assault. Fifteen minutes later he began his final approach with words of thanks extended to all, to the municipal administration, to the castle staff for their untiring work, and especially to his own aide-de-camp, Herr Fliegner. He devoted not one syllable to Barrista and me—an offense, no matter how you twisted it around. Why didn’t he say the visit hadn’t cost the city a penny? They hadn’t done a thing, not one thing!

  Let him talk, I consoled myself. We’ll make sure that the truth isn’t sold short. The baron, however, pulled off a masterstroke. He applauded with such sincerity that the mayor felt obliged to grasp hold of his hand and express his thanks. A photograph of the gesture would have required no caption.

  Robert Schumann gave the downbeat. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik came to an end with applause. And then came the hereditary prince. You can read the speech in our paper.

  As he was describing how lost he sometimes feels—but how nonetheless he had been met with such warm cordiality in Altenburg—Marion leapt to her feet. She said not a word, as if she were simply trying to get a better view. Nor did she offer any resistance when Jörg made her take her seat again. But what was that she was holding in her hands? I held my breath. Our Sunday issue with its article about the reception going on here and now. Jörg had congratulated us on our new paper and expressed his admiration at how we had managed to start with twenty-four pages in full format. Should we have hidden it from him?

  Yes, it was our duty to hide it from him. And this was what our carelessness had got us. All Marion needed to do was to pass the Sunday Bulletin from hand to hand down the rows and we would be a disreputable laughingstock for good and all. I broke into a sweat.

  Instead of worrying about security, Massimo sat leaning back in his chair—arms crossed, a froglike grin on his face—smacking his lips in evident complacency. Had no one noticed except me? Should I sound the fire alarm? But that wouldn’t have been in the article either. We would have to declare the issue simply a test run. Better to lose ten or fifteen thousand D-marks than our reputation. That would have been my decision had I had to make it at that particular moment. The baron later alluded to the disconcerted look on my face when he remarked that his admonishments had not been superfluous after all, as I had evidently believed, but unfortunately also not quite as efficacious as he had hoped.

  I took even the slightest movement in the audience as an indication that our paper was already making the rounds. Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, I was on the verge of jumping up in the middle of the music.

  Robert Schumann bowed—and then bowed again in front of Michaela and Vera.

  Since I had proofread Georg’s speech twice, I had a good idea how long I would be stretched on the rack. I don’t want to exaggerate, but when he began his concluding quotation, all I wanted to do was close my eyes in relief. Vera and Michaela pushed the hereditary prince toward Georg so that they could exchange thanks and Georg could once again present him—officially this time—with the book about the dukes of Sachsen-Altenburg.

  And then, when Michaela gave the signal, Robert Schumann’s orchestra struck up again. The formal reception line moved into place.

  The baron and I pushed the hereditary prince up onto a low dais with an extension at the front so that Vera and Michaela could stand directly beside him and yet remain at eye level with everyone else. Marion and Jörg had retreated to the far side of the hall. I finally succeeded in calling Pringel’s attention to Marion. She had rolled the newspaper up, but the blue of its masthead was visible. Pringel got the message. He turned to Massimo, who listened with his arms still crossed, but now started bouncing on his tiptoes, thrust his Mussolini chin forward, and followed Pringel. Pringel greeted them both. From then on, Massimo’s massive back blocked my view.

  The reception line followed a simple choreography. Invited guests formed two lines. The one on the left led to the hereditary prince via Michaela and the baron, the one on the right by way of Vera and me. Vera and Michaela accepted the invitations, checking the number against their own handsomely bound lists. After providing the prince with a first and last name, they added a few remarks about the career of the person in question, plus any honors earned. The baron or I supplemented this with some compliment or other.

  It sounds boring and humdrum. You probably consider it a hollow ritual intended to flatter the vanity of Altenburg’s high society. I myself would have paid hardly any attention to those on the list either. What a mistake that would have been.

  Even Karmeka, who with his family had the privilege of being at the head of the line, lost his wily self-assurance the moment he stepped before the hereditary prince. There the disconcerted family stood all by itself, suddenly nothing more than what Michaela announced them to be: “Frederick and Edelgard Karmeka, dentist and dental hygienist, and their three daughters, Klara, Beate, and Veronika.” The prince held Edelgard Karmeka’s hand so firmly in his grasp that she blushed up to her hairline and wrenched her mouth until I couldn’t tell whether she was smiling or fighting back tears. The baron rescued her by saying good-bye and mentioning the dinner for a select circle of people, where they were sure to see one another again.

  And now it was up to Vera and me to pass along the district councilor and his wife—civil engineer and gastronome—who were grateful for what few words I offered in a hospitable tone, since they themselves couldn’t stammer one syllable.

  Next in our line was Anton Larschen, whose appearance was truly strange—some barber had robbed him of his splendid tower of hair. As always his right hand performed the old familiar—but now pointless—gesture of attempting to tame his unruly mop. Larschen presented your book to the hereditary prince. “It’s all in there,” Larschen said. The prince thanked him and said what a pleasure it was to make the acquaintance of the man whose articles he had followed with such great interest. Before Larschen could reply, the baron was already announcing two “former civil rights advocates,” who were introduced in the same way that veterans of the antifascist resistance used to be presented to us in school. Anna invited the hereditary prince to visit the local Library on the Environment, which prompted him to invite her to the dinner that was to follow. We all smiled, although we knew what a major crisis his arbitrary decision would create for Cornelia, our maître de plaisir.

  Massimo, Pringel—now joined by Kurt—continued to guard Marion and Jörg and got in line with them on the baron’s side.

  Waiting next to Vera was a man in a wheelchair whose white hair hung in straggly confusion. Like a child who’s been told to make a bow, he bent forward stiffly in his chair to offer his greetings. Only a random word or two of his babblings made any sense to me. It was the Prophet. Absent his beard, I recognized him only by his eyes, grotesquely magnified by his glasses. He had had a stroke and was said to still have his wits about him, but his speech and his body had abandoned him. The Prophet appeared to grow angry when the hereditary prince didn’t understand him. No one understood him. I told the prince that in a certain sense I had this man, Rudolf Franck, to thank for what I was today.

  Then came a couple of our major customers who have signed on to at least half a page each week�
��Eberhard Hassenstein, for example. The hereditary prince’s hand vanished into Hassenstein’s big, hairy paw. His father, who in 1934 had been a cofounder of the coal yard Benndorf & Hassenstein, had died shortly after the business was confiscated in 1971. Hassenstein sniffed several times; one tear had made it all the way to his chin.

  I presented Klaus Kerbel-Offmann and his wife, Roswitha Offmann, third-generation owners of Offmann Furniture, founded in 1927.

  You’ll come to know them all, there’s a novel behind each of these families. But all of them, whatever their story, seemed to me to be signing a contract with us in the same moment that they stepped before the hereditary prince. They had perhaps been excited beforehand, had pictured the occasion this way or that, but surely none had imagined how profoundly moved they would be by their encounter with him. As they extended a hand to him something burst inside them—and whatever that something was, it surprised them and bound them to us.

  Even Pastor Bodin, who had thundered against our horoscope in the Weekly, licked his bluish nozzle-shaped lower lip and gazed at us in childlike expectation when his turn came. Father Mansfeld, the Catholic go-getter who will be making his grand appearance today as Boniface, could not be dissuaded from presenting the prince with a bottle of liqueur, and at the end of his audience whispered to me that he had high-proof gifts for us as well.