by Tariq Ali
She was reading it for the third time when Vlady re-emerged, wearing a black polo neck sweater, faded blue jeans and a pair of decrepit running shoes.
‘Well?’
‘It’s dense, Vlady, just like you. Which bit turns you on?’
‘The fear of the transience of one’s own feeling.’
‘I get the message.’
Vlady laughed. ‘The problem with you, Evelyne, is that you take everything personally.’
‘The problem with you, Vlady, is that ever since the DDR collapsed you’ve become slightly pathetic.’
‘In more ways than one.’
‘Meaning?’
‘On the first death anniversary of the Wall, there was an unfortunate episode…’
‘It’s not like you to be so coy, Vlady. Not even in your present state.’
‘I tried to make love and…’
‘With who?’ interrupted Evelyne.
‘With someone whom you certainly don’t know.’
‘One of Adorno’s transients, I suppose. Anyway, what happened?’
‘That’s the whole point. Nothing happened. Don’t laugh, Evelyne. It’s not funny.’
‘You’ve never tried since?’
Vlady shook his head.
‘You mean for the last three years you’ve lived like a monk?’
‘Not exactly. Monks, as you know, have always led a full and frequent sexual life. Unlike them I have become truly celibate. It worries me. I thought of you a great deal, but I had no desire to see you.’
‘That’s reassuring, Vlady. I think I know what your problem is, my friend. You’ve stopped loving yourself and you’ve forgotten how to accept love. A surfeit of narcissism sickens, but none at all? Unnatural. You’ve been sinking in a pond of self-pity, Vlady. Your martyr complex has gained the upper hand. All this could be ended by one, nice, long, relaxed, fuck and I accept the challenge, Vlady, Berlin Wall or no Berlin Wall. Now, please, off with your clothes.’
Vlady laughed. ‘OK, then. Why not?’
Clothes came off. The bed creaked with the extra weight.
‘I’d forgotten your body,’ he murmured as his hands fondled her, feeling her forgotten and familiar warmth.
Afterwards he looked at her expectantly. She sat up and laughed.
‘There. It wasn’t so bad, was it? Three out of ten for performance. Ten out of ten for effort. We will do this more often.’
He smiled. ‘I think we should go for a walk, Evelyne. Just look at the sunshine.’
‘You’d better get something warm. It’s still cold out there.’
They dressed quickly. He lifted his faded, dark green overcoat from the chair and draped it around his shoulders. Evelyne laughed.
‘You’ve still got this old DDR antique. Why not sell it to one of the Pakistani stallholders at Brandenburg Gate? You might get more for it than the portraits of Ulbricht, Honecker and DDR flags.’
Vlady smiled again. ‘Don’t mock, Evelyne. I often stop and talk to those stallholders. We share a cup of tea. I asked one of them, a guy in his thirties, why they sold all this stuff. Do you know what he said? “My mother’s fucked. I’m fucked. What else is there to do but sell the remains of a fucked-up country?”’
‘Good, Vlady, even though I know you made it up.’ Evelyne roared with approving laughter. ‘All I’m saying is that your coat, too, is fucked-up.’
‘I did not make anything up, Fräulein, not a word. And leave my coat alone. Some things one must never throw away. This old rag doesn’t protect me against the cold, but it brings back many warm memories.’
She saw him then as she had the first time. A packed lecture theatre on a cold November afternoon. It must have been seven or eight years ago. The lecture hall was heated, but Professor Meyer had not removed his overcoat. What made that day memorable was not Vlady’s clothes or his demeanour or his body movements, but his subject. He had spoken about Heine, with an intimacy that had at first startled his listeners and then excited them. Not Heine the poet, but Heine, the historian of German culture. It was Heine, author of Religion and Philosophy in Germany, the book Vlady had taken as his text.
One effect of DDR conservatism was that it kept education in a pre-video phase with a habit of paying attention to long words. One of the first benefits of the Western victory was the influence of the videosphere in breaking down the old-fashioned central European respect for high culture, including the cynical devaluation of those very writers the West respected so much as long as they were dissidents against the Communist regimes. These same authors are now begging to be translated and beginning to understand that their long rebellion against socialist realism has left them disarmed against the new enemy: market realism.
Vlady remembered how after he had finished there had been a long silence and then uncharacteristic applause, which had taken him by surprise. He had smiled and then she had noticed everything else about him, including the green coat.
‘Vlady,’ she was thinking aloud, ‘do you still remember that passage from Heine?’
‘Which one?’
‘On German abstinence. You know, where he explained the beginning of the Reformation as a revolt against the sale of indulgences, implying that our collective libido was frozen.’
Vlady grinned, took her by the arm and whispered Heine’s words in her ear.
We Northerners are of colder blood, and we needed not so many indulgences for carnal sins as were sent by Leo in his fatherly concern for us. Our climate facilitates the practice of Christian virtues; and on the 31st October, 1516, as Luther nailed his theses against indulgences to the door of the Augustin Church, the moat that surrounded Wittenberg was perhaps already frozen over, and one could have skated on it, which is a very cold sort of pleasure, and consequently no sin.
Evelyne stroked his head.
‘At least your memory hasn’t gone.’
‘Did you ever read the book?’
‘No,’ confessed Evelyne. ‘There was no point. Your lecture told us everything. We all felt we knew the book. Intimately.’
‘Philistine fools,’ came the appreciative reply. ‘How could I convey the beauty of the language? You might have even picked up a few phrases to enliven your film scripts.’
‘Vlady, did you hate my movie?’
‘No. It wasn’t strong enough to hate. That was the problem. You’re still a novice, aping Western fashions to catch their attention. Aren’t you Frau Direktor? I want you to start hearing your own voice. Our voices, Evelyne. That’s what is needed. I think you can do it. I’m sure.’
Evelyne did not reply. At first she was gripped by a mute rage. What an arrogant shit, she thought. I hate him.
They walked in silence for nearly fifteen minutes till Evelyne realized that he was right. For a few seconds this realization annoyed her even more. Then she gave him a hug.
‘Thanks, Professor. Useful advice.’
Vlady was surprised and relieved by her response. For a moment he had thought she might start her act again and denounce him to the passers-by. Before he could mollify her further, a familiar voice startled them both.
‘Evelyne and Vlady. Isn’t it a beautiful morning?’
Kreuzberg Leyla, enveloped in an intricately woven, dark red shawl, laden with easel and box of paints, stood in front of them. She smiled, expecting a reply. None came. Finally, Vlady nodded vaguely and managed a weak smile. Evelyne hugged Leyla.
‘This is not far from where I sketched The Stolen Kiss. You two were always lying on the grass, just underneath the willow. Your position was perfect for me. Every August afternoon that year. You could have been posing for me. The same body movements, and then the longest kiss I’d ever witnessed. Is this an anniversary visit? I’ve asked you several times before whether you liked the painting, but you never reply.’
‘If I didn’t like the painting, why should it be hanging on my bedroom wall?’ inquired Evelyne dispassionately.
‘I know that, Evelyne. I was asking Vlady.’
‘You had it all the time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Herr Professor Meyer! Has your memory deserted you completely? Have you really forgotten how you walked out of my room saying I disgusted you and you never wanted to see me again? Hardly the best moment to inform you that I had acquired a work of art in which your reclining figure was prominently portrayed.’
‘A work of what?’
‘So, you didn’t like it, Vlady?’ came Leyla’s plaintive voice.
‘I am not an art critic, Leyla, but even I could see that your style was confused. You cannot marry Schiele and Picasso. They are –’
‘Quiet, Vlady!’ Evelyne screamed. ‘You’re just saying that to punish me. Why hurt Leyla? I can still recall your first reaction to the painting. “Hmm. It’s rather unusual. Rich colours. The lines are a bit clumsy, but it’s good. I like it.” What’s changed your mind?’
‘I can’t handle this today. Please excuse me, Leyla.’
He began to walk away slowly.
Fourteen
KARL HAD READ VLADY’S LETTER several times, but always on his own just like he was now in this hotel room. He was in Munich to meet a publisher. Karl would join him for dinner later.
He was suddenly overcome by an overpowering desire to justify himself. This had never happened before. Why did he want to defend his record to Vlady? Why did he want to justify himself? Was it because he was suddenly feeling politically insecure? There had been a change of leader in the Party and the new man was not to Karl’s liking. He was far too rumbustious, unstable, incautious to make a good Chancellor. Karl was worried that power would elude the SPD again. He felt they needed power in order to struggle against the oblivion of time. He wanted to clarify his thoughts and, at times like this, he missed Vlady. Dinner was an hour away. He unpacked his laptop.
Dear Vlady,
I’m glad you wrote. I’m writing to reassure you that I do not hold you or Mother responsible for breaking up. I was upset, but it’s all in the past. Remember how you used to mock my lack of motivation, my inability to make up my mind about my ultimate destination? Well, now I have made up my mind, but you’re still angry because you don’t agree with my decision. Do you want a son or a clone?
What drives me crazy about your generation is your refusal to accept history’s verdict. Once, history was moving inexorably forward, towards your utopias. Then you saw it as a process with a subject: the great, invincible world proletariat united by class against its enemy. Now, history has become a whore. Look at the world around you, Vlady. Just look. Poor peasants in Rwanda killing their poor neighbours in the name of a tribe. Russian Orthodox Serbs killing Bosnian Muslims and Catholic Croats killing and being killed by the other two. Progress?
I don’t grudge you your memories and your past, my father, but please don’t grudge me my future. I don’t want utopias. I want a quiet life, a decent government, a woman I love and who loves me, two children, a functioning public transport system and a sturdy bicycle – in that order. Boring? Perhaps, but I would rather be bored and live an ordinary existence than be excited and see millions perish. Reason must replace dogma and ideology. I refuse to compete for a history that destroys ‘lesser’ histories.
You’re angry. You think I’m stubborn. You regard my views as a childish act of rebellion against you and Helge. You believe that alien beings have usurped my brain. You imagine that I am consumed by careerist impulses. And for all this you have come to despise my politics. You think that you and you alone are right. You refuse to accept any responsibility for this fucked-up century which was dominated by ‘the Idea’. In reality, my dearest Vlady, the utopias for which you and Grandma Gertrude and my grandfather Ludwik (who you now tell me may not be my grandfather – the only one who fought and died for real ideals may not even be related to us!!) fought – all of you were really tilting at windmills. This will annoy you, but that’s how I feel. Your past is not unimportant to me, but it teaches me nothing. Despite all this I feel very close to you and I need you. We can argue face to face.
I will be in Berlin soon. I’m glad the old apartment is still there. Please don’t worry on that score. We can go and look for a new apartment together.
Helge has written to say that she might return to Germany. She is beginning to find New York ‘very difficult’ – at last! I’m really pleased. And you? Please write or ring soon. Better still, get a fax and an answer-machine. It will make communications a lot easier. When the telephone spread, people thought it would be the end of letter writing, but then the fax arrived and we’re back again, that is, the rest of Europe apart from yourself. Where do you get your typewriter ribbon these days? I heard the factory had closed down.
Love,
Karl
Fifteen
IN SEPTEMBER 1936, the civil war in Spain was several weeks old. The land of Cervantes had become the cockpit of Europe. I was in two minds, Karl, whether or not to write about Spain. It seemed so long ago and I was fearful that I would really be taxing your patience. Then I went and saw Land and Freedom by Ken Loach, an English film-maker.
Strange irony. England is the most backward and insular country in our continent, and yet it produces Herr Loach. Later I noticed in the credits that most of the money came from Europe, which was reassuring, but still we must give credit to them because the idea germinated in England. The cinema was packed with young people and I was wishing that you were sitting next to me. It is a flawed movie, but it brought back all the old memories and debates that I had heard from Gertrude and her friends in Berlin, many of whom had fought in the Thaelmann Brigade.
Gertrude often used to talk of Collioure, a French seaside resort. Once, when I was seventeen, Walter, an old friend of your grandmother, was stationed in Paris at the Trade Legation. We went to stay with him and all of us went to Collioure.
Later I was told of its significance. Ludwik had decided on Collioure as a rendezvous point. It was very close to Spain, without being a border town and all that entails. It had been sleepy, even at the height of summer, when Ludwik had come here with Lisa and Felix for a short holiday. Felix had pronounced it heaven.
Now Lisa and Felix were back in Paris, and Collioure was deserted apart from the locals, Ludwik and the two men from Moscow, his old friends, Freddy Lang and Schmelka Livitsky. They presented themselves to the locals as business friends, obsessed with fishing and good food. Outsiders always imagine that locals everywhere are easily deceived. This is rarely the case and the fisherman of Collioure were no exception. They liked the three Ls. They accepted that Ludwik and his friends were fond of fishing and passionately keen on the local wines and the French Catalan cuisine, but they never believed that the trio were businessmen just there for a good time. They knew that the foreigners were in some way connected with the civil war raging in the country next door.
Surrounded by a crescent of strikingly beautiful rock formations, Collioure was swathed in wisps of cloud that day. Ludwik’s routine was simple. The three Ls would walk out of their hotel early in the morning. They would stroll down to the beach and sit silently watching the fishermen return with the night’s catch, a motley collection of moray eel, John Dory, sea bass, angler fish and combers. This haul determined the character and quality of the bouillabaisse that would be served that night.
Freddy would light a pipe, the signal for them to stand up, smile, exchange a few pleasantries with the fishermen and walk briskly to the edge of the beach for their cliffside walk.
An hour later they could be seen breakfasting in the café opposite their hotel, immersed in the morning papers. Then they would disappear for the day in Ludwik’s black Citroën.
Usually he drove them to Port Bou for assignments with agents from Spain. Today he was taking them to a village in the French Pyrenees, where the entire population of just under three hundred people were loyal to the Republican cause in Spain. Ludwi
k’s organizational skills had transformed a minuscule mountain hamlet into a crucial, clandestine nerve centre linked to the battlefields in Catalonia.
Here there was a medium-sized workshop which manufactured French, Swiss and British passports, German and Italian identity cards and currency. Next door was a tailor who specialized in uniforms, and in the concealed attic there was a radio operator through whom Ludwik maintained contact with Spain and the Fourth Department in Moscow. Just outside the village was a large farm. Ludwik had chosen this bucolic location with great care. The outbuildings appeared to be decrepit and empty, but inside Ludwik had supervised the creation of a specialist armoury. Machine guns and revolvers were repaired, improved, tested and then returned to the agents of the Fourth Department in Spain, France and Portugal.
Freddy and Livitsky, impressed by the operation, looked at Ludwik and exchanged a smile; both of them were thinking of their schooldays in Pidvocholesk, where Ludwik had been the most undisciplined of them all.
‘Come and drink something. Then we must work.’ Ludwik’s voice sounded tired.
His friends rose from the bench and extinguished their pipes. Slowly they walked to the outbuilding. Ludwik was standing outside and he grinned as they approached. He remembered Schmelka Livitsky’s mother shouting at them for having thrown her only son into the river with all his clothes. For a whole week Schmelka had been barred from playing with them. Instead he had been sent for special lessons to the rabbi.