Was the nice lawyer really going to say at this point what he was obliged to say? The only thing he could say? He said it: “Don’t take it so hard.” Said it although he knew she wasn’t taking it hard at all, yet he had to say it, he said it nicely, and it was nice that he said it nicely. And naturally he didn’t have much time, had to hurry off to the next case, appear again in court, line up again. Klotz vs. Klotz. Divorced.
Things had been much the same at the clearance sale: waiting politely, never impatient yet ever attentive until the woman who was too old to wear out even a single new bath towel had decided to take a whole dozen; then on to the next customer, who was clutching three swimsuits. After all, even at Strössel’s there was still such a thing as personal service, not like at those discount stores where they unload junk on the customers. After all, the attorney couldn’t go on standing beside her forever, there really not being much more to say than “Don’t take it so hard.” Her position at the top of the steps reminded her acutely of another occasion, seven years ago, when she had stood at the top of the steps leading up to City Hall: parents, witnesses, parents-in-law, photographer, cute little trainbearers—Irmgard’s, Ute’s, and Oliver’s kids; bouquets, the taxi decorated with white roses, the “Till death us do part” still ringing in her ears, and on by taxi to the second ceremony, and once again, this time in church, “Till death us do part.”
And here was the bridegroom waiting for her again at the foot of these steps, elated at the successful outcome and a bit embarrassed but also visibly proud of his second success of the day: having managed to find, here at the very foot of the steps, in one of the most hopeless parking areas in town, a spot for his car. Successes of various kinds had played quite a role in the divorce proceedings.
Now it wasn’t death but the court that had separated them, and the occasion had lacked all dignity. And if the court, in pronouncing the divorce, had established death, why then wasn’t there a funeral? Catafalque, mourners, candles, funeral oration? Or at least the wedding in reverse? Cute little kids, this time maybe Herbert’s—Gregor and Marika—who would unfasten her train, lift the bridal wreath off her head, exchange her white dress for a suit: a kind of nuptial striptease performed in public on the steps if there wasn’t going to be a funeral?
She had known, of course, that he would be waiting for her here, to start another of those futile discussions, since death had now been established—futile because he couldn’t grasp the fact that there was nothing more she wanted from him now that she had moved with their son into a small apartment, neither money, nor her share in the “jointly acquired assets,” nor even those six Louis—the how-many-th was it again?—chairs that were indisputably hers, inherited from her grandmother. One day he would probably unload them outside her door because he “simply couldn’t stand disputed ownership.” She wanted neither the chairs nor the set of Meissen porcelain (thirty-six pieces), nor any kind of a “property settlement.” Nothing. After all, she had the boy, for the time being, since he was still living, unmarried, with that other woman—which one was it now, Lotte or Gaby? Not until he married Lotte or Gaby (or was it Connie?) would they have to “share” the boy (and there was no Solomon holding the sword over the child to be shared); all those nasty details about custody had been agreed upon, settled, and so there would be visiting rights, she would hand over the child to be stuffed and spoiled. (“Are you sure you don’t want any more whipped cream?” and “Do you really like your new parka?” and “Of course I’ll get you the model airplane.”) For one day, for two, or a day and a half, and she would pick him up again. (“No, I really can’t buy you a new parka, and I can’t buy you a color TV for your first communion”—or was it confirmation? “No.”)
Another cigarette? Better not. Now that the nice attorney with the chic little lighter no longer stood at her side, that draft from the swing door would force her to light the new cigarette from the old, and little things like that would make her look more of a slut than ever and, when it came to the final decision about the child, would certainly count as a black mark against her. This habit of smoking on the street had already been noted in the divorce files; besides, since she had admitted to being guilty of adultery (before he had, which also had to be admitted), she had anyway been recorded in the court documents as a kind of slut. All that nattering about whether or why women shouldn’t, couldn’t, mightn’t smoke on the street had been described by the opposing attorney as a “pseudo-emancipatory” affectation not appropriate to her “educational level.”
A good thing he didn’t come up the steps, that he restricted himself to beckoning gestures; a good thing, too, that he shook his head in disapproval when she did, after all, light that second cigarette—not from the first one but with a match that didn’t go out, although the clearance sale kept the swing door in constant motion.
Despite the absence of either priest or registry official, of tearful mothers and mothers-in-law, of photographer and cute little kids, at least there might have been an undertaker who would have driven off with something—what?—in a coffin, cremated it, and somewhere—where?—secretly buried it.
Probably he was even missing an appointment for her sake (the merger negotiations with Hocker & Hocker, perhaps, where he had been appointed to solve personnel problems); but would he really miss the Hocker & Hocker negotiations for the sake of a few chairs? He couldn’t grasp, simply couldn’t, that she didn’t hate him at all, that she wanted nothing from him, that he had not merely ceased to matter to her but had become a stranger, someone she had once known, once married, who had become someone else. They had been successful in everything: building a career and building a house. They had failed in only one thing: keeping death at bay. Nor was it only he who had died—she had died too; even her memory of him failed her. And perhaps the clerics and bureaucrats couldn’t and wouldn’t grasp the fact that this “Till death us do part” didn’t mean physical death at all, much less a death before a physical death, that it meant only the entry of a total stranger into the conjugal bedroom insisting on rights he no longer possessed. The role of the court that issued this death certificate and called it a divorce was as irrelevant as that of the priest and the registry official: no one could revive the dead or make death reversible.
She threw down the cigarette, ground it out, and waved him away, finally and firmly. There was nothing further to discuss, and she knew exactly where he was intending to drive her: to the café out in Haydn Park, where at this hour the Turkish waitress would be placing miniature copper vases, each containing one tulip and one hyacinth, on the tables, and straightening the tablecloths; where—at this hour—somewhere in the background a vacuum cleaner was still being used. He had always called it the “Café of Memories,” condescendingly pronouncing it “quite good, not high class, certainly not smart.” No, she repeated her final dismissive gesture, once, twice, until, shaking his head, he finally did get into his red car, maneuver out of his parking slot and, without waving to her again, drive off, “carefully but self-confidently,” in his customary manner.
It was not yet nine-thirty, and now at last she could walk down the steps, buy a newspaper, and enter the café across the street. What a relief that he no longer barred her way down the steps! She was in no hurry, and there were a few things she wanted to think about. At twelve, when her son came home from school, she would give him a big pancake with some canned cherries, and some grilled tomatoes, he loved that. She would play with him, help him with his homework, and maybe go to a movie, maybe even to Haydn Park, to establish the final death of memory. Over canned cherries, pancake, and grilled tomatoes he would naturally ask her whether she was going to get married again. No, she would say, no. One death was enough for her. And would she be going back to work at Strössel’s, where he was allowed to sit in the back room, do his homework, play with fabric swatches, and where that nice Mr. Strössel sometimes stroked his head in a friendly way? No. No.
The tablecloth at the café pleased her, felt
good under her hands; it actually was pure cotton, old rose with silver stripes, and she thought of the tablecloths at the café in Haydn Park: maize-yellow, coarsely woven, those first ones had been, seven years ago: later came the green ones, with a printed daisy pattern, and finally the bright yellow ones, with no pattern at all but a fringed border, and he had always (and would have done so today) fidgeted with the fringe and tried to persuade her that she really did have a right to some kind of compensation, at least fifteen—maybe twenty—thousand marks that he could (and would) easily raise with a mortgage on the unencumbered house—after all, she had always been a “good although unfaithful spouse, careful and thrifty without being stingy” and had participated “quite positively and productively in the enhancement of their standard of living.” As for those Louis chairs and the Meissen porcelain, she really was entitled to those. His fury at her refusal to take any of that had exceeded his fury over her lapse with Strösser; and finally he had (and would have done so today) ripped off some of the cheap fringe and thrown it on the floor—disapproving looks from the Turkish waitress, who was just arriving with tea and coffee, tea for him, coffee for her—further grounds for ominous remarks about her health and a scornful gesture toward the ashtray (which, incidentally, was ugly, dark brown, floor-colored—and which, she must admit, already contained three butts!).
Yes, coffee. Here she was, drinking coffee again, turning over the pages of the newspaper. Here in the café she could also smoke undisturbed, without inviting annoying glances or snide remarks. She thought of the shoving and chasing in the endless corridors of the courthouse, with all those hurrying people who had a sense of injury or had inflicted injury, who were owed rent or hadn’t paid rent, where everything was decided and nothing clarified, by nice attorneys and nice judges who couldn’t keep death at bay.
Again and again she caught herself smiling at the thought of the timing of the death that had separated them. It had started a year ago, when they were having dinner at the home of his boss, and he suddenly remarked that she was “involved in textiles,” which sounded as if she were a carpet or fabric weaver or designer, whereas she had simply been a saleswoman in a dry-goods store—and how happy she had been there, her hands unfolding, refolding, everything pleasing to the hands, the eyes and, when business was quiet, tidying everything up, putting things back into drawers, onto shelves and racks: towels, sheets, handkerchiefs, shirts, and socks, and then one day that nice young man had turned up, the one who had just died, and had asked to see some shirts, although he had no intention of buying one or the money to do so—turned up simply because he was looking for someone to whom he could spill out his excitement over his success: three years after graduating from night school (“I’m involved in electrotechnology,” and all he’d been was an electrician) he already had his degree and had been given a subject for his doctoral thesis. And now that phrase, “my wife’s involved in textiles,” which was supposed to sound at least like applied arts if not art, and how angry, almost sick with rage, it had made him when she said, “Yes, I was a saleswoman in a dry-goods store, and I still help them out sometimes.” In the car on the way home not a word, not a syllable, icy silence, hands gripping the steering wheel.
The coffee was surprisingly good, the newspaper boring (“industrial profits too low, wages too high”), and what she picked up from the conversations around her all seemed to be about court cases. (“Facts twisted.” “I can prove that the sofa belongs to me.” “I’m not going to let them take away my son.”). Attorneys’ gowns, attorneys’ briefcases. An office messenger brought some files that were solemnly opened, carefully scrutinized. And then the young waitress bringing her a second cup of coffee actually put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Don’t take it too hard. It’ll pass. I cried my eyes out for weeks—weeks, I tell you.” She was ready to be angry, but then she smiled and said, “It’s already passed.” And the waitress went on, “And I was the guilty party too.” Too? she thought. Am I the guilty party, and if so how do I show it—because I smoke, maybe? Drink coffee, read the paper, and smile? Yes, of course she was guilty, she had refused to acknowledge the death soon enough and had continued to live out those deadly months with him. Until one day he brought home a new evening dress, bright red, very low-cut, saying, “Wear this to the company dance tonight—I’d like you to dance with my boss and show him everything you’ve got,” but she had worn her old silver-gray with the bead pattern she liked. A month later, when he found out about the affair with Strössel, she remembered his fury when he said, “What you refused to show my boss you’ve now shown to yours.”
Yes, so she had—not long after he had moved out of the bedroom into the guest room, and the next morning had come back into the bedroom with all that porn stuff and a whip and had started a terrible row about his sexual achievements, which she was denying him but which he urgently needed; they were in such stark contrast to his professional achievements that he was developing a neurosis, almost a psychosis; there was no way she could offer him this satisfaction, she had taken away the whip and locked the door after him. The stuff had turned her ice cold, and she blamed herself for still not acknowledging the death, taking the child, ordering a taxi, and driving away. In actual fact she had gone on to share in the remodeling of the house—guest room, guest bathroom, TV room, study, sauna, children’s room—and it had been her idea to go to Strössel and ask for a discount, for bath and hand towels, sheets and pillowcases, drapery fabrics. Naturally she had felt a bit uneasy when Strössel looked deep into her eyes and increased the discount from twenty to forty percent; and when his eyes grew misty and he tried to grab her across the counter, she had murmured, “For heaven’s sake, not here, not here,” and Strössel got the wrong (or right) idea and thought that somewhere else she would be willing. She had actually gone upstairs with him, with that pudgy, bald bachelor who was twenty years older than she and blissful when she lay down with him. And meanwhile he had left the store open and the cash register unattended, and not even the unavoidable unbuttoning and buttoning of clothing had embarrassed her. And later when he packed up her purchases downstairs at the cash desk, he hadn’t given her a discount but had made her pay the full retail price, and when he held the door open for her, he hadn’t tried to kiss her. The opposing attorney had actually tried to have Strössel attest to her claim of “discount withheld after favors granted,” but then her nice attorney had succeeded in keeping Strössel out of it. Yes, she had gone back to Strössel several times. “Not to make purchases?” “No.” “How often?” She didn’t know, really she didn’t. She hadn’t counted. Marriage had never been spoken of, the word “love” never mentioned. It was that soft, deeply moved and moving bliss of Strössel’s that made her afraid of sinking back onto a rose-colored pillow.
No, she couldn’t go back to him, and his old-fashioned store would have been the right place for her, where she knew every case and box, every shelf and drawer, knew the stocks that genuinely did consist of only wool and cotton; she and her hands, that were infallible when it came to spotting any adulteration by even the tiniest synthetic thread. No, she couldn’t work in one of those “cheap and nasty” stores either, as Strössel always called them. No, she wouldn’t marry again, be present again when a living person died and once again a death separated her. She supposed the time had come when husbands became brutally obscene, and lovers, in an old-fashioned way that was almost too rose-colored, became tender and blissful.
“See?” said the waitress when she paid her bill. “Now we’re feeling a bit better, aren’t we? After all, you’re still a young woman, nice-looking too, and”—here it came—“you’ve got all your life before you and your son’ll stick by you!” She smiled at the waitress again as she left the café.
She would bake her son a hazelnut cake, buy the ingredients on the way home, and if he asked her, “Do I really have to go to that woman?” (Connie, Gaby, Lotte?), she would say, “No.” And then there was still the firm of Haunschüder, Kremm & Co.,
Strössel’s old competitors, where the infallibility of her hands would be equally in demand. Only that it was more of a mail-order house, and she wouldn’t so often be able to unfold a shirt and smooth it out, as she had done for that attractive young man who had just received his degree and been given the subject for his doctoral thesis. Perhaps instead of cherries she would buy some smoked herring, he liked that just as much, and he would stand beside her while it turned crisp in the pan, while the pancake dough enfolded it and turned golden-brown. She could probably become a buyer at Haunschüder, Kremm & Co.; she knew she could rely on her hands, no adulterating thread would get past them.
ON BEING COURTEOUS WHEN COMPELLED TO BREAK THE LAW
It would seem idle to extol the obvious forms of courtesy: that naturally one holds the front door open for a child; that one not only refrains from pushing ahead of a child when shopping but steps back for him;
that one allows a tired, stress-ridden schoolchild traveling home on the streetcar, bus, or train to enjoy his seat in peace without disturbing that well-earned peace either verbally or even by so much as staring at him with an expression of moral disapproval.
Further, I take it for granted that one does not allow one’s child, one’s cat, dog, or bird, to go hungry, that one is prepared, if need be, to go out and steal food for them, and it goes without saying that one must not let one’s wife or girlfriend hunger or thirst either;
The Collected Stories of Heinrich Böll Page 94