Käsebier Takes Berlin

by Gabriele Tergit

  “Dear child,” he said, “shall we order a bottle of Haut Sauterne?” He found her delightful. She noticed that he found her delightful.

  “You’re a cute little bug, great dress, super. Werderscher? —No? —Oh, does one shop on Kurfürstendamm these days? Funny—you want to work there? —What, —every day?”

  “Yes, fancy that.”

  “With such a pretty little red head? Funny. And so nicely filled-out, such a tasty morsel! Funny. Please keep sitting like that, no, like that, half in profile, excellent! I’d definitely have married you if the thought had ever crossed my mind.”

  “Why are you discussing marriage with everyone lately?”

  “I feel like it.”

  “Where shall we go now?”

  “To the Königin?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  In the car, he took her hand and stroked it tenderly.

  “Does that feel good? Yes? That too? Yes? Are you excited? Yes?”

  Oppenheimer’s a real scream, Käte thought.

  The car stopped in front of the Königin. Käte smoothed down her clothes. A new life had begun. She had finally escaped the cage she’d been in for ten years. At the Königin, they met the painter Zimbella Kastro, a lady from Paris; that is to say, a woman from Alsace, which is almost Germany.

  “How’re you doing?” asked Käte.

  “Oh,” Kastro said. “I was supposed to have a show, I’d already assembled the paintings. But there was no one around to frame my paintings, so I wrote to my friend in Finland. And he came, but he’s so disappointed in me.”

  “How long has it been since you last saw him?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “And he came from Finland just to frame your paintings?”

  “Why not. Is it very far?”

  “I think so. Are you staying here for a while?”

  “No, I’m going to Dalmatia in a few days with my child, to paint.”

  “Oh, you have a child?”

  “Yes, I see you’re surprised by the news. I am, too. But I bore one. Although when I went to pick it up from the nursery, my infallible maternal instinct had me grab the wrong one.”

  “I’ll ring you soon.”

  Then they ran into Margot Weissman, the consul’s wife, who danced by.

  “Hello Margot, how nice to see you. I’ve been meaning to ring you for ages, I’ve felt awfully guilty about it.”

  “Oh yes, me too, my dear. Are you rid of him yet?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Be careful.”

  “It’s going very smoothly.”

  “Talk soon.”

  “Yes, definitely. Give me a call sometime!”

  “Now there’s a terrible snob,” said Käte, but Oppenheimer was uncomprehending.

  “She’s a nice lady, though,” he said. “She has some beautiful Frankenthal, by the way. We recently got into quite a scuffle over a kakemono.”

  There were many dancers on the ballroom floor who would have been better served doing something else. But there were two girls, in white and gold, who were so beautiful that it was worth sitting here for their sake alone. The ballroom was warm and cozy, invitingly divided into alcoves and booths. Many ridiculous women and men shook each other’s hands and said, “Good evening, how are you?”. . . and “I’ll give you a call sometime,”. . . or, “How nice to see you, I’ve been meaning to call you for ages, I’ve felt terribly guilty about it.” The day had long since turned to deep night. Ads for clubs catering to out-of-town husbands blinked along Kurfürstendamm. Blonde flesh behind the bar. A sweet face and young men who sought rapture and ended up with a hangover. A gentleman from the country was passionately caught up with a girl. Käte would have liked to tell his wife that she shouldn’t take it to heart, even if it was grounds for divorce. These kinds of situations were common here and had no air of sin about them.

  They walked out, retrieved their jackets from the coat check, got into a car, and were driven to a petit-bourgeois house. Somewhere on Steinmetzstrasse, or maybe Zossener. A figure opened the door with a cheeky grin. There were many wardrobes in the hallway. There was a damp, acrid scent, like a waiting room or a housing office. Neither Oppenheimer nor Käte would ever have set foot in an apartment like this. But Oppenheimer didn’t find it particularly unpleasant.

  “Nice and petit-bourgeois, isn’t it?”

  The figure opened the door once more and asked, “Would you care for something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Things felt awkward. But as Käte often said, “The ultimate things between a man and a woman are, for the woman, only a matter of attitude, an affair to be undertaken with grace and dignity.”

  Oppenheimer was annoyed with himself. But he had been acquainted with countless women from his sixteenth year onward, always had money in his pockets, and had never been stingy with it. He drove Käte back to her two furnished rooms.

  Käte hadn’t spent the evening with Miermann. He called her the next day, at noon.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks,” said Käte.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, of course. I have five new students, and I had an amusing evening.”

  “Where were you yesterday? I tried to reach you but you weren’t around.”

  “At the theater: The Wife.”

  “How did you like it?”

  “A real piece of garbage. As if it mattered whether the husband had a girlfriend or not.”

  “But the acting was good?”

  “Sometimes. But Mosheim is too maudlin and wears the most awful clothes.”

  “I didn’t notice. I thought she looked lovely.”

  “Oh no, she’s far too sentimental.”

  “I don’t think so, she’s quite soulful.”

  “Well, perhaps she has a bit too much soul! Either way, I can’t stand her.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, but overall, quite a delightful evening.”

  “Not for me. How are you?”

  “I’m in trouble.”

  “I’m so sorry, darling, is it work?”

  “Not on the phone.”

  “No one can guess what we’re talking about. All this caution has made you overly suspicious.”

  “When will I see you?”

  “I’m going to the academy ball tonight.”

  “I can’t do evenings. Can’t we squeeze it in earlier? Between three and four would be best.”

  “Fine, where?”

  “Not in the newspaper district.”

  “Let’s say Hilbrich’s.”

  “No, too many ladies!”

  “Leon?”

  “Still too close to the papers. Dönhoffplatz is off limits.”

  “Hausvogteiplatz.”

  “I don’t feel so good about that either. There’s a small café on Mauerstrasse, right by Leipziger.”

  “Fine, that works. At three then.”

  Käte wanted a well-situated apartment around Kurfürstendamm for her gymnastics school. She would have to pay the previous tenant to vacate the apartment, then renovate and furnish it; or she’d have to rent furnished rooms. She didn’t get a moment’s rest all day. It was no great hardship to drive to Mauerstrasse at noon for a rendezvous. Miermann was very respectful, but boring. How long should she keep waiting? They had good conversations, but he hadn’t gotten much farther than a caress every now and then.

  Käte rang Margot that afternoon to discuss the ball.

  “I think we’re going back to being proper again,” Margot said. “Not quite so naked. What’s with the main line?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He isn’t interested?”

  “He is.”

  “But?”

  “I don’t know whether he’s that maladroit. Recently, he told me he wanted to put me on a pedestal.”

  “If I even hear the word pedestal!”

  “Yes, it made me sick too.”

  “And the supporting cast?”

  “Going q
uite briskly, thanks. I was out with O. yesterday.”

  “O.?”

  “Matthäikirchstrasse.”

  “Oh, that one.”

  “Yes, he’s still dating a model. She’s probably faithful these days, but tiresome. He snatched her away from a guards officer twenty-five years ago. The whole affair was quite improbable; it all happened before 1913.”

  “So I’ll see you tonight. Why don’t you enjoy your freedom for a bit, then get married. Marriage is best, believe me. Why make such a fuss over silly gymnastics?”

  “I don’t want to get married. I couldn’t bear it, even with the man of my dreams! So, what about the outfit? I was going to wear long pants and a sort of vest.”

  “That’s good for you. You can emphasize your figure, I have to pay attention to my skin—I’ll look for something with a décolleté.”

  “So tonight at the academy, ten o’clock.”

  “Ten o’clock is a bit early.”

  “Everything will be taken later. Don’t you want something new?”

  “Yes, but only if we’ve been introduced.”

  “I’m looking for adventure. Come by my place at ten.”

  They arrived and waited by the coat check for a quarter of an hour. It was drafty and cold. Inside, the fray was thickening.

  “Oh, you’re here,” said a dancer from Käte’s past. “How’s it going?”

  “Vertically excellent, so not taking bids on the horizontal.”

  “I’m reorganizing the Vienna Ballet.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “But I might stay here for a while?” he asked purposefully.

  “No, my dear, it’s been over for seven years.”

  “Look over there, see that girl in blue? She’s living with Krause now.”

  “Is she divorced?”

  “Oh, nonsense. Her husband lives with Korb from the Linke-Theater.”

  “Do people know that?”

  “Of course, the whole world! It’s quite official. They live together.”

  “What, all four of them?”

  “Yes.”

  A man came over to the table.

  “Charming, charming,” he gestured to her naked back, “may I give you a kiss?”

  She stood up and disappeared over the stairs in a sea of masks. Winkler the banker came by and kissed her hand, between her fingers.

  “You still have your sweet girl’s face, but you must be a great beast by now.”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said. “My greatest mistake.”

  “A dance?”

  “Yes.”

  His hands moved down her body and were satisfied.

  “Listen, why should we stay here? Let’s get a car, drive into the wintery night.”

  “No, I’m staying here.”

  “You’re a fool,” he said, stamping his foot. “You know I can’t stand women who play hard to get.” He was furious. She couldn’t afford to lose him; neither his counsel nor his credit. Moreover, she didn’t want to lose him because she liked him; he was a good friend. She smiled.

  “It’s unbelievable that you’re still living in those furnished rooms, with your income,” she said. “I’m hoping to get a beautiful apartment for myself soon. You should come by then.”

  “Yes,” he said, already distracted.

  “Strange,” she said a few hours later, “I only ever have relationships with men I don’t love.”

  “What!” he cried, feigning outrage. “You don’t love me?”

  “Most certainly not.”

  “Well, that’s just swell. I love you passionately, profoundly, eternally,” he cried, laughing. It would have been ironic even several minutes ago. But now that he had learned that she was taking this lightly, that there were no consequence for him, he began to love her and take her seriously. And he embraced her. As she was covered with caresses, she asked herself if this second-rate love might not be far preferable to a first-rate one. But as he stood in front of the mirror, turned, and proudly asked her whether his torso wasn’t well built, she thought with a sigh that torso and well built were simply too much, and was anxious to get home.

  •

  Once again, Otto Lambeck had had an idea for a great drama. Why does it always have to be petty woes, orphanages, paragraph 218,9 while the dernier cri is history, sex, and more sex? he thought. I want to put a hero on stage who’ll make men marvel and young girls swoon.

  He strolled over Kurfürstendamm on a clear March evening. The asphalt shimmered. The street lamps cast a haze of light over the spring trees. The longing of the many couples lounging on benches drifted from the Tiergarten. Ladies in fresh pale suits sat in front of cafés, wearing little hats on their little heads, drinking iced coffee and iced chocolate with straws. They were superbly manicured and massaged and creamed and rouged and whitened. Lambeck took in the air scented with freedom, brashness, and benzene. One-legged men sat on the stone terrace of a large hotel. The pavilion, bar, parlor, and roof garden where Lene Nimptsch had lived and Dörr’s nursery had been. Trials and Tribulations.10 Moving advertisements, a church, a waving constable. Cars, cars, cafés for watching the world go by and quiet cafés for love. The Kapitol lit up in pink, purple, and red. Cinemas, cafés, restaurants, palaces, marble, Gloria and the Königin, champagne, fine clothes, the Charleston and jazz, grub joints with bright salads and artichokes, flips and cobblers, red, green, and yellow lights, snake and crocodile, ermine and sable, silk and lace, varnished booths where beauty is forged from steam, a fatted hand, and crackling electric current for the furry creatures with their pink legs, reddened mouths, purses and eyes searching for men under the trees, which have shriveled up from a winter of longing for March. An American restaurant: bright, friendly, the image of an optimistic continent. You can drink something here with a straw, milk and coffee, for instance—they call it frappé. And his series? Where would he find inspiration?

  “Good evening,” said a young man he didn’t know. “You don’t seem to recognize me. I had the honor of being introduced to you in the newsroom recently. My name is Frächter.” Lambeck was angry; couldn’t he have run into anyone else on this soft spring evening other than this dandified armchair radical? But Lambeck, who was a man easily inclined to overestimate people and their accomplishments, didn’t think, Here’s a journalist of the lowest rank. He thought, generously, Perhaps it’s unfair of me to dislike him.

  The young man walked beside Otto Lambeck. Lambeck hardly thought him pushy after a few minutes, although everyone else would have considered this an affront: this stranger had spoken to the great poet and was now walking beside him. Indeed, the humble man even asked, “Will you drink a cup of coffee with me, Mr. Frächter?”

  Frächter and Lambeck sat down on the western side of Kurfürstendamm.

  “In the office, I was told that you plan to write a series of articles on Berlin, and that this extraordinary essay on Lunapark was the first one.”

  “Yes, Dr. Waldschmidt asked, and I didn’t want to turn him down.”

  And one thousand marks for one article doesn’t hurt, Frächter thought.

  “It’s not that easy to write about Berlin. The best people have already ripped their hair out trying. It may only be possible in the movies.”

  “Film, for me, remains an instrument I am unable to use. Even on stage, it’s not exactly easy to see how quickly individuals can take on the appearance of idiosyncratic actors. But photography, devoid of the human voice, human reality. . . —I think that film can do a great deal, and I can’t speak highly enough of Chaplin’s propaganda for the simple, suffering man. But I’m still afraid.”

  “You shouldn’t be afraid. Think of everything film can express that the spoken or written word can’t. By the way, there’s an excellent book that was just published.”

  Dusk had passed. The lights had finally gained their right to shine.

  “As I said, I’m currently writing about Berlin. I would have never dreamed that it would be so difficult to find ma
terial on my own.”

  “Did you happen to read a recent article on a singer, written by a young journalist, Gohlisch, I think?”

  “No, where was it published?”

  “In the Berliner Rundschau. About eight days ago, very well written.”

  “I would greatly appreciate it if you could send it to me.”

  Frächter was over the moon. This was his ticket to fame and riches. He had gotten in touch with Otto Lambeck; on top of that, he’d had coffee with him; on top of that, he’d given him a tip! He’d interview him, he’d publish “Walking with Otto Lambeck,” he’d talk about him on the radio and get two hundred marks for sure. He was flying high again. He was thrilled with himself.

  Otto Lambeck stood up.

  “It’s been a true pleasure,” the polite man said.

  Frächter bowed. “Do allow me to send you the article.”

  He sent it. On the next evening, Lambeck went to see the singer with Miss Kohler, whom he had known for quite some time. Lambeck loved public transportation.

  Miss Kohler said, “Cars are litters, I always think of Heine: ‘She stares out grandly at the common masses walking as her carriage passes.’11 The only meaningful paths are the ones we traverse on foot. The people of Berlin are wonderful. You have to take the Aboag or the subway to really get to know them.”12

  “Yes,” said Lambeck.

  Kohler thought, with all due respect, that Lambeck didn’t make it easy. They stepped off at Hasenheide. A light mist hung over the bushes. It was feeding time at the zoo in the first joint. For one cup of coffee, or even a soda, you got bears of all sorts. Hundreds of people sat under the massive roof of the theater, eight to a table. A liter of water for coffee cost one mark. The pot stood on the table. Enormous cases of beer and sandwiches, as well as fruit. Families. Colorful voile was the order of the day. The wine section was on a raised platform. A young couple drank no more and no less than an entire bottle of Malaga together. At one table, a couple had two bottles of Haut Sauterne standing before them. The young folks were doing it in style. It was a Saturday night, just before the first of the month, and spring was on its way.