by Peter Nadas
Frau Kühnert was an astonishingly, fascinatingly ugly woman: tall and bony, with broad shoulders, from the back, especially when wearing pants, she looked very much like a man, because not only did she have long arms and big feet but her backside was as flat as an old clerk's; her hair, which she cut and bleached herself, was combed straight back, which became her but hardly made her look more feminine; her ugliness was so pronounced that it could not be mitigated even by the cunning placement of light sources in the old-fashioned, spacious apartment: during the day the sun was blocked out and heavy velvet drapes covering the lace curtains created a glimmering semidarkness; in the evening, light was provided by floor lamps with dark silk shades and wall fixtures whose glow was dimmed by little caps made of stiff waxed paper; because the chandeliers were never turned on, Professor Kühnert was forced to adopt rather peculiar work habits: he was a short man, at least a head shorter than his wife, and in build her total opposite, almost feature for feature: thin-boned, fragile, and delicate, his skin so translucently white that one could see pulsating purple blood vessels pressing against it on his temple, neck, and hands; his eyes were small, deep-set, and as insignificant and expressionless as his quietly unobtrusive way of doing his scholarly work in his poorly lit study—work that, by the way, many people judged quite significant—for there was no lamp on his huge black desk, either, and whenever Frau Kühnert called me to the telephone, I could see him rummaging with his long, thin fingers, like a blind man, among piles of newspapers, notes, and books until, by touch alone, he would identify the sought-after piece of paper, pick it out, take it across the room, past the bluish glare of the TV screen, stop under one of the small wall lamps, placed rather high up, and under its pale yellow light begin to read— sometimes leaning against the wall, which I could tell had become a habit with him, because during the day a spot, traces of regular contact left by his head and shoulders, was clearly visible on the yellow wallpaper—until, spurred on by an unexpected idea or simply by protracted brooding, he would interrupt his peaceful reading and return to his desk by the same route to jot something down; Frau Kühnert, enthroned in her comfortable armchair, seemed as unaware of the professor's repeated crossings before the television screen as the professor seemed undisturbed by the incoherent noises emanating from it or by the perpetual dimness of the apartment; I never heard them exchange a single word, though their silence did not seem to be the result of some petty, calculating revenge, and what had turned them mute to each other was not resentment—flaunted conspicuously yet indicating a very fervent attachment between man and wife, the kind of silence which rancorous couples often give as a present to each other in order to extort something—no, their silence had no express purpose, but it is possible that a slowly cooling mutual hatred had stiffened them into this neutral state, although nothing seemed to allude to its cause, since they appeared perfectly content and well-adjusted, behaving in each other's presence like two wild animals of different species, acknowledging each other's presence, but also acknowledging that the laws of the species were far stronger than the laws of the sexes, and since each could be neither a mate nor a prey, communication was also impossible.
There I was, watching Frau Kühnert's face with a certain resignation, in spite of my emotional state, for I knew from experience that I couldn't get rid of her easily, since the more I tried, the louder and more insistent she'd become; I kept on looking in her eyes and decided to suffer this one skirmish, since it would be the last; black-stemmed, bleached-blond hairs like brush bristles poked out of the fleshy welts of her low brow— my fingers were telling me the envelope was open—her nose was long and narrow, her lipstick cracked, and of course it was unavoidable that my glance would stray farther down to her breasts, the only part of her body that offered some compensation for so much ugliness: huge, disproportionately large breasts which, without a brassiere, might be somewhat disappointing, but the nipples pressing hard against the tight sweater were certainly no deception; as we were standing in the door of the almost totally dark hallway—at the same moment she began shouting again and Professor Kühnert emerged from the living room, with his white shirt opened to his waist (he always wore white shirts, and when reading or taking notes he would first yank off his tie, then slowly unbutton his shirt so he could stroke his youthfully hairless chest while pacing and ruminating) for he was going to bed.
At first, of course, the change did not appear to be very significant, even if there were some conspicuously unpleasant signs; if until now I had been able to proceed in the dark with total confidence because I felt the same, slightly slippery ground under my feet and, even without seeing anything, could hear the roar and crash of the waves from about the same distance, and feel about the same amount of salty spray on my skin, thus being free to enjoy the tempest as well as give myself over to my fantasizing and recollecting, all I had to do now was to make sure I stayed on course, not stray from the embankment, to accomplish which the sense of direction possessed by my feet proved sufficient, with a little help from the foamy waves; but then, while waiting for a fierce gust to subside, a wave struck me in the face—which in itself wouldn't have been too serious, because I didn't get all that much water down my neck and, though the water was certainly not warm, my coat wasn't soaked through either, and actually, it was all rather amusing, and if the wind hadn't kept me from opening my mouth, I probably would have laughed out loud—then at that very same instant I was struck again, harder this time, and that did make me lose confidence.
My guess was that until now I must have been walking in the middle of the embankment, but now, having waited in vain for the wind to subside, I edged toward its inner side, more protected from the sea, there to attempt to proceed, but the attempt failed, not only because the wind wouldn't let me and would have swept me away if I had given in to it, but also because after taking just a few steps in that direction I thought I had gotten to the edge of the embankment, with its sharp and extremely large stones; nothing to be done here, I realized—the embankment was narrower than I had thought, and it could not protect me from the waves—but even so, I did not do what might have been sensible in the circumstances: it didn't even occur to me to turn back, since I knew from the guidebook that even at high tide the water here rose only twelve centimeters, and that, I figured, could not be fatal, so I had simply reached a dangerous stretch, I told myself, the embankment probably curved here, that's why it was narrower, or for some reason dropped down, and if I just got past this dangerous bit, I would soon see the unfamiliar lights of Nienhagen and be safe again.
Suddenly the wind died down.
Still, I can't say I harbored any resentment toward Frau Kühnert; of course she wasn't talking so unbearably loudly because she was angry: even if our relationship had become unusually close over the last few weeks, I was always careful to maintain a proper distance, which, I believe, would have made it impossible for her to display so openly any feelings or emotions, if indeed she had them; the truth was, she couldn't speak quietly.
She seemed unaware of any intermediary tone between complete silence and unrestrained shouting, a unique trait—what else could it be called— that probably had as much to do with the tragic relationship between her and her husband, with whom she did not speak at all, as with the fact that she worked as a prompter in the Volkstheater, one of the most prestigious theaters in the city: in other words, she made her living by holding back an otherwise very pleasant, full-bodied, well-articulated voice, which nonetheless retained enough power to reach and be clearly understood in the farthest corners of the stage: no doubt about it, it was her voice that defined her life, and her ugliness was merely a rather comic addition, which I don't think she was fully aware of, since to her only her voice mattered, though she could seldom use it in its natural, normal range.
I myself had several occasions to witness how this voice could be the source of unpleasantness and how it could secure a very special place for its owner: we spent many a morning sitting n
ext to each other on the raised platform built for the director in the theater's improbably vast rehearsal hall—it reminded one of a riding school or, better yet, an industrial assembly floor—and whenever a disagreement, a seemingly unresolvable situation, created tension and, trying to justify themselves, everyone began speaking at once, the noise level rose as rapidly as mercury in a thermometer when one has a high fever; adding to the noise, the bored stagehands, high-strung extras, wardrobe and lighting crew members were ready to use the chance to chat among themselves; at moments like these, Frau Kühnert was always the first to be admonished by some nervous actress: "Sieglinde, couldn't you say that louder?" or an overeager assistant director might tell her rudely to keep her mouth shut, this was not a kaffeeklatch, he had a good mind to throw her out.. . and only then would he add what really mattered to everybody, that he wanted quiet, and Frau Kühnert's face would betray such genuine surprise, like that of a little boy who in blissful innocence has been playing with his weenie under the bushes and suddenly discovers that grownups find this activity most objectionable, and she would act as if this was happening to her for the very first time, as if nothing even remotely similar had ever happened before: her bulging eyes could not open wider, her profound embarrassment was betrayed by a girlish flush that abruptly darkened her complexion from neck to forehead, beads of perspiration would form above her mouth, which she'd wipe off cautiously, looking abashed; let's admit it—no one can get used to being continually attacked for something so basic to their makeup, and these irritable admonitions, these undeserved, rude words implied not only that her voice could be heard above the loudest din, representing and symbolizing it, as it were, but also that it carried explosive passion of such elemental force that it offended the ear, a voice that was embarrassing in all its unintended shamelessness, in a certain sense, the way it exposed people; she managed to embarrass me, too, in fact, when in the doorway she handed me the envelope as her skin turned crimson, for in view of our relationship nothing could account for either her blushing or her shouting.
But that was precisely the difficult thing to do: to escape from the effects of this apparently shameless and inexplicable intrusion, to evade it somehow; her very first sentence was much more than a simple announcement—true, however great the volume of her voice (and it did resound throughout the house), all she said was that I had gotten a telegram, but that one declarative sentence was punctuated by intense loud panting, giving the sentence many rhythmic thrusts, and because I couldn't easily remain indifferent to so much excitement, I naturally assumed the very emotional state she meant to pass on to me; no matter how hard I tried to control myself, no matter how dark it was in the stairway and foyer, she had to sense and see my agitation; with her hand still on the door handle, and tilting her head slightly to the side, she even smiled a little, which she could afford to do, because with her second sentence her voice changed and, not without irony, she pounced on me:
"But where the devil have you been so long, my dear sir?"
"Excuse me ... ?"
"It's been at least three hours since this telegram arrived. If you hadn't come home, I wouldn't have been able to sleep again."
"I was at the theater."
"In that case you should've been home an hour ago. Don't worry, I've figured it out."
"But what happened?"
"What happened? How should I know what's been happening with you. Will you come on in already!"
And when, wavering between indifference (how I yearned for it!), agitation, and fear, but determined to end the conversation, I could at last step into the hallway, Frau Kühnert closed the door behind me but, still staring at the envelope in my hand, wouldn't let me pass, and Professor Kühnert looked back before disappearing down the long corridor that led to their bedroom and nodded a greeting in my direction, which of course I couldn't return, partly because despite my effort to be demonstratively strong and aloof, I was preoccupied with the change taking place in Frau Kühnert's face and partly because he turned away, not really expecting me to return his greeting; I found nothing unusual in this, since he rarely acknowledged my presence; and not only did Frau Kühnert's facial expression go on changing with each passing moment but her entire bearing seemed to signal that she was preparing herself for a wholly new and to me unfamiliar outburst, not one from her usual repertory, and having breached all the old limits she now would not only reveal a new side of her character but also render me completely defenseless and, though I couldn't then have known it, would literally push me into a corner: with her lips trembling, she whipped off her glasses, which made her eyes look even more terrifying, then arched her back by pulling up her shoulders, as if she had sensed my straying glance of a moment ago and felt a need to protect her huge breasts; I made a last, desperate attempt to free myself, but it only made things worse: casting aside all pretense of politeness or good manners, I tried to slip away; I moved sideways, seeking the protection of the wall, but she simply stepped in front of me and pushed me up against it.
"Just what do you think you're doing, my dear sir? You think you can just come and go as you please and do your smutty little things, is that what you think? I haven't slept for days. I can't stand it anymore. And I don't want to! Who are you, anyway? What do you want here? And where do you get the nerve, after all these months, to pretend I'm nothing but air? Go on, tell me! It's not your fault I know everything about you; you can't help that, but nobody can expect me to keep my mouth shut forever. And I do know everything, everything, it's no use being so mysterious, I know all about you. But may I remind you, dear sir, that I'm a human being, too, and I want to hear it said, I want to hear it from your lips. I suffer because of you. I'm afraid to look at you. You had me fooled: I thought you were good and kind, but the truth is, you are cruel, horribly cruel, do you hear? I'd be most grateful if you people told me what you were up to. You want the police after me, is that it? Don't I have enough problems as it is, without you people? Yes, I want to know what's going on. You have some nerve to ask me what happened when it's I who want to know just what's going on, and what happened to him. The least you can do is tell me, so I can prepare myself for the worst. And don't act like I was your maid, who must take whatever you feel like dishing out. Did you have a mother? Do you still? Has anybody ever loved you? Do you really think we need the money you pay us? Your lousy money is just what I need. I thought I was taking in a good friend. But will you please tell me just what it is you do? What do you do besides ruin everybody, turn other people's lives upside down, is that what you occupy yourself with all day? Some occupation, I must say. But what is your occupation? When can I expect the police? Maybe you killed him. Well, did you? I wouldn't put it past you, so help me, you with your innocent blue eyes and polite little smile. Why, even now you act as if you didn't know anything and I was just a raving lunatic. Where did you bury him, huh? Now that I've found out about you, all I ask is that you get your things and get out. Go wherever you like. To a hotel. I am not running a criminals' hangout, you know. I don't want to get mixed up in anything. I've been scared long enough. When a telegram comes I get the shivers. When I hear the doorbell I get sick, do you understand? Haven't you noticed I'm an ill and tortured person who needs a little consideration? Didn't I confide in you, fool that I am, trust you enough, you of all people, to tell you my life story? And what about my goodness, my kindness, doesn't anybody want that? I'm asking you. Am I here only to be used by everybody? Why don't you answer me? As if I was some hole for everybody to toss their garbage in. Answer me, goddamn it! What's in that telegram?"
"But you've read it already! Haven't you?"
"Well, look at it."
"What do you want from me? That's what I'd like to know!"
We were standing quite close, and in the sudden silence, perhaps because of this closeness, her face seemed to relax, became almost translucently delicate, grew larger and even pretty in a sense, as if her irregular and ill-proportioned features had been held together only
by the rigid frame of her glasses and her suppressed desires, and now that she had taken off her mask, her face was freed and regained its natural proportions; against her white skin the reddish freckles became more pronounced, decidedly charming, her thick lips seemed more expressive, her dense eyebrows more striking, and when she spoke again, much more softly than before, in her pleasantly penetrating prompter's voice, I surprised myself by thinking that, no matter how disheveled, distraught, and washed-out she might look, especially without her glasses, beauty might be nothing but the proximity of utter nakedness, the enthralling sensation of closeness; I wouldn't have been surprised if I had leaned over and unexpectedly kissed her on the lips, just so as not to see her eyes anymore.
"What could I possibly want from you, my dear sir? What do you think I would want? Could it be that I want to be loved, not a lot, just a very little? oh, not that way, don't get scared, though at first, yes, I was in love with you a little, you may have even felt it, and I can admit it now because it's over, but don't leave now, I don't want you to, you mustn't take seriously what I said before, it was silly, I take it back, you mustn't leave us; I do get scared, you see, please forgive me, but I am so very much alone and always fear that something unpredictable may happen, something dreadful, that some terrible disaster is approaching, so I don't want anything except that you read the telegram here, in front of me, because I'd like to know what happened, that's all I want you to tell me, nothing else. I didn't open it, you should know that. It came in an open envelope, that's how telegrams are delivered here. But please, look at it already, I beg of you!"
