The Weather in Berlin

by Ward Just

  But no. Howard has lots of ideas. That will not be one of them.

  The fifty-year-old will get Valhalla. I’ll get Bainbridge Island.

  It goes without saying that the wizard is a great admirer of yours, darling. So you’re far from forgotten, in fact you’re a sort of living god he takes time to worship. He seems to have memorized every shot in Summer, 1921 and your other movies as well. This is the way he looks at the world. The world is the movies, and what he doesn’t know about the movies isn’t worth knowing. Sometimes I wonder what else they know, the wizard and his friends. They’ve seen and committed to memory every shot of every film ever made, the bad along with the good, and sometimes the bad in preference to the good. And that’s the idea, today’s shot winking at yesterday’s, parallel worlds so to speak. In that way the incoherent becomes coherent, and signifies. That’s how they explain it, the bad shot recalled and reworked into a good shot depending on the context. It’s a question of the specific situation, each context bearing on the other, inducing a sense of déjà vu in the viewer. So the overall meaning is situational. Are you following me, Dix? I hope so.

  That’s what I listen to all day long. Isn’t it a riot?

  Dix had walked downstairs, still listening to her message. Her voice had grown more sarcastic as she went along. He pulled out the cognac bottle and poured out a finger, sipping it thoughtfully as she continued to speak of life on the set, the parallel worlds of the Industry, the bad shots reformed into good shots, owing to the grammar of the wink and the situational meaning of the overall. She said she had some mar-velous gossip about the costar, but that would have to wait for another time. He heard her say something in a muffled voice, and chuckle.

  Okay, she said. Gotta go.

  Duty calls, he said aloud.

  They want me on the set immediately, she said.

  He said, Go well.

  I’ll call you tomorrow. Try to be in, Dix.

  Do my best, he said, raising his glass in a toast to the ceiling.

  I wish you were here, she said, and rang off.

  That was a private joke. He didn’t wish to be in Los Angeles and she didn’t wish to be in Berlin. They spent so much of their life apart, and when they were working there was no room for the other. That was the bargain they had struck, work always took precedence, and work was a solo flight. So when they talked they traded stories of an esoteric kind, opening the door a crack to admit the other so that when they reunited things would be less strange. He had his dream, Anya Ryan, Willa Baz, and the Wannsee 1899 set. She had her careless script and a young wizard who could write women’s dialogue as inspired as Oscar Wilde’s. He thought somehow that he was more in touch with her world than she was with his, but that was because she had never been to Berlin. It would be a pleasure explaining to her that when he first arrived he had difficulty telling east from west, north from south, because the sky was so overcast he could not fix the position of the sun.

  PART TWO

  Berlin, February

  8

  ANYA’S DIRECTIONS to Munn Café were explicit: take the S-Bahn from Wannsee to Potsdamer Platz, turn east and then south to Kochstrasse. Frau Munn’s is around the corner from Checkpoint Charlie in the direction of the ruins of Gestapo headquarters, now a tourist destination called the Topography of Terror. Look for an alley, Munn’s is halfway down. It’s just a neighborhood place, Anya said, but everyone goes there. The schnitzel is the best in Berlin. Karen is very pleased you are coming, Willa also. She believes she got off on the wrong foot the other evening and wants to put things right. She admires you, Dix. About one o’clock? We’ll be in the room back of the bar.

  The remains of a demonstration littered the streets converging on Potsdamer Platz. The streets were mostly deserted, dust and bits of paper flying here and there on the wind. Everywhere he looked were construction sites, office buildings and hotels in various stages of completion, and empty lots on which anything could be imagined—a missile silo, Chartres Cathedral, or a Burger King the size of the Reichstag. Dix thought of toys piled under a Christmas tree, the children tearing into one package and discarding it at once for the next, believing in tomorrow’s newer, shinier gift. Meanwhile, the wrappings accumulated. Sections of the Wall were visible now and again, a reminder of how things were not so long ago. The wild aspiration of the construction, cranes towering everywhere over the ravaged earth, gave the district a kind of clamorous optimism, a fresh Wagnerian Book of Fate, not the twilight of the gods but the dawn. The city was emptying its treasury in the hope that a new world of steel and glass was at hand, the world bearing a superficial resemblance to Los Angeles. Surely the Rhinegold was in there somewhere.

  A lone police car stood sentry on the littered sidewalk, and when Dix passed by he received a sardonic wave. At the intersection a gathering of youths looked at him suspiciously as he approached. Dix believed he was inconspicuous in his Borsalino hat and scarf, his canvas jacket and his cane. He assured himself that his square head and heavy build marked him as a Berliner. He strolled to the intersection, seeing it now as a movie set, all the actors on script and in place. He had done this his entire life when venturing into an unpredictable situation. He thought he could turn himself into anyone he wanted, in this case a native Berliner or even a savvy expatriate, perhaps English, perhaps Russian, though not the sort of expatriate who approved of disorderly demonstrations. Too experienced, he thought, and too prosperous. He would admire passionate protest but would not take part. When he walked past them, one of the girls pushed his elbow and snarled.

  American fokker.

  He turned to face them, leaning on his cane and glaring at them, each one in turn. They were moving around him in a nervous circle. Damaged goods, he thought, wondering all the while how they knew he was American. Perhaps Americans gave off a high-decibel whistle, a pitch sure to attract the attention of a highly strung European.

  American pig, the girl said.

  Go home, go back to New York.

  He took a step toward them. Of course it would be the environment, natural or political, the disappearance of the forests or the consequences of nuclear waste. It was all one environment, ballistic missiles, land mines, cultural imperialism, the arms race, the slaughter of the whales, and the contagion of AIDS. At one time in his life, these angry children were his audience. They were the ones who came to see Summer, 1921 five or six times, professing to find in it their own indictment of the modern world, expressed at last in film. And they were not wrong. They had made him rich and famous, and he certainly looked the part, with his Borsalino, his canvas jacket and his game leg, his weary blue eyes and his half-smile. Wasn’t image the signature of the modern world? And what would they say if they knew?

  He said, Take care.

  The police car had moved slowly up the street and paused. The officer did not open the door. Dix saw the flare of a match, and smoke spill from the window. The officer casually draped his arm out the window and watched.

  Fokker, the boy said.

  Fokker yourself, Dix said and walked away.

  He was late. Munn Café was located down the alley some blocks from Checkpoint Charlie and its gimcrack museum. He was not familiar with the district, but the remains of Gestapo headquarters seemed not to be in the vicinity. The alley was filthy with broken bottles and discarded newspapers; a derelict rummaged through an ashcan scattering refuse around him. The faded sign over the narrow steel door read Munn Café in Gothic script. When Dix opened the door and pushed aside the weather curtain he found a cavernous room with marble-topped bistro tables and a long hardwood bar at the far end, the room weakly lit by globes overhead and wan winter sun from the windows.

  All the tables were occupied, the waiters sweating as they delivered steaming plates of wurst and schnitzel and tall glasses of beer. The walls were dressed with framed graphics of the German expressionists, the glass in the frames so dusty that the subjects were difficult to identify precisely, but they all seemed to concern wa
r, pestilence, disease, famine, and predatory young women. The posters were years old. The room was so large it seemed to absorb conversation, so that the ambiance had the disconsolate quality of a waiting room in a country railway station, a hollow echo of garbled speech and grunts of laughter. Munn’s looked as if it were centuries old—centuries of schnitzel and beer, centuries of black tobacco, centuries of whispered confidences and failed conspiracies—but the date over the door read 1945. From the look of things, the decades since had been hard on Munn Café. The long bar itself was deserted except for two old men and an obese bartender who looked as if she had come with the Cold War. Dix stepped closer and saw that behind the bar were photographs of patrons—from their demeanor he guessed they were officials or entertainers, and two were American army officers, posed with a pretty blond woman in a party dress and necklace. The woman was smiling beautifully, and then, when the obese bartender laughed gaily at something one of the old men said, he knew that she was the pretty woman in the photograph, indisputably Frau Munn herself.

  Then Willa Baz was at his side, saying they were worried about him, concerned that he had gotten lost or met with some urban misfortune. Berlin was in the business of transforming itself, all the old landmarks disappearing. Berlin was a labyrinth for those who did not know it well. Perhaps her directions were misunderstood.

  I was detained, Dix said. An unavoidable discussion.

  Well, she said. You are here now. Take off your coat.

  As you can see, Munn’s is popular.

  See that one over there? Willa pointed to a woman in black and whispered her name.

  Musician, she said. The man with her is her manager. He did something in the Honecker regime. Ministry of Justice, Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I forget which. But he was an important functionary in the GDR. He also writes novels of the police type.

  She plays beautifully the violin. She played for von Karajan when she was only a schoolgirl. Now she goes everywhere, Vienna, Munich, even New York.

  Willa introduced him to Frau Munn, whose smile transformed the discouraged surroundings. When Willa asked if she would show them her scrapbook, she said of course, after lunch, always a pleasure, in a feathery lisp that fluttered like the flame of a candle. In an instant Munn Café went from smoke to mirrors, suddenly glamorous and vivacious, crowded with American army officers, Maestro von Karajan, cabaret entertainers, and the musician in black. Dix said he hoped very much that Frau Munn would return with her photograph album, and she said she would.

  He and Willa went around the bar to the small back room, more brightly lit than the front. Karen Hupp and Anya Ryan were waiting at a round table near the window. When they were settled, a slender, strikingly handsome Vietnamese came to take orders. Karen and Anya were drinking beer, Willa wine. Dix ordered beer and everyone chose schnitzel. The Vietnamese pretended not to understand Dix, and when Willa said something to him the Vietnamese said something back and for a moment they glared at each other, the Vietnamese theatrically tapping his pencil on the tabletop. At last he muttered a short comment and went away, gliding across the floor like a dancer.

  What did he say? Dix said.

  He doesn’t like Americans, Willa said. He doesn’t like the sound of your language, so he pretends not to understand it. He prefers French, altogether more musical. I think he means subtle. He thinks we Germans should have a quota for Americans. Only so many allowed in.

  The Vietnamese are an angry people, Karen said.

  No kidding, Dix said.

  They feel they are misunderstood, Karen said. So they are indignant.

  The Vietnamese returned with the beer and the glass of wine. He slapped the glasses hard on the table, spilling a little from each glass.

  Careful, Dix said sharply.

  The Vietnamese smiled unpleasantly and went away.

  Not so many Americans come here, Willa said. Munn’s is not on the tourist route. As you can see, we all know each other here.

  Karen went on about the Vietnamese, a talented nationality only now emerging from the shadow of their criminal colonial past. One had an obligation to be sympathetic. Colonialists bore the mark of Cain and the French were the worst, worse even than the Germans. The Germans were only imitating the French and the appalling English, trying to export the German enlightenment to the unfortunate dark races of Africa. The Belgians and the Dutch were very bad. The Portuguese were stinkers. The Spanish were terrible. The Italians were never very good at colonialism, being a dreamy, operatic people. They were no better at colonialism than they were at warfare. Also, they were lazy. The Russians were compromised in other ways, their realm so large, eleven time zones after all, and Slavs were always unpredictable, so ostentatious in their suffering. The Americans imitated the English in their Indochinese adventures, opposing the Russians as the English had opposed the French. This was the consequence of ignorance, paranoia, and male hysteria. Karen went on in that vein a little, adding the degraded experience of the Pacific peoples generally, the Tamils, the noble Tibetans, the Malay, and the unlucky Khmer. There were indignant former colonials in the Middle East and North Africa, and South America as well. These resentments would not be overcome in our lifetime on earth. The need for reparations was obvious, but would never be satisfied. Live with it, she concluded.

  What are you working on now, Dix? Willa asked politely.

  Dix was still beset by Portuguese, Tamils, North Africans, Italians, and the unlucky Khmer, but he managed to reply, Nothing.

  Willa nodded, taking a swallow of wine.

  Dix is always working, Anya murmured. No matter what he says.

  The Americans are not as bad as the Belgians or the Dutch, except for Indochina and Haiti, Karen said.

  I’m enjoying myself in Germany, Dix said. I enjoyed myself the other night on your set. Something will turn up.

  A German story?

  Perhaps a German story, Dix said.

  Americans have the superiority complex, Karen threw in.

  That’s a very pretty scarf you’re wearing, Anya said.

  It’s an ordinary scarf, Karen said. The oaf Karl bought it for me at KaDeWe, thinking it would change things. He wants me to be nicer to him on the set.

  Willa waved her hand, enough of Karl and the set. Your first film, she began.

  That’s many years ago, Dix said.

  It had an audience—

  Yes, but the audience went away.

  The American audience?

  The American audience most of all, Dix said.

  Summer, 1921 did well in Germany, Willa said. I remember seeing it in Leipzig. The authorities decided that it had a useful message, fascists and their decadent art, the corruption of young girls. Decadent art, decadent artists, virtuous girls. So they permitted a week’s run at a small house near the university. Of course the sexy minutes were cut. The girls were seen with their clothes on, so the story was prudent.

  Prudish, Dix said.

  Yes, prudish. The movie sold out each night and that worried them, so after a week they closed it down.

  I’m afraid it didn’t do well in Germany, Dix said. Germans don’t like Americans telling them about themselves. It’s the same with the French and the English, but they don’t worry about it because Hollywood doesn’t care about them. So much to do so close to home, you see.

  And the Americans as well, Willa said.

  Americans don’t care, Dix said. It would be better if they did.

  Willa took another long swallow of wine, gazing now into the middle distance. The tables around them were clearing and the room had become quiet.

  And that’s what you’re doing at Mommsen House?

  One of the things, Dix said. Thinking of the vanished audience.

  In the silence that followed, Anya cleared her throat. She said, Dix has talked about traveling to the East.

  Yes, Willa said. A good idea.

  I would introduce you to my father, Karen said. My father is retired now but he knows our country very
well. It, too, has been misunderstood. No one wishes us well. The Wessies hope that one day we will disappear, poof! We will vanish like your audience. She moved her hands in a gesture that seemed to include all the eastern provinces from Pomerania to Saxony, and Greenwood had a sudden vision of the population disappearing into swamps, the dark forest fastness, ravines, and hidden places beneath the earth’s surface. She said, My father would be happy to give you a tour. I know it.

  You should do this, Dix, Anya said.

  I am from the East also, Willa put in. I grew up in old Prussia, in a small town near the Oder. Later, I worked in Dresden for the radio. I was the news announcer at noon and hourly until eight in the evening. I read the news for fifteen years, and when the Wall came down the station was purchased by others, a group from Hamburg. It had been a government station and then one day it was private, as if someone had purchased a state highway or an army battalion. They bought it for next to nothing, and I was out of a job at once, although I had always been faithful. No one ever complained about my work. There were no demerits in my file. I never missed a broadcast!

  The Vietnamese waiter was now between them, balancing his tray with one hand while he passed the plates of schnitzel with the other. The tray listed alarmingly, then righted itself. He served Anya and Karen smoothly but paused before selecting Willa’s plate. He gave Willa the large portion, Greenwood the small, handling the heavy plates as though they were feathers, setting them down delicately at each place. They landed without a sound, and then Greenwood noticed Frau Munn at the door, watching each move without expression. He imagined her as a character from one of the German legends, standing in the door of her cottage, trolls peeking from behind her skirts.

  Willa thanked the Vietnamese, who made a little exaggerated bow before he danced away, pointedly ignoring Frau Munn. A complicated relationship, Greenwood thought, a Vietnamese émigré and a German who had survived the war. The Vietnamese was old enough to have survived his war also. In both cases, the Americans rolled the dice. He guessed that Frau Munn was some years older than he, the Vietnamese much younger.