The Weather in Berlin

by Ward Just

  You’re a natural, he said.

  It’s hard for me to believe that about myself.

  You knew it then, he said.

  Of course. But I didn’t know anything else.

  I may direct a film here, Dix said.

  Jana looked at him with a slow smile, then out across the water. Lights were visible in the villas along the shore. She said slyly, Would I have to take my clothes off?

  Only if you wanted to, he said. The part doesn’t call for it. But I could write it in.

  No, thanks, she said.

  It’s a baroness, he said.

  She began to giggle, her hands over her mouth.

  A baroness with a past, he went on. A baroness whose husband has just died. A baroness who must now take charge of things.

  When she looked at him sideways, he said, Do you know Wannsee 1899?

  No. What’s that?

  It’s the most popular television program in Germany, an ensemble cast. It has to do with German life at the turn of the century.

  I have no television set, she said.

  I’ll give you one.

  I have no desire for a television set.

  You wouldn’t have to watch it. It could just—be there.

  That is foolish, she said.

  Dusk fell like a curtain. He began to describe the episode, the hunt, the death of the old baron, the funeral, the graveside service, the family conference later. As he talked he focused on the baroness. The baroness led the narrative but she was not the philosopher’s baroness but Dixon Greenwood’s baroness, a woman with her own history, her own secrets, one who was interested neither in revenge nor in riches, but who desired only safety.

  Might you be interested in that?

  I might be, Jana said.

  The pay would be good, Dix said. So long as you don’t disappear.

  I won’t disappear, she said.

  Did you receive anything for Summer, 1921?

  The allowance you gave us. That was all.

  I’ll look up the books, he said. I’ll see that you get what’s coming to you.

  What happened to it, my money?

  It’s called producer’s net, Dix said. It disappeared.

  18

  THEY HAD LISTENED to a German management consultant describe the transformation of the economy in the 1950s, the economic miracle of Herr Erhard. The phenomenal success of German industry had made possible the remarkable political stability of the nation. Certainly there were problems then, and problems remained. The central bank had not always used its power wisely, and perhaps Herr Kohl had stayed beyond his time. But if you can imagine the condition of the nation at the end of the war, then surely “miracle” was not too strong a word. And now the East was at risk. Despite the billions poured—and here he used a German word that had a double meaning, the second being “flushed”—into the East, the situation there continued grave. The Wall’s fall had unforeseen consequences. In short, the government needed time.

  Everyone had benefited from the collapse of the Soviet Union. Perhaps it was time for those beneficiaries to aid in the reconstruction of our East, so that the burden might be shared.

  When the management consultant left, Henry Belknap and Dix stayed behind in the drawing room for coffee. Henry said the new-minted East German capitalists reminded him of medieval Christians. They confused devotion with sorcery. The medievals knew nothing of the teachings of Christ. They could not read, so the Bible was a mystery. The Mass was incomprehensible. So they relied on superstitions, incantations, magic wands, exotic potions, dances around a totem pole, or the various nights of the living dead. They relied on priests, whose words they only dimly understood—but the priests could read, so the Bible became a kind of amulet.

  That’s where they are, Henry said.

  Somewhere between Transylvania and the economics department of Harvard, Dix said.

  On the whole, I think they prefer Transylvania.

  Dix heard a noise and when he turned he saw Anya Ryan in the doorway with an older man in a beret. She said, I want you to meet my father, Otto Farber. They both wore overcoats and Anya’s father carried a satchel. He removed his beret at once. Henry fetched them coffee while Anya explained that her father had arrived unexpectedly from Rugen. They had dined at Munn Café and—would it be all right for my father to stay the night?

  Henry said, Of course. The guest room was vacant.

  Dix went to the sideboard to pour cognacs. Herr Farber was not at all what he imagined. He was not much taller than Anya and very slight. His black hair was plastered to his scalp and he seemed the opposite of brusque. His manner was shy, almost apologetic. He looked around the drawing room as if he had never seen such a place, the bookshelves floor to ceiling and a television set the size of the fireplace next to it. Anya helped her father with his overcoat and when he looked at her gratefully, Dix reflected that every parent was seen one way by their children and another way by the world and these ways did not intersect; and everyone was a product of his own time and place, described one way by those who had lived through it and quite differently by those who looked back on it.

  Henry played affable host, offering Herr Farber a cigar, describing the evening lecture, the roots of the German economic miracle and the consequences of it. Otto Farber listened attentively but did not comment.

  And how is the situation in Rugen, Herr Farber?

  Our weather is improving, he said.

  And here also, Henry agreed.

  It’s difficult. But we survive. I enjoy it because the island is lively in summer and tranquil in winter. And because my daughter is nearby.

  We are glad Anya is here, Henry said.

  We are all fond of Anya, Dix put in.

  And I, too. I am her father.

  I’m tired now, Anya said. I want to go to bed.

  This is a fine house, Herr Farber said.

  Do you like it? Henry asked.

  Papa, Anya said.

  Herr Farber quickly gathered up his coat and beret and thanked Henry and Dix for their hospitality. He and Anya stood at the door and at that moment Dix saw no resemblance between them. Herr Farber’s hair shined in the light and when he bent to lift his satchel he bore a fleeting resemblance to the little tramp, Charlie Chaplin in person; and then he and his daughter were gone.

  He didn’t say if he liked the house, Henry said.

  Anya and her father do not get along, Dix said.

  Is that so? I didn’t notice.

  I’m sure he liked the house, Henry.

  I didn’t like the way he said “fine.” When he said “fine,” he meant something else. He meant ostentatious, and this is just a villa like any other.

  They sat a moment, finishing their coffee and cognac. Something moved in Dix’s memory but he could not capture it. Henry was complaining about a lunch he had been asked to give for sponsors of Mommsen House, more time away from his translation, the guests an American industrialist, the head of one of the Frankfurt insurance companies, some supremo from steel, and a Hamburg shipper, and if you’d join us it would help me out—

  Henry, Dix said. Remember Hamburg, 1956? Our weekend with the banker? His wife dead, his children dead, no one to leave his bank to? He called us nice American boys and said that if we belonged to him, we could have his bank. What was his name?

  I can’t remember, Henry said.

  I can’t either, Dix said. We liked him. He was a gentleman.

  I had a letter of introduction, Henry said.

  Was he Jewish?

  Henry thought a moment but did not reply.

  I’m asking this. Did his family die in the camps or at the front?

  I have no idea, Henry said.

  Anything in the house give you a clue? Anything he said?

  Nothing he said. I didn’t think about it.

  I didn’t either, Dix said.

  Henry said, I assumed he had fought in the war or otherwise supported the effort. Maybe a Nazi, maybe not. But there were man
y Jewish banks in Hamburg. Expropriated by the government. Some of them survived the war and I assume their owners returned, those who were still alive, living in America or England. So we have no way of knowing. He’s surely dead by now, and as he told us, he was the last of the line. Why are you asking?

  Something my father said, Dix said vaguely.

  Strange we never thought about it, Henry said.

  Harry did. The first question he asked.

  The Holocaust was a subterranean subject in 1956. Not on our minds.

  It was on Harry’s, apparently.

  Shall I try to find out? The family provenance.

  Yes, do, Dix said.

  So will you come to lunch with my supremos?

  I’m out of town next week, Dix said.

  Well, Henry said quietly, some other time, then. He had drunk too much wine at dinner, causing his words to thicken. He explained that he was months behind in his translation of Babel’s Red Cavalry stories. Such wonderfully succinct stories, each word in them had the weight and aspiration of a cathedral. His would be an entirely fresh translation, with an introduction as well. But instead he was lunching with industrialists, something Babel would have appreciated, God knows, once the laughter stopped. Henry went on in that vein for a while but Dix had ceased to listen. He was thinking about the Hamburg banker, his formal manners and precise diction, and his confusion when he’d opened the door to his past, not wide enough to see inside, just enough to know it was crowded. The banker and Jana were two sides of a coin. Summer, 1921 had been her last film because she had no desire to play someone’s life; and so she had disappeared, gone on the run, lived anonymously, true to her word. That was the faith she had in film, that the characters were real and that when you played them you became them. But what if she were offered her own life, a Sorb’s story at the end of the last century, when borders had meaning, and that when you strayed beyond them something was forfeit. He reckoned Jana’s age as in the vicinity of forty-five, about the age of the baroness. So the climactic episode of Wannsee 1899 would be seen through the baroness’s eyes. Jana’s eyes, if she’d allow him to borrow them.

  Dix looked up at something Henry said.

  Do you miss Los Angeles? I think you do.

  Not now, Dix said.

  When Dix returned to his apartment, the answering machine’s red light was blinking. He poured a nightcap and listened to Claire.

  Where are you now? she began. How is it that we miss each other every time? You always told me you were the sort of man who could ignore a ringing telephone if what you were doing was more interesting. I’ve seen you do it a hundred times, and when I complained that someone may be in distress, one of the children or a dear friend, you always said, Perhaps, but it’s never happened, has it?

  After a long pause, she went on: I have no idea what the time difference is, hours and hours I suppose, and I have no idea whether you’re ahead or behind. The International Date Line has always been a mystery to me and to you, too. You’re a mystery to me, Dix, living as you are on the other side of the world. I have no idea what your life is like, what you do and who you see, how you spend your days. Whatever you do with them, I suppose there’s always a drink at the end. Maybe two.

  Just so you know. I always thought of you as a man of honor.

  So here’s the news.

  Howard’s been in touch with Los Angeles but he won’t tell them where we are. Everything’s gone to the lawyers, Howard’s lawyer and the studio’s lawyers. Fuck them, Howard says. Until he has a satisfactory piece of paper we’re staying out of sight. I don’t know what he’s doing, really. I’m only along for the ride. I have nothing better to do. I’m confused because of the time changes and the hours I’ve spent looking at the blue Pacific. All this distance and I haven’t seen a single boat, just hours and hours of blue water. The weather was so clear west of Hawaii. But still I couldn’t find a boat.

  Dix heard a scratch and imagined her lighting a cigarette, perhaps blowing a fat smoke ring. Her voice was controlled, and she was using her actor’s tempo. He recognized the voice as her own but it was different, too, as if she were continuing a conversation begun with someone else. She was silent again and he noticed that the electrical hum was gone. She might have been next door.

  So I suppose you want to know where we are.

  We put in at Guam, refueled, and flew to Hong Kong. Lou Kniffe met us in Hong Kong. He came in from Brunei. Where’s Brunei? What mischief is there in Brunei? I always worry when Knife’s in range, Knife and his people, his starlets, his plans that are always a little over the top. But there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s his airplane.

  I know you liked him.

  And he liked you.

  So we’re in Mandalay, she said. And the dawn didn’t come up like thunder this morning because it’s pissing down rain, the southwest monsoon. Knife has business with the generals who run things here. Not movie business but other business, dirty business, I’m thinking, so we have an army escort wherever we go, courtesy of the generals. Don’t laugh, they’re very helpful, scattering cyclos on the road and pushing peasants out of the way whenever we want to stop to look at a stupa. There’s us in the van, and an army jeep in front and another behind, armed to the teeth. They look hardly older than boys but they surely do understand crowd control. You probably didn’t know that Knife has apprenticed himself to a monk, Burmese by birth. He met the monk at a retreat in Malibu and they’ve become inseparable, studying texts. Knife is taking instruction in Buddhism so the monk is with us at all times, explaining things. He has a beautiful shaved head and the smallest feet I’ve ever seen, and beautifully manicured nails. Hands, too. Wee fists. His skin glows and he wears a saffron-colored robe, silk from the feel of it.

  Maybe he got it at Saks.

  Or Armani, she amended, giving a gruff little laugh.

  Knife is gaining merit, she went on. Not earning merit, gaining merit. This is important. He explained it at breakfast this morning—only rice and cold tea for him and the monk, bacon and eggs for the rest of us, and a bloody mary to get through the day. Knife’s planning for his next life, and while you’d think he’d want to come back as Spielberg or Clinton, he doesn’t at all. It’s a white elephant he has in mind, because that’s the afterlife of choice for the Buddhist elect. It’s a kind of sacred elephant. The monk confirmed it. So in order to enhance your possibilities for the next life it’s necessary to gain merit in this life, and that’s where the white owl comes in.

  So many different Buddhas, she went on after a moment’s pause. And so much to aspire to, charity, compassion, sympathy, balance—those four and others besides. The Buddha that Knife seems most attracted to is the one with the smile on his face, fat as a sow, jowls the size and shape of wine bags. He’s the representation of “enoughness,” contentment with things as they are. And why not? This Buddha has eaten and drunk everything within reach, enjoying himself as only Buddha can, hence the smile. This fine Buddha stands in for Fat Lou himself, Lou with the two Jaguars, the houses in Beverly Hills and London, the dishy girlfriends, the vintage champagne arriving from Madame Taittinger herself, the trophy carp in the oval pond, the pit bull in the cage, the matched Purdeys, the converted DC-10, just about everything a boy could want—except, conceivably, charity, compassion, sympathy, and balance. And those, too, within reach.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  I was telling you about the white elephant. Or, rather, Knife was speaking of the white elephant and the merits one needed in this life in order to succeed in the next. So this morning we visited a pagoda in the countryside, the Irrawaddy in the distance, the fields and hillsides crowded with pagodas—white and gold pagodas glittering in the afternoon sun. God, it was hot. I thought I would faint.

  At the entrance to the pagoda, half a dozen women were tending their birds, the small birds in cages and the large ones tethered, leather leashes around their necks. A great white owl held pride of place. A beautiful creature, D
ix. Silky white feathers, huge yellow eyes, and a beak of the shiniest, blackest ebony. The birds were for sale. That is to say, they were for sale-and-release. Knife and the monk were in heavy confab, which bird to buy and for how much. Because at this pagoda, a visitor gained merit by buying a bird and releasing it at once—an act of charity and compassion, an act that set just the right note of humility before facing the judgment of Buddha himself. Obviously, a mogul the size of Lou Kniffe would be satisfied with nothing less than the owl. To purchase and release an owl of that nobility would be to gain much merit. The price was one hundred thousand kyats.

  You’ll be wondering how much that is in real money.

  It’s about twenty-five dollars.

  But the crone in charge of the owl has sized Lou up, she’s scrutinized the bench-made loafers and the alligator belt, the polo shirt the color of butter, and the Girard-Perregaux as thin as a dime. So the price has suddenly risen to two hundred thousand kyats, and it’s then that Knife begins to bargain, his wallet in his fist, stuffed with greenbacks. But now the monk takes him aside to have a word, and Knife’s face falls. Knife has never paid list for anything in his life. It’s not his nature to pay list. List is for chumps. Something always comes off the top for Knife or it’s no dice, no sale.

  An awful moment, Dix.

  The idea is to give the owl its freedom, and to do this as an act of charity and compassion, and thereby gain merit. How would it appear to the great Buddha if the aspirant bargained like a common merchant? Behaved as if he were in a bazaar buying a piece of cloth instead of at the threshold of a pagoda, moved by the sight of a leashed owl? So you could see Knife wrestling, a lifetime’s habit renounced—for the sake of an owl. For merit, and for the sake of the elusive white elephant. At last he turned his back on the crone—he could not bear for her to witness his defeat—and fished in his wallet for the fifty dollars, and handed it to the monk to give to the crone. He kept his eyes averted all this time, until finally the monk had the leash off and the owl in his hands. They carried the owl together to the parapet, the vast valley and the river beyond. You could see the monsoon coming from the south, a cloud so dark it seemed to smother the green fields and the huts and pagodas resting on them—and on their count, they released the bird, who seemed to stutter and flail, then spread his great wings and soared off into the valley, dipping once, then nestling into a giant fir; and was shortly lost to view, concealed in the fir’s thick branches. The sun was overtaken by cloud, a wind came up, and the downpour began. Knife leaned far out over the parapet, searching for his owl.