Before leaving the company, which by this time was in festive mood, the Au. broke his neutrality for the first time by adding his mite to the Leni Fund.
Next morning around ten-thirty the Au. was informed by Scholsdorff of the success of the postponement, and the day after that he read the following report in a local newspaper under the headline: “MUST IT ALWAYS BE FOREIGNERS?”:
“Was it sabotage, coincidence, a repetition of the controversial ‘garbage happening,’ or was there some other explanation for the collision yesterday morning, just before seven, between a garbage truck with a Portuguese driver, which at that hour should have been operating two miles farther west on Bruckner Strasse, and a second garbage truck, this one with a Turkish driver, which should have been operating four miles farther east on Kreckmann Strasse? The collision occurred at the intersection of Oldenburg Strasse and Bitzerath Strasse. And how was it that a third garbage truck, this one with a German driver, ignoring the one-way-street sign, also entered Bitzerath Strasse, where it rammed into a lamppost? Business circles which enjoy a high reputation in our city and have rendered many services to our city have conveyed information to our editorial offices which permit the conclusion that this was a case of a deliberately planned action. For, mirabile dictu: the Turkish and Portuguese drivers both live in a house of ill repute in Bitzerath Strasse which, after consultations had taken place with the social-welfare department and the morality squad, was to have been evacuated yesterday. ‘Patrons’ of a certain lady said, to be a ‘practitioner of the supplied arts,’ managed by means of inordinately large ‘loans’ to prevent the evacuation which, as a result of the indescribable traffic chaos (see photo), was sabotaged. Perhaps a more thorough checkup should be made of the two foreign drivers, described by the embassies of their respective countries as politically unreliable elements. Have there not been numerous cases recently of foreigners operating as procurers? We repeat—as a ceterum censeo—must it always be foreigners? This manifestly scandalous affair is being further investigated. A hitherto unknown person who, on the threadbare pretext of being an ‘existentialist,’ infiltrated the above-named business circles and to whom certain information was imparted in good faith, is assumed to have master-minded the action. Preliminary estimates set the material damage at approximately six thousand marks. What the cost of the many hours of traffic chaos may have amounted to in terms of lost man-hours is almost beyond computation.”
The Au. flew, not from cowardice but from longing—no, not to Rome but to Frankfurt, whence he took a train to Würzburg, Klementina having been transferred there as a disciplinary measure after she too had come under suspicion of being indiscreet in her conversations with him on the subject of Rahel Ginzburg. She—Klementina—is no longer wavering, she has decided to lay aside her coif and allow her coppery hair to come into its own.
It might be as well to make a splendidly banal pronouncement here: that the Au., although trying, like a certain doctor, to drive along his tortuous paths “with an earthly vehicle, unearthly horses,” is also only human; that he does indeed hear in certain literary works the sigh “with Effi up there on the Baltic” and, with a clear conscience, there being no Effi around whom he might take to the Baltic, simply takes Klementina to—shall we say—Veitshöchheim, where he discusses existential matters with her; he resists making her “his” because she resists becoming “his”; she has a definite bridal complex for, having spent almost eighteen years as a bride of the Church, she has no wish to become a bride again; what are known as honorable intentions are in her eyes dishonorable; incidentally, her eyelashes prove to be longer and softer than they had at one moment appeared in Rome. For many years an early riser, she enjoys being able to sleep late, have breakfast in bed, go for walks, take an afternoon nap, and she delivers fairly lengthy discourses (which might also be called meditations or monologues) on the reasons for her fear of crossing north over the River Main in the company of the Au.
Her pre-Veitshöchheim life is never mentioned. “Suppose I were divorced or a widow—I’d tell you nothing about my marriage either.” Her real age is forty-one, her real name Carola, but she does not mind still being called Klementina. On closer acquaintance, after a number of conversations, it turns out she has been spoiled: she has never had to worry about rent, clothes, books, food—hence her fear of life; even the cost of a simple afternoon cup of coffee—possibly also in Schwetzingen or Nymphenburg—is a shock to her, each time the wallet is taken out she becomes alarmed. The continual telephoning that is necessary to the “country beyond the Main”—this is what she calls it—upsets her because she regards everything she hears about Leni as fictitious. Not Leni herself, whose existence has, after all, been documented in the Order’s dossier; although she has not been able to locate and read the famous essay on The Marquise of O_____ she has received written confirmation from Sister Prudentia of its form and content. Any mention of Rahel Ginzburg upsets her, and when asked by the Au. whether she would not like to go to Gerselen with him and pick some roses, she responded with a catlike pawing movement of her left hand; she doesn’t “want to know about any miracles.”
Perhaps it is permitted to point out that she—unconsciously—fails to appreciate the difference between faith and knowledge; there can be no doubt that Gerselen is likely to become a spa; the water there has a temperature of 100 to 102 degrees, which is regarded as ideal. Nor can there be any doubt that (as was ascertained over the telephone) Scholsdorff is deeply committed (acc. to Schirtenstein), that the newspaper quoted above is being sued to retract such expressions as “house of ill repute” and “practitioner of the supplied arts,” the only difficulty being to convince the court that the “courteous expression ‘practitioneer of the supplied arts” ’ is to be regarded as an insult; furthermore: Lotte is for the time being occupying Lev’s room, the two Turks, Tunç and Kiliç, are probably going to take over Lotte’s apartment (provided the building owner, who is said to be a “Levantinophobe,” agrees) because Leni and Mehmet have decided to set up housekeeping together, a temporary description, for Mehmet is married although, being a Muhammadan, he is permitted a second wife—in his own eyes if not in those of the law of his host country, unless Leni were to become a Muhammadan too, which is not altogether out of the question since the Koran also has a niche occupied by the Madonna.
In the meantime the shopping problem has also been solved, now that the oldest of the Portuguese children, eight-year-old Manuela, picks up the breakfast rolls. Helzen is “under temporarily gentle pressure” from his superiors (all this according to Schirtenstein). Leni has meanwhile faced the “Help Leni Committee,” she has blushed (probably for the fourth time in her life. Au.) “with joy and embarrassment” at the gynecologist’s confirmation that she is pregnant, and she now spends a great deal of time with doctors, having tests “from top to bottom and side to side” because she “wants to prepare a good home for the baby” (Leni’s own words according to Schirtenstein). The findings of the internist, the dentist, the orthopedist, and the urologist are a hundred percent negative; only the psychiatrist has a few reservations, he has noted some quite unfounded damage to her self-esteem and considerable damage arising from her environment, but regards all this as curable as soon as Lev is released from prison. When that happens she is to—“and this is to be taken as a prescribed medication” (the psychiatrist acc. to S.)—go for walks as often as possible, and quite openly, arm in arm with Mehmet Şahin and Lev. What the psychiatrist has not understood, any more than Schirtenstein has, is the nightmares in which Leni appears to be haunted by a harrow, a board, a draftsman, and an officer, even after falling asleep in Mehmet’s comforting arms. This he calls (an oversimplification and inaccurate at that, as the Au. would be able to prove) a “widow complex,” and is also attributed (equally inaccurately) to the circumstances in which Leni conceived and bore Lev. These bad dreams, as Klementina knows too, have nothing whatever to do with vaults, air raids, or embraces during such air raids.
&nb
sp; Gradually, by planning the journey in easy stages and by stopping over first in Mainz, then in Koblenz, and finally in Andernach, the Au. managed to lure Klementina north across the river into that “country beyond the Main.” Her encounters with people were as carefully thought out as those with the countryside: first Mrs. Hölthohne, because of her library, the cultured atmosphere and almost nunlike quality of her home; cultured people are also entitled to consideration. A successful meeting that Mrs. Hölthohne ended with a hoarse whisper “Congratulations” (on what? Au.). Next came B.H.T. who, with a fabulous onion soup, an excellent Italian salad, and grilled steak, made an outstanding impression and avidly drank in every single detail regarding Rahel Ginzburg, Gerselen, etc.; who, since he does not deign to read the papers, knew nothing of the scandal that must meanwhile have subsided, and who whispered as they left “You lucky fellow.” Grundtsch, Scholsdorff, and Schirtenstein were each a smashing success: the first because he was so “completely natural” but probably also because the seductive melancholy of old cemeteries never fails to have its effect; Scholsdorff because he happens to be an out-and-out charmer, who could resist him? He is so much more at ease now that he has discovered a real way of being of service to Leni; besides, as a philologist he is a colleague of Klementina’s, and over tea and macaroons the two of them quickly got into a passionate argument regarding a Russian/Soviet cultural epoch that K. spoke of as formalism, Scholsdorff as structuralism. Schirtenstein, on the other hand, did not do quite so well, he complained rather too much about the intrigues and Wagnerianism of certain pseudoyouthful composers, complained openly too, with a wistful look at K. and a still more wistful look out into the courtyard, that he had never tied himself to a woman and never tied a woman to himself; he cursed the piano and music, and in an attack of masochism went to the piano and hammered out “Lili Marleen” almost self-destructively, then apologized and with a dry sob asked to be “left alone with his suffering.”
Of what nature this suffering might be became clear during the indispensable visit to Pelzer, who meanwhile—in the space of the approximately five days in Veitshöchheim, Schwetzinger, and Nymphenburg—had become quite haggard; he was with his wife Eva, who with a weary but appealing melancholy served coffee and cake, made an occasional, usually resigned, remark, failed to look entirely genuine in her paint-daubed artist’s smock, and carried on an elegiac conversation—on such topics as Beuys, Artmann, the “meaningful meaninglessness of art,” quoting liberally from one of the more high-toned papers—then had to go back to her easel, “I just have to, please excuse me!” Pelzer’s appearance gave cause for concern. He looked at Klementina as if considering her as “a bird in the hand,” and when she disappeared for a while, for urgent and understandable reasons (between three and six o’clock she had drunk four cups of tea at Scholsdorff’s, three at Schirtenstein’s, and so far two cups of coffee at Pelzer’s), Pelzer whispered: “They thought at first it was diabetes, but my blood-sugar level is completely normal, so is everything else. It’s the truth, though you may laugh, that for the first time I’m conscious of having a soul and that this soul is suffering; for the first time I’m finding that not just any woman, only one woman, can cure me; I could wring that Turk’s neck—what can she see in that country bumpkin reeking of mutton and garlic, besides, he’s ten years younger than she is; he’s got a wife and four kids, and now he’s got her pregnant too—I—you’ve got to help me.”
The Au., who has developed a certain liking for Pelzer, pointed out that in such desperate situations the mediation of a third person always turns out to be a mistake, in fact even has the opposite effect, this was something the injured party had to cope with alone. “And yet,” thus Pelzer, “every day I fork out a dozen candles for the Madonna, I—just between us men—seek consolation with other women, I don’t find it, I drink, go to casinos—but rien ne va plus is all I can say. So there you have it.”
To say here that Pelzer made a pathetic impression is not to imply even a trace of irony, especially since he supplied a very apt comment on his condition himself: “I’ve never been in love in my life, I’ve always played around with bought women, yes, I’ve always gone to whores, and my wife, well, I was very fond of her, still am in fact, and I don’t want her to suffer as long as I live—but I was never in love with her, and Leni, well, I desired her from the first moment I saw her, and some damn foreigner is forever coming between us, I wasn’t in love with her, I’ve only been that since I saw her a week ago. I … I’m not to blame for her father’s death, I—I love her—I’ve never said that about a woman before.” Just then Klementina returned and made it clear, discreetly yet unmistakably, that it was time to leave. Her comment was rather disdainful, at any rate cool and quite matter-of-fact: “You can call it whatever you like, Pelzer’s disease or Schirtenstein’s disease.”
The expedition to Tolzem-Lyssemich provided an occasion to kill two birds with one stone: Klementina, who consistently calls herself a dedicated mountain-lover and a Bavarian and only reluctantly admits that congenial people live north of the Main too, could be introduced to the charms, indeed the fascination, of the flat country, such wide flat country, which would remind her enthusiastically; she admitted to never having seen such flat flat country, such wide flat country, which would remind her of Russia “if I didn’t know that here this only extends for two or three hundred miles whereas in Russia it’s in the thousands, but you must admit it reminds one of Russia.” She would not allow the qualification of “except for the fences,” in the same way that she rejected any lengthy meditations on fences, hedges, in fact all border markings, as too “literary,” any allusion to their Celtic origin as “too racial,” but eventually, albeit again reluctantly, she did admit that “it has a horizontal pull whereas where I come from it’s a vertical pull; here you always get the feeling you’re swimming, even in a car, and probably on a train too, and you’re afraid you’re never going to reach the other shore, or is there such a thing hereabouts as another shore?” A reminder of the visible elevations of the foothills and the first slopes of the Eifel drew from her merely a disdainful smile.
Marja van Doorn, on the other hand, was a total success. Pflaumenkuchen with whipped cream (Comment: “You people eat whipped cream with everything.”), coffee, freshly roasted and ground by M.v.D. (“the only proper way”) proved irresistible, “fabulous, the first real coffee I’ve ever tasted, now at last I know what coffee is,” etc., etc. And: “You people know how to live, I must say.” M.v.D. had her farewell comment to make too: “A bit late but not too late, and God bless you,” then in a whisper: “She’ll teach you how.” (Correction, blushing, also whispered:) “I mean, she’ll bring a bit of order into your life and so on.” Then tears: “A real old maid, that’s all I’ve ever been and all I’ll ever be.”
At the home, Bogakov was reported as “moved away” and, surprisingly, “with no forwarding address.” All he had left behind was a note saying: “Don’t have them look for me, thanks for now, I’ll get word to you,” but in four days this word had not come. Belenko thought Bogakov had started “whoring around again,” while Kitkin thought he had most likely been sent off somewhere as a “Red informer”; the kindly sister frankly admitted to missing Bogakov and told them casually that this happened almost every spring. “He simply has to take off then, all of a sudden, only it’s getting more and more difficult, you see, because he needs his injections. Let’s hope he’s warm enough.”
Although she had now heard of and about Leni from such many-angled perspectives, some forceful, some direct, some indirect (e.g., B.H.T., who had at least been able to confirm her existence), K. was now all agog to meet her “in the flesh, to touch her, smell her, see her.” The time was now ripe for this encounter with Leni, and it was with some trepidation that the Au. asked Hans Helzen to arrange it. It was agreed, since Leni was so “uptight” about it, to allow only Lotte, Mehmet, and “you’ll be surprised who” to be present at this encounter.
“Ever sinc
e the first few walks with Mehmet,” said Hans Helzen, “she’s been in such a state of tension that she can’t bear the presence of more than five people. That’s why neither my wife nor I will be there either. What upsets her especially is the presence of someone in love and the erotic anticipation or tension that goes with that, the kind that emanates from Pelzer and Schirtenstein and is even slightly noticeable in Scholsdorff.”
Since K. interpreted the Au.’s own tension as jealousy, he explained to her that while he did know all about Leni he knew almost nothing about her—K.; indeed, on the basis of much intensive and tedious research he was familiar with Leni’s most intimate spheres of intimacy, making him feel like a traitor or a conniver; but that while she—K.—was close to him, Leni, despite his affection for her, seemed like a stranger.
It is freely admitted that the Au. was glad of K.’s company, of her philological and sociological curiosity, for without her—for whom, when you came right down to it, he had Leni and Haruspica to thank—he would certainly have been in danger of succumbing to the incurable Schirtenstein or Pelzer disease.
Fortunately his agitation and anticipation were distracted by a surprise: who should be sitting there on the sofa, openly holding hands with a delightfully blushing Lotte Hoyser, so embarrassed that he was not smiling but grinning? None other than Bogakov! One thing was certain: the kindly sister at the home from which he had fled had no need to worry about him, he was warm enough! And lest there be anyone who doubts that Lotte is capable of radiating warmth, let him stand corrected.
And there sat the Turk too, surprisingly, almost disappointingly unoriental-looking; rustic, stiff, not embarrassed, wearing a dark-blue suit, starched shirt, unobtrusive (mid-brown) tie, there he sat, holding Leni’s hand in a pose that suggested he was sitting, about the year 1889, opposite the giant camera of a portrait photographer who had just pushed in the plate and asked them not to move, before he pressed the rubber ball that clicks the shutter. Leni—well, there was still much trepidation before the Au.’s eyes turned toward her and then fastened fully on her: it must not be forgotten that in the course of his tireless research the Au. had set eyes on her only twice, a mere fleeting glimpse on the street, from the side, never en face, had admired her proud walk, but now evasion was no longer possible, reality must be looked in the eye, and the simple understatement: it was worth it! must be permitted here. It was a good thing K. was present, otherwise jealousy of Mehmet might have been a distinct possibility; some vestige remained anyway, a slight pang of regret that it was in his arms and not the Au.’s that she dreamed of harrow, draftsman, and officer. She had cut her hair and tinted it slightly gray and could easily have passed for thirty-eight; her dark eyes were clear, not without sadness, and although she is known to be five foot six and a half she seemed more like six foot two, although at the same time her long legs prove that she is equally beautiful standing and sitting down.
Group Portrait With Lady Page 42
