“Always closed?”
“Si, signore.”
“Who has the key?”
“Why, Sir?”
“Because Columbus was born here.”
“And who’s Columbus?”
The girl doesn’t wait for the answer but keeps on walking, swinging the milk jug, and disappears into a side alley.
A Genovese taxi driver who seems to drive foreigners every once in a while is better informed: “Columbus’s house is open during the summer. Two rooms with Columbus’s antique furniture.”
In the house across the street, which doesn’t seem much newer, there is an inn, with Pierrot costumes upstairs, one yellow, one black, the display of a company that rents out masks; a veterinarian has his practice next door, and a music school promises anyone a brand-new mandolin for free if they pay a monthly fee of twenty-five lire for half a year of lessons in advance.
Twenty buildings lean against one another, crooked and crumbling, derelict and deserted, full of holes, atria, and spiral staircases, and blind alleys all leading up to the Porta di St. Andrea, which was built around 1000. Relics of city walls adhere to it. Christopher Columbus is sure to have stood under it to play biglie, the game with colorful balls that boys played back in Babylon and is still played in Metropolis.
* * *
Over tea in Hotel Miramare a stocky, chubby-cheeked American man offers me Camel cigarettes. We fall into conversation, and after half an hour the man tells me:
“A stroke of luck brought me from San Remo to Genoa, a stroke of luck, I tell you. One should not reveal one’s business plans, but hmm, hmm … I trust you. Listen, I have discovered the house where Columbus was born here. And this discovery can bring in millions of dollars, hahaha. Do you know what I want to do? Form a consortium in America that buys up this house, haha, and takes it to New York by ship, that’s how it comes and goes, haha, then open it up to the public over there for a half-dollar entrance fee. A Columbus museum, understand? We will also go to the town hall and buy the three letters Columbus wrote that are housed in the municipale. And from a man in Philadelphia we’ll get the anchor of the sailor whose ship was the first to reach the New World. Too bad, a crying shame that the egg Columbus got to stand on its tip has long since rotted.”
Berliner Börsen Courier, April 3, 1927
The Art of Little Ruses
I don’t want to come right out and insist that, starting this very day, schools teach the art of lying, by which I mean using postures and facial expressions, gestures and inflections of the voice to convey the opposite of truth with sweeping powers of persuasion and achieve smashing success. I don’t mean to demand it explicitly in the framework of pushing the latest educational reform, for I, too, am ensnared in a curiously outdated set of ideas, and I appreciate and honor the so-called truth. But I can easily imagine that in two or three decades lies will be regarded as an indispensable and hence utterly unobjectionable implement in our daily lives, and their correct and appropriate use could be learned systematically by employing the scientific method.
The lie as mandatory school subject, accessible to everyone and anyone, a matter entailing assiduous effort and tireless aspiration, would no longer be the privilege of the few who have a natural predisposition in this arena: that, I think, would be the consummate moral and social justification of this hitherto maligned resource on a strictly democratic basis.
This would seem to provide a path for the art of modern education, which, for some mysterious reason, has always been overlooked. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you what an irresponsible waste of life, what a scholastic peculiarity it is, that in light of today’s challenges, the schools—even the most progressive ones—still fail to include a Practical Life Skills subject in the curriculum? That everyone who in their earliest childhood has already mastered the square root of two, Mariotte and Gay-Lussac’s law, and the years of Saint Gregory the Great’s papacy has to employ his own mental powers, in his fortieth year of life, to figure out what tools, dialectical methods, minor judgments, and ruses he needs to argue with his wife, or something of that sort, and it takes him countless attempts to get there?—You, young friend and author of an important sociological treatise, approach an influential patron. You enter his study, feeling sure of your significance, the lofty worth of your pursuit, the excellence of your achievement. But lo and behold! Your posturing is reduced to a low level of groveling, your rapid breathing robs your voice of the proper intonation and the requisite chest resonance. Your gestures are feeble and unconvincing. In short, you’re simply not in a position to present yourself, to breathe life credibly into your presentation, you’re fascinated and riveted by the superb sweeping motion with which your impressive destiny reaches for the needed mouthpiece, and in the ensuing pause, you lose your train of thought to analytical ideas about the nature of this greatness instead of keeping your own machinery in order. Nervousness? No, friend! Ignorance! Obliviousness! You simply ought to have learned it.—Where?—That’s the problem.…
Isn’t it really deeply shameful, even downright inexplicable, that in the era of scientific approaches to advertising, of experimental and psychological job testing, and all other Americanizing achievements in seamless life management, each individual is still forced to learn firsthand, over time, what could have been conveyed in a single year of systematic instruction in matters of tones of voice, catchphrases, arm movements, and facial gestures? And there he stands, bloated with life experience, as these ludicrous yet indispensable trifles are grandiosely labeled, with the sort of callousness of a boss who has no intention of sparing a trainee from any obstacles or the slightest failure. This approach to life is truly medieval, wallowing as it does in cumbersome dark insinuations, ominous prophesies, and pompous admonitions, instead of coming out and creating a school for things of this sort, teaching young people the art of swindling in an exciting and lively manner. What a gain in time! What a gain in vitality! And how simple the setup of this new discipline; all it would entail would be a study of physiognomy, human typology, plus a little instruction in conflicts, drama, and vocal exercises.—“Today we are coming to the subject of indignation” will—we hope—be what a teacher says in class in the not-too-distant future. “In the last class, we learned how to accept ingratiating praise, and we’re now moving on to indignation and the three practical forms it can take. Lederer, give us a short summary of what we’ve learned!”—And Lederer, in his seventeenth year of life, will step forward, and with the most magnificent ease, smoothly and unhesitatingly, present the eight or ten words and gestures that we, now forty years old, can barely stammer out without focusing every fiber of our being each time we have to do it. “Very good, Lederer,” the teacher will say, “just make your voice a little deeper. Make the movement of your hand toward the floor somewhat more pronounced, and slow down the whole thing by two seconds.” And one will progress to the three kinds of indignation, greeting techniques, disdainful posturing, and communicating with the authorities and eventually bring the final phase of the course to a successful conclusion with the difficult but vital topic of self-promotion.
Berliner Börsen Courier, May 1, 1927
Naphthalene
It started on Tuesday. The landlady, a retired circus rider, with astounding bowlegs and a silver brooch with a horse head, whip, and horseshoe arranged in a most delightful way, came into my room and walked past me wordlessly. I’m saying “wordlessly,” because I am not willing to interpret as words the French mumbling that got caught in the bits of her graying mustache and of which I understood only the word printemps.
In a flash she had opened the double window. I wanted to register strong protest. But the draft coming in from the courtyard lifted my unpaid bill for April from the desk, then it fluttered for a while between the still life with tomatoes and the dusty floor lamp, until it fell right next to the calendar, just where the zero of the date was. (It was May 10.) So I didn’t say anything. I just stuck my index finger, which was blue from
the cold, into my mouth and put my letter to Olive into an envelope, placed the April bill as a bookmark into the Jack London, took my hat from the hook, and left.
The hallway carried a distinct smell of oil. The landlady, her cousin, and the maid were standing in front of a huge open suitcase. With growing enthusiasm they were cramming whole piles of carpets, old clothing, and stuffed animals into the suitcase. The landlady herself commanded every movement, in her right hand she held a bag out of which she dumped some sort of white powder over the whole chose, the way confectioners’ sugar is poured over pancakes. I came closer and saw the women embalming my coat. At the same time it occurred to me that this obnoxious confectioners’ sugar bore the name naphthalene. Let them do so, I thought, and went to the café.
On Wednesday at 11:30 on the dot I sneezed three times. At Aschinger’s I left over half of my bockwurst and got my next-to-last handkerchief from home. I took my umbrella along, too. At Wittenbergplatz I thought I heard hail pounding on the pavement. And my coat took on the smell of naphthalene, far away, in the suitcase and on the floor.
Thursday. Hans brought me a thermometer: 103.2, not bad at all. I gargle with saltwater, they wrap their cousin’s wool stocking around my neck. The maid has been washing handkerchiefs since breakfast. My hot eyes see only the three Ice Saints, Mamertus, Pancras, and Servatius, juggling mothballs right next to my bed. Through the door in the hallway a stupid smell of oil seems to be penetrating once again. I think they’re unpacking.
Berliner Börsen Courier, May 13, 1927
Anything but Objectivity!
To the linguist interested in human communication, the little word “but” appears in an interesting light. From the outset—and everyone will readily agree with me on this—its function is to coyly introduce hitches into the smooth course of things and to kill off the hope created by the words “I would love to …” with candied poison. But then—and here I’ll want to step into more intellectual territory—the word “but” is the reprehensible vehicle of an unhealthy objectivity, especially when it comes to judging people. How often have even I replied to the remark by a friend that one person or another was a pretentious schmuck by declaring, “But he studied philosophy with Georg Simmel” and thus flung myself into the arms of an objectivity that unnecessarily complicates the world in a manner that bedevils life, plunges the mind into dilemmas, kills the impulse to act, and on top of that has the appalling effect of surrounding us, anywhere and everywhere, with interesting people.
The few true connoisseurs of the art of living among you know the sensual pleasure of calling someone an ass or cretin, plain and simple, without being constrained later to remark on how splendidly he plays the piano and thus undermine what you’ve said; of pronouncing an awkward person simply unbearable without needing to declare afterward that she is basically a shy soul with terrible inhibitions. Anything but objectivity! It unsettles your heart, makes your character fickle and ambivalent, and anyone who uses it excessively sooner or later descends into severe neurosis, as if an emotion had been jammed into you.
The public, our blessed public, doesn’t have this objectivity and is in excellent health. It knows how to invoke forceful words full of vivid imagery, fierce statements toward disagreeable individuals, apodictic judgments that by their very nature don’t allow for any ensuing “buts.” Even the most objective person couldn’t come up with a way to tone down a statement like calling someone a “monumental jackass,” making it seem as though the person thus characterized nonetheless has a good grasp of the subtlest stylistic nuances. Statements of this kind coming from straightforward, forthright individuals have the unassailable nature of mathematical axioms—a priori ideas are just there, not amenable to any explanation, any refutation, like mountains made of glass.
Actions like taking a dainty bow or turning the toes outward when walking gracefully, like harmful objectivity, stem from the world of courtly life, which provided the model for urban culture over the course of centuries. Objectivity was the virtue of a good monarch, was the benevolent ruler’s compassion for the weaknesses and strengths of his subjects, was the onset, the primordial cell of a democratic form of government that grants even the minority the right to throw in a word as they please, and that later, at around the close of the nineteenth century, reached its heyday with the catchwords “On one hand, on the other hand!” and “But still …!”
It seems only natural that in accordance with the march of history, so-called democracy always makes a point of contrasting itself with dictatorship, which leads to a change in the arena of personal objectivity; in short, that the fretful dithering when pronouncing judgment about this one or that one ultimately puts a stop to people cheerfully, heartily, and vigorously granting absolute validity to their judgments, as in a dictatorship, and returning to the method of nature, to an unspoiled, healthy populace from which all power emanates, and calling a nitwit a nitwit with a clear conscience even if he really does write the very loveliest couplets. Ruthless dictatorship of judgment is what I am pushing for. You should no longer be mentally constrained to acknowledge the undeniable virtues of a friend whose very approach from a distance turns your stomach. Think of your health! Back to the good, irrefutable, utterly fresh swear words our people so richly have at their command. Out with the word that’s on the tip of your tongue. Anything but objectivity!
Berliner Börsen Courier, May 20, 1927
When It’s Eighty-four Degrees
The thermometer has hit eighty-four degrees. Not because anyone has been holding a match under the mercury bulb, but in an altogether natural way, as some long-awaited high or low pressure system has invaded us. Yesterday people were boasting that even the most extreme desert temperatures would be a pleasure compared to this cold, damp, unsettled weather. Now they have the pleasure. So much for that. Ice water on your head, ice water into your stomach. A bit of a headache and stomachache. Where do you hole up on this uselessly free afternoon? An attack of tropical madness. Let’s go all out. People head off to the five o’clock tea dance.
And—this is no mirage, but the reality of Berlin—others who’ve been driven mad by the heat are already here. Easily a few dozen, male and female. Sitting in front of their iced sodas feeling boiling hot. They let the summer come at them and valiantly do their duty. The saxophone attacks the opening jazz number. Everyone’s in place to dance the Black Bottom. When it’s eighty-four degrees. With admirable energy, though not exactly setting speed records, the couples shimmy their way through the long oval. Subdued applause. The second round. Every now and then a leg refuses to engage in this activity, which is properly performed in the winter. The smarter dancers are glued to their spots, with just a hint of swinging. Today there are none of the usual handshakes from the lady, only a parting smile. She slings a silk scarf over her forehead, takes a swig from the yellow straw; the next dance.
At the window the oppressive heat grows unbearable. And by God, the dancers seem to feel better. Perhaps it is not at all that preposterous to drive out the devil’s heat with the Black Bottom. They jump in, eyes closed.
“The man at the drums slipped up on his instrument.” The woman with the bright-green silk scarf, whom I’ve asked to dance and is now fluttering marvelously in front of me, ignores my cultivated sense of hearing. Her withering glance tells me that one doesn’t dishonor the Black Bottom by speaking. Of course. But, needing to come out with something again, I add to my words of wisdom: “Every dilettante has a go at the drum. It actually takes some training. I myself …” Then an unexpected burst of light startles me. Embarrassing mistake. That wasn’t a blunder on the part of the drummer, but instead a gently rising rumble of thunder—here comes another flash of lightning—a real thunderstorm. My Little Miss Silk also realizes what’s going on, to her horror, suddenly flutters closer, turns downright approachable. The bluish-black sky appears menacing through the windows. The blazing light bulbs do nothing to offset the looming threat. The thunder keeps getting more fearsome,
the bolts of lightning eerier. The band competes heroically with the sounds of nature, but it can’t stop the Black Bottom from degenerating into a frantic slide.
I lead my crumpled Little Miss Silk to her seat. She stares at the storm in silence. In order not to disturb her with loud parting words, I occupy the chair next to her. Endless minutes of nothing but thunder and lightning. I place my unsightly pocket watch on the table and examine the second hand. “Sound travels at the speed of 1,125 feet per second. The storm can’t be far off.” All of a sudden, Little Miss Silk’s face contorts with fear but still bears the look of a sweet young girl. “By the way, my Fräulein, we are on the second floor, that is, on the top floor of this building.” Don’t look, don’t move, I order myself. “Since this building hasn’t been around for long, it may not have a lightning rod yet.”
Enough. The last clap of thunder isn’t even needed. With a final scream she jumps up, tries to cling to my arm. I throw my rain poncho over her and convey Elli to safety, as a savior deserving of her gratitude, in a nearby bar on the ground floor.
Please, please, another storm tomorrow.
Berliner Börsen Courier, June 1, 1927
Day of Destiny
Under today’s date, across the page, the space reserved for comments in my pocket calendar says: Day of destiny. Underlined twice. An unusual choice of vocabulary for a notepad. Apart from that, the entire page has only names and numbers. Yesterday there were reminders to pay my bills, and for Pentecost, a list of train connections and hotels. And then this solemn note. And yet this is undeniably my own entry; even the double emphasis was in my handwriting. I start to recall.
Billy Wilder on Assignment Page 5
