The Capital

by Robert Menasse

  She did some more research. Had there been jubilees in the past? Yes. Awkward, half-hearted celebrations with lofty speeches, acknowledgements of predecessors, a little incense for the precursors of the E.U., fifty years of the Treaties of Rome, sixty years of the European Steel and Coal Community – but who would have been interested in that? Nobody. And what line did they imagine they would spin when trying to convince E.U. sceptics and opponents about how marvellous the foundation of the European Steel and Coal Community had been? Like congratulating a grandfather suffering from dementia on the time when he still had all his marbles, while his underwhelmed grandchildren had long since been doing everything very differently.

  On the glass table by the group of chairs Grace Atkinson spotted an open bottle of champagne. There was still a little left, so she helped herself. She was in high spirits by the time she sent an e-mail to a few departments from which she fancied she might get some support and interest in her plan. Before she could begin the formal procedure she first of all needed to win over some allies. A big birthday party to mark the upcoming fiftieth anniversary of the foundation of the European Commission, she wrote, seemed to her to be an opportunity to put the work and achievements of this institution in the public spotlight, strengthen its corporate identity, improve its image, afford it a wholehearted celebration and thus sally forth from their defensive position.

  She deleted the word “wholehearted” then put it back again, nodding; that was, after all, what it was all about. She rubbed her hands and then went the whole hog. In the subject line she wrote, “Big Jubilee Project – no more whining”.

  It had been Mrs Atkinson’s idea. Fenia Xenopoulou was the first to react – and swiftly appropriated the project. It belonged in the Culture ministry, Fenia thought, no question. It was the opportunity she’d been waiting for to give herself visibility. And she made Martin Susman her Sherpa – he would shoulder the burden of the project.

  In the beginning Grace Atkinson was pleased to have found such an enthusiastic ally so swifly. And in the end she was delighted, because the emphatic commitment to this project by the ill-fated Culture ministry meant everyone forgot that it was she who had dreamed up this ultimately disastrous idea in the first place.

  I’m waiting for suggestions, Fenia Xenopoulou had said, her voice tinged with agitation, it’s incredibly important and I know that you . . . She looked around the room and uttered, far too stridently, a few sentences with big and theatrical adjectives. She probably regarded this as encouraging, this corporal discourse to the troops, and Martin had lowered his eyes to avoid her gaze, which is why he now saw a headless Fenia, only the skin-tight top, the close-fitting skirt, the legs in opaque tights, and he thought: This woman’s wearing a corset, a suit of armour that’s holding her together. The skirt was of the finest cloth, but to Martin it looked as if it would shatter if you struck it. You couldn’t take it off, you had to smash it and . . .

  So, what are we going to do?

  Once again Bohumil was sarcastically counterproductive. Let’s start by asking, he said, what we’re not going to do. We must absolutely avoid everything that’s been done for previous jubilees: sheer embarrassment mitigated by the general exclusion of the public. Glossy brochures for the recycling bins. Sunday sermons on workdays.

  Martin?

  He hadn’t seen Fenia’s reaction to Bohumil’s statement, he was staring at her feet, at the little bulges at the openings of her too-tight shoes.

  What Martin really wanted to say was: I’m not interested in the project. But he decided to agree with everyone else to avoid going out on a limb.

  In view of the importance of this matter, he said in Fenia’s direction, it was clear – and now towards Bohumil – that the mistakes of the past must not be repeated. Bohumil was right when recalling that . . . but Fenia was absolutely right too, of course, in expecting that . . . What had been the mistakes of previous jubilees? There had been no other ideas save that of celebrating a jubilee because an anniversary had come around. But the anni–versary was not an idea in itself. It was all well and good to say that an institution had been around for so and so many years, but what is the idea? What idea do you put at the heart of it? It must be convincing, people must be so fired up that they really want to celebrate this occasion.

  And thus Martin Susman fell into the trap. After a brief discussion Fenia Xenopoulou said, That’s enough, evidently the only person who’s given this subject any thought is Martin. What he said is perfectly logical. Having a key idea is essential. She assigned Martin the task of developing the idea and drafting a paper on it. How much time did he reckon it would take?

  Two months? It needed proper thinking through and discussion with colleagues from other directorates-general.

  One week, Fenia said.

  Impossible. He was on a trip next week, which needed preparing for too and . . .

  Alright then, two weeks, a few bullet points, surely you can manage that! And we won’t start discussing it with colleagues until we’ve presented the paper. Understood? We will present it!

  Martin Susman was exasperated and furious when he rode home at around six o’clock, having dealt with the day’s business. Halfway there it began to rain. His poncho was in his pannier, but he’d left his pannier in the office. He arrived home soaking and freezing, and immediately took a shower. But the water wasn’t particularly hot, and the shower curtain, clung cold to his back as if magnetised. He swatted it away angrily, ripping half of it from the pole. First thing tomorrow he had to get this stupid curtain replaced by a shower door, but he knew that this was just another of those ideas he would never put into action. He slipped on his dressing gown, fetched a bottle of Jupiler from the fridge and sat in the armchair in front of the open fireplace. He needed to calm down, breathe in and breathe out, relax. He stared at the books in the fireplace.

  When Martin Susman first moved in here he couldn’t believe his eyes. The fireplace had never been used since central heating had been installed in the apartment. His landlord had fixed two planks across it and put books on them. Which presumably he thought was nice and homely. Later Martin had seen the same thing in other period apartments of friends and acquaintances in Brussels: books in disused fireplaces.

  In Martin’s fireplace were a selection of Brussels guidebooks, tatty editions no doubt left behind by previous tenants; a few volumes of an encyclopaedia from 1914; three atlases, one from 1910, one from 1943 and the third from 1955; and a good dozen volumes from the 1960s series “Classics of World Literature”, published by the Flemish Book Club – “Each volume contains four classic works, abridged for a contemporary readership.” When Martin was leafing through the books one evening he was shocked – no, that is too strong a word – he was unpleasantly moved. Was this supposed to be progress? Not burning books any more, but merely putting them, “abridged for a contemporary readership”, into a cold hearth?

  Now he was staring at the spines of these books, drinking his beer and smoking a few cigarettes. The paper for the Jubilee Project – that was an imposition. As if he were a copywriter trying to sell the E.U. Commission product! He glanced over at his desk, on top of which still sat the plate with the encrusted mustard. What is the idea behind mustard? We put it on the side. Brilliant. A persuasive television ad: gorgeous young people laughing as they blissfully squeeze mustard onto plates and gleefully sing: Bursting with pride, we put it on the side! They’re wetting themselves with delight, and the coils of mustard on their plates spiral upwards, they begin to dance rhythmically as if to the pipe of a snake-charmer: Bursting with pride, we put it on the side! That was . . . he pulled himself together, got dressed and set off for the Marriott, opting for the classic “long”, which offered protection for two people in the rain.

  It had stopped raining. The wet tarmac, the façades of buildings and the passers-by shimmered in the light of the streetlamps and the neon of the chip stand, as if a Flemish master had just applied the varnish to this scene. By now Mart
in had experienced this evening atmosphere that followed a rainy day in Brussels so often that it gave him a kind of homely feeling. Yes, he was at home here. He bought cigarettes from the Indian man in the 24-hour shop on the corner of rue Sainte-Catherine. After he paid the Indian always said, “Dank u wel,” if Martin spoke French, and “Merci, monsieur” if Martin had asked for his cigarettes in Flemish. You could read something into that, but perhaps there wasn’t anything to it, perhaps it was what it was, eventually becoming another of those details that merely added to Martin’s impression of being at home here, between many worlds.

  Although the wind was not strong, it was cold. Martin walked rapidly and so arrived far too early at the Marriott, but his brother was already waiting in the lobby wearing a stern and self-righteous expression that said, Having always followed God’s commandments, surely I can expect that . . .

  Martin knew this face only too well. Whenever he met his brother he saw his father in him.

  They greeted each other with a hug that turned out more awkwardly than usual because Florian was clutching a briefcase.

  Shall we get a taxi?

  No. I’ve booked a table at Belga Queen. It’s a five-minute walk.

  They set off in silence. Eventually Martin asked:

  How’s Renate?

  Fine.

  And the children?

  Studious, thank God.

  Martin wasn’t ashamed of his background. But he didn’t know whether it bothered him more that he had become so estranged from it, or that even though he’d become so estranged from it, it kept catching up with him. His father had died eighteen years ago on November 2, All Souls’ Day. Far too prematurely and so horribly tragically. When Martin lived in Austria he had to endure the trauma of every November 2. When he read the paper, watched T.V. or even left the house, the reminder came days prior to November 2: All Souls’ is coming, the day of father’s death. And of course he had to go home, there was no excuse, because it was a national holiday, a day of morbid remembrance for everyone. In Brussels, November 2 was not a holiday. Here you were able to suppress your own private story, or might be able to, but when his brother turned up it instantly became All Souls’ Day. Their father had got caught in the machine. People kept saying he’d got caught in the machine. As if they’d had only one machine. It was the granulator. However it might have happened, his arm got caught in the grinder, the machine absolutely devoured him and he bled to death. He screamed like a pig. That was the phrase: He screamed like a pig. Later there were people who claimed to have heard it. But why hadn’t anyone come running to help? Because on the farm, the screaming of pigs was perfectly natural, normal, routine. With around twelve hundred pigs and slaughters daily, you didn’t single out one scream. That’s what Felber, the head slaughterman, said. “Single out,” he said. So how does anyone know that he screamed like a pig? He must have screamed – everyone said that. He must have screamed like mad. But only briefly. You lose consciousness very quickly. That’s how it must have been. It happens so quickly. Of course the pigs get wind that something’s up when they . . . but before you know it they’ve been stunned. And the machine’s already eating them. Their father had been such an industrious man that he made use of idle moments to crush any animal waste that was lying around. At the time the business had already grown enormously, but logistically it wasn’t as well organised as now. Their mother went to call the doctor, but of course she was out of her senses and rang Dr Lamm, the vet. It was all too late anyway. A few days later, sixteen-year-old Martin giggled as he told his schoolfriends that his mother had called Dr Lamm, and when nobody laughed he repeated it: Lamm, for the pig farmer. Then he was silent for days before eventually confessing to the priest so he could receive absolution for having made a joke about his father’s death.

  His brother, older by four years, then took over the running of the farm, the crown prince, it had all been agreed and planned anyway, though not for so soon, while he, Martin, the second born, the “fool”, the clumsy one (“No surprise, seeing how all he does is read!”) was allowed to go off and study. This had always been clear too: he could study what he wanted, and “what he wanted” meant that the family didn’t care what he did so long as he didn’t make any demands and didn’t become a burden. Archaeology.

  When the Susman brothers entered the Belga Queen restaurant, Florian walked slowly into the middle of the room, ignoring the waiter who stood in his way, and called out, Hey! What is this? A cathedral?

  Martin told the waiter they had booked a table in the name of Dr Susman, and said to Florian, No, it used to be a bank. The most beautiful art deco. We’ll eat here in what used to be the banking hall, then we’ll go downstairs into the basement, the vault, which is now a smoking lounge.

  Martin was compensated when Florian took complete ownership of the farm and his mother retired. He was paid off with a sum of money which was put in trust until he came of age, and which he had never questioned or talked about. This money had enabled him to study in comfort and then, without feeling under any pressure, look around to see what sort of career he might like to follow. Considering the value of the farm, it can’t have been an equitable arrangement, but Martin didn’t mind; it had been enough to open up opportunities, and he’d been able to take advantage of these. But now it was being made out that the family had allowed Martin to study and procured him some kind of superjob in the European Commission, so that he could exploit this role to lobby on behalf of his brother’s commercial interests. And so Martin always worried when Florian got in touch and said he wanted to meet him in Brussels. Even during their father’s lifetime the farm had been a handsome operation, but Florian had turned it into the largest pig-production business in Austria, indeed one of the largest in Europe. He had long stopped calling it a “farm”, as his father had done; it was a “concern”, and Florian thought there was nothing more absurd than E.U. policy with regard to pig production and trade. In his opinion there must be incompetents or madmen at work, being bribed, blackmailed or ideologically blinded by the animal-protection mafia and the vegetarian lobby. There was no point discussing this with him, he meant it in all seriousness, he could see how it was going, he knew how it worked. He had his experiences. He began to get involved politically, gaining senior positions in lobbying groups, which was why he kept coming to Brussels for negotiations. Recently he’d been elected president of “The European Pig Producers”, a network of the continent’s leading pig farmers. In this role and also as federal guild master of the Austrian pig farmers’ association, Florian had held a number of meetings that day with members of the European Parliament and officials from the Commission.

  Look at that! Florian said when he studied the menu. Pork goulash in cherry beer. Interesting. If it tastes any good, I’ll get the recipe and put it on our website.

  Martin ordered moules-frites. And a bottle of wine. Then he said, How was your day? It was a silly question, and he had made no effort to sound particularly interested. He knew he was triggering an avalanche, but that’s why they were here and Martin wanted to get it over with.

  How was my day? What do you think? I’ve been dealing with cretins. That’s how my day was! They don’t understand a thing. They’re not able to change their policies, but today they’re demanding from me a change of name!

  A change of name? Why should you change your name?

  Not me. Let me explain. First you need to know this: obviously every pig producer wants access to the Chinese market. China is the leading global importer of pork. The demand from China is massive – that’s the growth market.

  That’s good, isn’t it?

  Yes, it would be. But the E.U. isn’t capable of negotiating an appropriate trade agreement with China. The Chinese don’t deal with the E.U., but only with each country individually. And each country believes it can conclude a fantastic bilateral deal on its own, outdoing the others, and making a greater profit. But in reality China is just playing everyone off against everyone else. Wha
t’s more, no single country can produce the numbers we’re talking about. Not in years. Let me give you an example. Recently at the association, I got a call asking how many pigs’ ears Austria can deliver.

  Pigs’ ears?

  Yes, pigs’ ears. It was someone from the Chinese ministry of trade. I say, We slaughter around five million pigs a year in Austria, so that makes ten million ears. Too few, he says, then hangs up after a polite goodbye. Do you get me? If China needs – let’s say – one hundred million pigs’ ears and there were an E.U. treaty with China, then we could supply 10 per cent of the amount. But what’s the situation? Austria doesn’t yet have a bilateral treaty with China, there’s no common treaty of E.U. states being negotiated, and I can throw away my pigs’ ears – in Austria they’re slaughterhouse waste. But in China they’re a delicacy, there’s an insane demand for them, and yet we just chuck them away, or we’re happy if a cat food factory comes along to collect them for free.