The Capital

by Robert Menasse

  Do you understand?

  No, Brunfaut said, I do not. Does this mean that we won’t investigate any longer, or I won’t investigate any longer, or nobody will investigate any longer?

  This was the third time in the past five years that he had been summoned to a crime scene and stood beside a body that no longer existed the following day. Are these the compelling reasons? That Brussels is the city of the Day of Judgment? Of the resurrection of the dead? Had the dead man’s soul been reunited with his body, and where there was no body there was no case? Had this been confirmed by Forensics?

  Well, Maigret said, I understand . . .

  Brunfaut shot this fool an angry look. His ridiculous spiky hair. Twisted into shape with gel. As if the tight knot of his tie was making it stand on end.

  I understand that you, well, that you don’t understand, but . . .

  The matter is quite simple, de Rohan chimed in, perfectly straightforward. We are going to have nothing more to do with this case, not you, not us, not anybody here. And what I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential. You never heard it, O.K.? Right then. There is one institution powerful enough to take a case like this away from us, that can make it disappear and resolve it in its own way. And the reason why this institution is so powerful is that in reality, and here I mean officially, it doesn’t exist. It’s intangible, you see? It snaffles cases like this one, but as an entity it is intangible. There are interests, which . . .

  Interests, Brunfaut said.

  Precisely. We understand each other.

  The public prosecutor looked in silence from one man to the other, then nodded.

  This will remain between us, Brunfaut said, and the public prosecutor nodded once more. Yes, Brunfaut said, this will remain between us, just like in a T.V. crime series.

  I’m sorry?

  An order from the very top, Brunfaut said, a political intervention to obstruct the investigation, mysterious intimations, otherwise silence. It’s such a dreadful cliché, but of course the cliché has to be followed to its conclusion: by an inspector who feels compelled to strike out on his own . . .

  Surely you don’t intend . . .

  And who ends up as the hero . . .

  You are not going to do anything off your own bat, the state prosecutor said. That is an order. And I’ve just learned that your request for leave has been granted.

  But I didn’t put in any request for leave!

  Well, this is a little misunderstanding, Maigret said. What I said was that Inspector Brunfaut still has quite a lot of holiday to take.

  Brunfaut felt sharp pangs of anxiety and took a deep breath.

  That’s perfect, de Rohan said, you can use up your holiday allowance and spend some time relaxing. I know you’ve been under a huge amount of stress and . . .

  The public prosecutor got to his feet, Maigret and de Rohan leaped out of their chairs, while Brunfaut stood up slowly, this two-metre-tall man who towered over everyone else in the room. He felt a twinge in his chest and fell back into his chair. Looking down at him the public prosecutor said, Gentlemen!

  Émile Brunfaut went to his office and realised that the “Atlas” file containing the operation report, the initial interrogation records, the crime-scene photographs and the autopsy findings had disappeared from his desk. He had, however, saved everything on his computer. He entered his password, but the folder in question had vanished from the desktop of his monitor too. He opened the recycle bin: the folder was nowhere to be seen amongst all his deleted files. The activity log, everything relating to this case – the notification to go to Hotel Atlas, which patrol cars were at the crime scene, which officers were on duty, the first forensics report – everything was gone. The entire case had vanished into thin air.

  He wheezed, pressed his stomach downwards to relieve his lungs, took a deep breath, and undid his belt and the top button of his trousers. He stared at the screen. For how long? A minute? Ten minutes? He realised that he wasn’t looking at the monitor anymore, but at himself. How would he react? He didn’t know. He saw himself sitting there like a corpse slumped in a chair. Then his fingers were tapping away at the keyboard and he Googled: What did the press report about the murder in Hotel Atlas? Nothing. No matter how he phrased it, there was nothing, no result. There hadn’t been a single report in any paper. The murder never happened.

  He looked up and noticed only now that his flipchart had been expurgated too. The sheet of paper on which at the last meeting he’d written HOTEL ATLAS → PIG????? had been ripped off.

  Brunfaut had a strange thought: was this the moment at which he finally had to become the grandson?

  The grandson of the famous resistance fighter.

  He picked up the telephone and summoned his team. He was gung-ho, he could sense it.

  The sergeant, the deputy inspector and three constables came in, Inspector Brunfaut switched off the computer, looked up, gazed into these men’s faces and he knew at once: these men were abreast of the situation and had already come to terms with it. It was hopeless. He stood up and told them he just wanted to say goodbye, because he was . . . his trousers were falling down, so he grabbed them and yanked them up . . . because he was taking some holiday and . . . not wishing to do himself up in front of the men, he shouted, Get out, the lot of you!

  Now these dutiful conformists and opportunists would have a good gossip about what a ridiculous figure their inspector cut. Misty-eyed, he went over to the flipchart, took a marker and wrote: La Loi, la Liberté! Then, recalling an inscription he’d seen on a grave in the cemetery that afternoon, he wrote in block capitals:

  TOUT PASSE

  TOUT S’EFFACE

  HORS DU SOUVENIR

  He picked up his briefcase, which was empty, and left.

  The algorithm that filters everything imaginable and which has ordered our story until now is, of course, mad, but more importantly it is reassuring. The world is confetti, but the algorithm allows us to experience it as a mosaic.

  Was it because of Brunfaut’s visit to the crematorium that the following connection was now made?

  New mail: “Subject: Auschwitz – Your visit”.

  Martin Susman was freezing. Because of the rain, he’d taken the Metro rather than cycle to work. The subterranean wind in the shafts and tunnels was different, harsher and more aggressive than the airflow on a bike. And the steaming heat from the herds in the jammed carriages brought no relief; he felt anxious about infectious diseases, but most of all he was worried about becoming infected by the apathy and submission that always seizes people on trains.

  Dear Herr Susman, I look forward very much to pleasure of welcoming you soon in Auschwitz!

  He’d got a mug of tea from the canteen and was now checking e-mails at his desk.

  Naturally, I pick you up from Kraków Airport and drive you personally to the camp. You recognise me by sign I hold with your name on it.

  Susman put his tea down in disgust. He had chosen tea because he felt he was coming down with something, but it was making him ill just drinking it.

  His official trip. Essentially all the preparations had been made. The Research Service and the Museum of the German Extermination Camp Auschwitz–Birkenau were subsidised by the E.U.; each year representatives from the E.U. Commission attended the ceremony on 27 January to celebrate the camp’s liberation. This year the Directorate-General of Culture was sending Martin Susman, who was also responsible for administering the funding and monitoring how it was put to use.

  And if you would permit me to offer good advice for your trip, bring warm underwear. Bitter cold is Auschwitz at this time of year. We would on no account wish you to become ill in Auschwitz!

  On my last visit to Berlin I bought underwear in department store, the best underwear I have ever had. I do not know name of brand, but please go to shop and ask for German underwear! I always say German underwear because I bought it in Berlin and is definitely made in Germany. Will be known in Brussels. German underwear! I a
dvise you to buy. German underwear is best underwear for Auschwitz!

  Martin Susman clicked “Reply”, wrote three friendly sentences, opened the next e-mail, got up, left his office and popped in to see Bohumil Szmekal, who was hurriedly typing something. Susman held up a packet of cigarettes, Szmekal nodded, and they went out onto the fire escape for a smoke.

  Mrzne jak v ruským filmu, Bohumil said. Martin didn’t understand, of course, but he agreed with him: Yes, we need German underwear!

  David de Vriend left the cemetery. He was freezing. He shrugged it off, he had experienced harsher cold than this, and without the sort of coat he was wearing now. He decided to go to Le Rustique, the restaurant across the road, for a bite to eat and something warming to drink, a glass of red wine, perhaps. He found a seat by the window to the left. The waitress brought him the menu and asked, Are you from the Maison Hanssens, the old people’s home? You’ll have to show me your coupons before I draw up your bill.

  Coupons?

  For the discount!

  No, no, de Vriend said – he didn’t know anything about coupons, or at least Madame Joséphine hadn’t mentioned it – I’m normal, I mean, I’m a normal guest.

  Alright then, she said, handing him the menu. He ordered a glass of red wine, yes the house red, and asked, What would you recommend to eat? I just want something small.

  Well, we’ve got the normal things, she said, tapping the menu, and then we have our daily Anti-Crise menu.

  Anti-Crise menu?

  Yes. Something hearty to begin with, followed by something very sweet. It’s terribly popular here. Today we’ve got choucroute à l’Ancienne, then mousse au chocolat. Eighteen euros without coupons. And if you want the duo de fondue to start with, cheeses and prawns, that’ll be twenty-five euros.

  He looked at this cheerful woman and wondered what it did to a person, dealing every day with mourners, not the dead, but those who’d been left behind.

  Alright, then, the Anti-Crise menu, but without the fondue.

  And without coupons. D’accord!

  As de Vriend waited he stared out of the window at the cemetery. Only now, from a distance and from this aspect, did it occur to him that the cemetery gates bore a certain resemblance to the gates at Birkenau.

  His red wine came.

  A wrought-iron gate always has similarities with a wrought-iron gate. And the towers on either side? What else should there be either side of a wrought-iron gate? Like the people in the camp – they were people, what else could they be? And yet it was crazy to think there were similarities. There weren’t. That’s all.

  Four

  If we could travel into the future

  we’d have more detachment.

  IT WAS MARTIN Susman’s intention to survive his official trip to Poland with as little damage to his body and soul as possible. He could never have imagined that this visit would give him the idea for – nay, obsession with – the “Big Jubilee Project” and end up almost turning his life upside down.

  But for now his preparations for the trip were causing him trouble.

  He was taken aback when the sales assistant immediately interrupted his stammering. Bien sûr, of course she knew about German underwear, she trotted out a few brand names and naturally they stocked this – she smiled – quality German product.

  Martin had asked Kassándra Mercouri if she knew of a specialist shop for underwear and she’d suggested he go to Ixelles, to the Galerie Toison d’Or, where there was a shop with a huge selection, the shop was called Tollé, no, it was called Fronde, yes, definitely Fronde. At any rate there was a large sign saying “Underwear” above the entrance, and he would recognise the shop at once from its display. They had everything. She herself bought all her underwear there.

  When Martin found the shop, “Fronde Dessous”, and peered at the display, he suddenly saw the maternal Kassándra with different eyes. This was where she bought her underwear? He can’t have expressed himself with sufficient clarity, he thought, this must be a misunderstanding. He was gazing at beautiful, well, underwear – top-quality, really attractive dessous, but for him? And . . . for Auschwitz?

  Looking around he spied an “Adventure Shop” opposite, where you could buy everything you needed to climb Mount Everest. Perhaps he ought to look there for his frost protection gear. Had those words really come to mind? Frost protection gear? The whole thing was so ridiculous. He couldn’t decide which was the greater challenge: going to see the tanned, adventure-seeking machos across the road, or . . . no, Kassándra had recommended the Fronde shop to him and so he went in on the spur of the moment.

  As Martin tried to explain to the sales assistant what he wanted, he felt like a seventeen-year-old from the provinces, attempting to speak to a girl at his first disco in the big city. When he said, “I mean, there’s a special warm underwear, from a German manufacturer I think, I don’t know if you understand what I’m getting at, anyway, it’s particularly warm,” he closed his eyes as if terrified that this woman would read in them that in his imagination he was picturing her in the very dessous that the mannequins were wearing in the window.

  Bien sûr! Behind her was a cupboard full of drawers, of the sort he recognised from pharmacies. She opened one drawer, slid it back in, opened another and took out a few cellophane packages that she spread out on the counter before him. Did you mean this sort of thing? she said. Vest, long johns, tights, and these are arm warmers. One hundred per cent angora. And look here: it says, “German Quality”. I tell you, these things are hotter than hell.

  She laughed. Or let’s say hotter than a sauna! Are you going abroad?

  Yes, he said, to . . . Poland.

  Oh. I don’t know Poland myself. But I can imagine you might need this there, I mean, it’s practically Siberia. She laughed, tore open a packet, unfolded a pair of long johns in front of him, stroked the material and said: Go on! Touch them! Can you feel how soft and warm they are? They’re made from the fur of that rabbit, angora, you see? But from Germany, which means there’s no animal cruelty – guaranteed. And look here, the certificate. These long johns already comply with the new E.U. guidelines for underwear.

  What?

  Yes, Monsieur. I was surprised too. We had the rep in recently, he explained it to us. It’s to do with the flammability of the underwear, it’s all regulated now.

  You mean – Martin gave a fake laugh – the underwear is so hot that it’s in danger of igniting?

  The girl smiled. No, but the point is it mustn’t be flammable. I don’t know why. And angora is actually, well it is rabbit fur. Which of course is extremely flammable. But not any more. Now it has to be impregnated. The E.U., you understand? Maybe because it’s mainly smokers who buy this underwear, they always have to stand outside in the cold. And now there’s this E.U. guideline to prevent smokers from setting fire to themselves! She laughed. Or in bed.

  In bed?

  Yes, when smokers go to bed with a cigarette and fall asleep.

  Then it’s the bed that burns.

  Yes, but not this underwear. It’s regulated now! Look at this: “Underwear flammability corresponds to E.U. guidelines . . .”

  I don’t believe it, Mademoiselle.

  Nor do I, she said.

  The first thing that Kai-Uwe Frigge did that Monday morning was to skim the “Valise Voyage à Doha” list that his secretary, Madeleine, had placed on his desk for him to sign. This was something Frigge had instituted: every Monday Madeleine gave him a list detailing his dress code for each day, from Tuesday to the following Monday, corresponding to his various appointments and engagements. Usually Frigge would sign the list, which Madeleine would then e-mail to Dubravka, his housekeeper. Then early every morning Dubravka would lay out his clothes as per the list, or pack them into a suitcase if he was travelling.

  This routine was common knowledge in the office and there were some who laughed about it or made sarcastic comments, but it did no harm to Frigge’s reputation. On the contrary, his quirky proc
edure showed that he was a hard-core pragmatist down to the finest detail, who possessed the talent of being able to come up with original solutions to make him less sweaty when tagging along, and less wet when going with the flow. Within bureaucracies a reputation like that is comparable to the highest peerage.

  There is a telling anecdote from Frigge’s student days recounted by Frauke Diestel from the Directorate-General for Energy. She was a fellow student of Frigge’s at the University of Hamburg and was for a time in the same flat-share. One day, she said, Kai-Uwe gave away all his coloured and patterned shirts and bought ten identical white ones cheaply in a sale at the Shopping Center Hamburger Meile. His explanation for this had been that he would save himself time every morning by not having to deliberate over which shirt went with which jacket or jumper. No matter what he put on, a white shirt was always fine. Now in the mornings he could take the shirt from the top of the pile in the wardrobe without thinking about it, and when he wore the eighth shirt he knew it was time to take the dirty ones to the laundry, and then pick them up when he put on the tenth shirt, allowing him to start with the first one again the following day. Somehow it was madness, but there was a logic to it, Frauke said. He had been able to buy the white shirts cheaply because they were old-fashioned and unsellable, and you had to insert stiffeners into the collars. But he was delighted with his purchases, insisting that they themselves were a bit of culture. The sleeves were too long, but at the flea market he managed to find some old sleeve garters that he wore on his upper arms to adjust the sleeve length. For him, this too was “old culture”. He loved gentlemen’s accessories. At the time a number of American gangster and mafia films were released in which all the men wore these sleeve garters, so they became fashionable, and all of a sudden Kai-Uwe, with his oddly pragmatic approach to life and a total lack of interest in fads, had become a sort of trendsetter! Even if Kai-Uwe is misunderstood, Frauke said, it’s safe to assume that it only adds to his reputation.