The Capital

by Robert Menasse

  And Hidekuti could.

  A particularly driven individual in the Commission is throwing their weight around, Hidekuti explained. But I’ve already had a word with the president. For the time being we’ll wait and see. The matter is bound to throttle itself.

  Lars Ekelöf was not the sort of man to hang around watching something “throttle itself” – another excruciating choice of words from the chief of protocol. Ekelöf pursued the matter, the immediate consequence of which was that Mrs Atkinson was assailed with problems.

  Hidekuti smiled. Everything was going to plan.

  He who loves freedom and loves the truth forgets how to love, his grandfather had once said. Émile Brunfaut, a schoolboy at the time, had been shocked without understanding precisely why. He had thought long and hard about this phrase, just as he might about a puzzle that really bothered him, and this was no doubt why he had remembered it. Brunfaut could still see his grandfather before him when he uttered this phrase. He remembered his furrowed, sullen face, which the young Émile had completely misunderstood, believing it to be the expression of an intimidating self-righteousness and lack of empathy – if only he had known these words back then. His grandfather would have told him about his time in the resistance – what else? – and explained that mistrust, deep mistrust was a sort of life insurance, not a good one, but perhaps the only one. You could to some degree protect yourself and those dearest to you only if you shared as little as possible with them, not trusting even those you loved. Brave, wonderful men and women have been betrayed by friends, brothers, fathers and even by their own children: by people they loved. Love didn’t guarantee freedom, and it offered no protection.

  Only later, when his grandfather was long dead, did Brunfaut begin to understand the phrase. It was when he became a policeman. When he learned to become mistrustful in principle, not to believe anything he was told, to regard all appearance as disguise and initially to treat each rapid, honest explanation as an attempt at a cover-up. But he had sworn not to let this colour his private life; in no way would he allow it to encroach upon his relationships with the people he loved.

  Of course, you don’t think about a resolution like this every day of your life. But now Brunfaut did have cause to think about it, and he prided himself on how well he’d done: he loved those people closest to him with affection and without mistrust, he loved freedom without fear, and with an unwavering confidence he loved the truth, whether this truth be openness towards his loved ones, the results of police investigations and inquiries, or even – why not? – the objectives of the liberal press.

  At the same time, however, he had to admit – and this thought shocked and confounded him – that perhaps none of this was true any longer. Did he love? Really? Ought he not now to concede that he had loved?

  He couldn’t love unconditionally anymore. At a stroke he had forgotten how. Could that be true?

  The episode at the cemetery. It had rattled him. And it wasn’t the pig which had shocked him and left him in such disarray, no, it was rather the fact that afterwards he had wandered about with torn trousers, backache and lacerated hands for a good half hour and still hadn’t found Philippe, let alone his “friend” who, after all, had been the reason for their meeting there in the first place. Eventually he had sat down on a bench and called Philippe several times, but it went straight to voicemail. And then an old man had appeared, sat beside him and said, Are you talking to the dead too?

  The whole thing was horrific and Brunfaut fled the entire length of the avenue, running properly now, past his grandfather’s grave, panting all the way to the exit and his car. With a hellish stabbing in his side, as if a huge question mark were slicing like a sickle into the warp and weft of his soul, a pain that sat deeper than the cuts, a pain that he was able to put a name to only when he was back home and in the bath. What really hurt him was the sudden, profound mistrust, or to put it more accurately: the loss of trust.

  Even his professional mistrust as a policeman had been founded on a basic sense of trust: trust in the rule of law. Yes, there had often been political interventions – whenever people of influence were entangled in scandals, for example – but essentially that was childish; it might obstruct the wheels of justice, but not eliminate the law for good, and certainly not when it came to criminal offences such as murder. The cover-up in the Atlas case, however, had shaken his trust more than he cared to admit. The question now was how to deal with it. Like his grandfather? Or like Philippe? And this was what he found so painful: he no longer trusted Philippe. His best friend, the father of his goddaughter Joëlle. All of a sudden he saw him in a bad light. Everything he had told him was hazy, about N.A.T.O. and the Vatican, spine-chilling stories calculated to make him leave the case well alone, and, out of the blue, here he was with new information, the precise content of which was unknown, an informer would explain at the cemetery – but neither he nor the mysterious informer had turned up and now he couldn’t be contacted by phone either.

  Brunfaut nudged the plastic duck that bobbed on the water between his knees and wondered whether Philippe might have been given this as an assignment, first to convince him that any further inquiries were pointless and would only put him in danger, and then, using the informer story, to check whether he had left the case alone or was still nosily dabbling in it.

  The bath did him good. It didn’t relieve his pain, but it relaxed him. Now he sensed he was thinking clearly, but what he was thinking unnerved him. He made waves, the duck danced stoically on the water, knocked into his tummy, turned around and bobbed between his knees, he nudged it and it gave a little hop before rocking in the water again.

  Brunfaut had never liked the public prosecutor. He respected him, yes, but loathed him at the same time. A man who identified himself so blindly with the state that he confused the most powerful and influential individuals in the state with the state itself and thus – only in exceptional cases, of course, and for the benefit of the state – was even prepared to bend the law, which the state was supposed to uphold. But did Brunfaut have to love the man to understand him? No. Whenever he made an appearance it was clear that certain interests were at stake. And these interests were clear. Basically it was always truthful and this truth needed no bond of trust or love. Oh, Philippe! Brunfaut slapped the water. I trusted you. Have you betrayed me?

  As the water turned cold and Brunfaut wondered whether the whole thing might not just be an unfortunate coincidence and he had got the wrong end of the stick. Perhaps his suspicion was wrong and Philippe was still the loyal friend he could love and trust.

  But mistrust had taken root in his heart; it was there and he couldn’t simply opt to dismiss it.

  The duck had been a shampoo container: “No tears guaranteed”. As a child he had loved this duck and after it was empty had always held on to it, through every house move and every change in his circumstances. At the base of its tail was a screw cap where the shampoo had come out.

  With both his feet Brunfaut pushed the duck under the water. When he took his feet away the duck bounced back up, bobbed and swam.

  It couldn’t sink. It would always be on top. He could rely on that. Brunfaut unscrewed the cap, held the duck below the surface, now it began to fill with water. He laid his arms on the rim of the bath, spread his legs and watched the duck slowly go under.

  Once again Professor Erhart had arrived almost too late. As usual he took the Metro and got out at Schuman, but the Justus Lipsius exit was closed. So he took the Berlaymont exit, which meant he was not only on the wrong side of rue de la Loi, but also below the street in the strange hollow where the Berlaymont building stood. When he had walked around the boundary wall of the hollow and up to street level he realised it was impossible to cross rue de la Loi. Barriers had been erected along the pavement, behind which army vehicles were parked. Military police impatiently waved on the people coming up from the Metro. Keep going! Don’t stop!

  I’ve got to get over there, Erhart said. I ne
ed to —

  Keep going! Move along!

  He would have been better off going up to the rond-point Schuman to get to the Justus Lipsius side from there, but Erhart interpreted the policeman’s waving to mean that he should go in the other direction, which was exactly where he had got lost the last time. He strode along rapidly, his arms swinging, carrying in his right hand his old briefcase which at this hectic pace kept knocking against his kneecap or into the back of his knee. He had to go as far as Maelbeek before he was able to cross the road. The next time, he thought, he wouldn’t take the Metro as far as Schuman, but get out at Maelbeek station instead. If there ever was a next time. After the keynote speech he was scheduled to deliver in ten minutes. He ran all the way back to the construction site beside the Julius Lipsius building and looked for the passageway between the temporary metal fencing and plywood hoardings, the corridor to the Résidence Palace where the meeting was taking place. Everything had changed since the last time; only the chaos seemed unaltered. He turned to the left, then took a few steps to the right, but all he saw were wire railings, behind him the military vehicles, in front of him the barriers – he felt like a cornered animal. Panting, he pressed his briefcase to his chest, the briefcase with the lecture that at its heart was a speech about freedom. About liberation. At the very least a speech about self-liberation.

  Erhart was the last to arrive. He wasn’t in fact late, but the last one nonetheless. Now everyone’s here, Mr Pinto crowed. Would you like a cup of coffee before we begin? Some water? Yes, please, Erhart said. He looked around, nodded here, nodded there and his greetings were returned. How perfect they all were. Not even the tiniest particle of street dust on their shoes – did they all know another way in? Hadn’t they had to cross the building site? No crumpled trousers or jackets, not even the minutest patch of sweat on any shirt. How had they all got here? It was so sticky outside that you didn’t need to run around the barriers as he had; even walking slowly would bring on a sweat.

  Are you ready, Professor? Mr Pinto said.

  Professor Erhart was ready. Always. He had been prepared and on call all his life. Times may change, but all that really happens is that the loose bits flake off from what is timeless. He finished his coffee and nodded.

  The first time he was invited to a conference, as a very green university assistant, he had bought himself a new suit especially for the occasion. He had been permitted to give a paper at the European Forum in Alpbach, a mountain village in the Tyrolean Alps, where every year the elite of the business world, well-known academics from different disciplines and successful artists met to exchange ideas. His professor, Dr Schneider, had arranged this invitation to encourage Erhart, or at least to keep him interested, and he had already written a few articles which Schneider had then published under his own name. Erhart had felt honoured and flattered, and only later did he realise how the prospect of an honour such as this could beguile him into absurd submissiveness: it wasn’t to be a public lecture, but rather a short paper to a working group. All the same, he would be there in Alpbach and, if he was keen, would come into contact with eminent and influential people. He was anxious, therefore, to make the best impression. Hence the new suit, his first three-piece, and new shoes. He smeared leather grease onto the shoes he had never worn and polished them. And there he was, standing in a room where coffee and quark pastries were being served. The new shoes pinched his feet and it felt as though he had come in disguise; it wasn’t actually him wearing this new outfit.

  He watched Sir Karl Popper gaze down at the bowed backs of Austrian politicians and officials, who suddenly flew up and swarmed around the American secretary of state at that moment making his entrance, so they might bow even deeper and catch his cigar ash in their cupped hands.

  And then Erhart caught sight of him: Armand Moens.

  Erhart’s first conference. And Armand Moens’ last public appearance before his death a few weeks later. The only meeting between the teacher and the pupil, between God and His apostle, as Erhart might even have put it at the time. And they ended up speaking about clothes.

  Erhart was surprised by how little interest this man showed in his appearance. He wore threadbare cords, a grey pullover with stains (coffee?) down the front and a cheap, blue, nylon jacket.

  Erhart went over to Moens to introduce himself and to pay his respects to this esteemed academic.

  Moens was old and ill. He was at the end. Erhart immediately regretted having approached him. He would have liked to discuss Moens’ book, The End of the National Economy and the Economic System of a Post-National Republic, but when Erhart came face to face with the old man, he realised at once that this would no longer be possible. The yellowed face with brown blotches, the watery eyes, the lips moistened with spittle . . . then a student appeared with one of Moens’ books and asked for a signature. Erhart could hardly bear to see how long it took Moens to shakily write his name. He didn’t remember what he said then, all he knew was that, rather than respond to it, Moens said simply, Everybody here looks like they’re in fancy dress.

  Erhart: I’m sorry?

  Can’t you see? All these people in the suits they wear in Vienna, Paris and Oxford – he was struggling to speak – these, these costumes, here, in front of the Swiss pine and the whole Alpine aesthetic . . . fancy dress! They look like they’re in fancy dress! And the others who’ve come in their loden and traditional outfits, because it’s the Tyrol. They thought, let’s put on traditional Alpine garb because it’s the Tyrol. They really look like they’re in fancy dress! Look! Nothing but people fancy dress. An academic carnival!

  Erhart didn’t know what to reply; eventually he said, We should never disguise ourselves!

  And Armand Moens said in a strikingly loud and gruff voice: No!

  Back in Vienna, at the institute, Alois Erhart wrote on a piece of notepaper:

  “NO!”

  Armand Moens

  . . . and pinned it to the wall by his desk. He knew it was childish, but it also wasn’t. It was a little electrical impulse. “No!” was never wrong. What, never? No!

  He buttoned up his crumpled jacket to hide the sweat marks on his shirt and followed Mr Pinto into the room where he would deliver his keynote speech.

  When Kassándra Mercouri cycled in to the office that day, as she did most days, she met Bohumil on rue d’Arenberg. Kassándra was excited, impatient, she had a lot to say, she wanted to talk about her weekend, she was proud of what she had found out, it was amazing, and so important. But instead she said, What’s up, what’s wrong with you?

  The ever cheerful, exuberant, childishly reckless cyclist Bohumil was pedalling along in silence, his face pinched. He didn’t take a “You’re in the way!” sticker from his bag when a car was parked in the cycle lane. She had always been worried when he carried out this risky manoeuvre, but now she was worried because he wasn’t doing it.

  What’s wrong? Tell me!

  I spent the weekend at home. In Prague.

  Kassándra had to fall back behind Bohumil to cycle past a car that was double parked, while a bus thundered past them to the left. When she caught up with him again, Bohumil said nothing.

  So you were in Prague. Visiting family? Allons! What happened?

  La famille est la mort de la raison!

  Bohumil!

  Nothing out of the ordinary. No surprises. Or let’s say: Why am I surprised that it surprised me. I was with my parents. Eh bien! Parents are parents. Then I’d planned to meet my sister for dinner in U Zavěšenýho, duck with red cabbage as always. She didn’t want to come!

  Your sister didn’t want to meet up with you?

  Not in the restaurant, just the two of us. She wanted me to go to hers.

  But that’s nice, isn’t it?

  No. She knows how much I love the duck at U Zavěšenýho. It’s what we always used to do! We’d meet there, eat and tell each other everything, all our news, all our secrets, all the rumours. No, I didn’t want to go to hers. She got mar
ried recently and . . .

  Do you know her husband? So you were invited for dinner with both of them?

  You didn’t come to our wedding! she said. Of course I know why, she said. So now you’re going to come over to ours and shake my husband’s hand. I’ll cook duck. But you’re going to shake my husband’s hand. In our house.

  So what’s the problem?

  The door of a car parked ahead of them swung open. Bohumil braked so abruptly that he almost flew over the handlebars. Kassándra wrenched her bike to the left and then immediately right again, in the process almost colliding with a delivery van. She stopped and dismounted. Her heart was thumping, it pounded against her chest and temples. Bohumil yelled at the driver of the parked car. The man apologised profusely, Bohumil pushed his bicycle past the car to Kassándra, let it fall to the ground, then perched on the bonnet of another car and wept.

  Kassándra sat next to him, put her arm around his shoulder and said, Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Everything’s alright.

  Nothing is alright!

  The driver of the car stood there, ashen-faced. With a wave of her hand, Kassándra gestured to him to go.