The Capital

by Robert Menasse

  Mrs Atkinson swallowed. She was shocked by the thought. Not an e-mail. She would have considered it unfair to distance herself from Fenia Xenopoulou on record. Totally unfair. She poured herself another glass of prosecco and decided to give Fenia Xeno-poulou a call.

  When Fridsch rang and asked whether she was free for lunch, Xeno thought he wanted to talk about the upheaval the Jubilee Project had triggered. It was in her interest, he said, some information he urgently needed to pass on, and he had suggested lunch in the Rosticceria Fiorentina, rue Archimède. O.K., she said, see you there in an hour.

  Xeno wasn’t naive. But now, reading the protocol of the Council working group, she wondered how she could have been so surprised by forces that she, with all her experience, ought to have envisaged and anticipated. And why she suddenly found the little games that were being played repugnant, even though they were routine. She’d seen all this for years, hadn’t she? The general approval of an idea, followed by so many objections and suggested changes that nothing remained of the original idea.

  In the novel that Xeno had read, the president’s favourite novel, there was a bit where the emperor promises his mistress that with all his power, which after all comes directly from the gods, he will make the age-old human dream of flying come true. If he could achieve this miracle, it would not only consolidate his rule, it would also unleash his people’s belief in what they were capable of, thereby increasing the happiness and prosperity of his realm. He summoned the most important philosophers, priests and scientists to work on a solution to this task, but efforts very soon failed because all these wise men couldn’t agree on which bird was the right one from which to wrest the secret of flying. They couldn’t see the flying, only the differences between the birds.

  What puzzled Xeno in particular was the reaction of the Germans. The protocol began in very routine fashion with a “general approval of the proposal by COMM and the E.A.C. to organise a jubilee celebration for the anniversary of the founding of the European Commission, with the aim of improving the Commission’s image (PT, IT, DE, FR, HU, BG, SI, AT, FR, UK, NL, HR, LV, SE, DK, EE, CR, EL, ES, LU). BG underlined its particular interest in this initiative, which would occur during the period of its presidency.

  And to begin with it went on like this, polite expressions of agreement, until the first objections emerge: “Approval of the budget proposal, but Member States (IT, DE, FI, EE, CR, HU, SI, HR, FR) demanded a binding commitment that even in the event of costs overrunning, the financing of the project should proceed exclusively from the Commission’s administrative budget, without burdening the general budget. Council and Parliament would not agree to that. Nevertheless, the Member States (DE, IT, FR, HU, PL) insisted on the Council and Parliament being involved in determining the content of the project.”

  This by itself was pretty steep. But Xeno was flabbergasted when she read the objections to the substance of the project, especially from Germany: “DE queried the idea of Auschwitz as the fundament of European unity and stressed that the Muslims in Europe must not be excluded from the venture of European integration. (Agreement: UK, HU, PL, AT, HR, CR).”

  Xeno regarded herself as hard-nosed. Over the course of her time at the Commission she’d had plenty of experience of resistance, obstruction and bureaucratic hurdles. And even though of late she had become more uncertain about her future career, she had always been able to rely on her ability to anticipate resistance, which meant she was prepared for it accordingly. But this objection by Germany – Germany! – and the list of states in agreement left her utterly speechless. She had not expected the Germans to express concerns about Muslims, and then for those very countries which in their domestic politics advocated the most robust defence of the “Christian West” to come out in agreement. And then Hungary voicing its fear that the endorsement of a wider European public might not be forthcoming if, at the heart of commemorations supposedly designed to forge an identification with the Commission, they put the crime against the Jews, without reminding people that the Jews were now inflicting on the Palestinians precisely what had been inflicted on them in the past. For this objection they were applauded by the left-wing M.E.P.s (from DE, GR, ES, PT, IT). And Hungary also wished to remind people that in the coming year they would be chairing the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (I.H.R.A.) and therefore organising a raft of commemorations anyway. Then the Italians chipped in: “IT suggestion to hold the jubilee celebrations in Rome, in memory of the Treaties of Rome. Official function in the Palazzo Montecitorio with the presidents of the Parliament, Council, Commission, Economic and Social Committee, Central Bank and Committee of the Regions, and . . .” – Xeno found this addendum especially perfidious – “. . . thus they can agree on a joint ceremonial declaration (Agreement: UK, DE, HU, CR, LV, AT)”. For the first time Xeno wondered why people without even a knowledge of the basics kept having a say in the decision-making process. “In memory of the Treaties of Rome” – the Commission had its origins in the Treaty of Paris, not the Treaties of Rome, while its current iteration had its genesis in The Hague Summit. But nobody in the working group had said anything to counter the Italians’ suggestion that the celebrations take place in Rome? Not even the French, who always knew better! No-one knew anything anymore. How could people forget so much and yet talk so much! Seen that way, the Italians’ additional proposal was in fact quite touching: “To be followed by a people’s festival in the centre of Rome.”

  Xeno found the proposal forwarded by the Poles with the words “Why the Jews? Why not sport?” so outrageous that she literally as well as mentally shook her head. If they went along with the huge support for this idea, the project would remain with her department because the Ark was responsible for European sport, but it had even less expertise and capacity in this area than in culture. The national populist parties were small beer compared to the nationalism of Member States’ sports associations.

  At that moment Kassándra came into the room to say that she had managed to get David de Vriend’s most recent address from the registry offices: place du Vieux Marché-aux-Grains in Sainte-Catherine. But the building had just been pulled down.

  Who is David . . . what?

  But we discussed this. He would be ideal for our project. And there’s no official record of his having passed away, which means he’s probably in an old people’s home. We can find that out too.

  Passed away? Xeno said, feeling very tired. No official record? Thank you.

  She checked the time. I’ve got to go, she said. Lunchtime meeting!

  Fridsch was already there when Xeno arrived at Rosti. He was sitting at an outside table in the blazing sunshine, as if the street were a stage and the sun a spotlight now directed at him. This thought crossed her mind as she glimpsed him from a distance and then approached, also wondering for the first time about the word spotlight: spot-light!

  She couldn’t work out whether he had spotted her too. Fridsch was wearing mirror sunglasses – ghastly, Xeno thought. She hated mirror sunglasses; you couldn’t see the eyes. For Xeno this was the direst of all disguises, even worse than the niqab and burka, which at least allowed you to see the eyes, the window into the soul, as people said. These shades also reminded her of men she’d been frightened of in her childhood. The ones her father had warned her about. Anyone who wears sunglasses like that, who doesn’t show their eyes, has a dark secret. And who has secrets? The secret police, of course. That’s why it has its name. It betrays people who then go to prison, or murders them outright, her father had said, putting a protective arm around her shoulders and pressing her to him.

  Knowing Fridsch as she did, he would have bought these sunglasses at the flea market, but if he was wearing them now, then she had to entertain the possibility that mirror glasses were back in fashion.

  He leaped up to greet her. Because she couldn’t see his eyes, for the first time she became acutely aware of the hairs in his nose. They protruded from his nostrils like spiders’ legs. At the same
time she saw her own gaze in his glasses. She hated nasal hair. She shaved her armpits, her legs and trimmed her pubic hair, whereas this man wasn’t even able to snip away these stupid little hairs from his nostrils.

  What was wrong with her? Fridsch asked the question too: What’s up?

  Trouble —

  Is the sun —

  — with the project.

  — dazzling you? We —

  — Yes.

  — could go inside. I —

  — Yes?

  — reserved tables both inside and outside.

  He was so thoughtful. And inside he’d also take off his sunglasses, Xeno thought.

  Forget the project! We’ll discuss it in a sec, Fridsch said, holding open the door to the restaurant to let her enter first, then staring at her, fondling her with his eyes – with the pride of a man who had conquered this woman, and was at the same time moved by the fact that this pride filled him with feelings of tenderness. Tender tenderness. Was that a tautology? Surely there were grades of it. The tenderest tenderness! As if he were placing a hand on the belly of a pregnant woman – but what on earth was he thinking? He wasn’t thinking anything, not in words, but if you could input your feelings into a programme that would translate them into words then roughly these words would come out.

  Fridsch had combed his hair into a severe parting, signalling a pedantry and propriety that irritated Xeno. What wasn’t irritating her at the moment? When they had sat down, Fridsch took off his sunglasses and leaned across the table towards Xeno. She ran her hand through his hair, ruining his parting, then laughed – a touch too falsely perhaps – and said, That’s better! You look five years younger.

  Is that what I want? Five years ago I wasn’t as happy as I am now!

  This response left her speechless. The woman who owned the restaurant arrived with the menus and took their drinks order: water for Fridsch, wine for Xeno.

  Now you have everything you need to preach and drink, the owner said. Xeno nodded politely; she hadn’t understood as the owner spoke Bavarian. She was an Italian, from Milan, but before coming to Brussels she’d run a restaurant in Munich for years, and that’s where she had learned her German. And she knew Fridsch was German.

  She came to Brussels because of a man, she says “feller” when she talks about him, he was very good looking, “quite the beau”, but “not in a good way” as it turned out, in short, he didn’t live up to “what it said on the packet”. Fridsch loved this restaurant and knew all the stories.

  Not long ago she had announced closing time by playing the Internationale, Fridsch said, a few guests were quite taken aback. Do you know why? Homesickness for Milan, she said.

  Xeno looked at him blankly.

  Fridsch laughed. Her father, he said, was an ardent fan of Internazionale Milan, that’s the famous football club in Milan. And when the club got to the European Cup Final against Real Madrid he travelled to Vienna.

  Why Vienna?

  Because that’s where the final took place. Inter Milan against Real Madrid. Before the match the Austrian military band was supposed to play the anthems of both clubs.

  Why the military band?

  I don’t know. It’s just how it was. Do you think the Vienna Philharmonic are going to play on a football pitch? Anyway, the band starts with the Real Madrid anthem. Then it’s time for the Milan song. But by mistake the band had been given the score to the Internationale rather than the club’s anthem. So all of a sudden the communist Internationale struck up. And some of the Italian players actually sang along: “Stand up, damned of the Earth!” I’ve no idea what the Italian translation is. Playing for Madrid was Ferenc Puskás, probably the best footballer in the world at the time. A Hungarian who in 1956 had fled the Soviet tanks in Budapest. He was so perturbed when he heard the communist anthem prior to the game that afterwards all he did was stray from one end of the pitch to the other in shock, which was why Inter Milan won 3:1 against the favourites, Real Madrid. And that’s why, in memory of this triumph, her father kept playing the Internationale at home, and so she . . .

  Fridsch could see that Xeno wasn’t in the least interested. But he was so buoyant, so happy, his heart so full of emotion that he just kept talking. The owner arrived with the drinks. They hadn’t yet glanced at the menu and simply ordered the set lunch.

  Anyway, Fridsch said, what I wanted to tell you is important. Listen, your Jubilee Project —

  Have you read the protocol of the working group?

  Of course.

  What’s so important then?

  Nothing —

  She interrupted him, somewhat too loudly, and people at the neighbouring tables looked over: What are you saying? Nothing is important, and that’s so important that you’ve summoned me here to tell me?

  No, just listen! What I wanted to say was that there’s nothing more you can do for the project now. It’s dead. For a while it will go on as a typical Commission zombie, lurching through a few departments and authorities, before being buried once and for all. What you have to do now is put some distance between you and the project. Let the Sherpas take it to the gravediggers. You can’t defend the idea, it’ll never work. You’re out of the game. COMM wanted a jubilee celebration, the president says he would support a good idea, the Council working group says there isn’t a good idea, or it makes other bad suggestions, none of which have a chance because they’re merely alibi suggestions, do you understand? If anyone still believes they can reap any personal benefit from this, then let them. But if someone’s going to fail miserably with it, this won’t be you. O.K.? You’re out of the game, because you – here it comes . . . Fridsch was about to mimic a fanfare to herald his revelation when the owner arrived with the salad and said something in Bavarian that sounded like “garden”.

  Because you, Fridsch continued, you’re going to be somewhere else altogether by then. A nice little career move, maybe to TRADE or HOME.

  What are you talking about?

  Wasn’t that what you wanted? And I’ve discovered how to work it. Listen! You’re a Cypriot, aren’t you?

  Yes, you know that already.

  But was Cyprus a member of the E.U. when you came to Brussels?

  No. I —

  You came on a Greek ticket.

  Yes, I’m Greek.

  So what is it now? Greek or Cypriot?

  Why are you laughing? Are you making fun of me? What’s so funny? I’m a Greek Cypriot.

  Let’s take this nice and slowly, Fridsch said. Greece is a member of the European Union. The Republic of Cyprus is now a member too. But back then, before Cyprus became a member, you, a Cypriot, came here as a Greek.

  Yes, that was the opportunity I had. As a Greek Cypriot I could get a Greek passport and —

  And now you’ve got a completely different opportunity. Because the Republic of Cyprus has also been a member of the Union for several years. A small island. Half of a small island, in fact. With fewer than a million inhabitants, a country with roughly the same population as Frankfurt. That’s bizarre, isn’t it? And what do the people there do? Are they tourist guides? Diving instructors? Olive farmers? I don’t know. But there’s one thing I do know . . .

  Xeno looked at him, his beaming eyes, he was working towards a climax, she didn’t know yet what, she found something about this disagreeable, like a very subtle insult she couldn’t yet understand. Now she wouldn’t have minded if he put his mirror shades back on.

  Your tiny Republic of Cyprus can’t fill its quota of officials at all levels of the hierarchy, it can’t occupy all the posts to which Cypriots are entitled. Too few of its people are qualified. Now do you understand what I’m getting at?

  This was the important thing you had to tell me?

  Yes. Isn’t it wonderful? So logical. So simple. You get yourself a Cypriot passport and with your C.V. you’ll get a directorship at once.

  But someone would have to go.

  The Brits are going. Others are retiring. In a month’s t
ime one of our directorships in TRADE will become free. And another in HOME. And if the Cypriots, who occupy only 50 per cent of the posts allotted to them, can suggest someone —

  But I passed the concours, I haven’t been on a national ticket for ages.

  Even better! The Republic of Cyprus will be delighted to be able to place one of its citizens, such an experienced and permanent official, in a position of responsibility within the Commission.

  And all I’ve got to do is . . . get a new passport?

  Yes. Which you can, of course, immediately.

  Fridsch’s eyes shone. He was surprised that Fenia showed no sign of enthusiasm.

  Garden!

  They said little as they ate their ravioli. Fridsch thought she needed to digest this information first. He put off the other important thing he wanted to tell her, the private matter. Feelings were so hard to comprehend, and no sooner had one put them into words than they were so uncertain again. He thought it would be better if she felt grateful towards him first.

  After lunch Fenia Xenopoulou was back at her desk, answering e-mails, typing set phrases that were as routine as they were vacuous . . . and soon she got stuck. How should she react to the suggestion Fridsch had made? Now she no longer saw the screen, only images from her memory, and her fingers lay motionless on the keyboard. She leaned back. This thing with the passport, surely . . . she leaped up and opened the window. The heavy, sun-warmed air that poured into the air-conditioned room reminded her of summers in Cyprus as a child. Although the sky was just as cloudless in those days, for her it wasn’t the cloud-free time she’d seen those children from moneyed families enjoy, playing games in sunny meadows and being cuddled by their parents. She saw herself reflected in the window, but only hazily, as if this image were a projection from a distant time, no, of course it wasn’t, she could see how hard her mouth had become, wrinkles on either side, in her reflection they looked as if they’d been airbrushed on. It was her and yet it was a different person, it was . . . she hurried back to her desk and called Bohumil: Could you pop in to see me for a moment?