An Inventory of Losses

by Judith Schalansky

  While their fathers had come here to marvel, they came to steal what they had marveled at. All the metal, all the marble in the churches was prised free and sold, the tombs of the saints ransacked, gold reliquaries, monstrances, and tabernacles auctioned off, high altars smashed that even the Goths had spared, and all the insignia of the nobility wiped from the face of the city: the oak tree of the della Rovere family, the bull of the Borgias, the balls of the Medicis, the lilies of the Farneses, the bees of the Barberinis and the three black stripes of the Sacchettis, which survived the frenzy only out here in the Valle Inferno.

  The gentlemen ascend the dilapidated steps. They are looking for a place for the dead, a cemetery for all. The two architects want to turn the ruins into a chapel and the grounds into an airy, expansive necropolis shaded by high walls, because all the burial grounds inside the Aurelian Walls were closed soon after the pope was taken prisoner and carted off to France like some particularly precious find. Rome’s treasures have gone, Apollo, Laocoön, even the Belvedere Torso, paraded as trophies on ox-drawn chariots decked out with laurel, from the Jardin des Plantes, past the Panthéon to the Champ-de-Mars, together with African camels, lions, and a bear from Bern, a two-day-long triumphal procession under a leaden sky, which cleared towards the evening of the first day, prompting self-important reporters to comment that the sun had prevailed over the clouds as had the forces of freedom over those of tyranny.

  Only the weighty Trajan’s Column still stands where it has always stood. Rome has lost nearly a third of its population; it now has more dwellings than residents. Palaces and monasteries are crumbling ruins, and from the crypts of churches comes the familiar, sickly sweet smell of decay, even though doctors warn in notices and lectures of the dangers emanating from the decomposing corpses, and urgently recommend that the dead be buried outside the city gates. From now on, the law of hygiene must apply, superseding traditional ritual. Yet the Romans refuse, do not want to bury their dead out in the bare soil of the Valle Inferno, but to inter them in boxes of stone, in mausoleums and crypts, near the bones of the saints, as they always have done.

  The cemetery is never inaugurated. Brambles grow in the Colosseum. There is digging in the Forum. Sand begins to submerge the villa in its valley; sheep graze on the avenue. Pines and cypresses exude their delicately aromatic scent, and for a long time painters keep coming, until the very last of the surviving remains have sunk into the ground as well.

  Manhattan

  The Boy in Blue

  or Emerald of Death

  * Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau’s first film was shot in spring 1919 at the moated castle of Vischering in the Münster region, and in the countryside around Berlin. The plot revolved around a painting based on Thomas Gainsborough’s “The Blue Boy,” with the face replaced by that of Murnau’s protagonist Thomas van Weerth, played by silent movie star Ernst Hofmann. There are various accounts of the film’s plot, but in all of them the principal character, the last of the family line, is living an impoverished, lonely life in the castle of his forefathers with only an old servant for company. He often contemplates the portrait of one of his ancestors, with whom he feels a mysterious affinity, not merely because of their strong physical resemblance. Is he the reincarnation of this young man in blue, who wears on his breast the notorious Emerald of Death, which has only ever brought bad luck to his family? To keep the curse at bay, one of his ancestors has hidden the emerald. One night Thomas has a dream in which the “Boy in Blue” climbs out of the painting and leads him to the hiding place. When Thomas wakes up, he does in fact find the emerald in the place indicated, and ignores his old servant’s pleas to throw the jewel away. Meanwhile a band of minstrels turns up at the castle. They steal the emerald, burn down the castle and destroy the portrait, leaving him with nothing. Thomas falls ill, but survives thanks to the true love and selfless devotion of a pretty actress.

  † No record of the premiere of the silent movie has been found to date. It was probably never screened as a main feature, for it is not mentioned by any of the contemporary critics. It is considered lost. The Deutsche Kinemathek in Berlin holds in its nitrate film collection thirty-five short fragments of the film in five different tints.

  She must’ve caught a cold. Her nose was running. Had she even been blocked up? Not that she could remember. Which made her suspicious. After all, she did her best to look after her health. Where were those damn Kleenex? The pack was right here a moment ago. What a nuisance. There was no way she was going anywhere without tissues. Ah, there they were, under the mirror! Right, in the purse they go, hat on, sunglasses on, close the door and let’s roll. What the hell was that strange whiff in the hall? Ah, that’s it. It was soft-soap Monday. Every week the cleaning crew from Queens would turn up at some unearthly hour and scrub the marble like a gang of crazed monkeys, and she found herself rudely awakened at the crack of dawn. No one else in the entire building got up as early as she did. The stink left by the charwomen was bound to hang around until Wednesday at least. She would have to think about moving yet again. Was there no end to it? It was enough to make you weep. Luckily the elevator arrived quickly. The boy could’ve been a bit more polite, though. Had no one told him who he was dealing with? Pretending not to recognize her. Hadn’t anyone told him how to greet her? Barely out of diapers and already gone to the dogs. Probably getting ideas in his head. After all, there was no one else in the elevator. That’s all she needed. It seemed to be taking forever. But then it was seventeen floors. Finally they made it. At least the doorman did things the proper way, came out of his lodge and opened the door for her. You’re welcome. Heaven! The coast was clear. No vultures in sight. No one noticed her. Probably because of the new sunglasses. O.K. then. She wasn’t choosy, so she just went for the first guy to come along, a man in a gray flannel suit. He wasn’t that elegant, to be honest. But a good choice all the same. He walked fast towards the East Side, piloted her through the crowd, gave her a direction, a rhythm. That in itself was a good thing. Sometimes he disappeared in the crowd, but she soon caught up with him again. After all, she was a seasoned pedestrian. It was the only field she’d become remotely expert in. Basically it was her only pleasure, her religion. If need be she could get by without her calisthenics, but definitely not without her walks. Her outings to browse the store windows, her wanderings, her random detours. At least one hour a day, preferably two. Usually down to Washington Square Park and back, sometimes up to 77th Street. It was good to follow close on someone’s heels to start with. She’d have an aimless wander later. After all you couldn’t get lost. One advantage of islands.

  It was colder than she thought. Too cold for April at any rate. Even by East Coast standards. It was always either freezing cold or boiling hot in this city. God knows why she even lived here, in this unpardonable, drafty climate where you catch a cold at the drop of a hat. She should’ve gone to California back in March. Just as she normally did. March would’ve been right, March rather than later. O.K., it was deadly boring there when you had nothing to do. But all the same, the climate was perfect: fresh air, plenty of sunshine. You could run around butt naked all day. Well in theory anyway. Too bad Schleesky hated it. It meant she had to sort everything out herself: a flight, a driver and even someplace to stay now that the house was sold and Mabery Road was no longer an option either. As if she didn’t already have enough on her plate. For weeks she’d been hunting for the right sweater. It had to be cashmere. In dusty pink, her favorite color. She loved colors: salmon, mauve, hot pink. But none as much as dusty pink. She also had appointments, stupid meetings. She canceled most of them, but it was tiring all the same. Cecil had been at it again. He obviously imagined he could simply suggest any time, any place or, worse still, ask her to suggest something. How was she supposed to know whether she would be hungry or thirsty or wanting to see him tomorrow or in three days’ time? Not to mention her poorly state. Her health had never been the best. Even though she took good care o
f herself, always dressed warmly enough and never, ever sat down on the toilet seat. That was just how it was: a puff of wind and she was laid low with some damn wretched cold. The last time was when she had tea with Mercedes. She’d only leaned against the open window briefly. But by that evening her throat was sore as hell, and even though she’d gone to bed wearing two sweaters and woolen tights as always, she’d woken up the next morning feeling at death’s door. It was weeks before she was anywhere near back on form. In fact, it was simpler to say when she hadn’t been ill. And on top of that the goddamn hot flashes out of the blue. What a pain in the ass. She urgently needed new panties. She’d even seen those light-blue knee-length ones in London last fall. Cecil had said in his letter that Lillywhites only stocked them in royal blue, bright scarlet, and canary yellow. He should’ve looked in Harrods then. After all, he had promised to track some down for her. To think she was having to deal with that now as well. Perhaps she ought to meet with him after all, if only on account of the panties.

  Hey, what had gotten into the gray suit? He’d just veered off-course, drifted over to the right and approached the bank of windows. What the heck! Surely he wasn’t going to . . . or maybe he was. No! No way! He made a beeline for it. And disappeared through the revolving doors of the Plaza, of all places! Just as she’d gotten used to him. It could at least have been the Waldorf Astoria! Wild horses couldn’t drag her into the Plaza. It had the scruffiest rear entrance in the city. That such a swanky hotel could have such a foul-smelling backyard. She knew a bit about rear entrances. Yes, if only she knew as much about everything else as she did about rear entrances! About garbage cans and those hampers full of stinking dirty linen and the service elevators reeking of leftover food. Just her luck! Not even ten o’clock and already she’d had her first disappointment, not counting the elevator boy. She should just stop having anything to do with other people.

  Now there she stood with a runny nose, snot trickling down. And no one to stop it. What a nightmare! No one was there to take care of her. To pay attention to her, acknowledge her, help her. Everyone just hurried on past. Past her. A woman rummaging in her purse with gloved fingers. Those damn Kleenex, vanished into thin air. The fountain on Grand Army Plaza wasn’t even on. But to abandon her walk after not even two blocks just for that? Alright then, just keep sniffing back the snot, cross the street on the next Walk signal, and then no more experiments, down Fifth Avenue for a little way and across to Madison. The gray suit had been a mistake. One more mistake, that’s all. Yet another. No great surprise. She was forever making mistakes. Nightmare. It hadn’t always been that way. It used to be different. She never used to keep screwing up all the time. Always knew exactly what she wanted and how much. Had the knack. Without having to think about it. Thinking had never done her much good anyway. Thinking had never helped her come to any kind of decision. The whole bloody mulling over of things—all it did was give you wrinkles. She’d never thought anything over in her life. Couldn’t see the point of it. The fact was she was an intellectual write-off. She simply didn’t know a thing. Completely uneducated. She’d never read anything in her life. So what had she learned? The different ways of holding your head and what they meant: bowing the head indicated submission, tilting it back the opposite, a slight inclination of the head showed empathy, while a head held high suggested calm and resilience. Amazing that she’d remembered that. Normally she never remembered a thing. Not a clue about anything, but her intuition was spot-on! It was something she used to be able to rely on. Ever since she was a little boy, she’d known what she wanted. In the past, at least. And now it was gone, her darned intuition. Evaporated into thin air. Where the hell was it, her famous intuition, when she forced herself into that monstrosity of a bathing suit? Rushed knowingly towards her downfall, as the camera rolled. Utter suicide. The air was thin at the summit. You only had to look down and you were done for. It was then that the goddamn fear took hold. And then there was nothing left.

  Did a runny nose come before or after a blocked nose? What was the normal order of a cold for god’s sake? She would call Jane later and ask her. Jane knew stuff like that. Or at least she pretended to, which amounted to the same thing. Although last night she hadn’t known what to suggest either. Surely it’s O.K. to call a good friend during the night if you’re in distress! She’d been in a really bad way. Dumbass thoughts the whole time, crazy dreams. Unbearable. Now it was clear what had been going on: a cold on the way, but last night it could just as easily have been a stroke or rheumatism or cancer. Did nose cancer actually exist? It probably had a different name. But a cold might well lead to sinusitis, judging by the amount of snot. And she hadn’t even washed her hair yesterday evening. Why the hell not? Oh, that was it, Cecil, the old charmer, had telephoned yet again and gone on and on. To think she’d even had the call put through! Give him the slightest bit of attention and you soon live to regret it. The old whining sissy was even worse than Mercedes. Nothing but reproaches and declarations of love. No wonder she’d gotten a migraine afterwards. If only she hadn’t answered the telephone and had washed her hair instead. Then that would at least be out of the way. Her nose again. It was all so god-awful. And now a red light. What the devil was it? A camera, over there, pointing at her. There you go. I thought so. Behind it a woman, a young thing, of the thrusty-busty variety. Which made a change. Oh no, did she just . . . ? Would you believe it! Now she’s been snapped blowing her nose. In broad daylight. The cheek of it! Could it get any worse? The photographer was already gone. The street teeming. One helluva crowd. Salvation Army ladies with leaflets and an accordion, the poor soul with his hot-dog cart, the newspaper man behind his pile of nickels and bundles of paper. Everyone had something to do. Everyone except her. She didn’t even read the newspaper. It never had anything in it. Well now, who was that honey on the cover of Life magazine? Boy, who’d’ve thought it! Little Monroe, eyelids at half mast, platinum blonde, shoulders bared—half minx, half deluxe doll, but not without style. She definitely had talent in that department. The “Talk of Hollywood,” was she? You don’t say. So word had finally got around that the fluffy bunny had what it takes. She’d seen it coming years ago. A hotshot. No, a bombshell. And the perfect choice to play the girl who turns Dorian Gray’s head. Heavenly! That would’ve been it! Monroe as Sybil and she herself as Dorian. Yes, that would’ve been it, the perfect comeback role. And at some point in the movie, Monroe naked as a jaybird! May as well go the whole hog; anything less would be a waste. That would’ve been it! The great Garbo, ruined by the little Monroe. A triumph of acting! Goddammit, that would’ve been it. And she’d known it. Just known it. Only they didn’t get it. But they never got anything, those schmucks. Always coming up with those bloody female roles. Dying of true love or some such pathetic nonsense. A corpse from the Seine carving out a career as a death mask with a moronic grin. If you’re going for a mask, you may as well do it properly. She’d wanted to play a clown, a male clown who, beneath the makeup and silk pants, is actually a woman. And all his female admirers don’t get why he won’t reply. But Billy hadn’t got it either. A traitor just like all the rest. All the nauseous memories were bubbling back up in her like yesterday’s dinner. To think he’d dared to mention her in the same breath as all those old silent-movie has-beens. As if she were already written off, as if she’d already snuffed it! Just despicable. The truth is there was only one director she would’ve trusted blind, and he was dead as a doornail. For him she would’ve happily played a ghost, even a lamppost! He could’ve done anything he liked with her. Anything! But he didn’t want to. He’d liked her, though, that time at Berger’s place. And she’d liked him, all suntanned as he was. Just back from the South Pacific, tall and lean as ever. Stony broke, but staying at the Miramar with his German shepherd. Wonderfully arrogant and fantastically authoritarian. You never knew quite what he meant by something. The way he’d told her that his family had emigrated from Sweden centuries ago. And stood there all stiff as if that
proved something. Simply adorable. But then later, on the pool table, he went all soft. Not surprising, considering how sloshed they both were. His sharp brown eyes, his red hair, his twitchy mouth, that voice rolling on. Her kinda squeeze. But it wasn’t to be. Again that was just the beginning of the end. Five weeks later he was dead. Like all the people who’d really meant something to her: Alva, Moje, and then Murr too. They would’ve been good together. He hadn’t been against the idea, at any rate. The fact he was into boys wasn’t an obstacle. On the contrary: she’d never been a girl. How Cecil had mocked her about that. “Come on, you were never a boy.” But then he’d dug out a photograph of her and seen something, a moment that didn’t yet contain all the others that came after. Her gloomy childhood. The goddamn poverty, the ash-gray life on Söder. Father in one corner of the room bent over a newspaper, mother in another, mending clothes. Always a bad atmosphere. Then she did want Cecil to touch her after all. And above all not to let go until she cried Nicht machen! Schleesky never touched her. Even though his hands were as big as toilet lids. It was a damn shame.