In Times of Fading Light (27 page)

He went back to the cold buffet and grabbed another sausage. Muddel was in the other room sitting next to Grandpa Kurt, and as she didn’t necessarily like to see him eating sausages he hung around for a while in the buffet room, looked in a bored way at the American Indian art that his great-grandmother was always praising to the skies and that stood and hung around everywhere, and when the doorbell rang again he unobtrusively looked to see if his father had finally arrived. And when he had finished his sausage, and the asshole still hadn’t arrived, he decided to ask his great-grandmother himself whether she would make an exception for him and let him into the conservatory to look around—but when he had wiped his fingers on his pants, and was looking for his great-grandmother, silence suddenly fell in the next room, and a moment later a voice was raised, a soft, high singing voice, almost too high for a man and almost too pure for a member of a species that was as good as extinct, but the voice really did belong to Wilhelm, who was sitting in his dark corner with his eyes closed and
singing,
simply singing to himself, the text, you might think, was some kind of silly thing that he had just made up, but it wasn’t, it was to do with Lenin and Stalin, someone else even tried singing along but didn’t know the words too well, and Wilhelm sang it solo to the end, a pterodactyl, not much more than a bag of bones, his order on his breast like a winner in the Olympics.

Once again everyone clapped. Wilhelm waved the applause away, but it was no good, the people clapped as if it had been really great. Only Great-Grandmother made a face; you could see that she felt embarrassed on Wilhelm’s behalf, and Markus was wondering again whether this was the right moment to ask her about the conservatory when—he could hardly believe it—the next voice was raised in song. This time a woman’s voice. It was Baba Nadya who suddenly began rocking back and forth in time, uttering Russian sounds in a deep, rough voice, which immediately attracted everyone’s attention to her. Sssh, sssh, they whispered, even Great-Grandmother was shushed, encouraging glances were cast at Baba Nadya, the first heads were beginning to sway in time to the tune, and after Baba Nadya had sung two of three repetitions of a kind of refrain, in which probably the only word that all present understood occurred, to wit
vodka, vodka,
the first voices began to sing along, always when she came to
vodka, vodka,
while Baba Nadya gravely and persistently chanted verse after verse, until finally everyone was roaring along with her,
vodka, vodka,
loudest of all the fat man with the face like a baboon’s behind, and even clapping their hands when they came to
vodka, vodka.
Incredible what was going on here. The dinosaurs having a ball. His father was missing something, thought Markus, looking around to see if he had arrived at last, but instead of his father he saw, among all this crazy merriment, among the cackling, teeth-baring, tipsy faces, one grave, abstracted face, untouched by any of this, thin and wry and with small, inflamed marks just below the eyebrows.

At that moment something clattered in the next room, someone cried out—and Markus had difficulty working his way past the people suddenly streaming through the sliding door to reach his mother.

“What happened?” he asked.

“We’re going,” said Muddel.

“Why now?”

“I’ll explain outside,” said Melitta.

They left without saying good-bye to his great-grandparents.

He took the iguana with him.

That night he dreamed of chopped-off fish heads again.

Even the snow—no one had been able to keep up with clearing it away for days now—couldn’t make the area look more attractive. The tall apartment buildings to the right and left were dilapidated. The stucco facades were blackened by the smoke of coal-burning stoves, and in places the bare masonry showed through. Balconies looked as if they might fall on your head at any moment.

We can ruin our own buildings without the use of weapons; he remembered the joke. Said to be the slogan of the Municipal Housing Administration.

Across the border in the Wedding district you could see smart new buildings. What did the West Berliners think when they looked over the Wall at this misery?

Number 16 seemed to be uninhabited. Wrong address? The front door was open. Kurt passed through a ruinous entrance hall. The remains of floral reliefs on the ceiling. Like something out of the story of Sleeping Beauty.

Ancient notices: No Hawkers. No Ball Games. No Bicycles to Be Left Here.

Side wing on the right. Mailboxes torn off and broken open. The door stood ajar, couldn’t be closed because a thick layer of ice on the floor blocked the threshold; burst pipes, thought Kurt, very common this winter. When the temperature plummeted after the New Year came in, pipes had burst all over the place.

Kurt picked his way over the frozen floor, climbed two flights of stairs, knocked at the door on the right. Hoped no one would open it. Then he could say he had tried. Only what good would that do? Irina would call the police or, even worse, come here herself—heaven forbid. If Irina saw
this,
it would be the end.

Sounds. Footsteps. The door opened and Sasha appeared. He was wearing a dreadful blue sweater, conspicuously darned. His hair was as short as a convict’s. He had lost weight, his face had a strangely waxen hue, and the look in his eyes was—kind of deranged.

“Come in,” said Sasha, making a gesture as if inviting him into a palace.

Kurt found himself in an empty apartment. He noticed hardly any details—there
were
hardly any details. A bare corridor. A kitchen without a single piece of furniture, all the cooking utensils stood around on an old stove. The living room: bare floorboards painted red. A naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. A cupboard. A mattress. A school desk painted blue with a typewriter on it.

Sasha pointed to the only chair in the room.

“Sit down,” he said. “Want some tea?”

Kurt remained on his feet, looking around.

A full ashtray stood on the window sill. There were books lying on the floor.

“I haven’t finished furnishing it yet,” said Sasha.

“Ah,” said Kurt.

He looked past the icy pattern on the window panes at the poplar in the backyard, raising its black branches to the sky.

“Have you been allocated this place or something?”

Sasha laughed, shook his head.

“So how do you come to be living here? Where did you get the key?”

“I fitted a new lock.”

“You mean you just broke in?”

“Father, this place is empty. No one cares two hoots about it.”

Kurt looked at the large brown tiled stove. A tiny flame flickered behind its cast iron door, which was open just a crack. Beside the stove stood a cardboard carton of coal. Against the regulations, thought Kurt. Out loud, he said:

“Right, then let’s go and find a place to eat.”

It was dark by now. Only half of the old streetlamps, dating from before the war, were still working. Smoke rose from a garbage container. “Lovely area here,” said Kurt.

“Yes,” said Sasha, “the best in Berlin.”

They walked single file, because there was only a narrow trodden path through the snow. Sasha was in front. He wore a thin—much too thin—shabby old military jacket, probably what they called a parka.

“Where’s your lambskin coat?” asked Kurt.

“Still at Melitta’s place.”

“Still at Melitta’s place,” murmured Kurt.

“What?” asked Sasha.

“Nothing,” said Kurt.

At last they came out on Schönhauser Allee. Now they could walk side by side.

“Your mother is worried,” Kurt began.

Sasha shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m fine.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Kurt. “Then maybe you can tell me what’s going on.”

“What do you think’s going on? I’m here, I exist. Life is wonderful.”

“Melitta says you want to get divorced.”

“You two have been to see Melitta?”

“Melitta has been to see us.”

“How nice,” said Sasha.

“Can’t Melitta visit us anymore?”

“Go ahead! I’m pleased to hear you’re all suddenly getting on so well.”

“Melitta is the mother of our grandson,” said Kurt. “And none of this was our own choice. It was your decision. You were set on getting married. You were set on having a baby. We advised you against it at the time ...”

“True,” said Sasha. “You advised us to kill the baby.”

“We advised you not to go rushing headlong into marriage with a woman you hardly knew. We advised you not to bring a child into the world when you were twenty-two ...”

“Okay,” said Sasha. “So you were right, if that’s what you want me to say. Congratulations, you were right. Happy now?”

The Vineta restaurant stood at the intersection with Gleimstrasse.

A handwritten notice hung on its door: “Closed Because of Technical Problems.”

The restaurant on the opposite side of the street was also closed: “Closed On Mondays.”

They went on toward the city center. Traffic passed by in fits and starts. Kurt waited for a break in it, so that he wouldn’t have to shout. Then he tried again:

“It’s not a question of who is or was right. I’m not reproaching you. But you married, you brought a son into the world, and now you have a certain responsibility. You can’t just chuck it all in and run when there happens to be a problem. That’s what marriage is like; there are sometimes problems.”

“It’s not about marital problems,” said Sasha.

“Oh,” said Kurt. “What is it about, then?”

Sasha did not reply.

“Excuse me, but I think that we, as your parents, have a certain right to know what’s going on. You simply disappear for weeks on end, we don’t hear a word from you ... can you really not imagine how things are at home? Baba Nadya in tears all day. Your mother is at her wits’ end. I don’t know how many years she’s aged in these last few weeks—”

“Please don’t go holding me responsible for my mother’s age now,” said Sasha.

Kurt was about to protest, but Sasha didn’t let him get a word in. His voice suddenly rose:

“I’m sorry, but I can’t arrange my life to suit my mother’s peace of mind. I’ve a right to a life of my own, I’ve a right to marital problems, I’ve a right to feel pain ...”

“I thought you didn’t have any marital problems?”

Again, Sasha did not reply.

“Is there another woman?”

“I thought Melitta had told you everything.”

“Melitta hasn’t told us anything at all.”

“No, there isn’t another woman,” said Sasha.

“What is it, then?”

Sasha laughed.

“Maybe Melitta has another man? There’s always that possibility!—They have broiled chicken here.”

They were standing outside the Goldbroiler restaurant where Schönhauser Allee crossed Milastrasse. Kurt did not fancy broiled chicken, nor did he fancy neon lighting and synthetic laminate tables, but above all he didn’t fancy standing in line in the cold. The line outside was a long one, going all the way back to the door.

“What else is there near here?”

“The Café Vienna is over there,” said Sasha.

“Can it serve us anything to eat?”

“Torte.”

“There must be somewhere around here to get a meal,” said Kurt.

“The Balkan Grill,” said Sasha, pointing in the direction of Alexanderplatz.

They walked on.

There was a strong wind blowing. A subway train rattled by—but the subway trains here ran on an overhead line, while the suburban trains ran underground. The world turned upside down, thought Kurt.

He tried to fit the idea that Melitta might be cheating on Sasha into his own thinking. It wouldn’t have surprised him for Sasha to be cheating on Melitta. But vice versa? That was surprising, and to be honest Kurt felt a tiny hint of, yes, satisfaction. Modern marriage! Equal rights! He, Kurt, was better off with his traditional marriage.

Out loud, he said:

“Of course I can understand that that hurts you.”

“Nice of you to say so,” said Sasha.

“I can understand it,” said Kurt. “And even if you don’t believe it I do have a little experience of life. What I don’t understand is why you’re living in that dump.”

“You think I ought to be living in the zoo?”

“I’d like to know why you aren’t living in your apartment.”

“I told you. Because Melitta’s living there, with her. . .”

Sasha flapped his hand in the air.

“What—he’s
living
there?”

Sasha did not reply to this.

“But you can’t simply leave him your apartment.”

“Father, Melitta will be awarded occupation of the apartment anyway.”

“But you’ll lose your right to it.”

“What’s it all about now? The apartment?”

“Excuse me,” said Kurt, “but yes, to some extent it
is
also about the apartment. Your mother found it for you, helped you to hang wallpaper because Melitta was pregnant, and now you’re chucking it all in and your mother can find you your next apartment.”

“You see, that’s exactly it!” Sasha stopped. He was almost shouting now. “That’s exactly it!”

“Yes,” said Kurt. “That’s exactly it.”

Sasha waved this away and walked on.

“You really are being so unreasonable,” Kurt called after him. Sasha went on walking.

“And I’ll tell you one thing: if it comes out that you broke into that place back there ... it’s a
criminal
offense, do you realize? It could mean the end of your studies.”

“I’ve finished my studies anyway,” said Sasha, going into the Balkan Grill.

Of necessity, Kurt followed him.

There were already several people waiting for a table in the restaurant, just beyond the door. Kurt and Sasha joined the line and waited too. In fact, the restaurant was full. A fat, dark-haired waiter whom Kurt would have taken for a Bulgarian was running back and forth, emanating a sense of frantic activity. He wore a black suit and a not entirely spotless shirt. His belly was spilling over his waistband. His face seemed to be swollen with effort.

“Two more mixed salads, two more kebabs and rice,” he shouted to the kitchen staff in broad Berlin dialect.

He was the only one letting himself indulge in noise. The guests were talking in muted voices, and spoke up timidly when placing a order. Suddenly Kurt was reminded of this afternoon’s session of the Party Training Year, a ridiculous but obligatory arrangement that, although it called itself a year, met only once a month. Today’s subject: Theory and Practice of the Further Formation of the Developed Socialist Society.

“How long have you been waiting?” Sasha asked the two people standing in line in front of them.

They were a middle-aged couple. They glanced at each other before agreeing—apparently telepathically—on an answer, which the man gave, while the woman silently spelled it out, synchronizing her lip movements with his.

“Thirty minutes.” He, too, spoke in broad Berlin dialect.

The couple nodded to reinforce this statement.

“Everywhere’s closed,” added another man. “It’s the energy crisis. Makes you wonder there’s anywhere open at all.”

“You know what it’s like,” whispered the other man—obviously encouraged by so much fellow feeling. “Can you name the four archenemies of socialism?”

The couple exchanged glances again.

“Spring, summer, fall, winter,” said the man, chuckling to himself. The couple exchanged more glances.

Sasha laughed.

Kurt had heard that joke already, from Günther before the Party meeting.

They left the restaurant after waiting for fifteen minutes. At least they had warmed up slightly.

“There’s Stockinger over there,” said Sasha. “Expensive, though.”

“My God,” said Kurt.

They crossed to the other side of Schönhauser Allee. Sure enough, Stockinger was open. Furthermore, there were still tables available. Or anyway, a notice on the door said:

WAIT TO BE SEATED.

After a while a waiter wearing a bow tie appeared.

“A table for two,” said Sasha.

The waiter looked him up and down: his mended jacket, his washed-out jeans, his scratched, dirty hiking shoes.

“Sorry, all reserved right now,” said the waiter.

“But there’s no Reserved notice on that table,” said Sasha.

“I said sorry, but it’s all reserved. Try the Balkan Grill over the road.”

Sasha marched past the waiter and into the restaurant.

“Sasha, don’t,” said Kurt.

The waiter followed Sasha, trying to grasp his arm.

“Kindly take your hands off me,” said Sasha.

“Kindly leave this restaurant,” said the waiter.

Sasha sat down at an empty table and waved to Kurt.

“Come on!”

A second waiter arrived, and shortly after that a third. Kurt left the restaurant and waited outside. After a while Sasha came out and joined him.

“What’s the idea? Why didn’t you come in?”

“I don’t feel like kicking up a fuss,” said Kurt. “We’ll look for somewhere else.”

“There won’t be anywhere else. The Peking is gay. And there won’t be anything but bockwurst, at the most, at the subway bar.”

They went on in the direction of Alexanderplatz, on the left-hand side of Schönhauser Allee now. Kurt waited a while before asking the question that had been on his mind for the last twenty-five minutes.

“What do you mean, you’ve finished your studies?”

“I mean I’m not studying anymore.”

“Have you finished your dissertation?”

“I’m not going to finish my dissertation.”

“Look, have you gone right out of your mind?”

Sasha did not reply.

“You can’t throw it all up so soon before qualifying. What are you going to do without a degree? Work on a building site or something?”