Life Embitters (63 page)

He was no different when he was doing the talking. He would switch tack, race from 3000 BC to Bismarck at a dizzy pace. His conversations were ineffably chaotic. In a nutshell, he saw some things as a function of others. However, this method, that so many people espouse, seemed comical on his lips that had never traveled the world. When he spoke it was impossible not to imagine him, ladle in hand, stirring a pot brimming with the most peculiar ingredients. The ladle brought to the surface Socrates’ broken nose as readily as a broken jaw from the Stone Age, the steeple of a Gothic cathedral as easily as sideburns from forty years ago. Many years ago when I was leafing through Spengler’s book on the crisis in the West – a book that is now completely forgotten – Dr Wiener often came to mind. They were two of a piece. Later, when I began to think of German culture and read about its history, I’ve realized that that Metrics professor was a typical product. German culture is a frantic race through time in a quest for the resolution of the principle of contradiction and the problem of duality. In this race moments of specialization are linked to successive moments of humanism, like the beads of a rosary. Specialization precedes humanism, and the latter then redescends into specialization. Specialization usually coincides with periods of prosperity; it is, we might say, the way prosperity clogs up. Humanism appears in times of decadence, is a loosening of vital energies that are unsure and confused. This pendulum movement never stops in the culture and oscillates from one side to the other to a final conclusion. Dr. Wiener brilliantly represented the humanistic moment.

Nonetheless, the presence of that man produced the results we wanted. Many people who were intending to come to our gatherings didn’t when
they knew that the professor from Hale would be there. His thick skin inspired dread and people avoided him as the devil flees the cross. The people who comprised the longstanding elements in our gathering were indifferent to his presence because they never took any notice of him.

So an era of complete normality was established. Our needs were catered to. We enjoyed freedom of movement once again, movements that were always very modest anyway. We celebrated the way things had turned out with an excellent dinner at the Kempinski restaurant, washed down by unforgettable wines.

However, when everything was on the right track and shipshape, I had to leave Berlin. These breaks in rhythm happen in life. I was truly sorry to say goodbye to Xammar my old friend, his wife, Mauzi, the Pekingese, and the members of our circle.

Months went by, maybe even two or three years. My memories of that era began to fade. Every now and then I would hear news, usually vague generalities, of the inhabitants of the Kantstrasse apartment. Sometimes, I’m not sure why, I’d remember Gerdy, that lively Polish woman. She brought the charm of a spring sky, an edgy, subtle freshness to the tarnished portrait of Berlin. That was also her main drawback: Gerdy was all over you and it was difficult to have a simple straightforward conversation with her, an everyday exchange. At any rate I noted that she’d left a memory that stood out in the haze left by the march of time.

Then all of a sudden I received news of her.

When I was in Girona, not long ago, I saw big street hoardings advertising a performance of
Rigoletto
that very evening. I spotted the name of Mattia Bocca on the list of singers and presumed it was the Italian version of the name of the baritone from the Camp de Tarragona. I bought a ticket to
the Teatre Principal performance and did indeed see him on stage looking sadder, more wretched and dejected than ever. His voice had flattened and he sang as a baritone bass. He had a limp and the mattress-spring shape the effort of lifting weights had given his body had slackened comically. Afterwards, we went to Ca la Quima to eat pork loin and kidney beans, roasted almonds and a drop of white wine. When we began to gossip, we talked about Berlin, but I thought his memories were embittered. All the same, I persisted and asked him if he had any news of Gerdy.

“Do you know what happened to that amusing young lady?”

“Yes, of course, Gerdy, the illegitimate child of Frau Schoen …”

“Whose illegitimate child …?” I asked, astonished.

“That’s right! Frau Schoen’s. She died only a few months ago.”

“She died …? That can’t be right.”

“It can’t be right? You still have it in you to make me laugh … She died of a dreadful attack of tuberculosis soon after you left.”

I didn’t dare ask him anything else. Fear of the past had chilled me to the bone. We went for a walk along the banks of the Onyar. Maties Boca smoked, was preoccupied with himself, absent, and lethargic. He didn’t seem to want to talk. It was a mild, rather damp autumn evening. I looked at the sky, to pass the time: the usual stars, the same blank, overwhelming, inhuman world. It all inclined you to shut your eyes and be carried away by the morbid pleasures of a memory that was inevitably set to fade. Awareness of the pettiness of humankind induced melancholy voluptuousness: a mixture of dread and tenderness. We carried on walking for perhaps another quarter of an hour.

“Isn’t about time to make our way to bed?” asked the baritone, throwing his cigar at the pebbles in the river.

“Very well, if you like.”

We turned round and headed back towards the city.

“Tomorrow is another day!” said Sr Boca as he bid me farewell and held out his hand.

“That’s very likely, of course.”

“Good night.”

“
Adéu-siau.
”

We went off in opposite directions. Before I turned the corner, I looked back. Sr Boca had also looked back. We surveyed each other from a distance, for one lingering moment. We were at once friends and strangers in the night. In the end, I shrugged my shoulders and continued on my way.

Frau Berends silently opened the door and tiptoed in. It was nearly pitch black in my bedroom. I was lying on the bed at the back smoking. I expect I’d been awake for a while, but I was afloat on a cloud of languid unknowing. Frau Berends stood by my night table, put down my newspapers and letters, and turned to leave.

“Eleven o’clock, Frau Berends …?” I asked in a sheepish, squeaky voice.

Frau Berends replied, groping for the handle to close the door, not looking round, her head sunk between her shoulders, in a pitiful rather than resigned tone:“Eleven o’clock …? Two o’clock! It’s getting dark again …”

She left holding her head between her hands.

I opened my letters. One was from my brother. It said: “Last week I sent two telegrams to your new address. They were accurately written, but both were returned with the comment: not known! They were about the favor
Sr N. asked of you, that you promised to honor and never will. If you weren’t so careless and lackadaisical, I’d feel really sorry for you. Where the hell are you? Who is this Marta Berends? Are you really in Berlin? Are you sure? You’ll never change, there’s no curing you: you’re a loose cannon. Your selfishness creates infinite problems for you and makes your life a real mess. You think you’re doing whatever you feel like and the smallest incident sends you off course …”

My first inclination was mentally to agree with my brother. That gave me the pleasure of feeling I’d done my duty. That pleasure would have restored me to my languid cloud, had I not decided to reread the letter. The lost telegrams stirred me. It was indeed odd and disturbing.

Are you an unknown in this household?
I wondered, as I laced up my shoes.

I thought about it for a time. It was strange. However, there could be no mistake. I was the only visible subtenant. The other living creatures were Frau Berends, a boy, Roby, a cat, and a kitten. The house contained objects from the intermediate realm – a gramophone, a stove and an alarm clock. Apart from that, there was nothing else with any life.

I worried as I dressed. While I knotted my tie I decided it was true enough, I’d lived in that house for a couple of weeks and still didn’t really know where I was. I’d yet to examine my bedroom properly. At the same time, I didn’t know where the house began or ended. The neighborhood seemed vague and remote, doubly so when I gave it a moment’s thought. Once again I agreed with my brother and now I too felt sorry for myself.

Frau Berends’ alarm clock chimed three. I switched on the light. It was raining outside and the sky was very low. Apart from the distant patter of rain, I could hear nothing. I was definitely in Berlin, but I could hear no city sounds. I listened to the rain and stopped musing for a moment. Then I realized
that my things were scattered around the room just where I’d dropped them when I arrived. My suitcase, with my clothes still a jumble inside, was open on the table in the center. My toiletries were lined up by the mirror over the basin. I’d been putting the daily papers on a chair, and the pile had grown. At first glance I thought the things I’d hung up the day before were still in the wardrobe. Then I realized my bowler hat was missing. I searched my bedroom in vain. I went out into the passage hoping the playful kitten had taken it to its somersaulting Paradise. No sign of my hat.

I thought I heard footsteps behind the kitchen door so I knocked. Frau Berends came out. She closed the door behind her. The passage was murky. I could only see Frau Berends’ imposing hulk and a pale pink hydrangea spot of color on one corner of her face.

“Frau Berends, where is my bowler hat?”

A long pause followed. My words echoed horribly down the passage. Frau Berends remained disconcertingly still. Finally she waved her hand as if to chase a fly away, snorted, and declared sarcastically: “Your bowler hat? Is that why you summoned me? What a liberty! Perhaps …”

As she opened the door I saw her in the light from the kitchen for a second: a wrinkle under her nose, nodding as if she really pitied me.

I went downstairs, with alarming thoughts buzzing round my head. I was worried:
Where are you?
I asked myself on a landing, feeling slightly afraid yet thinking how stupid and grotesque that was. The wooden staircase was very narrow and a dusty bulb flickered in my eye. Everything looked down-at-heel and dirty, and a cold draught blew up the stairs. The threadbare carpet was spattered in soft black mud. I struck a match to light a cigarette. With my first puff I heard a child crying nearby that I thought was behind me. My heart leapt and I turned quickly round. I dropped the match. The crying had stopped, as if they’d just drowned it.

I rushed down the rest of the stairs. I know this is absurd but I have to confess that when I walked out into the street, my head felt on fire, my mouth was parched, and my cheeks red hot. The stupidest presentiment at twilight can transform the most harmless, ordinary reality into something arcane, unbearable, and chaotic. I thought how everything seemed possible except for a telegram sent three thousand kilometers away going astray. How difficult it was to keep rational! The sound of certain words, for example, can interpose a misty film between our eyes and reality. The words ‘not known’ have such a mysterious resonance! When we are influenced by one of these mirages we think the reality of fantasy has a deeper, more logical and sensible meaning than the mechanical, ordinary day-to-day. The reality of fantasy is more vivid and exciting because it belittles an individual and makes him see the world through more pessimistic eyes.

It was raining and windy. The streetlamps were lit but glowed dimly. The street was almost empty. The wind whined through skeletal trees. I took the first turning. A tiny man with crooked legs was walking ahead of me. He was striding along and the unpleasant scrape of his hobnailed shoes gave me goose bumps. He wore a bowler hat pulled over his forehead, smoked a pipe, and carried a yolk-yellow suitcase. I tried to overtake him, and when I drew level, his innocent blue eyes stared at me, as he continued humming a popular tune. The street was long, straight, and terribly drab, dotted with patches of window light. The houses were all the same: reinforced concrete, mostly not pebble-dashed, a small, leaden-colored strip of garden, and a front fence – cardboard constructions. The silence of the graveyard hung over the street.

I found a huge, undeveloped plot at the end of the street. It was a field of potatoes dotted with black wooden huts. A thread of light slipped out of the occasional hut. The field was surrounded by the precipitous, scary walls
of the neighboring blocks. There was a vertical line of lights: seven toilets, one atop another. Silhouettes of tall trees loomed over the non-built-up corner, magnified by the low sky and milky gleam of twilight. Rain pattered monotonously on the half-dead field. The wind occasionally swept up the rain, slanting gusts hit the ground, and the raindrops made huge bubbles that popped.

I ambled back. On the first street corner, the wind blew the screams of kids my way. I walked in their direction. This street seemed constructed of equally cheap and characterless cardboard. A gang of boys was playing football in the light from a street lamp. I stopped and gaped. One of the boys had one leg shorter than the other and his gammy leg hung inside a huge, black, lumpy, monstrous shoe with a wooden sole, the kind worn by children with dropsy joints. I imagined the thin, spindly bone under the longish stocking. The knee stuck out like a rock under his clothes – a yellow blob.

The young lad was never still, capered like a goat and booted the rag ball with his monstrous foot. When he kept goal, he stretched out his whole leg and that vast shoe described a semicircle over the ground to stop the ball getting through. The shoe grated on the asphalt. That scraping sound went straight to my heart. I stood there a while, my hand over my eyes, listening as the heavy, sodden ball hit the lame boy’s foot. I felt his leg could snap at any moment like a reed and scatter shards of bone in the lamplight or that his leg would dangle like a broken branch.

I took a few steps as if to walk away, but then turned round and moved closer to the boy. I had a clear sight of him in the dull glow. His red puffy face and anxious eyes were glued to the movements of that bundle of rags; he ran to and fro, screaming, like an apparition. He kept leaning the palm of his hand on his gammy knee and taking the weight of his body on the ball of his foot, with a grimace of pain. The grimace was short-lived, then
he tilted his head back and his face brightened. His eyes and entire body resumed their frantic movements, the wooden sole echoed on the asphalt and against the soft, sopping wet ball while he screamed as diabolically as ever. I was dripping with sweat, my heart thudded and my hands shook.