New Lives (32 page)

“And what's her name?” I asked. Before I started I had him describe their one-bedroom apartment for me.

I had half an hour, and then I was to read it to him. Ulf Salwitzky bent forward and added a few remarks of his own—“ass slapping, include ass slapping!” for example. The whole time he rocked his head back and forth. It turned out he knew what worked. He liked the way Kerstin didn't even have time to put the bouquet in a vase, so that the bouquet became a prop, at first disruptive, but then adding unexpected spice to things. Salwitzky filled me in about the next position. Nikolai wanted to know if I was planning to do it “with bouquet” too.

After an hour I gave Salwitzky my pages to copy. Nikolai's sketch showed drops of sweat flying off Kerstin's bobbing breasts. Her whole body was surrounded by sound waves—one, two, or three curves, depending on the intensity of the motion. Salwitzky wasn't prettified either, but the realism with which Nikolai had drawn his compressed lips or the way the body tapered to the shoulders only made the scene more believable. Only in the last sketch did Salwitzky's face take on a Gojko Mitíc radiance.
¹⁸³

Ulf Salwitzky stacked five packs of Clubs on the table and departed without a word. Nikolai gave me a nod, put his cap on, and left two packs behind.

I now learned what it means to become famous overnight, even though I was overshadowed by Nikolai. Like a ballad-monger Salwitzky had moved from room to room, showing everyone the sketches and reading my letter. We had our next job that afternoon, and by evening we were booked for the rest of the week.

Nikolai was the star and I was his assistant. Nikolai met with our clients, arranged the terms, and made appointments. And each time he would ask for my assistance and offer me the same cordial thanks for helping him out.

With equal pride and bewilderment Ulf Salwitzky handed us his wife's letter, which concluded with her holding her husband's penis in her hand.

As discharge day for the oldest class grew closer and closer, we had more and more to do. Nikolai in particular was working to the point of exhaustion. And it goes without saying that we were freed from other duties. Knut had to stand sentry instead of me.

Once discharge day was behind us, Nikolai and I were given day leave. He had arranged it for us and informed me no one else would be on “furlough,” as he called it, which meant the pubs wouldn't be too overcrowded. For me it was all uncharted territory.

We strode side by side not saying a word. The walk into town was endless. It was an odd situation; I felt as if I were at his mercy. Yes, I was annoyed at Nikolai's presumptuous way of taking charge of things.

He invited to pay for my dinner at a pub called Gambrinus, and ordered steaks smothered in onions and cheese, a specialty of the house. I insisted on a beer.

Nikolai tried to get a conversation going. First he talked about our prices and then about how we didn't need to accept every job. Then he spoke about his own plans. After discharge he wanted to go to Armenia, to see his father, who was an artist. “That's what I want too,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“To be an artist,” he replied—and looked like a wise sheep.

“And I want to be a writer!” I grinned as if I had cracked a joke.

“I know,” he said, raising his chin. “You should have said that much earlier on.”

“That wouldn't have helped,” I replied, and was angry because by saying it I was admitting he had guessed my thoughts and quite possibly had understood the whole situation at the time.

“I was waiting for you to open your mouth. Knut is the spy.”

“Why Knut?” I asked.

“Everyone knew about it, days ahead, don't you see—it happened by prearrangement. If you really had been a spy, you would have been rescued. But evidently it suited the higher-ups…” Nikolai looked around, as if searching for a waiter.

“But what do you mean you were waiting?” I asked. He moved the glass he had been about to drink from away from his lips, raised it, and said, “I would have confirmed your account, would have said that we'd talked about it before and that you had told me about writing a story…” His upper lip twitched. “I felt sorry for you,” he went on, “but given how stupidly you acted—a person could almost believe you wanted it that way.” He didn't respond to my laugh. Then he gazed at me—arrogant, sad, wise, prepared for any deed, and ready to meet his fate. Compared to him, Geronimo was a crude child.

Our food arrived, and Nikolai began to talk about other things. He wasn't going to be a driver, but was taking over the job of poster painter, which had just opened up, with his own workshop and the whole she-bang. He invited me to visit him the next day, or whenever I wanted, to visit him in his studio. But my decision had already been made: I was not going to tolerate him in my presence anymore.

Enrico

Dear Jo,

We've moved, and I'm living on the high seas! The floor covering they nailed over the planks was a remnant out of Fred's treasure trove, and its waves roll higher and higher each day and have turned the oil radiator into a boat that dances up and down whenever I move it around the desk from my feet to my back. That's the price for my medieval view.

Our would-be visitors often find themselves before a locked house door, because the old couple above us—they've allegedly lived together unmarried for forty years now—can't be convinced not to lock up whenever they leave or enter the building. She in particular, Frau Käfer—everyone calls her Käferchen
¹⁸⁴
—is a busy little key beaver. Ilona has developed a knack—even in the middle of a conversation and with the windows closed—for hearing someone rattling the door. Whoever does finally risk the stairs up to our office finds himself in a bright reception room—with plants everywhere, which are supposed to distract attention from the shabby Stasi furniture.

Fred has had signs painted on the doors,
SALES OFFICE,
for example, and written up a list of rules for each room. In my room, I am to note the following: “No more than two people at a time! No jumping, no stomping! Oil radiator, maximum level 2! Upon leaving: turn off lights, unplug all plugs! Close windows!” His final instruction: “No smoking!”—to which he added a handwritten “at least try”—“Danger of fire!”

Yesterday when I joined Fred in a visit to speak with the man from the hardware store—we have to install a new circuit in my room—and asked him to show us the back rooms, they saw my request as the transparent pretext of a spy. “We ain't got nothin' to hide,” the boss exclaimed, “if you want to…please…do whatever you want…” And dashed ahead of us. My courtesy didn't help counter his suspicion. Just the opposite. Each of my questions seemed highly open to misunderstanding, even to me. Finally, as we were leaving the storeroom, his wife blocked the way. There were tears in her eyes as she announced that she wanted “to get some things straight here,” because I probably didn't know how long they had been running this store, how difficult it had been to put all this together, to build up a business and keep it going. “It didn't do no good! He's ruined his health, his health!” Her husband accompanied each word with a sound like a muted tuba. Toward the end of her aria of desperation he chimed in for a duet, which consisted of nothing more than: “We can't do nothin' about it, nothin'! Can't do nothin'!”

“And now you can leave!” his wife said, halting in front of me. Her tears had dried. I invited her to visit our office, told her about the paper—“Yes,” she responded, and it sounded bitter, “we know your paper!”—and offered to run an ad for them free of charge. “Why should we do that?” he asked. “Ev'rybody round here knows us, why would we ever wanna do that?” The daughter, a beanpole of a woman, didn't even return our good-bye, and instead snorted incredibly loud into her handkerchief as we left the store.

The day before yesterday I had just found the right headline for an article (“The Captains Abandon Ship First”) when Ilona announced three journalists from Giessen. We had spent election Sunday with two of them. Rejoicing in reunion, they raised their arms as if they were going to embrace me. Right behind them came their managing director, whom I'd watched compose page proofs. His air was earnest and reserved. I led them through the newsroom as far as my door, but they climbed with me up to where Jörg, Marion, and Pringel share two large rooms. Once again the guests from Giessen found it all very “exciting,” as if they were expecting some dramatic turn of events at any moment. I asked them about their own article on the election. They acted amazed and were inconsolable that it hadn't found its way to us. As we sat drinking coffee we lied about our circulation numbers, basked in their admiration—for Jörg's article and our scandal issue—and listened to remarks about the “strong ad market” that was developing here. After a half hour they departed, with a promise to send the article.

Around six o'clock the managing director reappeared and halted in the middle of the room. I was on the telephone, sitting in Ilona's chair and waiting for the baron, who had promised to stop by with his lawyer and a surprise. “You were lucky,” I said, “that the front door was open.”

It might well be, he said, that luck was on our side, we were lucky that he had gone to the trouble of looking in on us again. He took a seat in the chair set aside for ad clients.

He wanted to speak with me quite candidly, and hoped we knew how much that meant and would recognize our moment of opportunity. His newspaper had decided to launch a daily in Altenburg—latest printing technology, professional journalism—the jacket section (that is, everything except local stuff) would be managed from Giessen. We should, however, give consideration to the idea of a cooperative effort, which would mean that they would buy us out, but certainly it was within the realm of possibility that “one of you might take over as manager here…”

I interrupted him and walked upstairs. I spoke very calmly, which is why Jörg didn't react at all at first. “No,” I said, “I'm not crazy. He is sitting downstairs waiting.”

The managing director had to repeat the whole thing, which obviously didn't improve his mood. Just so we knew the lay of the land, he couldn't give us any time to mull it over. At nine on the dot the next morning, there would be a meeting to arrive at a decision based on what he took away from here this evening.

Jörg exploded. With Georg he had been cool and methodical, but now he was out of control.

“Of course we can do this,” the man from Giessen cooed, and you could tell just how at ease he felt by the way he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. What did he, Jörg, expect? A couple of rooms, electricity, telephone—we knew how it's done. If things had been done by standard operating procedure, it wouldn't be us sitting in this palace here now anyway, but very different people—and the managing director pointed at himself. Even if one had allowed the locals a head start, that didn't mean that one intended to leave things that way forever.

Jörg, who for some inexplicable reason was holding his beret in his hands and flailing it about, attempted a laugh. “And who'll be doing the writing?”

That was up to us. At any rate they had enough pros—“young, ambitious, well-trained people”—who were just waiting for a chance to prove themselves. And there was no lack of local talent either. In response to a tiny ad in the Leipzig paper—the tininess dwindled to next to nothing between his thumb and forefinger—over thirty applications had been sent in, from which they had already invited seven people for a first interview. He didn't expect any headaches there. And his young friends, who—and we should have no doubt of it—always spoke about us everywhere they went with the greatest respect and admiration, had long since been hard at work preparing the first issues. “They've already taken up residence.”

Jörg blinked and said nothing. While waiting to have a panic attack, I asked why they needed us at all. The managing director pouted his lips and hung his head.

He recognized what we had achieved, he began—whenever he starts to speak, his tongue separates from the roof of his mouth with a smack—he had great respect for young people who wanted to do something for themselves and society, who rolled up their sleeves and set to work with real commitment. We were the new force that people could and indeed must depend on, because although a lot could be done from the outside, not everything could. That was a head start he was happy to credit us with. He was the first to recognize our effort on behalf of democracy and a free-market economy. By the harsh light of day, however, we lacked professionalism—and where was that supposed to come from in a dictatorship. But we could learn it, step by step, he knew he could count on our good intentions. In short, it was a question of empathy and fairness. We ought to look at it this way: we would continue to write whatever came into our heads, and with the concentrated force of their experience and capital, of their connections and tricks—yes, he was speaking frankly here, tricks were part of business, haha—they would come to our assistance and do battle with the
Leipziger Volkszeitung,
that old Party rag. And with cooperation and real effort on all sides something truly new would arise as a symbol, yes, a model for the entire country.

With each new sentence he had grown taller in his chair and was now swinging a hairy fist like a prophet. “A model for the entire country!” he repeated.

On our own, he continued, we had no chance against the big concerns, who would show up here sooner or later. To that extent they, the Giesseners, were a regular stroke of luck for us, even if we couldn't see it that way yet. And smiling blissfully, he added, “Once the big boys come riding in here, no one”—and here he stubbed a finger across the table—“will ask you anything!” Now his finger began to wag back and forth like a tardy metronome. “No one will ask you!” he repeated, leaning back as if exhausted by this last statement.