New Lives (51 page)

Toward the end here—there is no reason to keep it from you—I have departed from the printed version and relied more on my own memory. But even with my changes there is no way of capturing the eeriness of it all, which grew sentence by sentence, almost word by word. Mario was sweating. Toward the end he started and concluded almost every sentence with a burst of laughter. He downed what was now a cold cup of tea in one gulp.

Geronimo stared wearily into space. Mario insisted we break this up. I don't know why I didn't stay behind with Geronimo and wait at least until Franziska returned. We hadn't exchanged two sentences with each other. I led the way down the stairs, and heard Geronimo lock the apartment door behind us.

Mario asked for a ride to the center of town. Just when I thought he had fallen asleep, his eyes flew open and he asked whether I still wrote poems.

At an intersection between Fucík Platz
²⁹⁴
and the Kupferstich-Kabinett we caught up with the demonstration. I stopped and let Mario out. Our good-byes were brief. As chance would have it, someone took a photograph, and so that's how I ended up in Geronimo's book. Except I'm the only one who knows that. In the photograph at the top of page forty-five, I'm the driver standing beside the open door of his Wartburg.

I had just waved to Mario, who had called something back to me over the tops of other people's heads—my eyes were following his white turban—when I heard my name spoken behind me. I turned around and there he was, coming toward me on raven legs, shoulders raised, smile askew, his hand extended. His feet looked like they were still stuck inside his father's work shoes. I shook Hendrik's hand. “I'm looking for my mother,” I said. We should get together sometime, he said. I asked whether he wanted a ride home. He no longer lived in Klotzsche, he said. Shortly thereafter I lost sight of him too.

As always when I was home alone, I lay down on my mother's bed and soon fell asleep with her nightgown tucked under the pillow.
²⁹⁵

Your Enrico

Dear Jo,

If you were a local politician you'd be calling every day to announce you'll be mailing us a letter—or maybe will just drop it off yourself—in a last desperate attempt to get on the list of candidates for a five-minute audience with the hereditary prince. Thanks to two pages on “His Highness,” our latest issue sold better than our scandal sheet.

The
first
resolution of the
first
meeting of the
first
freely elected people's deputies in a little less than sixty years was an invitation to the hereditary prince—Barrista had more or less made the matter conditional on a unanimous vote, since “His Highness” did not want his wish realized in the face of any opposition or reservations. Even our members from the Party of Democratic Socialism thrust their arms high. They were all grateful that they could begin their work with an act so pregnant with symbolism. First they praised us—the visit carries the epithet “organized by the
Altenburg Weekly
”—and then themselves for attempting to revive a tradition eminently important for the city and region after its having been suppressed and suspended during the decades of socialist dictatorship. At the local dance school they're already practicing curtsies.

A couple of black sheep are trying to sidle up to the hereditary prince behind our backs. Half of them want to touch him up—which, according to the baron, the prince wouldn't even regard as brazen impudence.

The baron has bought two large apartment houses, one adjacent to the other. On the north side, facing the street, they are black with soot. And his enthusiasm likewise remained a riddle as we stood in the stairwell. The high ceilings with their ornamental plaster and antique doors made the deal more plausible. Every apartment has two wooden balconies, one of which is to be converted into a winter garden. And the view! To the south it's a direct shot to the castle and—on clear days—to the crest of the Ore Mountains. The facade of the castle glistens like a snow-capped peak in the twilight. In the distance, a dark blue streak. And as if that weren't enough, down below is a meadow filled with fruit trees and ending in a rocky drop-off ten or twelve foot deep, which marks the beginning of the backyards of properties down in the valley. Renovation of his favorite bit of real estate will be done around the clock, since he pays in cash.

Even though I think I'm hardly pampering myself, in comparison to others I live an almost contemplative life. Andy not only wants to open a second shop, he's also taken it into his head to open a car dealership just for 4×4s—something you won't find anywhere around here thus far. Even when I drive home at midnight, the lights are still on in Cornelia's travel agency. You can book with her now too, and not have to pay until July. People stand in line outside from morning till evening. Her husband, Massimo, wants to open up a pharmacy in the polyclinic, which is why he commutes back and forth two or three times a week between Fulda and Altenburg. Recklewitz-Münzner is recruiting partners here, offering continuing education classes, and buying up one piece of property after the other for himself and others. Together with his friend Nelson he's reconnoitering for places to put gas stations. Olimpia, Andy's young wife, who speaks every language on the globe, is doing research for Jewish organizations at the land registry office. And Proharsky, the Ukrainian, has gone into debt collecting on behalf of his whole family, and thus for us too. Need I even mention that all these threads come together at Fürst & Fürst Real Estate?

I gave the baron a copy of my calculations for a free paper financed by ads, and assumed it would evoke no more than a smile. He gave it a once-over, said it was perfect, handed it back, asked, as he riffled through his attaché case, what I thought of the reunification of Yemen
²⁹⁶
—about which I hadn't heard a thing, was clueless as to the point of his question—and pulled out his own figures, which, he suggested, reached conclusions similar to mine. The only entries I had forgotten were the interest on credit and the rent.

The baron invited me to accompany him to visit Dr. Karmeka, our new mayor. He guaranteed it would be interesting, since he planned to make him a proposal—and I should watch the mayor closely as he made it—that could prove crucial for the future of the town.

Karmeka, who's actually a dentist and switched to politics because of a bad back, has fired as many members of the city administration as he could. Only the “antechamber” has survived. Along with two secretaries there's a personal assistant, Herr Fliegner, a pallid, frail young man who was busy sorting papers on Karmeka's desk and didn't even look up as we entered.

Karmeka, as everyone knows, receives all his visitors with the same ritual—no sooner have you taken a seat than he pulls out a pack of cigarettes (he smokes Juwels, an old GDR brand) and, holding it and his lighter up, asks, “Do you mind?”

In lieu of a reply the baron handed him a shiny brown leather etui. “A little something.” Karmeka (the accent is on the first syllable) froze, laid his own toys to one side, extracted a cigar, and sniffed as he drew it under his nose. With our permission, he proposed as he slid the case back to Barrista, he would smoke this delicacy come evening, in peace and quiet, which during work was almost out of the question—for although our presence was of course most welcome and ought not be considered work in any real sense…then he took a puff on his cigarette and forgot to end his sentence.

The baron led off with a complaint about the flood of petitions that had followed the announcement of His Highness's visit. He himself had been forced to devote a great deal of time to them, since it was not something one could ask of the hereditary prince. Further lamentations of much the same sort followed. The vertical crease that began in the middle of each of Karmeka's cheeks, ran past the corners of his mouth, and ended at his chin, began to twitch every now and then.

Things had in fact gotten so bad, the baron exclaimed, that our valued friends from the
Altenburg Weekly
were being subjected to something close to extortion to get them to publish His Highness's home address. He mentioned this vexation only so that one might have a very clear picture of what all the visit would demand we be prepared for.

In response to Barrista's palaver Karmeka's gestures grew increasingly guarded and limp. He cautiously extended both arms to accept the schedule for the visit—a suggestion, merely a suggestion—contained in a folder of the same fine leather as the cigar case. And the instant his fingertips touched the leather, he was seized with a coughing fit that caused him to draw his arms up and hunch over as if he were being beaten, until he rotated to one side and finally, still bent over, stood up and turned his back to us.

The baron was relentless. “His Highness will not be arriving empty-handed,” he exclaimed, but since he was trying to drown out Karmeka's coughs it sounded more like a reprimand than a promise. His face fiery red, his head tucked as he fought for air, Karmeka stared at us wide-eyed. He hadn't understood what the baron had said about the hand reliquary. The solemn ceremony itself had not merely been a subject of discussion with the church, but indeed enthusiastic preparations—for the procession, for the transfer of the object—were already underway. “Can you—please…I didn't…I mean—repeat that?” Karmeka managed to gasp.

“We're bringing Boniface home!” the baron shouted, and with a smile handed the folder back to an exhausted Karmeka.

“Just a moment!” I heard a voice above me say. Fliegner had stepped between us and Karmeka with a glass of water. Fliegner shielded him so deftly that we couldn't even see him take a drink. “Ten minutes,” Fliegner said, addressing Karmeka, and stepped soundlessly back.

“Please,” Karmeka said, now obviously recovered, “where did we leave off?”

The baron handed him the folder with the schedule one more time. Karmeka laid it down in front of him and gazed again at the baron.

“And now an offer,” the baron said. “I have an offer to make to the city.” And with a glance at Fliegner he added, “And I expect the greatest discretion.” Karmeka just kept smiling steadfastly at him. The baron appeared to be considering whether he should even continue the conversation. There was the sound of papers being reshuffled on the desk.

“A three-figure sum in millions, currently invested abroad in dollars, will become available this year,” the baron said. He was considering parking the lion's share of it here, yes, here in Altenburg, and of course in D-marks, with the proviso that the city come to an understanding with the local savings and loan and offer him—given the size of the sum and its investment over several years—terms appropriate to such a transaction. “Altenburg is dear to my heart,” the baron concluded.

Karmeka's attention was now directed inward, his tongue probed a molar. As he attempted to stub out his cigarette, it broke and lay still fuming in the ashtray. Fliegner had once again stepped soundlessly behind Karmeka and now bent down to whisper something in his ear.

“How can I reach you?” Karmeka asked. The baron pointed to me and bowed, as if thanking me for my services ahead of time. His smile flickered and died.

Karmeka, who was the first to stand up, grasped the baron's elbow, as if to help him to his feet. “I shall enjoy your cigar this evening in my garden.” His eyes sparkled with cordiality. “See you soon,” he said. Turning to me, he whispered, “Keep up the good work!”

In the reception room Fliegner caught up with us to return the cigar case. We departed without an exchange of greetings. We crossed the main hall of the Rathaus in silence.

“Incredible,” the baron sighed as we stepped out under a blue sky. “Have you ever seen the like? Of that shyster? Plays the village idiot and the next moment gives us the cold shoulder.” The baron groaned. “Now that's a humbug, that's a bamboozler!”

I had never seen the baron so peeved.

“You need to send a shot across his bow, otherwise he won't know whom he's dealing with here. ‘Keep up the good work!' How dare he! Did you notice that proboscis as he sniffed my cigar? But no, no luxuries, these Protestants can't handle those.”

I would have liked to inform the baron that Karmeka is a Catholic, but there was no holding him back. “‘City Hall Turns Down Three Hundred Million!'” The baron punched the headline word for word in the air. “A shot across the bow, a nasty one!”

At our portal he blocked my path. “Do you know how much I hate that? How I hate to be kept waiting?”

“But what had you expected?”

“I hate it, hate it, hate it!” he shouted.

But then, when Frau Schorba opened from inside, the mere sight of her sufficed to make a total gentleman of him. Astrid the wolf came trotting up behind her. Frau Schorba takes care of her during the day. The dog lies under her desk, waits to be fed and taken for her midday walk, and to be played with. She never tires of fetching her green ball. In the afternoon Georg's boys or Robert take her for a walk. These walks are a regular fountain of youth for her. Of an evening the baron stops by to pick her up.

The baron's concern for our welfare did not prevent him from making a less than decorous attempt to steal Frau Schorba from us. But she swore she would never forget the trust I had placed in her, not for all the money in world.

She visits Käferchen and the old man at the hospital every day. Käferchen has pneumonia or something even worse; she talks as if she's delirious with fever and babbles on about not knowing where she's supposed to go now. Frau Schorba tries to talk the old man out of his craziness and hopes she may actually be able to speak my name in his presence soon. Leaving aside her warm heart and her gifts as a secretary, she would make an ideal advertising rep or a good bookkeeper. She's the most inconspicuous student during computer classes, never interrupts with some silliness, never inattentive.