The Wall (87 page)

“What about Dr. Kauders? Do you have him already?”

“Anyone who is good, but I don’t want him.”

“Why?”

“Ugh, he’s arrogant! He just makes fun of me.”

“But he is a talented man, Fräulein Knispel.”

“He took his time paying me, a year or even longer. I’d be happy not to sell anything to him again.”

“Bills for books, Buxi—that has nothing to do with it. But he is impertinent. And though he thinks himself a great academic, he no longer is. But another suggestion, Landau?”

“You already have a lot of academics. How about anything to do with literature?”

“Oh, that I have, for it piles up like rubbish. Anyone can write poetry and short stories these days. There’s no art to it. Even I can toss it off like that. What I accept really needs to be something special. Do you have something? Do you write yourself?”

“No, no, not at all, I don’t have anything. But what do you think of Inge Bergmann?”

“We certainly don’t need poetry, certainly not at the start. Inge Bergmann is a good egg, but a poor devil as well. I can’t help her. She’s always sending stories to the agency, but there’s nothing I can do with them. And we can’t have anything like that in
Eusemia
. Just imagine, a cultural journal, and then childlike journeys to the moon and such nonsense. Right, Buxi?”

With that I took our meeting to be over, or at least the part that concerned me. I didn’t promise Resi Knispel anything, no matter how much she
pressed me, no matter how much Buxinger tried to lure me in. I said that I really had to think the situation over, and that I wanted to wait until the first issue appeared. Both of them thought this discouraging and not at all nice, Resi Knispel calling it a churlish vote of mistrust. I didn’t change my decision, no matter how promising the project was still being portrayed with such flashy colors. At the start, if there were indeed so many contributors willing to pitch in, the project would certainly not falter if I didn’t join up right away. Resi Knispel agreed almost indignantly. It shouldn’t be hard to get such a flourishing operation off the ground, but I would be passing up a unique opportunity to take part in the development of a wonderful project that would bring me fame and honor, perhaps making my name known throughout the world. I should consider what it would mean to have my article appear at the same time in two languages, and soon in four or five, which would be fantastic good fortune, emphasized Fräulein Knispel, for a recognized genius such as myself.

As neither threats nor knee-deep waves of flattery would change my mind, Fräulein Knispel asked me insistently whether the well-being of my family and my own future meant anything to me, or whether I had so many bitter experiences and disappointments under my belt as to be unreasonable enough to turn away an extended hand. Did friendship mean so little to me? It became obvious that Resi Knispel knew a lot about what had happened to me with Haarburger and many others. My misadventures had generated more vile gossip than I had realized. At first this realization upset me, but soon it no longer mattered when I recalled Johanna’s warning and understood how miserable it would be to get tied up with these people once more through my own unrestrained approach. That’s why I replied nicely and coolly that it was in fact the well-being of my loved ones and our future, despite all the disappointments and experiences that had occurred, that forced me to hold back. I didn’t wish to upset anyone, but I at least wanted to see how things developed further before I decided for good.

Buxinger, as an upstanding person, respected my caution and said that Fräulein Knispel should be satisfied that I would take time to consider it. The publisher of
Eusemia
, however, didn’t like what she called a stab in the back. Right, Buxi, she said to him accusingly, this is no way to get a journal up and running, for we’ve wasted a good afternoon. If all we did
was waste hours and hours in fruitless conversation with each contributor, where would we end up, and if I’m to keep from wasting my own time, then I have to be smart enough not to pick the brains of overly busy people on my own sweet time, only to find out they are fools.

To this I responded, saying, Look, I was happy to come here, but not to have my brain picked, for I had explained right from the start that I couldn’t agree to anything. Well, then, fine, replied Resi Knispel, but would I come to a meeting of the main contributors, from which the editorial committee would be formed, for it couldn’t do me any harm to meet all the parties involved. But I didn’t agree to this suggestion, either. Then was that my final word? I said it was and stood up. Resi Knispel foamed with rage. Here I was, being offered such a wonderful chance, that she found it shameless that I should turn it down, though now she at least understood what Konirsch-Lenz had said about my laziness and my destructive, nihilistic spirit. Knispel had not wanted to believe this kind of talk and had emphatically disagreed with the wallpaper manufacturer, who, incidentally, was also doing an article on his practical work on sociology, but now she saw there was something wrong with me, that I was a morbid person, an asocial, corrosive type. My horrid past, which one can only weep about, had ruined me, the result being that I would always remain unfit for any kind of positive life.

Herr Buxinger cringed with embarrassment at this nasty outburst, but I smiled at him, undisturbed, said a friendly goodbye, and promised to visit him again in his bookshop. Then I said to Resi Knispel that she could indeed be right in what she thought of me, I myself often thinking much worse of myself, but if all that was true, then she would certainly agree that
Eusemia
and I were not made for each other. In addition, I wished
Eusemia
nothing but luck. Then I thanked her for the captivating afternoon and regretted the loss of fruitful work from the hours that had been taken. I said everything as pleasantly as possible, which caused Resi Knispel to accompany me down the hall to the door in a very courteous manner, as if she had forgotten the heavy accusations she had just leveled at me. In the foyer, as I looked for the doorknob, she stopped me.

“Landau, whether you do something for
Eusemia
or not, you are quite a man. I have a lot of respect for you. You amaze me, I, I … You know, I liked
you right away, Landau, back when I met you at the Haarburgers’. So let’s let bygones be bygones. Please, don’t go.”

“I’ve no idea what more I can do for you, Fräulein Knispel.”

“Resi! Don’t call me Fräulein Knispel! And don’t act so dumb! I once recommended that you write a novel,
The Miserable
. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And did you write it?”

“No.”

“Write, Landau, write!”

“I’m not a writer. I’ve never written a novel.”

“Oh, you dummy, you dear, dear fool! You drive me crazy! Write! It will be the novel of our time! Let your scholarly work have a rest. It will drive you crazy, you are meant for something much more.”

“One can’t turn away from oneself. One can only turn away from others. That’s, unfortunately, the way it is.”

“Write, write! Of course, I’ll read it. I’ll help you, I’ll do whatever you want, if only you would just want something! I can find twenty publishers for the novel. When will you come back again, my dear?”

“I won’t be coming. For now I must go.”

“You can’t go! Do you hear? You can’t go! Not before you promise that you will come again and tell me when!”

“That’s crazy. I can’t promise anything!”

“You must! Do I have to spell it out for you that I love you, that I’m crazy for you? I can’t live without you!”

“Let me go now!”

I wanted to open the door to the stairwell, but Knispel was blocking it; I would have to shove her out of the way. That I didn’t want to do.

“Sleeping Beauty, a fable for our day. Release me, Landau!”

“Get hold of yourself! Johanna is waiting for me at home.”

“Do you love Johanna, then—that proud, haughty sourpuss?”

“Don’t say anything about Johanna!”

“Well, then, it will have to be both Johanna and me, but not Johanna without me!”

“Please, just let me go!”

“Landau, Landau, kiss me! You can do with me what you wish!”

“I ask only one thing: let us leave each other in peace.”

The crazy woman wanted to grab hold of me and drag me off. She did so seductively, like a demon. She pulled me by the tie, it being the last one from my father’s shop, scratching my hand with her long fingernails and wounding me and wanting to kiss me and bite me. I asked the madwoman to be reasonable and understanding, but all in vain. I didn’t like to call out, not wanting Buxinger to witness any of this unleashed madness, but I couldn’t control myself. I shook off the wild beast, pushed her away from me, ripped open the door, raced down the stairwell, and didn’t stop running until I had put some distance behind me.

Once I felt I was in the clear, I tried to figure out where I was. I was disheveled, had a small scrape on my chin, which I dabbed at with a damp handkerchief, the scratches on my hand burning. My tie was askew—I loosened the knot in order to tie it afresh, and then noticed that the heavy silk was ripped, a painful wound that only Johanna’s gifted hands could temporarily repair. I couldn’t return to Resi Knispel. The image of my father appeared before me, Fräulein Michelup sewing silk strips with “HAL” on them, then they were placed in long cardboard boxes, each one neatly labeled, laid out on the counter and left open, the lovely ties visible and lying next to the other goods, patterns and colors arranged, Franziska choosing them, then a long rest in a drawer or in a suitcase during the years of extermination, until they found their way to me in the care of Frau Holoubek or Herr Nerad; then I hid them because I didn’t want to wear them or to see them, until finally I pulled them out, one after another, three of them, feeling childishly vain because of Johanna, though she liked them, taking it as a good sign that I was willing to don a piece of the past for her. Johanna had often criticized me for not tying the ties carefully enough. She tried to show me how, fussed around with them, but didn’t have much luck, me preferring to tie them the way I wished and not worrying too much about it. It took me a while to do so, but eventually I managed it, thinking it was good and asking Johanna what she thought. Johanna looked me over and laughed, though she didn’t laugh too much.

“Resi Knispel must have really got to you.”

“How can you say such a thing? I hardly know her, and I don’t care about her at all. She couldn’t mean less to me, and therefore you’re wrong.”

“That may be. She just looked at you so weirdly the last time we were at the Haarburgers’.”

That I could not believe. I had not been rude to her, but I had not followed up on any of her invitations, and had not shown her the slightest bit of sexual interest, something that Johanna wouldn’t have tolerated, though she didn’t have the slightest spark of jealousy within her and always thought of my best interests.
And then we were in Vaynor for fourteen days; Betty had rented a place from warmhearted people some miles outside the nosy little town where she sold her candies, us spending the first few days of our life together in a town far away from everything. In Vaynor, which consisted only of loosely gathered buildings, we didn’t have to tell anyone anything about us, we were free, and indeed the people we met—one quickly got to know them—showed a sweet concern for us, such that we were happy to smile at any face we encountered while exchanging a few pleasant words as well. The people who put us up, and who supplied us with ample meals, were harmlessly chatty, but nothing they wished to know disturbed us, and nothing that they talked about made excessive claims upon us. Their worries and hopes were easily balanced. These people were like innocent children and were pleased to be able to attentively and energetically spend their days, to our pleasure, supplying us with many little pleasing things. They loved music; the piano and the violin case were seldom closed. Everyone in the house was happy when we praised their playing. When Johanna took it upon herself to show the youngest, a ten-year-old boy, a better way to bow, there was no end to his thanks. We were amply indulged with cakes and baked goods and had to empty many a glass at the insistence of our hosts.

Happily, our new friends were ready to sing us some songs from their rough and yet attractive trove of folklore. They tried to translate the words and to explain the context. Since I was pleased to take it up and join in, I won their hearts and they wanted to do anything they could for me. Thus clothes and laundry were washed, folded, and ironed, for which we were hardly allowed to give thanks. Also, I was taught on request the old language of these parts, which few spoke, but which our hosts had preserved well. The gray, weathered church was explained to us both inside and out, and we were shown the local sights where the history of the Welsh was decided in 1286. Unfortunately, the meaning of the events of the Middle Ages weren’t
entirely clear to us, though I understood a bit, since I was eager to know as much as I could, much more than Johanna, who was happier about my being interested than she was taken with the stories. She thought it was good for me to be healthily distracted, as if such a prolonged engagement of the mind with a distant strange people, if even in a cursory way, could help a person save himself from his own past. That, however, didn’t happen, for I still remained plenty troubled, the experiences of earlier days melting into one another. Everything that I confronted in the present filled me with joy, but my inner life remained closed down to it; it was all a kind of brilliance, as if brought by a May snow, but then soon melting, running off, and gone. Johanna was much stronger, and I had to let her lead the way and let myself follow. It made sense that she knew the area better, since she had visited Betty often. And so I let Johanna lead me through the countryside, which I wanted to explore, despite the winter gray and the constant rain.

It was cold, but there was no frost, it having melted hours before. My gaze pressed through the soft mist, and everything looked as if it lived in a silent, distant dimension. We had only three days left; Johanna didn’t want to be away from her work for more than a week, while I was also anxious to get on with life and didn’t want to risk a longer stay, either. They were insular days, ourselves adrift, our worries subdued, as if stored behind a wall, whenever we wandered through the soft drizzle that soundlessly fell from low clouds. From Vaynor, from halfway up a somewhat steep hillside, we set aim for the valley and the old church and saw Morlais Hill across from us, though not for long, for soon we had reached the riverbed where the Taf-Fechan Brook flowed fast. On stony and sometimes muddy paths we followed it along in the direction of the current, no one to be seen anywhere, only free-range sheep standing together in little herds or on their own, grazing, looking at us curiously, and fleeing with little jumps whenever we tried to approach them or unintentionally got too close.