Group Portrait with Lady (52 page)

Meanwhile the Finance Committee had achieved some results. “But,” said Mrs. Hölthohne, “let’s face it, the results are staggering. The Hoysers have got their hands on everything, they’ve even bought up the debts to other creditors, including the gasworks and waterworks accounts. The whole sum amounts to—brace yourselves—six thousand and seventy-eight marks and thirty pfennigs.” Incidentally, the deficit coincided almost exactly with the loss of income caused by Lev’s arrest, thus proving that Leni was perfectly capable of balancing her budget; so what was needed was not a subsidy, in other words money down the drain, merely a loan. She took out her checkbook, placed it on the table, made out a check, and said: “Twelve hundred to start with. That’s the best I can do at the moment. I’m overextended in Italian long-stems—Pelzer, you know how it is.” Pelzer, before drawing out his checkbook too, could not refrain from a moralizing comment: “If she’d
sold the building to me this whole trouble would never have happened, but never mind, I’ll give fifteen hundred. And”—with a glance at Lotte—“I hope I won’t be considered a pariah the next time someone needs money.” Lotte, ignoring Pelzer’s hint, said she was broke, Schirtenstein assured them convincingly that with the best will in the world he could not drum up more than a hundred marks; Helzen and Scholsdorff contributed three and five hundred respectively, Helzen stating that he would reduce the balance of the debt by paying a higher rent.

Scholsdorff now declared, with a blush, that he felt under an obligation to assume the balance, since he had been to blame—only to a greater or lesser degree, it was true, but causatively one hundred percent—for Mrs. Pfeiffer’s financial plight; the trouble was that he had a vice which imposed a constant restriction on the liquidity of his assets, he was a collector of Russiana, especially holographs, and only the other day he had acquired at great expense some letters of Tolstoi’s, but he was prepared to start taking the necessary steps with the authorities first thing in the morning and to speed things up, and because of his connections he was sure he could get a postponement, particularly if he took out a loan against his salary—which he would do as soon as the bank opened in the morning—and went with the whole amount, in cash, to the proper authorities. Incidentally, he felt sure half would be enough to go on with if he promised the rest by noon. After all, he was a civil servant, known to be trustworthy, and besides, after the war he had made Leni’s father several personal offers of private restitution which had been declined, but now here was a chance for him to atone for his philological sins, whose political dimensions he had not realized until it was too late. One really had to see Scholsdorff: the complete scholar, not unlike Schopenhauer in appearance—the T. in his voice were unmistakable. “But what I need, ladies and gentlemen, is at least two hours. I do not approve of the garbage-truck action, I
will accept it as a final resort and, despite the conflict with my oath as a civil servant, I will say nothing about it. I assure you that I too have friends, influence; a spotless record of service, contrary to my inclinations yet apparently not to my talents and now extending over a period of almost thirty years, has earned me friends in high places who will speed up the stay of execution. All I ask of you is: give me time.”

Bogakov, who had meanwhile been studying the city map with Tunç, felt that the only possibility would be in a detour, a faked breakdown, or a wait in a quiet side street. In any event Scholsdorff was promised the time he requested. Schirtenstein, even before he could begin to speak, interrupted himself with a vigorous “ssssh”—Leni was singing again.

Peizer’s comment on this, after an almost awed silence broken only by Lotte’s derisive titter: “So it’s true then, she really is pregnant by him.” Which only goes to show that even exalted poetry has its grass-roots communication value.

Before leaving the company, which by this time was in festive mood, the Au. broke his neutrality for the first time by adding his mite to the Leni Fund.

Next morning around ten-thirty the Au. was informed by Scholsdorff of the success of the postponement, and the day after that he read the following report in a local newspaper under the headline:
“MUST IT ALWAYS BE FOREIGNERS?”:

“Was it sabotage, coincidence, a repetition of the controversial ‘garbage happening,’ or was there some other
explanation for the collision yesterday morning, just before seven, between a garbage truck with a Portuguese driver, which at that hour should have been operating two miles farther west on Bruckner Strasse, and a second garbage truck, this one with a Turkish driver, which should have been operating four miles farther east on Kreckmann Strasse? The collision occurred at the intersection of Oldenburg Strasse and Bitzerath Strasse. And how was it that a third garbage truck, this one with a German driver, ignoring the one-way-street sign, also entered Bitzerath Strasse, where it rammed into a lamppost? Business circles which enjoy a high reputation in our city and have rendered many services to our city have conveyed information to our editorial offices which permit the conclusion that this was a case of a deliberately planned action. For,
mirabile dictu:
the Turkish and Portuguese drivers both live in a house of ill repute in Bitzerath Strasse which, after consultations had taken place with the social-welfare department and the morality squad, was to have been evacuated yesterday. ‘Patrons’ of a certain lady said, to be a ‘practitioner of the supplied arts,’ managed by means of inordinately large ‘loans’ to prevent the evacuation which, as a result of the indescribable traffic chaos (see photo), was sabotaged. Perhaps a more thorough checkup should be made of the two foreign drivers, described by the embassies of their respective countries as politically unreliable elements. Have there not been numerous cases recently of foreigners operating as procurers? We repeat—as a
ceterum censeo
—must it always be foreigners? This manifestly scandalous affair is being further investigated. A hitherto unknown person who, on the threadbare pretext of being an ‘existentialist,’ infiltrated the above-named business circles and to whom certain information was imparted in good faith, is assumed to have master-minded the action. Preliminary estimates set the material damage at approximately six thousand marks. What the cost of the many hours of traffic chaos may have amounted to in terms of lost man-hours is almost beyond computation.”

The Au. flew, not from cowardice but from longing—no, not to Rome but to Frankfurt, whence he took a train to Würzburg, Klementina having been transferred there as a disciplinary measure after she too had come under suspicion of being indiscreet in her conversations with him on the subject of Rahel Ginzburg. She—Klementina—is no longer wavering, she has decided to lay aside her coif and allow her coppery hair to come into its own.

It might be as well to make a splendidly banal pronouncement here: that the Au., although trying, like a certain doctor, to drive along his tortuous paths “with an earthly vehicle, unearthly horses,” is also only human; that he does indeed hear in certain literary works the sigh “with Effi up there on the Baltic” and, with a clear conscience, there being no Effi around whom he might take to the Baltic, simply takes Klementina to—shall we say—Veitshöchheim, where he discusses existential matters with her; he resists making her “his” because she resists becoming “his”; she has a definite bridal complex for, having spent almost eighteen years as a bride of the Church, she has no wish to become a bride again; what are known as honorable intentions are in her eyes dishonorable; incidentally, her eyelashes prove to be longer and softer than they had at one moment appeared in Rome. For many years an early riser, she enjoys being able to sleep late, have breakfast in bed, go for walks, take an afternoon nap, and she delivers fairly lengthy discourses (which might also be called meditations or monologues) on the reasons for her fear of crossing north over the River Main in the company of the Au.

Her pre-Veitshöchheim life is never mentioned. “Suppose I were divorced or a widow—I’d tell you nothing about my marriage either.” Her real age is forty-one, her real name
Carola, but she does not mind still being called Klementina. On closer acquaintance, after a number of conversations, it turns out she has been spoiled: she has never had to worry about rent, clothes, books, food—hence her fear of life; even the cost of a simple afternoon cup of coffee—possibly also in Schwetzingen or Nymphenburg—is a shock to her, each time the wallet is taken out she becomes alarmed. The continual telephoning that is necessary to the “country beyond the Main”—this is what she calls it—upsets her because she regards everything she hears about Leni as fictitious. Not Leni herself, whose existence has, after all, been documented in the Order’s dossier; although she has not been able to locate and read the famous essay on
The Marquise of O
_____ she has received written confirmation from Sister Prudentia of its form and content. Any mention of Rahel Ginzburg upsets her, and when asked by the Au. whether she would not like to go to Gerselen with him and pick some roses, she responded with a catlike pawing movement of her left hand; she doesn’t “want to know about any miracles.”

Perhaps it is permitted to point out that she—unconsciously—fails to appreciate the difference between faith and knowledge; there can be no doubt that Gerselen is likely to become a spa; the water there has a temperature of 100 to 102 degrees, which is regarded as ideal. Nor can there be any doubt that (as was ascertained over the telephone) Scholsdorff is deeply committed (acc. to Schirtenstein), that the newspaper quoted above is being sued to retract such expressions as “house of ill repute” and “practitioner of the supplied arts,” the only difficulty being to convince the court that the “courteous expression ‘practitioneer of the supplied arts” ’ is to be regarded as an insult; furthermore: Lotte is for the time being occupying Lev’s room, the two Turks, Tunç and Kiliç, are probably going to take over Lotte’s apartment (provided the building owner, who is said to be a “Levantinophobe,” agrees) because Leni
and Mehmet have decided to set up housekeeping together, a temporary description, for Mehmet is married although, being a Muhammadan, he is permitted a second wife—in his own eyes if not in those of the law of his host country, unless Leni were to become a Muhammadan too, which is not altogether out of the question since the Koran also has a niche occupied by the Madonna.

In the meantime the shopping problem has also been solved, now that the oldest of the Portuguese children, eight-year-old Manuela, picks up the breakfast rolls. Helzen is “under temporarily gentle pressure” from his superiors (all this according to Schirtenstein). Leni has meanwhile faced the “Help Leni Committee,” she has blushed (probably for the fourth time in her life. Au.) “with joy and embarrassment” at the gynecologist’s confirmation that she is pregnant, and she now spends a great deal of time with doctors, having tests “from top to bottom and side to side” because she “wants to prepare a good home for the baby” (Leni’s own words according to Schirtenstein). The findings of the internist, the dentist, the orthopedist, and the urologist are a hundred percent negative; only the psychiatrist has a few reservations, he has noted some quite unfounded damage to her self-esteem and considerable damage arising from her environment, but regards all this as curable as soon as Lev is released from prison. When that happens she is to—“and this is to be taken as a prescribed medication” (the psychiatrist acc. to S.)—go for walks as often as possible, and quite openly, arm in arm with Mehmet Şahin and Lev. What the psychiatrist has not understood, any more than Schirtenstein has, is the nightmares in which Leni appears to be haunted by a harrow, a board, a draftsman, and an officer, even after falling asleep in Mehmet’s comforting arms. This he calls (an oversimplification and inaccurate at that, as the Au. would be able to prove) a “widow complex,” and is also attributed (equally inaccurately) to the circumstances in which Leni conceived and bore Lev. These bad dreams, as Klementina
knows too, have nothing whatever to do with vaults, air raids, or embraces during such air raids.

Gradually, by planning the journey in easy stages and by stopping over first in Mainz, then in Koblenz, and finally in Andernach, the Au. managed to lure Klementina north across the river into that “country beyond the Main.” Her encounters with people were as carefully thought out as those with the countryside: first Mrs. Hölthohne, because of her library, the cultured atmosphere and almost nunlike quality of her home; cultured people are also entitled to consideration. A successful meeting that Mrs. Hölthohne ended with a hoarse whisper “Congratulations” (on what? Au.). Next came B.H.T. who, with a fabulous onion soup, an excellent Italian salad, and grilled steak, made an outstanding impression and avidly drank in every single detail regarding Rahel Ginzburg, Gerselen, etc.; who, since he does not deign to read the papers, knew nothing of the scandal that must meanwhile have subsided, and who whispered as they left “You lucky fellow.” Grundtsch, Scholsdorff, and Schirtenstein were each a smashing success: the first because he was so “completely natural” but probably also because the seductive melancholy of old cemeteries never fails to have its effect; Scholsdorff because he happens to be an out-and-out charmer, who could resist him? He is so much more at ease now that he has discovered a real way of being of service to Leni; besides, as a philologist he is a colleague of Klementina’s, and over tea and macaroons the two of them quickly got into a passionate argument regarding a Russian/Soviet cultural epoch that K. spoke of as formalism, Scholsdorff as structuralism. Schirtenstein, on the other hand, did not do quite so well, he complained rather too much about the intrigues and Wagnerianism of certain pseudoyouthful composers, complained openly too, with a wistful look at
K. and a still more wistful look out into the courtyard, that he had never tied himself to a woman and never tied a woman to himself; he cursed the piano and music, and in an attack of masochism went to the piano and hammered out “Lili Marleen” almost self-destructively, then apologized and with a dry sob asked to be “left alone with his suffering.”