THE LUTE AND THE SCARS (3 page)

(On the basis of this text, which forms part of an interview from 1934, one gets the feeling that
“
the late Feldner
”
in that family photo album might have had one of those dangerous
“
blood types
”
that the nationalists considered inheritable, like syphilis.)

15

First and foremost, this stand of his was the product of his organic resistance to banality. For the theory of origins, of
racial
ones on the one hand and social ones on the other, had taken on monstrous proportions in those years and become a commonplace amid all the misunderstandings and rapprochements: the great idea of community descended upon the
salons
and in the marketplaces. It gathered under its banner people wise and stupid, noble spirits and the dregs of society
—
people, therefore, who were linked neither by any personal affinity nor by any intellectual kinship but solely by this banal, hackneyed, and dangerous theory of race and social origins. That is why in the works of Egon von N
é
meth, works that otherwise teem with representatives of all the social strata of Europe of that day
—
the nobility, the upper bourgeoisie, the middle class, intellectuals from every possible background, merchants and craftsmen, officials and functionaries, parasites and the
Lumpenproletariat
, workers, peasants, nationalists, soldiers, traditionalists, social democrats, revolutionaries
—
in these works the autobiographical elements are absent. The witness must be impartial; the grief and repentance of the one party must be as alien to him as the prejudiced thinking of the other.

16

The man without a country, the stateless one, the cosmopolitan
—
as he was labeled by the newspapers in his home country
—
traveled to Amsterdam in the middle of April, after making a long arc through Italy, Yugoslavia, and Hungary. Along the way he wanted to visit his old, infirm father in Pest and absorb the European climate so that he would have some fresh and reliable material for his new novel
Farewell to Europe
. From Pest, where he took leave of his father in the awareness that he would probably never see him again, he traveled on in this way to Amsterdam, where he negotiated with his publisher, a certain van der Lange, the same man who had published his first novel a year ago, in German.

17

Mr. van der Lange was one of those young publishers who
—
because of some sudden resolution
—
reorient their love of literature, and perhaps their talents as well, from the goal of uncertain literary fame to the much more secure business of publishing the types of books, and even the very books themselves, that they would have wanted to write (and could have written?). After inheriting his father
’
s lending-library business, which was in addition part bookstore and part stationery store, Mr. van der Lange decided one day to print the books of his friends, having burned his own poems first, with a touch of regret. He was a lover of German literature; Heine was the first writer to poison him with poetic reveries and teach him the difference between the lyrical and the ironic, as well as the fragile relationship between them
—
a knack that is as hard to find among poets as it is among readers. In the 1930s, as German writers were becoming less and less able to find publishers in their fatherland, having been adjudged insufficiently transported by the national spirit or poisoned by the inheritance of their blood, Mr. van der Lange started publishing the books of German refugees, without being at all unfaithful to his preferences. The writers found in him not just a publisher of their works but also someone who gave them a friendly word and some encouragement. He was, in other words, one of those publishers whom success, money, and fame hadn
’
t made arrogant and inaccessible, or who just went through the motions, seeing their writers as frauds and malingerers who, instead of doing real work, spent their time in pursuit of something entirely vague and pointless . . .

18

If it hadn
’
t been for the papers (the stateless one read them early in the mornings, in the hotel restaurant) and their talk of armaments, of the dizzying increases in prices and unemployment, of diplomatic negotiations and anxious urgency, one could have believed, here in Amsterdam, that one still dwelled in the good old Europe of yore, and that the threat of war, Munich, the Reichstag fire
—
that they were all just nightmares and apparitions of a sick imagination. Mr. van der Lange, his publisher, a man with a jutting lower jaw and calm, gentle eyes (as if the bottom of his face were separated from the upper part by centuries of civilization), conversed with him over cognac and coffee, as if the two of them inhabited some island together. Mr. van der Lange was very well informed about the situation in Germany, and in their conversation he evinced
—
in spite of all the strict discipline that supposedly consigns men of good upbringing and high culture to lives of self-control and sangfroid
—
no little concern over the fate of German culture and the future of the continent. As for those matters strictly related to business, he again took care of these with the politeness of a man both realistic and sober, and he put together a contract with the stateless one about which neither of the signa-tories could be dissatisfied. But when the other man laid out the
“
German situation
”
for him on the basis of his own experience, that is to say as a witness, Mr. van der Lange grew morose, like a person hearing something horrifically unpleasant and difficult to refute about his very own mother.

19

After that nervous and depressed Europe where the people were gathering in the streets to catch the words of orators and demagogues on the balconies, and where armies were goose-stepping through the cities while masses howled in the stadiums, the man without a country suddenly found himself in Amsterdam on that bright April day, as if in another world altogether. The market women offered their goods with voices that were hoarse but merry and betrayed no trace of anxiety; the housewives continued flipping the big wriggling fish at the stands; the young men rode around quite civilly on their bicycles, pushing the pedals slowly and steadily, spokes gleaming in the sun. Next to the marketplace stood a huge barrel organ, painted orange, looking like an elegant coach and cranking out a medley of songs. Two girls in traditional folk outfits, with their white kerchiefs and yellow wooden slippers, held out to pedestrians tin cans bearing the symbol of the Red Cross. Boats moved calmly along on the canals; on one of them multicolored laundry hung on the ropes to dry, and someone on deck was playing the harmonica as if trying to imitate a canary . . . Through narrow uncurtained windows families could be seen around tables with steaming dishes of food: bright accents on idyllic scenes of family life, the way they would have appeared on the canvas of a Dutch master.

20

Here in Amsterdam, in a lonely little street a stone
’
s throw from a canal, the man without a country looked up a fortune-teller one afternoon whose business was attracting attention with its over-the-top advertisements that no one could say were lacking in imagination:
“
What awaits you on the morrow? Only God and Satan know. And their pupil, Herr Gottlieb.
”
And so forth.

21

He walked through the door, then pushed aside a heavy plush curtain and found himself plunged into reddish twilight emanating from a lamp with a red shade, lying on its side. After he had scanned the room, which seemed empty to him, he felt somewhat disappointed, as if he were experiencing
d
é
j
à
vu
, as if he had already seen all of this somewhere. Above all it was professional curiosity that brought him to this
“
premium fortune-teller
”
; he wanted to have a complete mental inventory of the scene in case he should ever need to evoke it. But right away, right at the door, it dawned on him that he should allow this
“
soothsayer
”
to decide his fate, since he had already exhausted all other means: the advice of friends, priests . . .

22

Now he was seated in a second-class compartment of an express train, thinking about what Mr. Gottlieb, the
“
premium fortune-teller,
”
had told him. The man
’
s statement reverberated unceasingly in his ears, formulated in passable German:
“
Paris is your last chance . . . Yes, yes. The last . . .
”
Was he superstitious? No more and no less so than other people. If he had been told this earlier, two or three years ago, he would not have paid any attention to it.

23

Capturing on paper, in haste, and with no explicit, patent goal, these miscreant humans, this freak show, the man without a country was aware of the fact that literature was playing a secondary role here, even as he also tried hard to pretend to himself that his interest was a purely professional one, and involved human phenomena; it will probably, he thought to himself, turn out to be more of an exorcism of some type, part of that phobia that prevented him from entering an elevator, of that dread of the unknown that literature can only make use of as an exorcism. Because, ultimately, if he should need such a figure, it would rise up from his memory, even before he pored over his notebooks and jottings, and what he was doing now was thus serving as a kind of amulet to ward off the evil eye, or malevolent destiny. For he needed health, and he needed life, a healthy and normal life, since his unfinished work still lay before him
—
everything else was subordinated to that thought. Everything else.

24

The stateless one left his hotel at five. In front of the doors to the building he stopped for a moment and looked first up at the sky and then at his watch.
“
The marquise went out at precisely five o
’
clock,
”
he noted to himself.

25

The blow came so fast, so unexpectedly, that our
apatride
couldn
’
t have felt anything save the penetrating pain on the crown of his head; and all at once daybreak lit up all around him, as if a thunderclap had struck in the vicinity; lightning flashed in his mind, illuminating with its fearsome and powerful tongue of fire his whole life, and immediately thereafter darkness must have descended. His limbs separated from his body, as if an invisible force had ripped them from his torso. (We can, by means of analogy, have a presentiment of this horrific sensation of a higher power pulling the limbs from our body: once upon a time you were rocking on a chair and the chair suddenly flipped over, and you found yourself lying with the crown of your head on the concrete floor while for a moment your hands and your feet seemed to be separated from your body, ripped out of their joints, and you lay for several seconds without moving on the ground, incapable of screaming because robbed of your voice.) This rapid flash of light, like the flame of a torch before a hard gust of wind extinguishes it once and for all, this illumination prior to complete obscurity
—
this is as far as we are capable of following the experiences of the man without a country. Further than this (as Mme Yourcenar would say), we cannot go. No such experience has ever been vouchsafed us. And we will never be able to experience such things.

26

You, dear sirs, would like for me to show you the house in which I was born? But my mother gave birth in the hospital at Fiume, and that building has been destroyed. And you won
’
t manage to put up a memorial plaque on my house, because it has probably been torn down, too. Alternately, you
’
d have to hang three or four plaques with my name on them: in various cities and various countries, but in this I could not be of assistance to you either, because I don
’
t know in which house I grew up; I no longer recall where I lived during my childhood; I barely even know anymore what language I spoke. What I do remember are images: swaying palms and oleander somewhere by the sea, the Danube flowing along, dark green, next to pastureland, and a counting rhyme:
eeny, meeny, miny, moe
. . .

I had just returned to Paris after the Easter holidays. I live in the 10th
arrondissement
and I do not suffer from homesickness. On sunny days, I am woken up by the birds, like in Vo
ž
dovac. Through the open door on my balcony I hear the Serbs shouting and cursing at each other; in the early light of dawn, as they are letting their engines warm up, accordion notes come tumbling out of their tape players. For a moment I don
’
t remember where I am.

I pulled the mail out of the box and started listening to my messages: Anne-Marie is letting me know that a new review of my book is out. (Just for the record: I had already read it.) Then some music, and giggling; I don
’
t recognize any of the voices. B.P. from London informs me that he has no intention of conversing with phantoms, and I should throw this machine out with the trash. Then, giggling and music again. A certain Patricia Hamburger (
“
Yes, like the meat
”
) reminds me, if I understand her correctly, that I flirted with her after a visit to an exhibition in some gallery, and that I kissed her hand. (It
’
s possible.) After that, there were two or three hang-ups. And B.P. once more: if he gets this machine one more time . . . Then, probably grasping the fact that time is running out:
“
I have something important to tell you. As for this accursed little machine, throw it in the garbage. I want to speak with you, and it
’
s quite a serious matter. But, damn it all, I cannot talk to a machine! I
’
d like to know what moron convinced you to buy this marvel. And why? It
’
s not like you
’
re some traveling salesman! I mean, really, what kind of all-important business dealings do you have? And those
women
of yours can just be patient for a bit . . . Incidentally, it would be better for you to write instead of . . . Did you really . . .
”
Yes, I know, that
’
s all fine and good, but the thirty seconds are up and I still have no idea what important matter he wanted to share with me. Luba Jurgenson conveys her apology: the last sentence of her article was cut, and so the text sounds incomplete. And then a frail voice:
“
This is
Jurrri
Golec. My wife has died. Burial Thursday at four p.m. The Montparnasse cemetery.
”
After that: Mme Ursula Randelis. O.V. from Piran. Kristos Arvanitidis, my friend from Thessaloniki. A certain Nadja Moust from Belgium; she would like to take a course in Serbo-Croatian; what are the requirements for registering. B.P. again, this time
in medias res
:
“
I just want to say that we
’
ve known each other for more than thirty years and we have still never had a
serious
talk. Farewell.
”
After which the line went dead.

At least ten days had passed since Jurij Golec had left that message, so I immediately sent him a telegram of sympathy. Then I tried repeatedly, and at different times of the day, to reach him by telephone, but no one answered. I assumed he had left town. Later I found out from Ursula Randelis, a friend of his of many years, that he had moved into No
é
mie
’
s apartment. (They had separated over twenty years ago; she lived by the Jardin du Luxembourg and he in the 14th
arrondissement
.) I called there a number of times, till at last I heard his faltering voice:
“
You
’
ve reached 325-26-80.
Jurrri
Golec and Mrs. Golec, also known as No
é
mie
Dastrrre
. Please leave your number.
”

One morning he rang me up:
“
Jurrri
Golec here.
”

“
Poor No
é
mie. Did you get my telegram?
”

“
Yes, thank you.
”

“
I thought maybe you
’
d left town,
”
I said.
“
It happened so suddenly.
”

“
Never mind. I
’
m calling on an important matter.
”

“
All right. Go on.
”

“
You are a sensitive man, David. You
’
ll understand.
”
(Pause)

“
I
’
m listening.
”

“
You aren
’
t like the French.
”
(Suddenly he switched to Russian.)
“
Ty poet
. That
’
s not flattery. After all, I said as much in the foreword to your book. You
’
re the only one who can help me. Money isn
’
t an issue anymore. It doesn
’
t matter what it costs. No
é
mie had plenty of money. I don
’
t know if you
’
re aware of that. She was working in ethnographic films and made a pretty penny. And then there were her African sculptures . . . Are you listening to me?
”

“
Of course I
’
m listening to you.
”

“
She
’
d cut me out of the inheritance completely, but then right at the end she changed her will. In the hospital. She was of the opinion that I had atoned for all my sins in relation to her. She left the largest portion to a foundation in Israel that will bear her name.
”

“
What kind of foundation?
”

“
For the study of the folklore of East European Jewry. Which is apparently in the process of dying out. But what she left to me is quite sufficient.
”

“
So travel somewhere.
”

“
I have to remain here. All the formalities pertaining to the inheritance, the official inventory . . .
”

“
At least move out of that apartment. It
’
s not good for you.
”

“
You have to help me.
”

I thought maybe he wanted to borrow money until the issue of the will was settled. Or maybe that he wanted me to help him move. He had a huge library with books in every imaginable language.

“
I
’
m at your disposal.
”

At that point he burst out:
“
Kupi mne pistolet
.
”
And as if he were afraid that I hadn
’
t understood him, he repeated it in French:
“
Buy me a pistol. I can
’
t go on like this.
”

“
I
’
m coming to see you immediately. Are you calling from home?
”

“
Yes, from No
é
mie
’
s apartment. You know where it is. Fourth floor, on the left.
”

He opened the door quickly, as if he had been standing there behind it the whole time. To me he seemed to be looking better than ever. There were no rings around his eyes, he was freshly shaven, and his lean face had a rosy complexion; he resembled a man who had just stepped out of the sauna. He was wearing a new, tailored suit made of lustrous fabric, a light-colored shirt, and a colorful silk tie. It was the first time I
’
d seen him dressed up like that. The finish on the wood of the furniture gleamed, and the windows were flung open, even though it was cool outside. Porcelain ashtrays gleamed on the table.

Right away it hit me that the African sculpture collection was missing. On the wall between two windows there was just one single female figurine with large breasts, and on the opposite wall two modern drawings were hanging in narrow black frames.

“
I
’
ve got some good wine,
”
Jurij Golec said, going into the kitchen; I heard him uncorking the bottle. Then he returned.

“
I
’
ll have one little drink with you. Otherwise, I don
’
t drink.
”

“
You must be taking tranquilizers. I did that myself when I was going through my divorce . . .
”

“
Alas,
”
he said with a wave of his hand,
“
it doesn
’
t help.
”

“
A physician once confided in me that he took his sedatives with whisky.
”

“
There
’
s no point to that anymore,
”
he stated.
“
I need a pistol, not pills.
”

“
Excuse me, but you must admit that I also have a certain amount of experience in such things.
”
(When Ana and I separated, I had a major crisis. Jurij Golec at that time comforted me with ambiguous words in the manner of a Talmudic sage:
“
Aside from getting married, there
’
s only one other really stupid thing a person can do in his or her life: get divorced. But the greatest stupidity of all is to regret it.
”
)
“
At night I put wax balls in my ears,
”
I said.
“
And a black blindfold over my eyes. I took sleeping pills and drank. When I woke up, my bed seemed like a grave. I thought that I would never sit down at a typewriter again.
”

“
You
’
ll write much more,
”
said Jurij Golec.
“
But in my case . . . You once said that you were on friendly terms with some Yugoslav gangsters in Montparnasse. You could procure a pistol for me with their help. She changed her will in the hospital. She considered my behavior of late . . .
”

At that point the telephone rang. He started conversing with someone in German.

Why the hell had I told him about my encounters with those
“
Yugoslav gangsters
”
in Montparnasse? I wondered. Besides, he
’
d blown it out of proportion. They were for the most part friends from my high school years, and when I got together with them, they were hardly packing any weapons. Or, at any rate, I never saw any in their possession. They just told me stories. About a guy who
’
d just come out of Le Select, or about someone they claimed I knew (
“
the tall fellow with the moustache
”
), since we had sat at the same table the day before yesterday. This man had gotten stabbed to death the other day at the Place Pigalle. Yet another guy killed two Corsicans with his pistol a few days earlier. Or he had been shot dead himself
—
I don
’
t remember anymore. A third got eight years: for smuggling weapons, and robbery, and pimping.

“
One of my friends,
”
Jurij Golec said when he returned to the table.
“
Hasn
’
t left his house for ten years now. He tried to kill himself; the Metro took off both his legs above the knee. He lives on the eighth floor, but he lacks the courage to try it again. He drinks. Takes pills. And waits for death. Is that how you all want it to be for me?
”

“
I
’
ll get a pistol for you,
”
I said.
“
A year from now. On May 8, 1983. I have experience with things like this.
”

“
In a year?
”
he said.
“
I won
’
t be able to stand it for a month. Not for a week.
”

“
In a year, in the event that you still have need of one.
”

“
I thought you were different from the French. But you
’
re just like all the rest. You don
’
t understand me either. Why should I . . .
”

“
Because you survived the camps.
”
(He had a number tattooed on his forearm.)
“
That
’
s why. Someone who
’
s lived through the camps . . .
”

“
Leave the camps out of this,
”
said Jurij Golec.
“
Compared to this, the camp was a joy. Even Raoul, that unfortunate creature without legs, survived the camps.
”

We were already on the second bottle of cabernet sauvignon. It was then that I noted the wine was going to my head and that I was hungry; all I
’
d had for breakfast was coffee. I suggested we go out for a bite to eat. Or we could have a proper lunch together. I was sure he hadn
’
t eaten anything.

“
I
’
ll take you someplace,
”
he said.
“
Let
’
s go eat, somewhere close by. I have to be back here by five at the latest. A couple of people are coming by. And the clerks from the court could show up at any time. Oh, for the day when all these formalities are complete!
”

We walk through the
passage
and come out on the boulevard. The air is cool, although from time to time the sun breaks through the clouds. One can feel spring
’
s incremental victory; the tables have been put out on the sidewalks; the women are sitting facing the sun, with their eyes closed and skirts pulled halfway up their thighs. A black man in shorts swishes past us on roller skates and then zips across the street. I watch as he goes out of sight into the Jardin du Luxembourg; on the gilded tips of the fence around the park the sun is leaving blood-red traces, like on some gaudy painting in the Louvre.