The Teleportation Accident (10 page)

‘You kissed her,’ said Rackenham. ‘I didn’t see it myself, but you came up to me afterwards and told me about it. I’ve never seen you so happy.’

‘I don’t remember anything of the kind.’

‘I’m not surprised. You were as glazed as a sash window. You were trying to hang on to your own wineglass for balance.’

‘You’re sincerely telling me I kissed her.’

‘Yes.’

‘Rackenham, if this is a joke, I will stuff this book so far down your throat that your duodenum will autograph it in bile.’

‘It is not a joke. You said you had just kissed her.’

And then Loeser remembered. He really had.

‘You’re an apprentice cuckold,’ Adele had said in the Fraunhofens’ dining room.

‘And you’re an aspiring joke,’ Loeser had replied.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I estimate you have about three more weeks until this conquering trollop routine loses its novelty and people start talking about something else. After that you will pass out of gossip and into mere signification. The only time anyone will mention your name is when they need a simple way of referring to a specific pattern of social behaviour. You will be living shorthand for something out of date. A ghost. A statue. A joke.’

‘And how exactly can I avoid that fate?’

‘Stop being so predictable. For instance, you might try being old-fashioned just for a night.’

‘That sounds tiresome. What does it involve?’

‘I’ll take you to dinner and there’ll be no absinthe and no ketamine and you can decide whether to sleep with me on the basis of my intelligence and my charm instead of my notoriety and my jawline.’

‘How boring. Where would you take me?’

‘Borchardt’s.’

Adele smiled and raised an eyebrow. ‘What about the Schwanneke?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘If it’s the Schwanneke, and you’re nice to the waiter and give him a big tip, then I will condescend to eat with you.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Yes. I won’t go home with you afterwards, though. That wouldn’t be very old-fashioned.’

‘But you might kiss me, at least?’

‘I suppose.’ She frowned. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Now you will just spend the whole evening calculating how you can coax me that far.’

‘Probably.’

‘Well, if we get it over with now you shan’t be distracted.’ Adele stood up on tiptoe and kissed him in a way that was both utterly passionless and staggeringly potent. ‘Eight o’clock tomorrow, then?’ she said afterwards.

Loeser wanted to respond but he felt as if both his tongue and his penis were likely to end their days among the shell-shocked in a rural mental institution.

‘Well, anyway, I’m going to find Sartre,’ said Adele. ‘Just because I’m seeing you tomorrow it doesn’t stop me making his acquaintance tonight. Have a nice evening.’ And she was gone.

When all this came back to Loeser in the Romanisches Café, he nearly bent down to give Rackenham a hug, but then he reminded himself that the Englishman hadn’t actually had any part in this victory. Instead, he just picked his book, apologised for the interruption, and went over to sit down with Ziesel.

‘Dieter! How have you been?’ he said, and generously permitted almost an entire phoneme to venture out of Ziesel’s mouth before cutting him off: ‘I’ve been pretty fucking well myself, since you ask. I’m having dinner with Adele Hitler tonight. Adele Hitler. And she kissed me last night.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘She said she won’t sleep with me but, come on, we all know her. And after that I feel fairly sure she’ll be my girlfriend. I’ll be the first to tame the beast. You wouldn’t know about this, of course, but there’s normally something a bit distasteful about going out with someone who’s fucked a lot of other men. “If a woman is good at sucking cock, it can only be because she’s sucked a lot of cocks. That is man’s eternal tragedy.” Somebody said that . . . Goethe, no doubt . . . And sometimes I think it’s only the replacement of the cells of the body that makes sex even conceivable: there’s no way I could kiss a girl’s clitoris if on a molecular level it was the same clitoris that other men had kissed instead of on a mere Ship of Theseus level. But this time I won’t care about any of that. If she’s mine, I’ll be operating on a new plane. Oh my God, Dieter, this is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to anyone. To think – for two years the highlight of my romantic life is flirting with an elderly dental nurse, and now this. Oh, yes, a ham sandwich, some gherkins, and a glass of champagne please – thanks. And I’ve even beaten Marlene! It had never occurred to me that she might take even longer to find a new squeeze than I would, but look at me now. I’ve got Adele Hitler and she’s still got no one. No one!’

Ziesel took the pause for breath that followed as a cue for corroboration and said, ‘Well, no, quite, I mean, Klugweil hardly counts, does he?’

Here it was: the equal and opposite reaction.

‘What on earth has Klugweil got to do with this?’ said Loeser.

Some sort of rapid mental computation clicked across Ziesel’s face. ‘Nothing. He doesn’t have a girlfriend either. That’s what I meant.’

‘You said he “hardly counts”. He hardly counts as what?’

‘Whatever we were talking about. I wasn’t really following.’

‘You were following perfectly well. It sounded almost as if you were trying to express some sort of connection between Klugweil and Marlene.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Don’t try to lie to me, Ziesel.’

Ziesel cringed. ‘I thought you must already know.’

‘That my best remaining friend in Berlin is fucking my ex-girlfriend? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’

‘Well—’

‘No, I did not already know that.’

‘But you dumped her. Two years ago. It’s not as if he stole her from you.’

‘Are you now dictating what I am or am not allowed to be angry about? I will be as angry as I fucking like. I don’t need to be issued a licence. Jesus, I am generous enough to let you have lunch with me and this is what I get in return.’ The waiter arrived with his glass of champagne. Loeser knocked it back and then rushed out of the Romanisches to catch a tram.

Sometimes psychology could be very straightforward: Loeser’s parents had died in a car crash, and ever since he had hated cars. He had never learned to drive, and he refused even to be a passenger in a private vehicle. Taxis were all right because a taxi was essentially a very specific bus. And trains were relaxing. But trams were best. Loeser, as an expert judge of character might have noticed after a lot of close observation, was not a man who shed tolerance and camaraderie in every flake of skin. But somehow, as soon as he stepped on a tram, his usual sensibilities would vanish and he would look around at the other passengers with their mysterious lives and find himself powerfully grateful that he had been born in a big twentieth-century city. He delighted in the tram network’s indifferent generosity: who else would ever work so hard to help you achieve your desires without pausing even for a moment to enquire what those desires might be? Wasn’t that an attitude about one stop short of love? Even a doctor would only do what you asked if he thought it would keep you healthy, while a tram would unhesitatingly take your fare even if you were on your way to jump off a bridge. Loeser couldn’t stand it when his friends complained that the trams were too expensive or too crowded or too erratic. That was so spoiled. Hecht had told him that if he extended this sentiment to the entire brotherhood of man, he would realise he was a communist at heart, but Loeser wasn’t interested. No Party was ever going to get him to a party. To Hecht, he liked to quote from
Politics
. ‘There is only one condition in which we can imagine managers not needing subordinates, and masters not needing slaves,’ Aristotle had said, ‘and this condition would be that each instrument could do its own work,’ like the golden robotic handmaidens in the
Iliad
that Hephaestus had built to help out in his workshop. (Or like a tram with no conductor.)

Marlene answered the door in a fetching green silk kimono that she hadn’t owned when she was going out with Loeser. She smelled of vanilla perfume under a thick baste of sweat.

‘Oh, Egon,’ she said, ‘are you really standing here in front of me or is this just a wonderful dream?’

‘What the fuck is this about you and Klugweil?’

‘You’ve finally heard.’

‘Finally heard?’

‘Everyone else already knew, of course, but we’ve been making half an effort to keep it from you because we knew you’d be such an unwarranted arsehole about it.’

‘Try as I might I just can’t believe the two of you would do this to me.’

‘It’s been two years, Egon. In any case, I could quite justifiably have fucked Adolf the day after you dumped me – but it’s been two years.’

‘You must be thrilled you’ve caught up with him at last.’

‘I am, actually. And I’ll tell you why. Do you remember, after what your idiotic gadget did to his arms, the doctors told him they’d never quite go back to normal?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘The doctors were right. And guess what that means.’ She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. ‘He can do it with both hands at once.’

‘Do what?’ Marlene smiled and raised an eyebrow. Then Loeser realised. ‘No!’

‘Yes.’

‘No one can do that with both hands at once! I tried half a dozen times! There isn’t room! Arms just don’t do that!’

‘Adolf’s do. We ought to thank you, really. But the neighbours might disagree. It’s frightful how it makes me wail.’

‘So you’re trying to tell me you’ve climbed the carnal ranks? All right, good, well, so have I. It so happens that I’m having dinner with Adele Hitler tonight.’ He had not intended to mention that.

Marlene laughed. ‘Really? You’re actually wasting the price of a meal on the biggest slut in Berlin? Good grief. Are you also under the impression that you have to bribe the librarian every time you want to get a book out of the public library? Adolf, did you hear that?’ she called back into the flat. ‘Egon’s having dinner with that filthy Hitler girl tonight. He’s very proud of it.’

‘Klugweil’s here now?’ said Loeser.

‘Indeed he is.’

‘Let me in. I want to talk to him.’

‘Sorry. I want to make the most of the afternoon. Adolf’s on very good form. Goodbye, Egon. And good luck tonight. I do hope she’s worth it.’ She started to shut the door.

‘Wait. Please. Just one more thing.’

‘What?’

‘Have you ever slept with any of the waiters at the Schwanneke?’

‘You’re disgusting.’

‘Oh, Christ, I know that blush! You have!’

Marlene slammed the door in his face.

He trudged back down the dusty staircase for which he’d once had such affection, resenting every familiar creak of every floorboard for its new allegiance to his former friend. Blumstein’s house was half an hour’s walk away, but this time Loeser was too angry to wait for the tram, so he went on foot. The director and his wife lived not far from the Fraunhofens in a sort of giant trophy case that had been designed for him in 1923 by a young architect from the Bauhaus called Gugelhupf. Its glass walls killed something like a thousand birds a year, and ever since its construction the neighbours had complained of an unmistakable quality of mourning to the dawn chorus in Schlingesdorf. That glass of champagne had postponed Loeser’s hangover but he still hadn’t had anything to eat and he began to feel as if the ballast of his rage was the only thing that was stopping him from floating away like a balloon.

‘We can’t work with Klugweil any more,’ he said as soon as Blumstein opened the front door.

Blumstein sighed as if he were estimating how much of his afternoon he was going to lose to this. ‘Good afternoon, Egon,’ he said. ‘Come in. I’ll ask Emma to make us some coffee.’

‘Don’t bother about coffee,’ said Loeser, following him into the expansive sitting room. From a shelf in the corner stared out some of the obscene painted masks from Blumstein’s notorious student production of
The Tempest
, which everyone always claimed to have seen even though it had run for two nights twenty years ago in a theatre the size of an igloo. ‘I just want to get this over with.’

‘This is hardly the first time you’ve come here to gripe about our mutual friend,’ said Blumstein. ‘If you could forgive each other for the “Teleportation Accident” then you can forgive each other for whatever it is that’s happened now.’ He lowered himself into one of Gugelhupf’s black rectilinear armchairs and gestured to another one for Loeser but Loeser stayed standing.

‘I’m not just here to whine this time. I mean it. He’s stabbed me in the back.’

‘How so?’

‘There’s no use telling you the whole sordid story. The point is, we can no longer be collaborators. But on the way here I realised that it’s for the best, anyway. Have you heard him these last few months? All of a sudden he’s determined that
Lavicini
should be all about the Nazis. Our play is not about the fucking Nazis. The New Expressionism doesn’t waste its time with politics. We agreed on that.’