The Third Reich (24 page)

SEPTEMBER 11

Surprise: when I got up—it couldn’t have been twelve yet—the first thing I saw when I opened the balcony doors was El Quemado. He was walking along the beach with his hands behind his back, his eyes on the ground like someone searching for something in the sand, his tanned and scorched skin so shiny that he nearly left a wake on the golden beach.

Today is a holiday. The last reserves of retirees and Surinamese have gone out after lunch, leaving the hotel at just quarter capacity. At the same time, half the staffhave taken the day off. The hallways echoed softly and sadly when I headed to breakfast. (The sound of broken plumbing or something tinkled on the stairs but no one seemed to notice.)

In the sky a Cessna prop plane strove to trace letters that the strong wind erased before I could make out entire words. I was gripped then by a vast melancholy that seized my belly, my spine, my bottom ribs, until I doubled over under the sunshade!

I realized in a vague way, as if I were dreaming, that the morning of September 11 was unfolding above the hotel, at the height of the Cessna’s ailerons, and that those of us who were down below that morning, the retirees leaving the hotel, the waiters sitting on the terrace watching the little plane’s maneuvers, Frau Else hard at work, and El Quemado loafing on the beach, were in some way condemned to walk in darkness.

Was this true of Ingeborg too, protected by the orderliness of a sensible city and a sensible job? Was it true of my bosses and office mates, who understood, suspected, and waited? Was it true of Conrad, who was loyal and guileless and the best friend anybody could ask for? Was everyone down in the depths?

As I ate breakfast, the tentacles of a huge sun crept over the Paseo Marítimo and all the terraces without managing to actually warm anything. Not even the plastic chairs. I caught a glimpse of Frau Else at the reception desk and though we didn’t speak I thought I detected a trace of affection in her gaze. I asked my waiter what the hell the plane up there was trying to write. It’s commemorating September 11, he said. But what is there to commemorate? Today is Catalonia Day, he said. El Quemado, on the beach, kept pacing back and forth. I waved; he didn’t see me.

What went almost unnoticed in the hotel and campground zone was glaringly evident in the old town. The streets were decorated and flags hung from windows and balconies. Most of the businesses were closed, and the crowded bars made it clear that it was a holiday. In front of a movie theater some adolescents had set up a couple of tables where they were selling books, pamphlets, and little flags. When I asked what kind of literature it was, a skinny kid, no older than fifteen, said, “Patriotic books.” What did he mean by that? One of his friends, laughing, shouted something that I didn’t catch. They’re Catalan books! said the skinny kid. I bought one and walked away. In the church square—just a few old ladies whispering on a bench—I glanced through it and then tossed it in a trash can.

I returned to the hotel, taking the long way around.

That afternoon I called Ingeborg. First I tidied the room: papers on the night table, dirty clothes under the bed, all the windows open so that I could watch the sky and the sea, and the balcony doors open so that I could see the beach all the way to the port. The conversation was chillier than I had expected. On the beach people were swimming and there was no trace of the little plane. I said that Charly had turned up. After an embarrassing silence, Ingeborg replied that sooner or later it was bound to happen. Call
Hanna, let her know, I said. Not necessary, according to Ingeborg. The German consulate would inform Charly’s parents, and Hanna would find out from them. After a while I realized that we didn’t have anything to say to each other. And yet I wasn’t the one who ended the conversation. I described the weather, what it was like at the hotel and the beach, how things were at the clubs, though since she left I haven’t set foot in a single one. I didn’t say that, of course. At last, as if we were afraid of waking someone asleep nearby, we hung up. Then I called Conrad and more or less repeated the same thing. Then I decided not to make any more calls.

Reassessment of August 31. Ingeborg says what she thinks, and what she thought that day was that I’d left. Of course I was dumb enough not to ask her where she thought I would go. To Stuttgart? Did she have any reason to think I might have gone to Stuttgart? Furthermore: when I woke up and our eyes met, we didn’t recognize each other. I realized it and she realized it too and turned away. She didn’t want me to look at her! That I, who had just woken, shouldn’t have recognized her is normal; what’s unacceptable is that the bafflement was mutual. Was that when our love ended? It could be. In any case,
something
ended then. I don’t know what, though I sense its importance. She said to me: I’m scared, the Del Mar scares me, the town scares me. Had she sensed the thing— the one thing—that I was overlooking?

Seven in the evening. On the terrace with Frau Else.

“Where’s your husband?”

“In his room.”

“And where is that room?”

“On the first floor, above the kitchen. In a little corner where guests never set foot. Completely off-limits.”

“Does he feel well today?”

“Not very. Do you want to visit him? No, of course you don’t.”

“I’d like to get to know him.”

“Well, you don’t have time now. I would’ve liked the two of you to meet too, but not in the state he’s in at the moment. You understand, don’t you? On equal terms, both of you in good form.”

“Why do you think I don’t have time? Because I’m leaving for Stuttgart?”

“That’s right, because you’re going back.”

“Well, you’re wrong, I still haven’t made up my mind to leave, so if your husband gets better and you’re able to bring him to the dining room—after dinner, say—I’d like to have the pleasure of meeting him and talking to him. Especially talking to him. On equal terms.”

“So you aren’t leaving . . .”

“Why should I? You can’t think I’ve been staying at your hotel just waiting for Charly’s body to turn up. In terrible shape too. The body, I mean. You wouldn’t have liked it if you’d had to go and identify it.”

“Are you staying for me? Because we haven’t slept together?”

“His face was ravaged. From the ears to the chin, all eaten away by fish. His eyes were gone, and his skin—the skin of his face and neck—had turned nearly gray. Sometimes I think the poor bastard wasn’t Charly. He might have been, and he might not have been. I’m told that the body of an En glishman who drowned around the same time still hasn’t been found. Who knows. I didn’t want to say anything to the man from the consulate so he wouldn’t think I was crazy. But that’s what passed through my mind. How can you sleep above the kitchen?”

“It’s the biggest room in the hotel. It’s very nice. Everything a girl could ask for. And it’s the place where tradition says the owners should sleep. Before us, my husband’s parents slept there. A tradition in its infancy, really, because my in-laws built the hotel. Do you realize how disappointed everyone will be that you’re not leaving?”

“Who is everyone?”

“Oh, three or four people, my dear, please don’t be upset.”

“Your husband?”

“No, not him especially.”

“Then who?”

“The manager at the Costa Brava; my night watchman, who’s very touchy lately; Clarita, the maid . . .”

“Which maid? The young skinny one?”

“That’s right.”

“She’s terrified of me. I suppose she thinks I might rape her at any moment.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. You don’t understand women.”

“Who else wants me to leave?”

“Nobody else.”

“What reason can Mr. Pere have for wanting me to leave?”

“I don’t know, maybe for him it’s like putting the case to rest.”

“Charly’s case?”

“Yes.”

“How idiotic. And your night watchman? Why does he care?”

“He’s sick of you. Tired of seeing you wandering around at night like a sleepwalker. I think you make him nervous.”

“Like a sleepwalker?”

“Those were his words.”

“But I’ve only spoken to him a few times!”

“That’s not the point. He talks to all kinds of people, especially drunks. He likes to make conversation. But with you, he watches you come in and go out at night . . . with El Quemado. And he knows that the last light on in the hotel is the light in your window.”

“I thought he liked me.”

“Our watchman doesn’t like any of the guests. Especially not one he’s seen kissing his boss.”

“A very peculiar individual. Where is he now?”

“I forbid you to talk to him. I don’t want this to get any more complicated, is that clear? He must be asleep now.”

“When I tell you the things I tell you, do you believe me?”

“Mmm . . . yes.”

“When I tell you that I’ve seen your husband at night on the beach with El Quemado, do you believe me?”

“It seems so unfair to mix him up in this, so disloyal of me.”

“But he mixed himself up in it!”

“. . .”

“When I tell you that the body the police showed me might not be Charly’s, do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not saying that they know it’s not, I’m saying we’re all wrong.”

“Yes. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Do you believe me, then?”

“Yes.”

“And if I tell you that I feel something intangible, strange, circling around me in a threatening way, do you believe me? A higher force keeping watch over me. I rule out your night watchman, of course, though unconsciously he’s aware of it too, which is why he doesn’t like me. Working at night heightens some of the senses.”

“Now you’ve gone too far. Don’t ask me to be an accomplice to your madness.”

“It’s too bad, because you’re the only one who’s any help to me, the only one I can trust.”

“You should go back to Germany.”

“With my tail between my legs.”

“No, with your mind at ease, ready to reflect on what you’ve experienced.”

“Slip away unnoticed, the way El Quemado wishes he could.”

“Poor boy. He lives in a perpetual prison.”

“Forgetting that at a certain point everything has had the ring of hell to it, musically speaking.”

“What is it you’re so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything. Soon you’ll see for yourself.”

We climbed slowly to the top of the hill. From the lookout point, some hundred people, adults and children, watched the lights of the town, holding their breath and pointing toward a spot on the horizon between the sky and the sea, as if a miracle were about to occur and the sun were about to rise out of turn. It’s Catalonia Day, a voice whispered in my ear. I know, I said. What’s supposed to
happen now? Frau Else smiled and her index finger, so long it was almost transparent, pointed toward where everyone was looking. Suddenly, from one, two, or more fishing boats that no one could see or at least that I couldn’t see, preceded by a sound like chalk on a blackboard, there appeared various bursts of fireworks that together made up, according to Frau Else, the Catalonian flag. When all that was left were tentacles of smoke, everyone went back to their cars and drove down to the town, where the late summer night awaited them.

Autumn 1941. Battles in England. The German Army is unable to take London, but the British Army can’t manage to push me back to the sea either. Copious losses. The British fighting strength grows. In the Soviet Union, the Attrition Option. El Quemado is waiting for 1942. Meanwhile, he holds on.

My generals:

“In Great Britain: Reichenau, Salmuth, and Hoth.”

“In the Soviet Union: Guderian, Kleist, Busch, Kluge, von Weichs, Küchler, Manstein, Model, Rommel, Heinrici, and Geyr.”

“In Africa: Reinhardt and Hoeppner.”

My BRP: low, which means it’s impossible to choose the Offensive Option in the East, West, or Mediterranean. Sufficient only to rebuild units. (Hasn’t El Quemado noticed? What’s he waiting for?)

SEPTEMBER 12

A cloudy day. It’s been raining since four in the morning and the forecast calls for more rain. Still, it’s not cold, and from the balcony one can watch children in their bathing suits jumping waves on the beach, if not for long. The atmosphere in the dining room, invaded by card-playing guests who stare gloomily at the fogged-up windows, is charged with electricity and suspicion. When I sit down and order breakfast I’m observed by the disapproving faces of people who can hardly grasp that there are those who rise after noon. At the entrance to the hotel, a bus has been waiting for hours (the driver is gone now) to take a group of tourists to Barcelona. The bus is a pearl gray color, like the horizon upon which there appear the faint silhouettes (but this must be an optical illusion) of milky whirlwinds, like explosions or fissures of light under the roof of the storm. After breakfast I went out on the terrace: immediately I felt the cold rain on my face and I retreated. Miserable weather, said an old German in shorts sitting in the TV room smoking a cigar. The bus was waiting for him, among others, but he didn’t seem to be in a hurry. From my balcony I could see that the only pedal boats left on the beach, forlorn, looking more like a tumbledown shack than ever, were El Quemado’s; for everyone else the summer season was over. I closed the balcony doors and went out again. At the reception desk I was told that Frau Else had left the hotel first thing in the morning and wouldn’t be back until that night. I asked whether she’d gone out alone. No, with her husband.
I covered the distance between the Costa Brava and the Del Mar by car. When I got out I was sweating. At the Costa Brava I found Mr. Pere reading the paper. “Friend Udo, how delightful to see you!” He really did seem to be happy, so I let down my guard. For a while we exchanged banalities about the weather. Then Mr. Pere said that he would send me to his doctor. Alarmed, I refused. “Take a few little pills, if nothing else!” I asked for a cognac and drank it in a single gulp. Then I asked for another. When I tried to pay, Mr. Pere said it was on the hotel. “The anxiety of the wait is already cost enough!” I thanked him and after a bit I got up. Mr. Pere followed me to the door. Before we parted I told him that I was keeping a diary. A diary? A diary of my vacation, of my life, basically. Oh, I see, said Mr. Pere. In my day that was for girls . . . and poets. I detected the mockery: smooth, weary, deeply malicious. Before us the sea seemed about to leap onto the Paseo Marítimo. I’m not a poet, I said, smiling. I’m interested in daily life, even the unpleasant parts; for example, I’d like to write something in my diary about the rape. Mr. Pere looked pale. What rape? The one that happened just before my friend drowned. (At that instant, maybe because I’d referred to Charly as a friend, I was seized by a wave of nausea so severe it gave me the shivers.) You’re wrong, spluttered Mr. Pere. There was no rape here, though of course in the past we haven’t been able to completely avoid such embarrassing incidents, generally attributable to outside elements, since today, as you know, our main problem is the decline in the quality of our tourists, etc. Then I must be wrong, I said. No doubt, no doubt. We shook hands and I ran to the car to escape the downpour.