Those were good words from Peter’s somewhat inarticulate lips. But, after all, he wasn’t blind, he must see how her skin was suffering, how sometimes in the morning her face was gray and lined, and that with all her washing and massaging and all those oils and creams she could no longer achieve that “milky loveliness” that had once inspired him to such an intense, though brief, poetic paean. She was getting old, older, with every sleepless night perhaps a month or more older, and bouts with the bottle restored nothing; however much she rubbed and oiled, massaged and washed, there remained a faint film of gray, and she didn’t want Peter to lose his pleasure in her. He loved her, and those were such lovely words to hear from a tight-lipped student’s mouth, and he meant so much to her, and it was quite true, what she had hinted at to the attorney: one day she would have run away with him, but she wouldn’t have chosen this apartment or this area, where the noise was slowly driving her up the wall. One more year, maybe six months, and she would have got that much more out of Breuer and opened a store someplace in a quiet area, a little neighborhood store, that’d be just the thing for her, or a boutique. And Peter might have finished his studies after all, and she would have adopted a child. After all, she was a completely normal woman, sexually normal too, wasn’t the affair with Peter proof positive of how normal she was? What a shame she didn’t have the peace of mind to play games, chess and all that, and other, less complicated ones that he loved to play, even if it was drafts or Chinese checkers: she lacked the necessary peace of mind. During the first few weeks they had almost got into a fight over the TV; she happened to be in the habit of watching the seven o’clock news, then having supper and leafing through the program to find something for the evening. Peter only had that tiny portable black-and-white—and it wasn’t even working that well, the box, most of the time it flickered, and sometimes the sound packed up altogether. And at night the roar, the grinding, and not even a phone, though she was alone all day and could have called old friends, like Elisabeth, who was now running a bar, or Hertha, who had actually managed to set herself up in a boutique. As for old boyfriends, she’d better not phone them: it would only lead to embarrassing propositions over the phone, awaken memories of indiscretions best forgotten—and she didn’t want to hurt Peter’s feelings. Phoning from a booth was no substitute. There was always someone standing outside, sometimes even knocking on the glass. It was quite a different thing to sit by the phone, smoking a cigarette, and chatter away to one’s heart’s content.
The money was slowly coming to an end too, slowly. Of course she had her own savings account, from the early days, she’d diverted quite a bit of household money—Breuer had never been petty, he’d only become petty now, and these days she had to think twice before taking the bus or streetcar two or three times a day. It was a blessing that she had more to do now than in Blorr, where Breuer had insisted on her doing nothing; now she had the cleaning up, tidying, shopping, cooking—what she enjoyed most was the cooking, because Peter so obviously enjoyed it after all those bachelor years living on fries and hot dogs and, if he was lucky, a warmed-up can or two. She enjoyed cooking, and it took her mind off the grinding and the roar and the thoughts of the coming sleepless night. She enjoyed setting the table quite formally for him—she had been allowed to bring along what was left of the linens in her trousseau—and watching him eat, and his gentle caresses were soothing. He was such a nice boy, not much given to talking, and it was too bad he was so anti-TV, and though he was always asking her to wake him up when she couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t bring herself to do it when he lay there, quietly breathing away, obviously used to the noise. In sleep his face was less stern, and of course she knew: it wouldn’t last forever with him, not forever, and she’d stand in front of the mirror and examine her skin again; it wouldn’t last forever, and not much longer either, and then it wasn’t likely to occur to anyone to offer her “a swinging time.” Perhaps then she would go home, back to Hubreichen, no longer Erna Breuer and not yet Erna Schubler, just Erna Hermes again, still able to run the milking machines, to bring her bedridden father his meals, to wash him, look after him. With Breuer she had never been really welcome there; her family considered him “a slippery customer” or, as her brother claimed, “a bit shady,” and with Peter—she wouldn’t risk that. But she did have a room there that was always ready: the high-sided walnut bed, washstand with basin, chamber pot. “The room will always be there for you, by yourself, mind you,” and: “If you do come, don’t try any more of your funny business!”
Who were they talking about? Jupp Halster, who out of a clear blue sky had shot his wife to death one Sunday morning, or young Schmergen, who, also out of a clear blue sky, had hanged himself one Sunday afternoon? True enough, she had “carried on” with a married man, with Hans Polkt, and he hadn’t got a divorce after all, and she had moved into town. True enough. But that Tolm boy, Mrs. Fischer’s brother, who had a lot more to answer for than her Peter, they allowed him to live there in peace, and he certainly wasn’t married to that girl, that Communist, who had a child by him.
That phoning from a booth got on her nerves. When at the third attempt Mrs. Fischer still didn’t answer, she phoned Miss Blum, was told that Sabine had gone to Tolmshoven, was told there that she couldn’t be given any information, no, not over the phone, but she insisted until she got through to the mother; surely the old lady must remember her from all those afternoon visits, a fine woman, who hesitated nevertheless, then did remember her, and after much digging and hesitation: “I mustn’t, I really mustn’t, my dear Mrs. Breuer—I’m always being told off as it is”—admitted that her daughter had “moved” to Hubreichen—she said moved, not gone—to her son’s, and she even gave her his phone number. But no, she wouldn’t phone there, she’d go there herself, by bus, maybe on her bike, maybe she’d even have Peter come along.
She might be able to ask Mrs. Fischer for some money. She certainly had plenty. Three young teenagers, jingling coins, stood outside the booth, whistling pointedly, and one of the boys muttered: “Didn’t know call girls were operating from phone booths these days.” Did she really look like that—already? Fair game, maybe? It was time to go away, move away. Maybe she could start as a housekeeper on the abandoned Halster farm. She was still capable of a hard day’s work, and it wouldn’t be bad for her skin, and Peter—he might be able to use his commercial knowledge there, and probably no work was too dirty for him; they would just have to have separate bedrooms, then everything would be all right, though it didn’t mean they had to sleep separately. That young Mr. Tolm, he didn’t need any separate bedrooms, he was allowed to share his bed with his Communist girlfriend, right there in the shadow of the vicarage, never mind that he was himself practically a “suspect.” Much worse, at any rate, than her Peter had ever been or could ever have become. The young punks were still whistling after her.
9
He couldn’t get Sabine out of his mind. It wasn’t only the annoyance, the thought of the battle with Fischer and the “kindly attention” the Zummerling people would once more bestow upon him, it was the child herself, anxiety over what was to become of her. If it should occur to Fischer to legitimize the child, uncontested, she would probably not accept that and thus set in motion legal problems that were practically insoluble. The thought of having to leave Tolmshoven became fixed, took root, grew. Besides, he was tired, very tired, and regretted his suggestion to invite Blurtmehl and his girl Eva for dinner.
His suggestion had been accepted with surprising alacrity, probably more at the urging of that Miss Klensch, who was prettier than in her picture, probably curious, too, and not unsusceptible to big names. More restless, too, than he had imagined, there was something almost waspish about her, not exactly pushy but not timid either, or even intimidated. For Blurtmehl this must all be rather embarrassing, but he mastered the situation with tact and discretion, was able to switch from servant to guest with the confidence of a tightrope walker, as it were, helpful without giving any
hint of his dependent position. He set the table while Käthe laughed with Eva Klensch in the kitchen, and even setting the table was the helpful gesture of a thoughtful guest, not the act of an invited servant. This adaptability, these indefinable yet perceptible nuances were also somehow disquieting—it was a game, a performance almost, and he could well imagine that at private parties Blurtmehl could and would play every role: the host, the servant, the host/servant, the helpful guest who made it possible to forget that he was a servant. Blurtmehl mixed him a cocktail that actually managed to lift him out of his weariness: allowed him to forget Sabine, conference, interviews, Bleibl, and the leveling of Tolmshoven. Blurtmehl put on a cassette (low-volume Chopin), sliced onions in the kitchen, cheerful, almost gay, seemed a different person and not the least bit embarrassed when Käthe, now that Sabine had moved to her brother’s, offered Eva the guest apartment after all, with the words: “At least you won’t be on two different floors then!” He heard them laughing in the kitchen: a gourmet omelet mixture was being prepared, cans of soup were opened and bottles uncorked in honor of the occasion, and Blurtmehl confessed that, although he was very fond of caviar, he had never had the nerve to buy any, and not even this remark, which was an unmistakable allusion to social differences, disturbed the harmony.
It was a bit much, though, when the Schröters turned up too, invited by Käthe—“finally with success.” They did live in the village, of course, were relatives, though not officially, and they did have a common grandchild. One problem was the awkward one of how to address each other, something they had never been able to solve even after meeting three or four times at Rolf’s. Schröter flatly refused to use first names. The utmost to which he could be induced was to say Tolm rather than Mr. Tolm, and Luise, his wife, went on saying Fritz Tolm, while Käthe positively forbade them to call her Mrs. Tolm or Mrs. Käthe and insisted on Käthe. But since they met so rarely, the forms of address always became confused again and seemed to end up with Mr. and Mrs. Then Käthe would hark back to the old days: “Imagine we had met when I was still living in the teacher’s house at my mother-in-law’s place and used to walk through the village carrying Rolf or when I was living at the countess’s, or even earlier when I was still Käthe Schmitz in Iffenhoven—we would have met, perhaps during carnival or at a church party at the vicarage, and I would have said: Please call me Käthe.”
“But that’s not the way it was,” Schröter would say with his mild yet bitter smile, “that’s not the way it was. Tolm without the Mr., I can manage that, but Käthe even with Mrs., I can’t manage that—and not to use names at all, I find that too discourteous, ridiculous, and I can’t very well call you too just Tolm. All this first-name business is too American for me anyway, it’s beyond me.”
“I was too young,” said Luise Schröter, “to call him Fritz in the days when he went to the village school, and later too, otherwise I might have managed to say Fritz now. Yes please, I like champagne. What are we celebrating? Oh, of course—pardon me, of course! Well then, here’s to you and all the best!”
Schröter insisted on beer, smoked his pipe, and when the table was set and Eva Klensch had brought in the soup: “Now I’m going to enjoy this. As long as we don’t start talking politics.”
“No,” said Tolm, “not as far as I’m concerned, I can promise you that.”
The seating was Käthe’s idea: Miss Klensch beside Schröter, herself beside Blurtmehl, and himself beside Luise Schröter. Plenty to talk about. He could inquire discreetly after Anna Pütz and Bertha Kelz, was told that one was paralyzed, the other dead; was also told that Kohlschröder wouldn’t be able to keep his job much longer, seeing how he—well, Luise blushed, she had always been one of the priest’s main boosters. Something must have happened that had to do with girls, school kids, and others who had apparently “exposed” themselves or been made to expose themselves to achieve something or other. Luise would say no more than: “This time he really did go too far.”
To reinforce Blurtmehl in the feeling of being only a guest here, not a servant, he, Tolm, got up from time to time, poured more wine, opened bottles of mineral water, brought glasses from the buffet. Then he explained the virtues of caviar to Luise Schröter, showed her how she must wait for the toast to cool slightly but not entirely, so that it was still crisp and warm but no longer hot enough to melt the butter, and only then to put the caviar on it, “More, more, Luise, fill the whole spoon”—with half an ear he was listening to the others, was surprised that Schröter was having such a lively conversation with Eva Klensch although Schröter himself had started on politics—socialism, Catholicism, history of the Christian trade-union movement, imprisonment during the Nazi regime, Adenauer’s betrayal, the Christian Democratic Union beyond discussion and the German Socialist Party gone soft—and heard Eva reasonably and vehemently defending her German Socialist Party, and at the same time the Catholic Church too. He was sorry Käthe hadn’t placed him beside Eva, he would have loved to have a closer look at this astonishingly pretty person, but then, if he had been seated next to her, it would have meant Luise having to sit next to her husband.
He also helped remove the plates of the first course, poured red wine, was aware of a few momentary mental blanks: it really must have been too much for one day—his election, the interviews, his rambling thoughts on bird flights, the business with Sabine. He apologized to Luise Schröter for his taciturnity, but then told her in detail about Holger Count Tolm, gossip she plainly and unabashedly enjoyed. “Too bad,” was all she said, “he’s supposed to have been nice enough as a young lad.”
He observed Blurtmehl with amazement: he had lost all shyness but not his dignity, kept his distance without distancing himself, was affable with Käthe without a trace of familiarity, yet there remained in his behavior a trace of the professional that would allow him tomorrow to resume in all naturalness his status of servant, prepare his bath, massage him, and not embark on a chat without being asked. Even his polite but uncompromising rejection of any further assistance from Tolm (who in an overly democratic gesture had wanted to help bring in the omelets and the salad plates), the firmness—not authoritarian, merely sensible—with which, without a word, Blurtmehl interrupted Eva’s metaphysical conversation with old Schröter and steered her into the kitchen, where she at once started giggling with Käthe again—in all this there was something he could only call personality. It was a resoluteness, an ability to make decisions, that he himself lacked: there was no doubt that Blurtmehl would have made a fantastic president. For the first time something about Blurtmehl’s movements struck him, called to his mind a phrase, a description, applying to those movements for which he had long been searching: the “youth movement” of the twenties that must have persisted longer in Silesia. It may have been that, too, which had—erroneously—made him think of pederasty.
The evening was clearly turning into what might be called a successful party: they all enjoyed the food, all were deep in lively conversations, Blurtmehl even dug up some boarding-school anecdotes, spoke kindly of the bishop, and Luise Schröter was so relaxed that she spoke frankly about their financial worries, how her brother—“You know what a tough character he always was”—was increasing the rent, even piling it onto the water rates—and what a miserable pension Schröter had. He was almost tempted to offer her money, a loan of course, they would never accept it as a gift—but his old, his new shyness held him back. It was always a ticklish business offering money, no matter to whom: either they accepted it too quickly and wanted too much, or they froze when he offered it to them; that was something Käthe would have to look after. Luise even asked point-blank how much the caviar had cost, and then blushed, and he had to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder and explain that he didn’t know because—and this might surprise her—he had received it as a gift, and from whom? From the Russians, of course, although he had no direct business connections with them—“They’d hardly want to buy my paper and sell it in the Soviet Union!”—he did
meet them at receptions and conferences. He also told her how little they cared for associating with their own comrades, how after a few drinks they sometimes spoke about them as disparagingly, contemptuously you might say, as—well, as bishops, perhaps, about acolytes or cardinals about lowly prelates. And to come back to the caviar, it was exactly the same with the cigars from Castro’s empire: he’d been given those, too, by the Russians, he would never buy them for himself, nor the caviar, and he confessed to Luise Schröter that he would never, never get over certain traumas and inhibitions, never: the hungry son of the penurious teacher of Tolmshoven was still deeply entrenched in him, and he would never, although he had long been able to afford it, pay six or seven marks for a cigar or—“for all I know”—forty for a few spoonfuls of caviar. He was trying to lead her carefully back to the subject of money, and please, she mustn’t think he was stingy, no, that he most certainly wasn’t, simply that a car, even a manor house, was all right but he would never be able to step across the cigar and caviar threshold. He just wanted her to know the devious routes by which Castro’s cigars came into the hands of West German capitalists—like the caviar from the slashed bellies of sturgeons.…