Already taking mental leave of the manor house, he recalled that the children had never liked coming here, not even Sabine. They had never felt at home here, they clung to Eickelhof as to a lost paradise, which it had never been, that damp, moldering monster of a building that had proven past repair, and all attempts to revive Eickelhof customs had failed. At times he had considered renting a hotel apartment, a suite, in Cologne, where he could meet his children, but Käthe had rejected that as being “really too far out.” Still, it would have been easier than dragging the whole surveillance apparatus along for every visit; perhaps one could buy a piece of hotel in Cologne. It wasn’t likely they would flatten the city. But presumably it, too, stood on top of that “brown gold,” and presumably there were technical means of dismantling the cathedral and rebuilding it somewhere else.…
When Käthe called him to the phone, paler even than yesterday, obviously frightened, his thoughts flew to Rolf, then to Zummerling. At the time of Rolf’s arrest she had looked just as pale and frightened when holding out the receiver; again when Veronica disappeared with Beverloh and Holger; and both times it had been Zummerling who had not only broken the news to him but also explained, with profuse apologies, that he wouldn’t be able to suppress these items of news. It did not surprise him that it was Zummerling again: his was the best intelligence service, after all, his spies were everywhere, and he suddenly wondered if it might have something to do with Herbert, who not only had crazy ideas in his head but was capable of carrying them out. Before going to the phone, he had the presence of mind to wave back at Thönis, who at that moment was being helped into his coat by Blurtmehl. Käthe picked up the other receiver and nodded to him. “Tolm speaking,” he said into the phone. “This time, my friend,” said Zummerling in his pleasant, friendly voice, “just so you won’t be alarmed—this time your family isn’t involved, but it’s terrible enough: Kortschede has killed himself, in his car, in the woods near Trollscheid. Are you listening, Tolm?”
“Yes, I’m listening … I … I just can’t take it in yet.…”
“Mutilated in the most ghastly way—in his pocket was a letter to you that Holzpuke, probably even Dollmer himself, will hand over to you—an explosive letter, highly explosive, that must never on any account be made public.… Are you listening?”
“A letter to me that I haven’t read yet, but whose contents you obviously already know—doesn’t that strike you as odd …? Kortschede was my friend, a true friend, one of the few I had.”
“The envelope in Kortschede’s pocket bore no address, so the letter had to be opened. The ‘Dear Fritz’ and the contents prove that the letter is meant for you. Needless to say, the envelope will be handed over to you too. Besides, the letter had to be opened since it might have contained allusions to perpetrators or accomplices—incidentally, the letter also contains some embarrassing allusions to that boy he called Petie. All in all, a letter showing him to have some kind of millennium obsession. I appeal to you, not only as our newly elected president but also as the owner of the newspaper with all its affiliations.… Are you listening, Tolm?”
“Yes, I’m listening.… I trust you’ll understand that I would like to read the letter before you report to me on it—and, when I have read the letter, for us to consider jointly what is to happen about my letter? Nor is it quite clear to me why instead of Holzpuke or Dollmer notifying me about the letter it’s—forgive my saying so—you, since to my knowledge you have no official function whatever.”
Zummerling laughed. “But it was Dollmer who asked me to talk to you before talking to you himself and possibly handing over the letter.…”
“Possibly? A letter intended for me?”
“This is a matter of such journalistic explosiveness that—there’s nothing I can do—Dollmer first called me about it, there’s even a chance Stabski will be brought into it. In this situation, my dear Tolm, you shouldn’t be so sensitive, considering the family embarrassments you are facing.… Are you still there … Tolm? Are you …?”
“Yes, I’m still here—have your specialists in pregnancy, that’s to say impregnation, opened fire?”
“Look, my dear Tolm … I find your daughter’s possible lapses more endearing than otherwise, but it so happens that your son-in-law is causing trouble. Not at all on account of some possible lapse, which he’s not likely to admit as yet, but because of the environment his daughter now finds herself in.…”
“As of yesterday.”
“Yes, as of yesterday and no doubt for another few days, if not longer; your daughter seems to feel quite at home there. And apparently your son-in-law is worried that his daughter might also feel at home there, too much so—he seems to be considering legal action, he’s still discussing the best procedure. He told our correspondent in Vancouver …”
“Where?”
“In Vancouver, Canada—told our correspondent there that he will not accept the situation—those were his words—and will sue for custody, but let’s not forget Kortschede … the isolation, the quasi-imprisonment, that psychosis, that separation from the boy who was sentenced to five years. It goes without saying that, as his friend and colleague in your new capacity, you will have to give the funeral oration, don’t forget who were the real cause of his suicide … and as far as your daughter’s concerned, we will of course use discretion. Our man in Vancouver …”
At this point Käthe interjected, saying quietly: “Kortschede was his friend, his good friend, and he will give the funeral oration, and we will wait patiently for the letter that one day we may perhaps be allowed to read, although it’s written to Fritz. As far as our family is concerned, I have no faith in your assurances, I don’t expect any consideration, no, I mean it. And anyway, we do have freedom of the press, don’t we? So let’s not interfere with freedom of the press.”
“Don’t cry, Tolm,” she said quietly, then nodded to Thönis, who was withdrawing in alarm with Blörl and Miss Zatger.
“Come, let’s go out on the terrace for a moment.”
“But it’s raining.”
“There’s a remedy for that—umbrellas, so I’ve been told—besides, umbrellas, so Rolf has explained to me, have an additional function: they are a protection against”—she gave a brief laugh—“eavesdropping invasions. Wait.” She went into the bedroom, returned with a large yellow umbrella, opened the door to the terrace, and drew him outside. He shivered, hesitated, she took him firmly by the arm and opened the umbrella, which was deeply curved. “The point should be sawn off or broken off, but I don’t dare,” she whispered, “because then the umbrella would collapse. Rolf told me that, in spite of the metal ribs and tips, it’s very difficult to beam in on someone under a curved umbrella like this. Now tell me: did you know about this Petie, or whatever he’s called?”
“Yes, I’ve known for a long time, Kortschede trusted me, he also confided many things to me that I can’t speak about—sad things to do with his family. Yes, I knew he was that way, he told me about that boy and how they bugged his conversations with Kortschede’s consent because the boy was a criminal. But I suppose it’s possible to love criminals too, even criminal sons, isn’t it?”
“And criminal daughters-in-law?”
“No, I don’t love Veronica, though I was fond of her. But I must say it makes me uneasy that Bleibl should now actually want to have us over for tea—how can they know, how can they have heard … he phoned this morning, and his voice was so friendly.…”
“Maybe Bleibl’s Number Four has been gossiping in bars, someone has heard it—I’m sure they must have ears that listen for them.…”
“He seems to have an urge to confess, Bleibl I mean—that’s something quite new in him. I don’t know whether he has ever drunk a cup of tea—at least I’ve never seen it, and she hardly looks the tea-drinking type either.…”
“She won’t be there, he told me. She starts with gin and tonic or straight whiskey early in the morning. Besides, she has a shoe fixation. Do you suppose she onc
e worked in a shoe store …? Are you cold? Shall I get you a blanket?”
“No, thanks, it’s quite something to stand under an umbrella on one’s own terrace and converse with one’s own wife in whispers in the hope that one isn’t being monitored—but then why shouldn’t they hear us? No, she never worked in a shoe store.…”
“Shoes always make me think of Heinrich Beverloh.”
“Shoes?”
“Yes, he knew a lot about women’s feet.”
“What?”
“Knew a lot about women’s feet, I say. Why shouldn’t a murderer, a criminal, know a lot about women’s feet? At Eickelhof he always used to help me pick out shoes. You know how I’ve remained loyal to Kutschheber, out of sentiment, or gratitude, because in the old days, when I had no money, he always sold me shoes on the installment plan—imagine, once a year, at most twice! Nowadays I buy more shoes and more expensive ones, and pay cash, but I’ve remained loyal to Kutschheber. When we were still living at Eickelhof I had them send shoes out on approval, the children and all those visitors left me so little time. In those days I had a good adviser—Beverloh. Yes, he knew a lot about women’s feet. He knew exactly when you could cross the border line between elegance and comfort, and when not. He always disapproved of my preference for comfortable shoes—by the way, in those days he also used to give Veronica advice, I’ve no idea whether he still does. In those days you didn’t spend much time at home and probably weren’t aware of this. He considered my feet too good to stick into ‘any old clodhoppers.’ From among a dozen pairs he’d unfailingly pick out the pair that did justice to both elements: elegance and comfort. Whenever the conflict between the two elements became too great, he always decided in favor of elegance. Incidentally, he also knew a lot about making jam: his blackberry jam was unbeatable—you’ve had it often enough. The boy’s a criminal, I know that, he’s dangerous, but he’s also charming and intelligent and extremely sensitive.…”
“And nice too, I suppose?”
“Nice too, but that was not the important thing, he happened to be that as well—and corrupt, corrupt to the very marrow of his bones. Yes, you may stare: he was corrupt. He dealt too long, too much, and too exclusively in money—just like Rolf, who went nuts as a result of his banking experiences. Well, Rolf got over it, Beverloh didn’t, he’s figuring and figuring and figuring, and not in order to figure out his financial advantage—he’s figuring, so to speak, for its own sake, and that’s enough to make anyone go nuts. You’re sure you don’t want a blanket, Tolm? We can really have a good talk here.…”
He shook his head, smiled, kissed her hand on the umbrella handle, looked out into the park, missed the birds.… “Let the headlines scream, Käthe, let Fischer sue. I’m no longer even curious, I’m thinking about the funeral oration, I’ll probably talk about love—why not? I’m thinking, too, of the man Sabine, from whom Sabine—perhaps he knows a lot about women’s feet.…”
“I bet Fischer doesn’t know a thing about women’s feet.…”
“How about me?”
“You would know something, you might. You might even know something about newspapers, but then you’ve never been interested in newspapers. Old Amplanger, now, he’s been very good at exploiting your laziness, your lack of interest, always threatening with Zummerling, although or because he is Zummerling’s man. Then you people started buying and threatening, threatening and buying, until you began to be ashamed to look at your own newspaper. You always did prefer to read the Gerbsdorfer Bote, didn’t you?”
“True, and now that I own it I won’t read it anymore. Everything will be drowned in sports and trivia, a bit of local dirt, entertainment. My sons wouldn’t touch the paper with a barge pole: too little information, and they’re right. I’m also thinking of my daughter—out of a clear blue sky—or is the sky not all that clear and blue?—she gets, shall we say, involved with another man.…”
“The child wasn’t born to be an adulteress, or made to be one either. I won’t even mention upbringing, it doesn’t help much, hardly at all—maybe one can only believe in marriage vows if one can break them. Come on now, don’t blush, old dear, you weren’t made to be one either, you failed as an adulterer … forget it, don’t feel ashamed, don’t go on blushing too long.… At any rate you showed good taste and tact, forget it, it’s no disgrace. I wasn’t made to be one either … was never even tempted, not even from boredom; whatever went on at Eickelhof and the paper and all that: I never felt bored.… Women’s feet, Kutschheber even made the boy an offer to take over the ladies’ section. He was gifted in many areas—strange, with that father, not because he was a mailman, but he was boring, like his mother: she couldn’t see beyond Blückhoven. Oh well, the old man hates us, as you know, we’re to blame for everything, with our easy, affluent life, with the university education you financed for their son, and then his stay in America. He would have preferred to see him as a letter carrier in Hetzigrath, his career crowned perhaps by rising to postal inspector in Blückhoven. Perhaps he’s right in a way. He won’t even let me into the house, curses at me if I as much as step onto the threshold, spits at my feet. Well, at least he wasn’t a Nazi, that I know, my father knew him quite well.…”
“You too … you’ve been to see him, you knew him before?”
“Of course, Ludwig Beverloh—his sister Gertrud is an old school friend of mine, she works at the town hall, she has her own cross to bear because she’s never married and bears the name. She used to come to Eickelhof fairly often, don’t you remember? But of course you were never there.”
“I never liked the place: that mixture of neo-baroque and neo-Renaissance, decayed, dilapidated, damp, stuffy … and I didn’t want to remodel. There’s just one thing I’m sure of: your specialist in women’s feet would kill me on the spot, if he could.…”
“But he can’t, and I doubt whether he wants to or would like to—Veronica doesn’t want it.… Wouldn’t you like to go in now and have another cup of coffee?”
“No, I’d rather shiver a bit in the November rain, under the umbrella with you, wait for the birds, and accept the fact that my sons and their friends won’t touch my paper with a barge pole and that they dislike coming to see us here at the manor. You’re right, of course: I’ve never been interested in newspapers, only in you, the children, their friends, in Madonnas and architecture, in trees and birds. No, I think I took you too much for granted for the word ‘interest’ to have any meaning when applied to you. I have always had the manor in mind, never liked Eickelhof, and my paper is, after all, a newspaper which with all its affiliations has millions of readers or at least subscribers: but for them it doesn’t exist, doesn’t exist for their friends. The communication of the system, the information mechanism of the system, doesn’t interest them—probably not even Sabine. Fischer only when he or his outfit is mentioned. Herbert is even less interested than Rolf. Every headline in the paper elicits a strangely happy little smile from him, not malicious, not cynical, but happy, like a child laughing at soap bubbles that burst on the instant, and they’ll laugh, not at Kortschede’s death—they liked him—not at his mangled face and not at the bloodstained car—they will laugh at the pompous, exceedingly pompous funeral, which Dollmer and Stabski will of course attend: a kind of state funeral with pomp and circumstance, with a security force of at least regimental strength, helicopters over the woods of Horrnauken. And I shall make a speech: my first official act in public. You’ll be coming too, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course I will, but only if by then you have been shown the letter intended for you. Don’t you think that might be a reason to resign: keeping a letter from you that is specifically intended for you? Don’t worry, I’ll come with you, I’ll be a dignified figure, pressing Mrs. Kortschede’s hand and displaying the distress I genuinely feel. I liked him very much—some of them are really nice, like Pliefger and Pottsieker, perhaps even Bleibl. What do you think—shall we have tea with him, here or at his place? He obviously wants to unburd
en his heart—if he has one.”
“Of course he has a heart, he’s been generous to all his wives. I assume that things have come to an end now with his Number Four too, with Edelgard—maybe he chases women because he doesn’t have a wife. Have him come here. He might be able to help us if Fischer is really planning to make trouble—the child has been at Rolf’s for just one day, and already he’s afraid of contamination. Is their system, our system, so lacking in conviction that they have to be afraid of its being exposed to doubt? Why aren’t they defending our system, our views, our prospects, against this infiltration? After all, Rolf and his friends have to send their children to capitalist schools whether they like it or not, they’ve no option, and they aren’t afraid, they feel strong enough. Remember the big get-together that Kortschede once arranged before his daughter committed suicide? He invited his daughter and her friends, and Rolf and his friends, ourselves, the Fischers and their friends—his aim was the great reconciliation, it distressed him that there were two or three worlds at loggerheads—there was dancing in the garden, paper lanterns, fruit punch and cold buffet, and Communists were dancing with millionaires’ daughters and millionaires with anarchists—that was before the days of massive security measures, of course. I can still see them: Sabine with one of Herbert’s friends, and Fischer with one of Katharina’s. Well, they could dance together all right, but as soon as they started to talk to each other it became acutely distressing: reality versus theory, arguments versus successes—those three kinds of arrogance clashing head on: the arrogance of Herbert’s friends, the arrogance of Rolf’s friends—and the empty arrogance of Fischer’s friends, who had nothing to show but their sales figures.…”