“I didn’t know,” I said. He gave me a searching look, smiled, and seemed convinced.
“And to think of all the money I spent on your education,” he said. It was meant to sound ironical, the way a father of nearly seventy talks to his grown-up son, but the irony misfired, it froze on the word money. With a shake of his head he rejected the lemonade too, and the red wine, and said: “In the circumstances it seems to me that soda water is the safest drink.” I fetched two glasses from the sideboard, opened a bottle of soda water. That at least I seemed able to do properly. He nodded benevolently as he watched me.
“Do you mind,” I said, “if I stay in my bathrobe?”
“Yes,” he said, “I do mind. Please get properly dressed. Your attire and your—your odor of coffee lend a certain comical aspect to the situation which is not in keeping. I wish to have a serious talk with you. And besides—forgive me for being so frank—I detest, as you no doubt recall, any evidence of sloppiness.”
“It isn’t sloppiness,” I said, “it’s just a sign of relaxation.”
“I don’t know,” he said, “how often during your lifetime you have really obeyed me, now you are no longer obliged to do so. I am merely asking you to do me a favor.”
I was amazed. My father used to be rather shy, almost taciturn. Television had taught him how to discuss and argue, with a “compelling charm.” I was too tired to dodge this charm.
I went into the bathroom, took off the coffee-soaked socks, dried my feet, put on my shirt, trousers, jacket, went into the kitchen in my bare feet, heaped the warmed-up white beans onto a plate and simply broke the soft-boiled eggs over the beans, scraped the remains of egg out of the shells with a spoon, took a slice of bread, the spoon, and went into the living room. My father looked at my plate with an expression which accurately conveyed a blend of surprise and disgust.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I haven’t had anything to eat since nine this morning, and I don’t imagine you particularly want me to faint at your feet.” He forced a laugh, shook his head, sighed, and said: “Well, all right—but you know, protein alone is simply not good for you.”
“I’ll have an apple afterwards,” I said. I stirred the beans and eggs together, bit into the bread, and took a spoonful of my mush, which tasted very good.
“You ought at least to put some of that tomato stuff on it,” he said.
“There isn’t any,” I said.
I ate much too fast, and the inevitable noises I made while eating appeared to annoy my father. He suppressed his disgust, but not very successfully, and I finally stood up, went to the kitchen, finished my plate standing by the refrigerator, and looked at myself in the mirror hanging over it while I ate. I had not even stuck to the most important part of my training during the last few weeks: facial exercises. A clown, whose main effect is his immobile face, must keep his face very mobile. I used to always stick out my tongue at myself before I began my exercises, so as to get quite close to myself before I could withdraw from myself again. Later on I stopped doing that, and without any tricks whatever just stared at myself, every day for half an hour, until finally I wasn’t there at all: as I have no narcissistic tendencies, I often came close to going mad. I simply forgot it was me whose face I was looking at in the mirror, turned the mirror around when I had finished my exercises, and if I happened to glance in a mirror later on in the day I got a shock: that was some strange fellow in my bathroom, on the toilet, I didn’t know whether he was serious or comic, a long-nosed, pale ghost—and I would run as fast as I could to Marie to see myself in her face. Since she has left I can’t do my facial exercises any more: I am afraid of going mad. I always went up, after my exercises, quite close to Marie, till I saw myself in her eyes: tiny, a bit distorted, yet recognizable: that was me, and yet it was the same person I had been afraid of in the mirror. How was I to explain to Zohnerer that without Marie I just couldn’t go on practicing in front of the mirror? To watch myself eating was merely sad, not frightening. I could hang on to the spoon, could recognize the beans, traces of egg white and egg yolk in them, the slice of bread, getting smaller all the time. The mirror confirmed for me things of such touching reality as an empty plate, a dwindling slice of bread, a slightly smeared mouth, which I wiped with my sleeve. I was not practicing. There was no one there to bring me back out of the mirror. I slowly returned to the living room.
“Much too fast,” said my father, “you eat too quickly. Do sit down. Aren’t you going to drink anything?”
“No,” I said, “I wanted to make some coffee, but it was a flop.”
“Shall I make some for you?” he asked.
“Do you know how to?” I asked.
“I have the reputation of making very good coffee,” he said.
“Oh, never mind,” I said, “I’ll have some soda water, it’s not that important.”
“But I’d be glad to do it,” he said.
“No,” I said, “thanks. The kitchen is in an appalling mess. A huge puddle of coffee, open cans, eggshells on the floor.”
“Very well then,” he said, “as you wish.” He appeared disproportionately hurt. He poured me out some soda water, held out his cigarette case to me, I took one, he lit it for me, we smoked. I felt sorry for him. Probably I had completely thrown him with my plate of beans. No doubt he had counted on finding me in what he imagined to be Bohemian surroundings: a sophisticated confusion and all sorts of modern stuff on the ceiling and walls, but the apartment happens to be completely lacking in style, almost suburban, and I saw that this depressed him. We had chosen the sideboard from a catalogue, the pictures on the walls were all just reproductions, only two abstracts among them, the only attractive ones were two water-colors by Monika Silvs, hanging over the chest of drawers: Rhine Landscape III and Rhine Landscape IV, in shades of dark gray with barely visible traces of white. The few attractive things we do have, chairs, a few vases and the tea wagon in the corner, were bought by Marie. My father is a person who needs atmosphere, and the atmosphere in our apartment made him irritable and tongue-tied. “Did Mother tell you I was here?” I asked finally, when we lit the second cigarette without having said a single word.
“Yes,” he said, “why can’t you spare her that sort of thing.”
“If she hadn’t answered the phone in her committee voice, everything would have been different,” I said.
“What’s wrong with this committee?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing,” I said, “it’s a very good thing that racial differences should be reconciled, but my idea of race is different from the committee’s. Negroes, for instance, have become the latest thing—I wanted to offer mother a negro I know well as a Nativity figure, and when you think that there are several hundred negro races. The committee will never be out of a job. Or gypsies,” I said, “Mother should invite some to tea some day. Right off the street. There’s still a lot to be done.”
“That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said.
I said nothing. He looked at me and said in a low voice: “I wanted to talk to you about money.” I remained silent. “I assume you are financially embarrassed. Please say something.”
“Embarrassed is a nice way of putting it. I shall probably not be able to perform for a year. Look at this.” I pulled up my trouser leg and showed him my swollen knee, I let my trouser down again and pointed with the forefinger of my right hand to my left breast. “And this,” I said.
“Good God,” he said, “heart?”
“Yes,” I said, “heart.”
“I’ll give Drohmert a call and ask him to see you. He’s the best heart specialist there is.”
“You don’t understand,” I said, “I don’t need to consult Drohmert.”
“But didn’t you say: heart?”
“Maybe I should have said soul, feelings, emotions—heart seemed to me the right word.”
“Oh I see,” he said drily, “that business.” No doubt Sommerwild had told him about that “business” over a gam
e of skat at the Union Club, between jugged hare, beer and a no trump game.
He got up, began to walk up and down, then stood behind the chair, leaned on the back and looked down at me.
“It probably sounds foolish,” he said, “if I make a solemn pronouncement, but do you know what’s the matter with you? You lack the very thing that makes a man a man: the ability to accept a situation.”
“I heard that once before today,” I said.
“Then hear it a third time: accept the situation.”
“Please,” I said, wearily.
“How do you imagine I felt when Leo came to me and said he was going to become a Catholic. It was as painful for me as Henrietta’s death—it would have hurt me less if he had said he was going to become a Communist. That’s something I can understand, when a young person dreams a false dream of social justice and so on. But that.” He clung to the back of the armchair and shook his head vigorously. “That. No. No.” Apparently he was serious. He had gone quite pale and looked much older than his age.
“Sit down, Father,” I said, “and have a cognac.” He sat down, nodded toward the cognac bottle, I got a glass from the sideboard, poured him a drink, and he took the cognac and drank it without thanking me or raising his glass to me. “I don’t suppose you understand that,” he said. “No,” I said.
“I am afraid for every young person who believes in this thing,” he said, “that’s why it shocked me so terribly, but even that I have accepted—accepted. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I owe you an apology,” I said, “when I saw you on television I thought you were a magnificent actor. Even a bit of a clown.”
He looked at me suspiciously, almost hurt, and I said quickly: “No really, Dad, magnificent.” I was glad to have found the Dad again.
“They simply forced me into this role,” he said.
“It suits you,” I said, “and whatever part you act in it you act well.”
“I don’t act any of it,” he said seriously, “none of it, I don’t need to act anything.”
“That’s bad,” I said, “for your opponent.”
“I have no opponents,” he said indignantly.
“Even worse for your opponents,” I said.
He gave me another suspicious look, then laughed and said: “But I really don’t see them as opponents.”
“Even worse than I thought,” I said, “don’t those fellows you are always talking to about money know that you people always keep quiet about the most important thing—or have you come to an agreement before you are conjured onto the screen?” He poured himself some cognac, looked at me questioningly: “I wanted to talk to you about your future.”
“Wait a moment,” I said, “I just want to know how it’s done. You people always talk about percentages, ten, twenty, five, fifty per cent—but you never say what per cent of what?” He looked almost stupid as he raised the cognac glass, drank and looked at me. “What I mean is,” I said, “I didn’t learn much arithmetic, but I know that a hundred per cent of half a pfennig is half a pfennig, while five per cent of a billion is fifty million … see what I mean?”
“For God’s sake,” he said, “do you have so much time to watch TV?”
“Yes,” I said, “since this business, as you call it, I watch TV a lot—it makes me feel so beautifully empty. Utterly empty, and when you only see your father once every three years you enjoy seeing him on television. In some bar or other, over a glass of beer, in the semidarkness. Sometimes I am really proud of you, the skillful way you prevent anyone from asking about the percentage figure.”
“You are mistaken,” he said coolly, “I don’t prevent anything at all.”
“Isn’t it a bit of a bore not to have any opponents?” He got up and looked at me angrily. I got up too. We both stood behind our armchairs, leaning our arms on the backs. I laughed and said: “As a clown I’m naturally interested in the modern forms of pantomime. Once when I was sitting alone in the back room of a bar I switched off the sound. It was wonderful. L’art pour l’art turning up in wage policy, in the economic system. It’s a pity you have never seen the turn I do called Board of Directors’ Meeting.”
“It may interest you to know,” he said, “that I have spoken to Genneholm about you. I asked him to have a look at some of your performances and let me have a—a kind of expert opinion.”
I suddenly had to yawn. It was rude, but I couldn’t help it, and I was fully aware of the discourtesy. I had slept badly during the night and had had a trying day. When someone sees his father for the first time in three years, and has a serious conversation with him for what was really the first time in his life—it is quite true that nothing could be less appropriate than a yawn. I was all worked up, but dead tired, and I was sorry I had to yawn at that particular moment. The name Genneholm acted on me like a sedative. People like my father must always have the best: Drohmert, the best heart specialist in the world, Genneholm, the best theater critic in the Federal Republic, the best tailor, the best champagne, the best hotel, the best author. It’s a bore. My yawning became almost a cramp, my jaw muscles cracked. The fact that Genneholm is a pansy doesn’t prevent his name filling me with boredom. Pansies can be very amusing, but it is the amusing people I find boring, especially eccentrics, and Genneholm was not only a pansy but eccentric too. He usually came to Mother’s parties and moved right up close to you so that every time you had to smell his breath and share in his last meal, which I could have done without. The last time I met him, four years ago, he had smelled of potato salad, and in view of this smell his scarlet waistcoat and honey-colored Mephistophelean moustache no longer seemed in the least bizarre to me. He was very witty, everyone knew he was witty, and so he had to be witty all the time. A tiring existence.
“I beg your pardon,” I said, when I could be sure my yawning fit was over for the time being. “What did Genneholm say?”
My father was offended. He is always offended when you let yourself go, and my yawning pained him objectively, not subjectively. He shook his head as he had over my bean mush. “Genneholm is watching your development with great interest, he is very favorably inclined toward you.”
“A pansy never gives up hope,” I said, “they’re a persistent bunch.”
“That’s enough,” said my father sharply, “be glad that you have such an influential and expert well-wisher behind you.”
“I am quite glad,” I said.
“But he has a number of objections to what you have been doing so far. He feels you ought to avoid all the Pierrot side of it, that you certainly have a gift for Harlequin, but that you’re too good for that—and that as a clown you are impossible. He believes your opportunity lies in devoting yourself entirely to pantomime … are you listening at all?” His voice got sharper and sharper.
“Of course,” I said, “I am listening to every word, every single one of these clever, apt words, don’t let it bother you if I keep my eyes closed.” While he was quoting Genneholm I had shut my eyes. It felt so good and released me from the sight of the dark brown chest of drawers against the wall behind Father. A revolting piece of furniture that somehow reminded me of school: the dark brown color, the black knobs, the pale yellow inlay along the top edge. The chest of drawers had come from Marie’s parents’ house.
“Please,” I said softly, “do go on.” I was dead tired, my stomach hurt, my head ached, and I was standing there so stiffly behind the chair that my knee began to swell still more. Behind my closed lids I saw my face as I knew it from the mirror from a thousand hours of practice, completely immobile, painted snow white, not even my eyelashes moved, or my eyebrows, only my eyes, slowly they moved from side to side like a frightened rabbit, to achieve the effect that critics like Genneholm had called “that extraordinary ability to portray animal melancholy.” I was dead and locked in with my face for a thousand hours—with no chance of rescuing myself in Marie’s eyes.
“Go on,” I said.
“He advised me to se
nd you to one of the best teachers. For one year, for two, for six months. Genneholm believes you should concentrate, study, become so fully conscious of yourself that you can become simple again. And practice, practice, practice—and, are you still listening?” His voice sounded less severe, thank God.
“Yes,” I said.
“And I am prepared to finance that for you.”
My knee felt as fat and round as a gasometer. Without opening my eyes I groped my way around the chair, sat down, groped for the cigarettes on the table like a blind man. My father cried out in alarm. I can pretend to be a blind man so well that people believe I am blind. I felt blind too, maybe I would stay blind. What I was acting was not a sightless man but a man who has just lost his sight, and when I had finally got the cigarette into my mouth I felt flame from Father’s lighter, felt, too, how violently it trembled.
“Son,” he said anxiously, “are you ill?”
“Yes,” I said softly, drew on the cigarette, inhaled deeply, “I am terribly ill, but not blind. Pains in my stomach, my head, my knee, a rapidly proliferating depression—but the worst thing is, I know perfectly well Genneholm is right, about ninety-five per cent, and I even know what he went on to say. Did he mention Kleist?”
“Yes,” said my father.
“Did he say I must first lose my soul—be totally empty, then I could afford to have one again. Did he say that?”
“Yes,” said my father, “how do you know?”
“Hell,” I said, “after all I know his theories, and where he gets them from. But I don’t want to lose my soul, I want to get it back.”
“You’ve lost it?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“In Rome,” I said, opened my eyes and laughed.
My father had really gone quite pale and haggard with fear. His laugh sounded relieved and yet annoyed.
“You rascal,” he said, “was the whole thing put on?”
“Unfortunately,” I said, “not entirely and not well. Genneholm would say: still far too naturalistic—and he is right. Pansies are usually right, they have a tremendous sense of empathy—but nothing else. However.”