H. Adler - The Wall

The next day, I went to see Resi Knispel. She lived in a sleepy neighborhood with expansive gardens. It didn’t take me long to find the house, which seventy years ago would have been considered posh but had long since been neglected. The entrance to the uncared-for garden was open; the door to the house was perched above a flight of steps that were well worn and certainly not swept for many days. The door was closed, and to the side there were buzzers for each individual apartment, but only next to two buttons were there legible names, neither of which was Knispel. I took a chance and pressed one button and waited a few minutes. I was about to press another when I heard steps and the door opened. Fräulein Knispel stood within it.

“It’s wonderful that you came, Landau. It’s at least five years since we’ve seen each other. Or maybe even longer. Well, then, come on in!”

The wooden steps were covered with a worn carpet, the walls of the stairwell were gray with grime. Thus was I even more surprised by the apartment, with its unusually large rooms, everything modern and done in good taste, and furnished almost luxuriously. Resi Knispel led me through two rooms and then a third that was an office, a massive desk weighed down with books and manuscripts, the walls lined with full bookshelves, an open cabinet containing folders full of notes and letters, comfortable seating around a low table, cognac and glasses, little cakes and bonbons and cigarettes, and a man sitting there whom I didn’t recognize right away. Only when he stood up politely did it come to me that it was Herr Buxinger, the bookseller. We greeted each other, and I was asked to have a seat while being offered everything that was there. I had to answer a bevy of questions — how I was, how had I settled in, and what I did. While I wasn’t tight-lipped, I nonetheless remained cautious in responding. I also posed polite questions whose answers didn’t interest me whatsoever.

Soon I learned that Herr Buxinger indeed still had his bookshop. Though he complained that I had never paid him the honor of a visit, Buxinger now had a much smaller shop inside a courtyard, where he focused less on traffic from the street and instead did mainly distribution for some foreign publishers. He spoke badly of Jolan Haarburger, calling him an unfaithful friend who had nearly ruined him. When many years ago Buxinger was in a bad way, it seemed to him the most natural thing in the world to ask his childhood friend Haarburger for a loan. The clever fox was not a willing donor, but he couldn’t turn down the request, for in many ways he felt responsible for Buxinger, yet the loan did the bookseller little good, for now he owed the wily lawyer and had to dance to his tune. Haarburger got involved in the business, about which he knew nothing, and everything went downhill — the sales falling off, the receivables remaining uncollectable, the bills ever higher, the creditors ever more skeptical. When, finally, matters had gone too far, such that either Haarburger had to dig into his pockets once more or Buxinger had to turn over future control of the business, Haarburger did the dumbest and most despicable thing possible: he called in the loan on short notice. Buxinger didn’t feel at all ashamed and could say openly that he went bankrupt, all of it a mixture of bad luck and bad intentions. A legal bankruptcy, that he could certainly handle at great sacrifice, but not a burdensome settlement; he had to repay all of the loan, and it took a long time. And, best of all, this Haarburger, who had never made clear the length of the loan at the start, didn’t want to hear anything about an arranged settlement; it was either swift payment or legal action. Buxinger then had no choice but to sell his valuable collection of autographs of writers, musicians, and other famous figures. Just imagine, Goethe and Dickens, Chopin and Johann Strauss, and a long letter by Garibaldi. True, whenever one holds such a fire sale the prices are low, Herr Saubermann picking up the nicest items for chicken feed, while one even had to thank him for doing so. The proceeds from all this were not enough, such that Frau Buxinger’s jewelry also had to be used, as well as anything that had the slightest value, in order to pay this nemesis, Herr Haarburger, the entire sum at once, albeit without interest, which he had to relinquish in order to keep it all on the up and up. Could I even imagine it all was possible?

Oh, yes, that I could, and I wasn’t surprised at all. At this, Buxinger was as happy as a child. Of course, Resi Knispel, who still knew the Haarburgers, was not amused by Buxinger’s talk. She said that, yes, it was all unfortunately handled in a shoddy way, but even the best had their flaws, one had to understand that. She had tried to talk to Haarburger in good conscience, but he turned a deaf ear to it all. Well, that’s what happens, but now it was an old story upon which a lot of grass had grown. Buxinger wished to protest, yet Resi Knispel assured him that she understood his position, certainly. Nonetheless, there was no need to waste another word on it; we were here for another reason and wanted to speak about some practical matters. The bookseller agreed, and it was fine with me as well. But she had hardly finished making her useful recommendation and explaining that they wished to turn to the matter of the journal, when suddenly she switched back to Haarburger. Buxinger had to admit what he had always resented about Jolan — namely that Hannah was a gem about whom nothing bad could be said. Buxinger didn’t want to hear anything more about Hannah. She had aided and abetted everything her husband had done. He had not always been such a miser, just petty and anxious, but she was a monster. Sweet and flattering, yes, she could be that, but that was all part of her craft, for otherwise she knew just how to get her way. She was the one who had really tied Jolan up in knots; otherwise, the mishap would never have occurred. Fräulein Knispel was beside herself, because Buxinger didn’t have a single good thing to say about Frau Haarburger — terrible, he should stop, she’s a good-hearted soul, didn’t he know that? Fräulein Knispel wanted me to acknowledge this well-intentioned view. When I obviously and coolly held back from doing so, there was no end to her astonishment, for even today Hannah still asked after my wife, as she liked her very much and always wanted to know what would make Johanna feel good. I’d had enough of such talk, and so it was I this time who wanted to change the subject.

“Could I perhaps hear a bit more about the journal?”

“Yes, fine. Landau and Buxi, private battles lead to nothing, that’s what I think, and at some point some kind of reconciliation will occur. Then you’ll extend hands to one another as best friends.”

“What about the journal?” I asked intently.

“Yes, the journal. It will be fantastic. Do you want to be a part of it, Landau?”

“I can’t make any promises without learning more.”

“Buxinger will be the publisher.”

“That sounds great!” I said.

“But only as a straw man. He will lend his name and experience, and he’ll oversee sales.”

“That is, if there are any,” said Buxinger cautiously.

“Go on, enough of that, Buxi! You’re a killjoy. You yourself have been the one most excited about the idea from the start.”

“Hopefully, then,” he said politely.

“Okay, then, I will actually run the firm, but behind the scenes. I have to maneuver carefully. Once the journal is up on its feet, then I can jump in for real. My work with the Swiss press will continue, for it can only be of help, what with the contacts, the literary agents — you know, of course, Landau, that’s what I do. I won’t give that up. Sometimes one can make discoveries there and bring together excellent contributors. A journal stands or falls with its contributors.”