H. Adler - The Wall

“How nice, Arthur, that I can wish you the best at the same time! We must, of course, see each other again soon. You are now a made man, that is clear.”

“Shall I call you?”

“No, what are you thinking? Of course I will call you. Certainly. Tomorrow, for instance. It’s been terribly long since I’ve seen you, and I need to speak to you. I’ve wanted to discuss some archaeological-sociological problems with you for a while.”

I didn’t have a chance to answer, for in the same moment our cars were separated and were able to move again. All I could do was wave at Oswald, who whizzed by at full speed. Then we hit the car of a man whom I recognized as the head officer of the train police from back there. That was unpleasant for me, for I was afraid of some kind of provocation, some kind of case being made against me. Had he traveled here with Prenzel in order to collar me and take me away? I turned around, but my old professor didn’t appear to be anywhere around. Then I looked more closely at the Assessor of Sympathies and observed that I didn’t need to worry, a side glance at Kratzenstein also reassuring me that nothing bad would happen. The Assessor of Sympathies even seemed to fear that I would hold his awful behavior against him now. He appeared to me to be much changed from what he had been, almost apologizing abjectly for the run-in, though he said it was not him but Kratzenstein who had been the cause of it, adding without much apparent conviction that I had been right. About what? I asked. Your political sympathies, he responded. But before I could untangle the sense of the comment and its double meaning we were off again. We then made two laps without getting hit much or bothered, though eventually we hit the car of Frau Fixler, Kratzenstein’s secretary, for whom this abrupt meeting was so embarrassing that she blushed with shame. She swore that she had nothing to do with things not going so smoothly back in the days of the business between me and Herr Professor Kratzenstein. Although it was not something I would ever have requested, she promised in future to always send timely invitations to all the events of the International Society of Sociologists in letter format in a sealed envelope, not as just a worthless flyer, for she knew my address by heart. I tried to calm the excited lady, who with hands and feet was furiously trying to free her car from ours in order not to prevent our driving on.

But that was no longer necessary, for a loud chime announced the end of our pleasure ride. Indeed, the Professor asked me if I wanted another round, but I thanked him for his offer and said that I’d had enough. I also declined his suggestion that I give a brief presentation here on the race course, in front of our car, on the fundamental ideas of my sociology of oppressed people, just as it had been planned for me to do so years ago for the smaller working group of the institute.

“I need to recuperate, Herr Professor, and I’d prefer to sink inconspicuously into the crowd,” I said.

“You won’t have any luck with that, my friend. You stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Are you trying to insult me?”

“My dear friend, what are you saying? Me and insults? Those are too completely separate and unlinkable entities! Scholarship is, if nothing else, a humble form of altruism.”

I stood up and got out of the blue car, because Mrs. Mackintosh was already moving from customer to customer to collect money. That way, the Professor had to follow my wishes if he wanted to stay with me and not drive alone around the track. That was not what he intended, so he trotted along after me. Continually, people came up to me wanting to pass on their warm wishes, and often I was asked for my autograph. Suddenly I found myself in Peter’s arms, his presence really surprising me.

“I flew here special from New Zealand, Arthur. I just had to. You’ve certainly put down roots, which is great to see. How proud I am to have been the first to help you get on your feet after the war.”

“Are you also involved with sociology now?”

“Ah, sociology! I’m in advertising. The sociologists want to learn more about it from me. It wouldn’t hurt you to take a course in it as well.”

“It has to do,” the Professor added, “with wanting to engage this gentleman as a leader in our organization. People need advertising. Otherwise the economy would grind to a halt. Thus, my friend, one has to try to model it on the basic principles of advertising technology. To pay attention to the pulse of life, that’s what it is all about. This I have identified and use it to write personal testimonials to help sell the books of other scholars. That I find useful.”

“I know you do that, Herr Professor. And very stylishly at that!”

“Well, then, you know. When your book comes out, I’ll do it for you as well.”

“Will my book appear?”

“But of course, my dear honored friend. Everything has been taken care of. I’ve already spoken to Singule. He will arrange for the funds from the foundation.”

“Is Singule here as well?”

“Of course. We can go see him together. He and his wife are running the registration for the Sociology Conference.”

Led by Peter, we worked our way through the throng and passed a carousel on which Michael rode around with Leslie, Mrs. Byrdwhistle’s boy. The children didn’t see me, even though I waved to them. After a few attempts, we got lost and were set on the right path by the operator of a Ferris wheel, and finally managed to reach a shooting gallery, which served as the registration booth. Klara Singule offered guns to the guests, while her husband sold tickets and also appeared to be handing out the prizes. I was greeted warmly.

“It’s great that you’re here!” said Frau Singule. “My husband will be so pleased! It’s only a shame that he has so little time. He never has time.”

Yet when I looked at the ever-busy Singule, he nonetheless let everything lie and stood up.

“Landau, you managed all right after all! You’re something else. It’s just a shame that you’re not a biologist. But you do come from Latvia, Riga, or somewhere?”

“No, you’re mistaken, Herr Dr. Singule.”

“I see, I see. But that doesn’t matter. Your book will be printed, in Latvia or some other country, there’s no essential difference. The main thing is that you are from some country. Meanwhile, in all honesty you should know that you should call me Singule. Just Singule. Don’t say ‘Doctor’; I can’t stand it.”

“That’s not so important, Eduard! Let’s focus on the matter at hand. We have to do something for our dear Landau.”

“You have a point, Klara, that’s clear. If only he were from some country. You’ll take care of that, right?”

“Yes, I come from somewhere.”

“Excellent. Here we have a check that should be enough to cover living expenses for one to two years. We’ll also make other means of support available to you as well. And then your book, I already said, indeed, it will be printed. People have said marvelous things about it; it’s been well received. Congratulations!”

“You don’t in fact know my work, Herr Singule.”

“Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. Why does one have to know someone’s work? I know you, we all know you. That’s all we need. Here, take this letter that states we’ve accepted it, and tomorrow send us the stuff so that we can begin printing it. In no more than two months, you’ll have the galleys in hand.”

Someone pushed toward the counter and wanted to shoot. Frau Singule, who during this conversation took care of all the registrations, couldn’t hold back the crowd any longer.

“Eduard, you don’t have time. Can’t you see the sociologists who demand to be taken care of?”