Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

At first, of course, the change did not appear to be very significant, even if there were some conspicuously unpleasant signs; if until now I had been able to proceed in the dark with total confidence because I felt the same, slightly slippery ground under my feet and, even without seeing anything, could hear the roar and crash of the waves from about the same distance, and feel about the same amount of salty spray on my skin, thus being free to enjoy the tempest as well as give myself over to my fantasizing and recollecting, all I had to do now was to make sure I stayed on course, not stray from the embankment, to accomplish which the sense of direction possessed by my feet proved sufficient, with a little help from the foamy waves; but then, while waiting for a fierce gust to subside, a wave struck me in the face — which in itself wouldn't have been too serious, because I didn't get all that much water down my neck and, though the water was certainly not warm, my coat wasn't soaked through either, and actually, it was all rather amusing, and if the wind hadn't kept me from opening my mouth, I probably would have laughed out loud — then at that very same instant I was struck again, harder this time, and that did make me lose confidence.

My guess was that until now I must have been walking in the middle of the embankment, but now, having waited in vain for the wind to subside, I edged toward its inner side, more protected from the sea, there to attempt to proceed, but the attempt failed, not only because the wind wouldn't let me and would have swept me away if I had given in to it, but also because after taking just a few steps in that direction I thought I had gotten to the edge of the embankment, with its sharp and extremely large stones; nothing to be done here, I realized — the embankment was narrower than I had thought, and it could not protect me from the waves — but even so, I did not do what might have been sensible in the circumstances: it didn't even occur to me to turn back, since I knew from the guidebook that even at high tide the water here rose only twelve centimeters, and that, I figured, could not be fatal, so I had simply reached a dangerous stretch, I told myself, the embankment probably curved here, that's why it was narrower, or for some reason dropped down, and if I just got past this dangerous bit, I would soon see the unfamiliar lights of Nienhagen and be safe again.

Suddenly the wind died down.

Still, I can't say I harbored any resentment toward Frau Kühnert; of course she wasn't talking so unbearably loudly because she was angry: even if our relationship had become unusually close over the last few weeks, I was always careful to maintain a proper distance, which, I believe, would have made it impossible for her to display so openly any feelings or emotions, if indeed she had them; the truth was, she couldn't speak quietly.

She seemed unaware of any intermediary tone between complete silence and unrestrained shouting, a unique trait — what else could it be called— that probably had as much to do with the tragic relationship between her and her husband, with whom she did not speak at all, as with the fact that she worked as a prompter in the Volkstheater, one of the most prestigious theaters in the city: in other words, she made her living by holding back an otherwise very pleasant, full-bodied, well-articulated voice, which nonetheless retained enough power to reach and be clearly understood in the farthest corners of the stage: no doubt about it, it was her voice that defined her life, and her ugliness was merely a rather comic addition, which I don't think she was fully aware of, since to her only her voice mattered, though she could seldom use it in its natural, normal range.

I myself had several occasions to witness how this voice could be the source of unpleasantness and how it could secure a very special place for its owner: we spent many a morning sitting next to each other on the raised platform built for the director in the theater's improbably vast rehearsal hall — it reminded one of a riding school or, better yet, an industrial assembly floor — and whenever a disagreement, a seemingly unresolvable situation, created tension and, trying to justify themselves, everyone began speaking at once, the noise level rose as rapidly as mercury in a thermometer when one has a high fever; adding to the noise, the bored stagehands, high-strung extras, wardrobe and lighting crew members were ready to use the chance to chat among themselves; at moments like these, Frau Kühnert was always the first to be admonished by some nervous actress: "Sieglinde, couldn't you say that louder?" or an overeager assistant director might tell her rudely to keep her mouth shut, this was not a kaffeeklatch, he had a good mind to throw her out.. and only then would he add what really mattered to everybody, that he wanted quiet, and Frau Kühnert's face would betray such genuine surprise, like that of a little boy who in blissful innocence has been playing with his weenie under the bushes and suddenly discovers that grownups find this activity most objectionable, and she would act as if this was happening to her for the very first time, as if nothing even remotely similar had ever happened before: her bulging eyes could not open wider, her profound embarrassment was betrayed by a girlish flush that abruptly darkened her complexion from neck to forehead, beads of perspiration would form above her mouth, which she'd wipe off cautiously, looking abashed; let's admit it — no one can get used to being continually attacked for something so basic to their makeup, and these irritable admonitions, these undeserved, rude words implied not only that her voice could be heard above the loudest din, representing and symbolizing it, as it were, but also that it carried explosive passion of such elemental force that it offended the ear, a voice that was embarrassing in all its unintended shamelessness, in a certain sense, the way it exposed people; she managed to embarrass me, too, in fact, when in the doorway she handed me the envelope as her skin turned crimson, for in view of our relationship nothing could account for either her blushing or her shouting.

But that was precisely the difficult thing to do: to escape from the effects of this apparently shameless and inexplicable intrusion, to evade it somehow; her very first sentence was much more than a simple announcement — true, however great the volume of her voice (and it did resound throughout the house), all she said was that I had gotten a telegram, but that one declarative sentence was punctuated by intense loud panting, giving the sentence many rhythmic thrusts, and because I couldn't easily remain indifferent to so much excitement, I naturally assumed the very emotional state she meant to pass on to me; no matter how hard I tried to control myself, no matter how dark it was in the stairway and foyer, she had to sense and see my agitation; with her hand still on the door handle, and tilting her head slightly to the side, she even smiled a little, which she could afford to do, because with her second sentence her voice changed and, not without irony, she pounced on me:

"But where the devil have you been so long, my dear sir?"

"Excuse me…?"

"It's been at least three hours since this telegram arrived. If you hadn't come home, I wouldn't have been able to sleep again."

"I was at the theater."

"In that case you should've been home an hour ago. Don't worry, I've figured it out."

"But what happened?"

"What happened? How should I know what's been happening with you. Will you come on in already!"

And when, wavering between indifference (how I yearned for it!), agitation, and fear, but determined to end the conversation, I could at last step into the hallway, Frau Kühnert closed the door behind me but, still staring at the envelope in my hand, wouldn't let me pass, and Professor Kühnert looked back before disappearing down the long corridor that led to their bedroom and nodded a greeting in my direction, which of course I couldn't return, partly because despite my effort to be demonstratively strong and aloof, I was preoccupied with the change taking place in Frau Kühnert's face and partly because he turned away, not really expecting me to return his greeting; I found nothing unusual in this, since he rarely acknowledged my presence; and not only did Frau Kühnert's facial expression go on changing with each passing moment but her entire bearing seemed to signal that she was preparing herself for a wholly new and to me unfamiliar outburst, not one from her usual repertory, and having breached all the old limits she now would not only reveal a new side of her character but also render me completely defenseless and, though I couldn't then have known it, would literally push me into a corner: with her lips trembling, she whipped off her glasses, which made her eyes look even more terrifying, then arched her back by pulling up her shoulders, as if she had sensed my straying glance of a moment ago and felt a need to protect her huge breasts; I made a last, desperate attempt to free myself, but it only made things worse: casting aside all pretense of politeness or good manners, I tried to slip away; I moved sideways, seeking the protection of the wall, but she simply stepped in front of me and pushed me up against it.