Wolfgang Hilbig - 'I'

You’re still among the living, I said, I feel like hugging you. . Don’t do that, I have a cold, he said. You’ve been hiding out there with the old lady again, damn you! Come on, it’s my treat, I want to celebrate my promotion.

Oh, you want to go to the cafe, I said. . it’s rife with the Hong Kong flu!

Nonsense, he retorted, we’ll go right across to that little bar, what’s it called. . Wagner’s, I have a cold, I’ve got to drink schnapps, I’ve had enough champagne to last me for a while.

You’re keeping me from writing my report. Are you sure you want to take responsibility for that?

Your report! he cried. Tear it into tiny pieces and toss it out of the window. No, I’ve got a better idea, eat it and shit it out again so it lands in the toilet, that report of yours! Spit on your report! They don’t want any more reports from us! Get up from your desk already, I’m suffocating in your den here!

It was a tantrum I didn’t necessarily have to take at face value, a day later he might have changed his mind yet again. Sometimes, too, this sort of thing showed — albeit in unconvincing form — that for Feuerbach some matter (a matter under investigation?) had been closed; the laughable things we thought we’d found out had been deposited in an archive now, or on the desk of some other agency: when it was the latter, I never learnt the upshot from Feuerbach (I could only hope it wasn’t the public prosecutor. . when I’d started out, Feuerbach had done all he could to keep me from even hitting on such a notion). . currently in such instances he spent several days filling up on alcohol and being the soul of generosity. . He’s celebrating his guilty conscience, I told myself then. — But it could easily happen that later that week, or the very same day, he would demand the exact report I’d been supposed to throw away a short time before. . Could you please keep in mind that not every word of mine is an absolute command? he’d say then. — I pulled the sheet from the typewriter, crumpled it just slightly and tossed it into the wastebasket. As we left he gathered up a few more sheets of paper from my desk, the fragments of the report, folded them up very carelessly and stuffed them into his trouser pocket (he was still wearing nothing but the plaid suit, over it the fluttering red-brown patterned scarf; in the corridor I saw that his ultra-thin trench coat had simply been tossed onto the floor, it was almost white and naturally of Western make. . and he was planning to wear that to Wagner’s!); the papers poked out slightly from his trouser pocket. . Get rid of the stuff, we don’t need it any more, he cried; he must have had quite a bit to drink already. . It’s better if he takes them, I thought, maybe it’s even much better that way!

In the stairwell he began whistling a song, so loudly it gave me a turn, since it was past eleven already; I hurried, knowing that Wagner’s would probably close at midnight.

Seeing no free tables, I was about to head to the bar when Feuerbach waved to me; he’d found two free chairs. As soon as we sat down, the other three men at the table went to the bar and paid, then left with scowling faces. Ill-humoured, astonished looks came from the other tables. . I already had an inkling things wouldn’t go well here. Wagner’s was a so-called hoofer , frequented by the purebred proletariat. The term evidently derived from the habit of standing at the bar on one leg with the calf of the second tucked around the standing leg, perpetually impatient through all the hours they persevered, tossing back beer after beer or beer and schnapps chasers (also known by the regulars as beer with sauce), until the bartender cleared all the glasses away, stoic-faced, and poured no more. — Two beers, two shots! Feuerbach called in the direction of the bar. — Take it easy there! came the reply, acting skills did us no good, we’d been found out. . if Feuerbach had at least asked for beer and shooters , it would have squeaked through. — Grasping the situation despite his drunken state, the first lieutenant whispered to me: If we had them working for us, our problems would practically be solved, they’re born investigators, these ruling-class comrades. . — He’d whispered so loudly I feared he’d whisper the pub empty; I interrupted him and asked what he’d been promoted to, anyway. — He laughed and said he’d been demoted, but I was the only person he’d tell that to, and he knew why that was. . And you’d better mark my words, my boy, however hard that is for you. And none of it gets written down, understand!

The drinks came, he tossed his back and ordered a new round before the barkeeper moved away, registering the order with a look of menace.

But I won’t stay demoted for long, my boy!

As I confined myself to looking concerned, he asked: What did you want out there with the old lady, anyway, with that Frau Falbe of yours?

I was ready for that, my answer came without hesitation: I want to buy an old chair from her, a big easy chair I’ve taken a liking to. It’s in great shape, I don’t have any furniture of my own. .

If that’s what you want, no one can stop you. And that takes you five weeks?

I wrote poems, too, poetry and prose, I’ve got a great proposal for you. .

He didn’t believe a word, of course, and said with a shake of his head: But most of the time you were snoozing out there. And of course you still haven’t asked about her kid. . not a word about Harry Falbe. About that weedy kid, you know who I mean!

Yes I did, I said, he’s not her kid, he’s. .

I know that, he cut in, we know all that much better than you do. And the old lady won’t tell it to you. And of course she doesn’t know where the guy’s got to, either, and she doesn’t know what’s behind it all. . You and the old lady, neither of you knows a thing. . He paused; the barkeeper leant over the table and set down the glasses, then tallied them with crude pencil strokes on the edge of Feuerbach’s beer coaster. There was one stroke too many, but it might have been an unsuccessful attempt at a stroke, as the barkeeper was simultaneously balancing a full, dripping tray over our heads. . Cheers, said the barkeeper. — Another round of the same, Feuerbach replied; the barkeeper shuffled away.

I said I hadn’t gotten around to it yet. .

To what? asked Feuerbach.

I’d been in town too often, going to readings, there’d been too many so-called events. .

Forget the so-called , he growled, we’ve got to take a different tack with people now!

And then I have a certain hunch in the Scene, it has to do with Operation: Reader. I’ve had a hunch ever since the activity in his area started letting up. I think the man’s preparing for something. . I tried to phrase it carefully: Probably for a different sphere of action. .

You’ve been as keen as a hound dog! Feuerbach sneered.

I have the feeling he’s going to get involved with the citizens’ movements, or even with different groups entirely. .

And then he’s going to vanish into the Albanian Embassy, I know. What kind of movements is he supposed to get involved with, do you think they’d get involved with him ? But go ahead and keep at it, we’ve dropped the ball on Harry Falbe anyway.

Lost sight of the target person at the traffic light, I availed myself of an ancient Firm joke.

It’s much worse, he said, do you know where the skinny little guy is sitting right now. . on Hannoversche Strasse! And do you know what he’s doing in there?

He’s waiting to leave the country, I said as unconcernedly as possible, or he really is starving himself to death.

He’s blackmailing us! At least, he’s trying to. He’s been collecting material and hiding it for quite a while now. . not just material signed with the code name Harry Falbe, he’s got completely different things up his sleeve, signed with completely different code names. . Not yours, of course, you didn’t have it yet down there in A., but aside from that, I’m telling you. . I said nothing, and he continued: I don’t even know if I should be telling you this, you’ll just forget it anyway, or you won’t believe it. Haven’t you ever heard the name Colonel Falbe. . of course the old lady won’t have told you anything. He worked abroad, in West Berlin, for one thing. And it’s always said that Harry was born in prison, that’s the only version he knows himself. But he was brought to East Berlin at the beginning of August ’61, the colonel’s son, and after that the colonel vanished without a trace. . Feuerbach stopped for a moment to take a breather; by now his voice was slightly slurred.