Ingo Schulze - New Lives

Suddenly one of the women stepped away from the facade — her skintight pants opened from the calves down to wide bell-bottoms — and ran along beside us. Her hair was covered by a bright scarf wrapped around her head pirate-style. She approached our window, moved closer — she was very young — kissed her hand, and pressed the fingertips to the window right where Robert sat. Even though she had to run to stay even with us, she gazed earnestly inside, but the women behind her had burst into laughter, buckled over with laughter, and we could hear their catcalls and yowls — a cordon of women laughing at us. She rapped on the window three times, then the whole scene vanished.

Patches of red emerged on Robert’s neck. “She just liked you,” Michaela said, trying to put him at ease.

We set foot on Paris soil at the base of Sacré-Cœur. The air was milder than I had expected. The sea of buildings gave off a serenity that even the few cars and mopeds glistening through the streets like minnows could not disrupt. We climbed the steps. “How often, ever since we had seen fall arrive on the Boulevard St-Germain, had we come up here, our work done, chilled, looking out at the rain on the Seine,” I recited. 37Robert wanted to know what the large roof off to the left was, and was surprised I didn’t know for sure which train station it might be, or if it even was a train station at all. I was amazed at how few prominent features there were — the Madeleine, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower far to the right, all the rest was a blur, which was fine by me. What I wanted to do most was to stretch out on one of the benches and sleep. The white stone reminded me of the Fisherman’s Bastion. 38The pigeons scared off by the street sweeper came from Neustadt Station. 39

Suddenly a man was kneeling in front of me in the middle of the sidewalk. He was like a stone that had fallen out of the sky. He was looking at the ground as if praying and offered us a view of a wreath of sweaty strands of hair. The shapeless thing in his hands turned out to be a cap that held a single coin. I didn’t have any francs and yet didn’t dare move on. Mamus came to my aid, stuffed a bill into his cap, and whispered in perfect German: “From the whole family.” A woman who we later learned was a German teacher from Erfurt said it was unacceptable for one person to grovel before another like that. As she went on speaking and a semicircle formed around her, poor Lazarus — probably thinking she was speaking to him — slowly raised his head. When the group saw his badly scraped forehead and nose and gazed into dead-tired eyes and a toothless half-opened mouth, they fell silent. We regrouped and fled.

After that time took flight. As if every spot deserved a special sniff, we were let out near the Centre Pompidou, the Arc de Triomphe, the Place de la Concorde, and Les Invalides, although with the exception of the Centre we would have had a better view from the bus.

When we stopped at the Eiffel Tower, at the far end of the field, we set off, en familie, in search of a restroom. On the way back we saw our travel group gather within a matter of seconds at the middle door of the bus and then just as quickly form a queue. Our female copilot was spooning soup into white plastic bowls with an oversize ladle. Robert and I got in line. At last it was our turn, but since neither of us could produce either bowl or spoon, we were told to be patient and wait until some fast eaters, as our copilot put it, could hand over an empty bowl that we could rinse out.

In the course of all this I missed the announcement that, having now been “fortified,” we were supposed to “climb” the tower. The first group was already on its way when I attempted to persuade Mamus and Michaela to join me in a walk. I succeeded only to the extent that Mamus slipped me a few francs — and with that we went our separate ways.

I thought of running after them, even took a few steps — suddenly I was on the verge of tears. The realization that for two hours I would now be freer than I had ever been in my whole life robbed me of my will. I went back to the café where we had made use of the restroom and decided that, protected against all eventualities, I would wait there. Probably because he recognized me, the garçon hurried over to prevent me from entering; he didn’t even make the effort to wave me off with his whole hand, but just flexed his extended fingers in disgust a few times. I pointed to the empty barstools and went for one.

I pronounced coffee with the accent on the second syllable and also ordered a mineralnaya voda, as if it were less embarrassing to speak Russian than German. I then just pointed at one of the two bottles that the woman behind the bar held up under my nose, and noticed too late that it was the other one I wanted, the carbonated one.

Oh, how I wanted to talk with somebody. I watched the waitress fiddle with a huge espresso machine, stared at the clasp of her bra shimmering through her white blouse, and felt totally superfluous.

I was served coffee with foaming milk, made good use of the large sugar shaker, and watched the sugar sink beneath the foam and cling to the rim of the cup.

I had already drunk two or three sips when my nose suddenly picked up the scent of burnt milk. I stirred in another spoonful of sugar, and went on sipping, but the second I set the cup down again, I smelled burnt milk again.

The waitress was peeling a lemon right in front of me. My first thought was that a coworker had taken her place — the hands were so alarmingly old, so wrinkled. I pulled out my wallet, stood there waiting to pay the bill, and forfeited half my francs because I didn’t want to look cheap by leaving only coins behind.

And I hadn’t even finished my coffee. The memory had been too overwhelming, the memory of plastic cups — those green, red, or brown plastic cups 40—brimful with scalded milk, the skin floating on top, which would reappear no matter how often I fished it out and wiped it on my pants or the edge of my plate, then would stick to my lips, leaving me gasping in disgust for air. I left.

Although it was windy and cold, spring seemed to have suddenly arrived on earth. Everything was bathed in a different light. I walked on, as if I could find you in Paris, as if it were possible that at any moment you could be walking toward me. I wanted you here beside me — and with you everything that we knew, that we had seen, that belonged to us, our streets, our world. The concentration, amusement, and delight in all the things we honored and embraced, all the things we craved as brother and sister. The white décolletage of the woman selling cigarettes against the shadows of her little booth. I had to bend at the knee to see into her face. A twenty-five-year-old, who, wrapped in her scarf, turned fifty-two yesterday. I say what I want, she greets me, she repeats my request, she hands me the pack, I pay, she thanks me, I thank her, we say our good-byes.

Like a man gambling, I let my route be decided by each new stoplight. I didn’t know what I should be looking for, the only thing I knew for certain was that I would find you. My first steps of freedom, it kept going through my mind, my first steps of freedom. I wanted to forget my age, my name, my birthplace. All I wanted was to see and to set one foot in front of the other and have you beside me.

Two North Africans asked me something in voices as costly as some heavy glistening fabric. I shrugged and walked on. Awakened to bray its market wares, Paris was offering a sale on spring in early February. I touched fruit crates, metal railings, house walls, door handles. I knew you were near. I didn’t see you, that would have been too much, but I was certain that we were breathing the same air, I could hear you.

I pointed at a portal and said: “The gate for the riders, madame,” and you said, pointing to the next door: “The gate for the pedestrians, monsieur.” 41You were constantly seeing something I did not see, that I didn’t notice until you pointed it out to me: the sign DANGER DE MORT on a blue box wrapped in transparent foil, DANGER DE MORT. I am afraid of losing you. But I dare not let anyone notice. I must decide, I must board the train in two hours — back, back behind the wall, they’ve only let me out for a short time because my book has been published here, because it lies in every bookstore display, and we stroll from window to window. It is still too early, the shops are closed.