Ingo Schulze - New Lives

As I was getting out of my car on Friday, I thought I saw seagulls — seagulls here in town. But it was only paper, whirling scraps of paper of all kinds coming toward me along the sidewalk and out in the street. I stopped for a moment and watched the pages as they skittered over the parking lot, fluttered down the slope, pirouetted across car roofs, and finally landed along the brick wall or in the chain-link fence. I even stepped on one and wondered if it was worth bending down for the paper clip. I kept on walking — only to turn on my heels a moment later and start chasing these white birds like a desperate child. Marion’s shrill voice from the window had wrenched me out of my trance. Evi, Mona, and Frau Schorba came dashing and screaming out our front door.

Frau Schorba attempted to snatch up the pages drifting along the street. She shrieked at regular intervals whenever the one she was chasing escaped her grasp at the last second. Meanwhile Ilona and Fred had joined the pursuit, and like the drivers in a hunt we were now combing the parking lot. We were able to glean the lion’s share of the flyaway ad forms from along the wall and fence. Evi climbed up and over the fence to pluck Rüdiger Bajohr Finance Agency and Noëlle’s Bookshop from the bushes. Mona crept under every car and fetched Copy Service from under my front wheel.

Ilona and Fred checked along Jüden Gasse and on Market Square, while the rest of us hurried to assist Frau Schorba. She had changed tactics, and now trotted along behind the pages and then slammed her heel on the pavement with a cry of “Bastard!” It took at most two or three “Bastards!” and the ad was saved. Cars that had been forced to pull over had turned on their warning signals.

Fred proudly displayed his muddy pants, and, apparently happy to have lost a heel, Ilona hobbled along pretentiously. We learned from Pringel — whom we probably have to thank for the fact that the computer came through unscathed — that Jörg had already loaded Marion into their car and driven off.

She, Marion, had stormed into the computer room and, without saying a word, made a grab at the pile of ads and flung them out the window. Then, as wind from the Baltic scattered the forms, she had once again cursed everyone as shadows. I asked them all to treat the matter with discretion. I would encourage Jörg to get Marion to a psychiatrist. No sooner do we have one lunatic out of the house — the old man had to be put in a nursing home — than we’re threatened by a second one.

Yesterday Marion even came at me with a knife. It was a perfectly innocuous situation. Because Schorba was out of the office, Fred was answering some questions two of our new deliverymen had asked. Marion had accidentally overheard him, and began laying into Fred right in front of them. Her screeches fetched Jörg and me to the scene.

Since Jörg refused to do anything about Marion’s outburst, I let myself be drawn into it with a few words — enough was enough, and would she please leave us alone. As I turned toward the deliverymen I realized their eyes were wide with terror.

Marion was holding Fred’s knife clamped in both hands, the blade and the pupils of her eyes directed menacingly at me. Her face was contorted, as if an attack of madness had suddenly obliterated her familiar features […]

“Just try to drive me out of this office,” she shouted ominously. “You evidently think I wouldn’t dare?” Marion’s mouth wrenched into a skewed smile as I backed away.

“No,” I said, “I don’t think there’s much of anything you wouldn’t do.”

“Then we understand each other,” she announced with satisfaction, lowered the knife, and turned to leave. We all stood there frozen in place. As she departed Marion shouted a cheerful “Hi there!” to Schorba — who was just back in the office — a greeting that he happily returned. But Schorba now stared at us as if we were a gathering of ghosts.

I’ve learned from Fred that the Weekly ’s printing is now under ten thousand, despite Jörg’s histrionic headlines: “Poison in Our Groundwater?” or last week’s “Mass Graves in Altenburg?” He no longer knows what to write. While the celebratory mood is increasing day by day, Jörg hunkers down in his office, growing ever paler and smaller. The baron has given him a free hand. The only question is for how long yet. Have I told you about Ralf? 353I’ve hired his wife as a sales rep, he and his daughter will be delivering our Sunday issue in North Altenburg — not bad extra pocket money.

I’ve been spending my evenings at Referees’ Retreat. Each time the Germans score a goal, Friedrich, the bald owner, shoots off fireworks and pours a round on the house. A shame we’re not playing today.

Hugs,

Your Enrico

[This letter was never sent.]

Tuesday, July 3, ’90

Verotchka,

Yesterday Michaela showed up at the office to bring Barrista his thick pocket calendar. It was the first time I’ve ever seen her kiss him. She was wearing her fancy red sneakers. She couldn’t look me straight in the eye.

Later I happened to hear Mona and Evi talking about Michaela. Their suspicion that Barrista would move in on “one of the prettier ones” has now been confirmed. A little later Robert called and asked when I’d be free. We made a date for lunch.

I would barely have recognized him. Not because of the new outfit — he’s wearing sneakers now too, plus a jacket with heavily padded shoulders. His hair is a lot shorter. Maybe I have been a little inattentive of late — Robert has turned into a young man. He gave me a hug all the same.

I let everything lie just as it was and left with him. Outside we ran into Pringel, who had been doing research for his report on Day Zero and the introduction of our new money. (Johann will have to work hard to hold his own against Pringel.)

On Market Square I took a place in line at the fruit stand. It went fast, since most of the others apparently just wanted to view the wares. I felt like a gate-crasher, like the guy who’s at the buffet table before it’s even open. I asked for four kiwis, which I was allowed to select for myself — and at the same moment recognized our old friend, the D-MARK ONLY fruit vendor who had helped Robert sell his first newspapers. Our last meeting seemed so long ago now, he was like a figure out of a fairy tale. His greeting was friendly, but his mood was gloomy. He hadn’t done a hundred marks’ worth of business yet. He wouldn’t even make the cost of his fee to set up his booth. The prospects were bleak, hopeless. While bystanders watched, I impetuously began grabbing at random, as if I had to buy any piece of fruit I touched. I paid with a ten-mark bill and held out the palm of my hand, where he deposited the change. Robert was given a free banana, which he immediately deposited in my pocket out of embarrassment.

The whole town was like an exposition that had just opened its gates, and we strolled through it like visitors. My sack of fruit was duly noted in the same way that I eyed every filled shopping net, every even half-full plastic bag. The air above Market Square seemed to flicker with expectation and nervousness.

The Ratskeller was completely empty. It wouldn’t have taken much and I would have used the open door as our excuse for having barged in, but then the waitress told us to take a seat anywhere we wanted and handed us each a menu.

Robert and I had scarcely spoken. He had trotted alongside me lost in thought. He kept chewing at his lower lip, with one corner of his mouth tucked in. I asked where they had gone for their vacation. His answer was monosyllabic. I assumed there was friction at home, something to do with Barrista, and suspected Robert might want to move in with us. I finally asked him what had happened. He raised his head and stared at me. In that same moment his farmer’s omelet arrived. Once the waitress was gone, a tear rolled down his cheek.