Ingo Schulze - New Lives

“Yes,” Mona said, “something as big as this, yes, it’s really great. But as for men, they’re only interested in screwing, that’s for sure. I’ve got nothing against screwing, but when that’s the only thing…And when I see how they just up and leave their wives after ten or twenty years, that’s brutal, really brutal, as if screwing was all there is. That’s why it’s so wonderful that there’s something else, something really big. And next year I plan to travel everywhere. We’re so glad you’ve come!”

I figured we now had all this behind us, when Ilona started in with her suicide attempt, a story I already knew, but she reeled the whole thing off so fast that no one actually understood her. Fred merely said that he was sorry he’d been a conscientious objector. Because now he didn’t have the luxury of starting to study again, and besides the noggin — and he gave it a rap with his fist—“ain’t used to stuff like that.” So that he and everybody like him were now just — sorry, he didn’t know any other way to put it — a pile of shit. In the GDR it hadn’t been so bad just to stoke a furnace. But now? What could he learn now? He’d lost all interest in the whole hoopla. A nice new car maybe, but what else? Now, if he were ten, fifteen years younger…

As our eyes met, Fred said, “Hey, it’s true, it’s really true.”

“I’m doing very well,” Manuela said, standing up and setting her hands to her hips as if modeling her green pantsuit. “I didn’t think it would ever happen, that it could ever be like this, but I always hoped I’d find something fun that brings in lots of money. I’m earning way more than the boss,” she cried, rotating from side to side. “Once I have the newspaper in my hand, all I’ll have to do is collect the ads.” Kurt gave a whistle through his teeth, but Manuela wasn’t about to be dissuaded from finishing her advertising dance.

Suddenly all eyes were directed at me. Even Vera and Michaela were looking my way, not demanding, but patient, willing to wait. “And now you,” Fred said.

“His Highness,” Jörg exclaimed, “His Highness has performed a miracle, the way he’s got us all to speak out. And we’re all grateful to him for that.”

I then talked about how things were a year ago and then six months ago, and that I would never have imagined it could be such fun to pursue a business life.

We toasted the hereditary prince with champagne, although he raised his glass only symbolically since he doesn’t drink alcohol. He looked tired, and I was upset with myself for not having urged that we put an end to this sooner. He wished us all the very best, with his whole heart, and very much hoped we would have the opportunity to see one another the following day.

Schorba and I carried him downstairs. A little knot of people had gathered around his car, whose license plate read TEXAS. Massimo lifted the hereditary prince onto his seat, the prince gave one more wave.

One could see the clear, glistening imprint of lipstick on the back of the hereditary prince’s hand. Vera noticed it as well. The prince smiled when he realized what we were looking at, and hid the traces of red with his other hand.

That evening a small group of us gathered in the city’s guesthouse to dine on open-faced sandwiches and sour pickles, just as the hereditary prince had requested. Everything is sure to be all right now.

Hugs from your Enrico

Sunday, July 8, ’90

My dear Jo,

It’s almost five o’clock. By the time you read this it will have long since been decided whether we’ve won the World Cup or not. 368Everyone here thinks we’ll win. I’m sitting on our loggia, as Cornelia calls the wooden balconies of our remodeled building, gazing out over the town. There’s a coffee cup and cream pitcher on my desk, plus a scattering of heavy spoons (mother brought her silver set along) to keep my papers from being blown away. Weather from the Baltic is driving whole herds of dark shadows down the street. If I ever write a novel, it will have to start with this view. 369

To my left, on a round table, lie the dishes from coffee hour yesterday. There’s a scent of fruit and flowers in the air, both of which Vera brings home in abundance. (The birds are too loud for Vera, so she sleeps till noon with the windows closed.) All the chairs and wicker armchairs that Andy has lent us are draped with Vera’s clothes, as if she’s marking her territory. Michaela is jealous of Vera, and not without reason. Ever since Vera arrived, Barrista has been retreating to the “construction site,” by which, however, he means our veranda, where he smokes cigars and lets Vera serve him “drinks.” (The sound of ice cubes startles Astrid out of her deepest sleep; she’s crazy about ice.) Even in Michaela’s presence Barrista prefers to talk about long-ago adventures, but in hints that he presumes only Vera will understand.

If everything goes according to plan, our newspaper will be in my mailbox for the first time today around nine o’clock. At nine thirty, then, a big breakfast spread in the garden, where we’re expecting the hereditary prince. He can drink his tea here with a view to the same windows behind which he used to awaken at one time. Robert will sit next to him. The prince calls him his “young friend,” and sometimes he addresses our mother as his “dear, esteemed friend.” She refused the money the baron offered her in compensation for feeding the prince. By the way, he isn’t nearly as fragile as he occasionally appears. Otherwise he would never have survived yesterday’s strenuous program.

And we’ve been talking about you and Franziska too. On Friday they removed all the nonsupporting walls in your apartment. It’ll take less courage to begin anew than you think. Gotthard Pringel will be a helping hand for everything. (I’ve done away with his pseudonym.) And Robert can hardly wait to play something on the piano for Gesine.

My dear Jo, I can’t describe it all for you, at least not at the moment. The morning at the museum and the enthronement of the Madonna is a story all by itself, especially because Nicoletta suddenly appeared. 370She wanted to surprise me. The museum has hired her as its photographer until further notice, as partial reimbursement for her expenses in researching the altar project. And so there they suddenly stood, all three: Nicoletta, Vera, and Michaela. And what did I do? I had an argument with the museum director, because the mysterious Madonna from the parsonage was not at the entrance to the “Italian Collection,” where it had been agreed it would be hung — and as our article reports it is — but at the end of the gallery. I didn’t want to hear the reasons the director offered. And she refused to yield on any account. Even when the baron — who took the matter rather lightly — sent a man from the district council to my aid, a fellow who has some executive power over the museum, she couldn’t be budged. She would rather resign her position than obey instructions of this sort. The baron played arbitrator to the extent that was possible. We’ll have to admit “our error” in our next issue — or then again, maybe not. Let them all ask why the Madonna isn’t at the entrance.

A young woman played the cello, then speeches, speeches, speeches, each ending with special thanks to Barrista and the newspaper, followed by rejoicing and cheers for the hereditary prince. More cello. People chattered away the whole time. Nicoletta shot roll after roll of film. She whispered to me to stop pulling such a face, otherwise she wouldn’t have any pictures she could use.

When the hereditary prince, with madame director in the lead, began his tour of the collection, Massimo made a snap decision, grabbed the two museum guards posted at the first archway by the sleeves of their powder blue uniforms, and then, with the corners of his mouth tucked in deep resolve, took up a position directly behind this living shield.