Ingo Schulze - New Lives

As cries of “Highness” rang out louder and louder and people told stony-faced Massimo what they wanted to show or present to “Herr Hereditary Prince,” I myself was witness to a small miracle.

When he arrived at the panels of Guido da Siena, the hereditary prince threw back his cover, braced himself on his wheelchair’s arms, raised himself up all on his own, and took a step in the direction of the panel. “And so we meet again,” he said.

Each panel was a reunion. There wasn’t one before which he did not stop to spend some time, not one about which he didn’t offer some comment. As a young man he had spent entire weeks here.

On madame director’s arm, the hereditary prince spent an hour strolling past the paintings, until he arrived at Massimo, whom he called “our brave warrior of Thermopylae.”

Those who had waited for the hereditary prince stepped back as if before an apparition.

Massimo presented the pleas of several “unhappy souls” who wanted to add their signatures to the hereditary prince’s copy of Georg’s reprint and refused to be put off until Sunday.

I’ll not write about the little drive Nicoletta and I took, or about the arrival of our first issue from Gera, or about all the preparations that proved necessary right up to the last minute, yes, right up to the very start of the grand reception.

Ah, Madame Türmer has awakened…Yesterday, before the reception, she spent an hour or more rubbing herself down with a so-called moisturizing lotion, from brow to toe, applying it as meticulously as if she had staked her life on not missing a single pore. The West makes women more beautiful, I can see that with Vera, can already notice it with Michaela and even my mother. The little wrinkles that once nestled at the corner of her mouth, threatening to draw it closed like a sack, seem to have vanished.

But now on to the reception:

At ten minutes before six Andy and I carried the hereditary prince up the stairs. We had the main staircase all to ourselves, the invited guests had already been seated five minutes earlier. Olimpia stood guard at the door to the Bach Room.

While I was trying to figure out whether the prince’s fragrance was from his own perfume or came from the lingering scents of others, the baron advised us not to drink any alcohol, even during the dinner to come, so that we could maintain full concentration until the end. Cornelia, who acted as maître de plaisir, had prepared for us bottles of champagne filled with a mixture of mineral water and apple juice.

“Don’t let anything take you aback or frighten you,” the baron admonished Vera, Michaela, and me. “No matter what happens, what’s said, what you hear, no matter, whether you like these people or not, you have to be pleasant to them all, without exception. You have to believe they have your best interests at heart. These people have no greater desire than to stand in your good favor. They truly hunger for your glances, your smiles, your nods. Just ask Cornelia.”

“Clemens, Clemens, what sort of tales are you telling now,” the hereditary prince sighed, and suggested the two ladies could brace themselves on his wheelchair at any time.

Michaela fought back her stage fright with breathing exercises. Her nervousness — and, even more, the baron’s agitation — had an almost calming effect on me.

Then the clock began to strike six. The baron and I stepped up to the pair of small folding doors. The murmurs in the hall died away, all I could hear now were rustling sounds. Vera and Michaela stood up straight — and then I saw it: both were wearing transparent, or better, translucent dresses. From up close the fabric looked substantial — but the moment you stepped back just a few steps, the drapery revealed breasts, ribs, and the pubic region with a clarity beyond anything pure nudity could have accomplished.

“Türmer,” Barrista hissed. I hadn’t been counting the chimes of the clock.

It was so utterly still it was as if we were alone in the castle. One after the other, at close intervals, various other church bells struck the hour. I thought about how I ought to learn in what sequence they actually came, and that a description of it would likewise make a good beginning for a novel, since it would give rise to an effortless topography of the town.

On the baron’s nod I unlocked the door with a quarter turn of the handle as we had rehearsed. Each pulled at his panel at the same time and the music began. Vera and Michaela smiled and pushed the hereditary prince past us and into the hall, where the guests applauded as they rose to their feet.

With a practiced set of movements we closed the door behind us. Michaela swung her rear end as if she were playing the whore in a vast open-air theater. Their faces almost contorted with enthusiasm, Mother and Robert clapped frenetically. All I could see of the hereditary prince now were his hands clasped in gratitude.

The applause wouldn’t stop. The audience finally took their seats only after the baron and the mayor signaled them to. At the back to the right, just in front of the orchestra, I saw our newspaper staff and Georg’s family; to the left, toward the door, I spotted Olimpia and Andy, Cornelia and Massimo, Recklewitz and family, Proharsky and his wife.

I wouldn’t have even noticed Marion without Jörg at her side. Her face was pale and seemed altered somehow. She was probably under the influence of medication.

“Thank you,” the hereditary prince called out, “thank you so much for your welcome.” Mayor Karmeka, who was stroking the back of his left hand as if rubbing it with lotion, took a deep breath and began his greetings with an excurses on the proverb: “Better late than never.” I hadn’t said anything about the contents of his speech in my article, so it was of no concern to me what he said, except — he just wouldn’t quit. The program read: “2. Brief Welcome by the Mayor, 3. Music (The Hereditary Prince’s Favorite Piece, Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik ), 4. Address by the Mayor.”

Was this the welcome or the address? The conductor — the poor man is actually named Robert Schumann — was watching us with a craned neck, ready to hit the downbeat at any moment. Whenever I thought Karmeka was winding down, he would toss his head upward for a new assault. Fifteen minutes later he began his final approach with words of thanks extended to all, to the municipal administration, to the castle staff for their untiring work, and especially to his own aide-de-camp, Herr Fliegner. He devoted not one syllable to Barrista and me — an offense, no matter how you twisted it around. Why didn’t he say the visit hadn’t cost the city a penny? They hadn’t done a thing, not one thing!

Let him talk, I consoled myself. We’ll make sure that the truth isn’t sold short. The baron, however, pulled off a masterstroke. He applauded with such sincerity that the mayor felt obliged to grasp hold of his hand and express his thanks. A photograph of the gesture would have required no caption.

Robert Schumann gave the downbeat. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik came to an end with applause. And then came the hereditary prince. You can read the speech in our paper.

As he was describing how lost he sometimes feels — but how nonetheless he had been met with such warm cordiality in Altenburg — Marion leapt to her feet. She said not a word, as if she were simply trying to get a better view. Nor did she offer any resistance when Jörg made her take her seat again. But what was that she was holding in her hands? I held my breath. Our Sunday issue with its article about the reception going on here and now. Jörg had congratulated us on our new paper and expressed his admiration at how we had managed to start with twenty-four pages in full format. Should we have hidden it from him?