Ingo Schulze - New Lives

Meanwhile the performers had returned to their previous positions. But whether to heighten the dramatic effect or to underscore the significance of these events, they all moved toward us now, and one woman who held a sign reading DOKKUM — PENTECOST 754 propped against her shoulder took up a position not forty feet away from us.

As Boniface approached her with several of his adherents — he was moving more slowly now and was bent low to indicate his advanced age — he was presented with a book so large that he almost lost his balance. His three disciples lovingly supported him and cast pleading glances in the direction of the narrator, who then announced, “They await the newly baptized.”

The throng had split in two. On the right side, with women in the majority, a bright doxology was struck up, while on the left one could hear the supernumeraries murmuring “broccoli broccoli,” a sound intended to suggest that they were the “barbarians.” Boniface, who stood with his profile to us, was just straightening up in expectation of greeting the women, when gruesomely shaggy figures came storming up from the rear and with a few heavy blows slew the apostle’s companions. Doxology turned into lamentation.

All eyes were directed toward Boniface, who now stood at full stature. He held up the large book to counter his attackers, who had at first shrunk back before his presence. But then the most savage of these savage fellows stepped forward — piercing the book, his sword was thrust directly into the saint’s heart. In the breathless silence that followed, I heard only the wind in the grass and Astrid’s whimpers. Along with the actors, we all stood frozen in place. A few white strands of the prince’s hair danced in the breeze.

Boniface staggered, but still held himself erect. Slowly he sank to his knees, his eyes directed heavenward. Finally he fell forward, burying beneath him the sword-pierced book that had been unable to save him. A bleak, dissonant cry of woe rose up, with the barbarians, now transformed back into Christians, joining in.

Father Mansfeld, easily recognized under his broad-rimmed hat, was suddenly holding high the silver, jewel-bedizened hand reliquary. Whether by chance or calculation — it seemed to catch fire in the sunlight, its radiance so blinding that I had to put a hand before my eyes and turn away. And then I saw that almost everyone who had watched the spectacle with us was now kneeling. The few still standing were for the most part elderly. Her tail wagging wildly, Astrid was bounding back and forth among the faithful, probably hoping someone would pet her.

“Play along,” the baron hissed at me from below. After a brief hesitation I yielded and knelt down, which to my surprise I found quite relaxing and pleasant.

The throng had now taken up a hymn and formed a procession, with the reliquary carried solemnly before it. Again and again it refracted the sun’s rays, sending us its signals even after the hymn was no longer audible and we had given ourselves over to the pervading silence and gazed down on the procession as it moved across the countryside below. The book — now that I had time to think about it — had not saved Boniface’s life, but in the end it had indeed proved a token of victory. 378

Surely everything will turn out well now. We are waiting for you.

Hugs from your

Enrico

Wednesday, July 11, ’90

Dear Nicoletta,

As you can see I have a new address and am living in a three-bedroom apartment, whose smallest room is larger than my old living room. If you were to stop by over the next few days or weeks, you would find me out on my veranda with its new greenery and dreamlike view of the city and town. You would see Altenburg and yet not believe that it is Altenburg. Our building also has a large orchard enclosed by an entwining hedge right out of Sleeping Beauty.

So much for the present — to whose beginnings I hope to bring you with today’s chapter.

Unfortunately there has been no real opportunity before now to tell you about Aunt Trockel, 379who used to take care of Robert. She would always prepare her annual “New Year’s dinner” for us. Sometimes she also played something for us on her piano.

Michaela had promised me we wouldn’t stay long, and so I gave in and accompanied her on a visit to Aunt Trockel. Robert had been invited to his friend Falk’s birthday party.

As we got off the bus we saw Aunt Trockel vanish behind her balcony door. Michaela picked up the pace, and now the familiar race began. At the same moment that Aunt Trockel opened her door, Michaela pushed the doorbell.

It wasn’t easy to recognize Aunt Trockel’s smile in her crumpled face. Over the last few months she had literally shriveled up — except for her belly, whose vault pressed against her tight-fitting dress, so that in both shape and size it looked deceptively like the last stages of pregnancy, an impression enhanced by her otherwise girlish figure. Climbing the stairs behind Aunt Trockel, I once again had a chance to admire her slender calves.

Aunt Trockel handed us hangers, folded her hands across her belly, and, as if she owed us some explanation, said she had eaten too much chocolate and this was the result. Almost all of her Bavarian “welcome money” had been spent on chocolate. Not that she didn’t have anything left, but whenever her neighbors drove to Hof she would ask them to buy twenty bars for her at the Aldi supermarket and would then repay them upon being presented the sales receipt. Once those bars of chocolate were in her cupboard she could think of nothing else. Aunt Trockel’s voice had reached an uncomfortably high pitch. I was troubled by the vehemence of the words tumbling from her.

I simply can’t bring myself, Aunt Trockel continued, to wait until evening to open the first bar. On the contrary it took all her strength to save one or two squares until the evening news. Yesterday she hadn’t even managed that, and had devoured two bars in one day. But she certainly couldn’t say it was too much of a good thing yet.

She served the first course: fennel with shaved almonds and oranges, along with an aperitif in tiny glasses, their rims wreathed with a dusting of sugar.

As always Aunt Trockel had used up almost every ounce of her energy preparing this feast. She herself sipped at her water glass now and then, and kept up a flow of words even when she was busy in the kitchen. She never stopped long enough to give us a chance to pay her culinary arts their due until she presented the saddle of venison on a heavy tray.

And then — my plate had just been heaped with a second helping — Aunt Trockel told us about how a classmate of hers had once given her a piece of tinfoil to smell, so that she could have some idea of what chocolate was. And she, only eight years old at the time, had been grateful. “Imagine that!” Aunt Trockel exclaimed, and looked at me. Her voice growing louder and louder, she told her tale as if it concerned only me. I tried to return her gaze as often as I could, but then grew unsure of myself — as if I had overheard whatever reason it was she had given for her exclusive attention to me — and proceeded to eat more hastily. Only then did I notice that Michaela had leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Aunt Trockel was sitting bolt upright at the edge of her chair.

So now it was my turn, and in a low voice I listed all the things Michaela had accomplished over the last few weeks.

“You don’t have to whisper,” Michaela said, “but with my eyes closed I have a better picture of little Annemarie Trockel sniffing at that tinfoil.”

Aunt Trockel bounced once on the edge of her chair and rewarded Michaela’s hasty excuse with praise for klartext. Which also gave her an opportunity to tell about her sister-in-law, who had decided not to buy klartext because it called itself a newsletter for Thuringia, and according to her Altenburg was a Saxon town, belonged to Saxony — which she, Aunt Trockel, did of course agree with, but that could be changed, the newsletter’s masthead, that is.