Ingo Schulze - New Lives

What should I tell you about Paris? It was too late. For me it was like someone who upon his arrival — having longed for the day a thousand times over — learns that the person for whom he has eaten his heart out all his life has just left town.

During the two hours that the family was romping on the Eiffel Tower and I could do whatever I wanted, the wall-demon took possession of me. I panicked, as if I had to decide whether to stay or leave, even though I was in control of my senses the whole time.

Why should articles be an agony for me? In principle they’re just stories. Concrete lead, everyday situation, focus, then pack it full of all the facts you know, maybe a couple of similar cases, finally the closing surprise pirouette that leads you back to the beginning — that at least is how Jörg the engineer describes it. He reads newspapers all day to expand his repertoire of tricks and twists. Jörg has managed to smuggle his way onto the Commission Against Corruption and Abuse of Office as the representative of the New Forum. That will supply him with our future headline stories, free delivery included.

I’m awake between four and five every morning. I’m slowly getting used to it. I listen to the radio or study grammar books. I’m a diligent élève in the office — make coffee, sort what little mail there is, deal with the telephone and the stove, edit as I type, and practice writing news articles. My concluding initials, however, betray me. If I don’t capitalize them, the alien becomes a classical et. 45

I’m afraid above all of careless mistakes and the unknown — of some miscalculation or the printer’s vagaries or what will be in the mail. I live here in an oasis. Michaela tells herself that everything’s fine at the theater, but it’s a disaster. My mother gulps down tranquilizers before going to the clinic. And what Robert has to say about school isn’t exactly amusing either. I’m amazed these kids aren’t turning into cynics. You have to love them just for that.

I spent the afternoon today with Larschen, an old farmer who has assured us several times that he’s waited to have a paper like ours to read for more than half his life. He ignored my objection that it doesn’t exist yet. The whole revolution, he claims, would be nothing without people like us, who do something with possibilities. He mumbled the first two syllables of “revolution,” turned the third into a trumpet blast, and swallowed the last. “Do something!” is his battle cry.

He wrote his memoirs for his family, for his three granddaughters, but without any hope of ever being published. When I asked him to take over the “Tips for Garden and Field” column, he just asked about length and deadlines and offered to deliver his text on our manuscript paper — he owns a typewriter.

Fred, who’s supposed to organize sales and always looks as serious as an elector prince painted by Cranach calls Larschen “Snowcap,” because of his towering mass of thick white hair.

Our family is slowly expanding. We’ll have a secretary starting in March, Ilona, who currently helps out only part-time. Her glasses are way too big for her little head, a grandmother who flirts with the line “and I ain’t even forty.” For Ilona men like Jörg and Georg have a purpose in life, the newspaper, whereas Fred and I, the born peons, should be happy just to lend a hand. Mention a name, and you can be certain Ilona knows the person and has an opinion of them, usually a poor one. No sooner has she made her disparaging remark than she takes a frightened look around and whispers, “Oh m’god, did I really say that?”

For Marion, Jörg’s wife, the pecking order is unclear. She is the only one who addresses me with the formal pronoun, and likes to talk about the sacrifice I’m making. She thinks I abandoned the theater for the sake of the general welfare, says I’ve given up what is best and most beautiful, and then gazes at me very fondly. She’s already been given notice as the librarian at some branch mine of the Brown Coal Combinat, and says she can well understand what it means to turn your back on art. Then she nods and raises her already raised eyebrows even higher as if waiting for me to agree. Ilona thinks Marion looks like Mireille Matheiu. She reminds me more of a silent-film actress whose photo I ran across in a book from Reclam, landscape format as I recall. 46Marion will be working for us half days starting in March. Georg bestowed on her the title of editorial secretary.

Robert, who is on vacation, stops by the office around one o’clock. Then we go together to innkeeper Gallus, who recently granted us the privilege of a reserved table. Of course everyone is welcome, but they won’t find a seat. We have a table for four set aside for us at one p.m. Soup, main course, and dessert cost between two fifty and four marks. The accompanying status, however, can hardly be overestimated. Our innkeeper is in his early sixties, but smooth cheeks and observant eyes constantly darting back and forth lend his face a youthful look. He takes special delight in asking questions like: “Have you protested yet?” None of us knows what he means. “And you call yourselves a newspaper?” We look contrite. “They’re opening the market up to anyone who wants to jump in, that shouldn’t be, should it?” His usual conclusion then is the assertion that the new market economy is going to destroy old established local businesses. “They’re ruining their own people! Am I right, or not?”

By “their own people” he means in particular the illustrious circle with tables reserved for noon. The nooners can choose among three dishes; we have to take whatever’s left. The nooners are Altenburg’s senators, its noblemen of commerce and crafts. These good dozen quaint old gentlemen have apparently chosen a lady to preside over each table — all elderly ladies, who betray their nobility by their stiff posture at table.

In their eyes we’re parvenus who bear keeping an eye on. Thus far they’ve only approached us in writing, although they’ve been very frugal about it. Our innkeeper is forever handing us the torn-off margins of newspapers or receipts ripped in half, on which there’s often only a name and address, along with an added: “Knows something.”

On days when these notes are passed along, we’re treated with special attention. Instead of plying us with questions, he gives the shiny table several extra swipes. While he serves, his belly bumps against a shoulder. When we pay the bill he rummages through his change, pulls up short, fully perplexed — even after our second “That’s fine!”—and with wide eyes lets the coins drop back into his change purse. Just as we’re about to stand up, he braces one hand against the table, lowers his head conspiratorially, and slips the note out on the table. “Lend an ear,” he says, “this is quite a case, famous man, Dippel, doesn’t mean anything to you? Dippel! Ran a nursery, major operation. The Botanical Garden, that’s his work, did all the landscaping for Dietrich, sewing machine Dietrich, and around the train station, all Dippel, famous man actually, it was all taken away, had never been a Nazi, all confiscated, totally unfair, put out, tossed out of his own house, pay a visit, be worth your time, definitely.” We promise to follow the lead first thing and thank him for the tip. At which point our innkeeper’s eyes close, his lips pucker with satisfaction. “Knew I could depend on you,” he says, extending his big soft hand as if it were a gift for each of us, including Robert.

Hugs, Enrico

PS: Yesterday morning a smiling man in a dark blue dederon smock stopped in. He wanted to place an ad, asked for pen and paper, drew a square box, and began to write. At one point he had to make a call to ask the price of wooden ladders. There was joy in his every word, his every movement. I made a mental note of even his most casual gestures — like the way he shoved the page at me and then rapped it with his pudgy fingers ending in short, black-rimmed nails.