Ingo Schulze - New Lives

“What about?”

“What you’re up to, what you’re reading, what you’ve experienced over the last few days, what encounters were important to you.”

Should he tell her about school, about Petersen, Joachim? Why did all that send him into a panic?

Gunda Lapin had let out a little groan, as if she could read his mind. The features of her face seemed as sharply defined as in a sketch. Sometimes she squinted, sometimes she peered at him wide-eyed.

“So, that’s good,” she had declared, “stay…stay just like that, very good, very, wonderful, really wonderful.”

He hadn’t any idea what he was doing right, what had got Gunda Lapin so excited. The more hectic her movements, the more sure of himself he had felt.

And then?

He had told her about Joachim and about Petersen. Of course Petersen had it in for him. Yesterday Petersen had asked him what PMI meant, and, incapable of collecting his own thoughts, he had grabbed on to what a schoolmate had whispered and answered with: “People’s Mass Endeavor.” And Petersen had said that he was no longer amazed that Titus had got an F in spelling, which he had at first found incredible, a big fat F like that, but which he now understood only too well and which left him highly dubious whether Titus should really be pursuing an academic degree, especially since he wanted to become a German teacher. But of course he was glad to hear that people were “indeavoring” to do good things in their Mass Initiative and they would all now assume that he, Titus, would be their model of an “indeavoring” citizen.

He had had to explain to Gunda Lapin what had been so dreadful about it: less the threat that he would be tossed out of high school at the end of tenth grade than how he had felt so naked and exposed. Of course he didn’t want to become a German or history teacher. But he had once said it, back at the start of eighth grade, in order to increase his chances for the academic track, because boys who weren’t prepared to become officers could at least become teachers.

But Gunda Lapin didn’t react with real outrage until he told her about his cellar conversation, and then she called his teacher a sadist. She had struggled with her brushes as if wrestling with Petersen himself. And later she had said that a person has to build his own separate world. And you either do that as a young person or not at all. And that only the kind of thinking that determines existence is worth anything, and that you need first to find out for yourself what is prohibited and what is allowed.

Like two craftsmen they had sat down to an evening meal of deviled eggs and bread with cottage cheese and marmalade. He had been afraid she would send him home, and so had instantly agreed in relief to sit for her “nude.”

[Letter of May 16, 1990]

While he had undressed she had crouched in front of the stove and fed it more briquettes, and then placed her canvas behind him and traced his outline in pencil — and later asked whether he was in love, and wouldn’t let him get away with his answer. Maybe meant yes.

“Is it a girl or a boy? Or a woman?”

“Why a boy?”

“Why not?”

“Her name’s Bernadette.”

The first Sunday in July. He was hurrying up Schröder Strasse where it grew steeper and steeper, with each house set in a little park. He was sweating, and the paper wrapping the roses had long ago gone soggy where he held them. He at least wanted to be on time.

He had met Bernadette at Graf Dancing Academy — Bernadette, who, if she had had a choice, would never have picked him as her partner for the Graduation Ball. But just as he had, she had missed the class where students were asked to chose partners. She hadn’t been allowed to turn him down with a flat no, but she had known how to nod without smiling, how to not say a single word while they danced, how to stare blankly out over his shoulder. He had had to ask her for her address twice. Bernadette Böhme, Schröder Strasse 15.

Half the yellow stones on the path leading to the house were cracked, to the left and right were large circular beds of red flowers. The view to the Elbe was blocked by fruit trees. A loud jumble of voices was coming from the open windows.

He recognized her mother right away. She had the same hair, black and smooth and parted in the middle, and wore it just like Bernadette did, falling in a last little curl at her neck without touching her shoulders. And he had first taken her brothers for girls too as they descended the stairs to greet him in the entryway, because their faces were framed by the same black hair and because they all had that same way of abruptly raising their heads to get a better look.

Her mother’s friendly manner calmed him down, and having to wait helped as well. She brought him a glass of water and set it on a green coaster in the living room. When she smiled all you saw of her eyes were her lashes. He found it pleasant to sit there alone, he saw it as a vote of confidence. Of all the valuable items placed openly about the room, he was especially attracted to the dark wooden bas-reliefs of nude or seminude women. Gazing out the large window to the city in the distance was like looking out of an aquarium. Chaise longues were strewn about the yard, plus sun umbrellas and a grill.

Just when he started to think he was being put to some kind of test — he hadn’t touched or picked up anything — her mother stepped into the room again. As if completely transfixed by the inscrutable smile of a Chinese figurine, he didn’t turn to look at her. But that made the fragrance of her perfume seem all the more intense.

“Do you like him? He’s made of soapstone,” she said as she placed the vase of his roses on a long table. The way she opened her old-fashioned lighter and placed the cigarette dead center between her glistening lips reminded him of the way some men drink schnapps from the bottle. She cocked her head to one side to reattach an earring. Her lilac dress left her tanned shoulders bare. The skin was sprinkled deep into her décolletage with freckles. As she tilted her head in the other direction, she asked him to hold her cigarette with its red-smudged filter. At that same moment Bernadette’s aunt came in. “Am I interrupting?” she asked, approaching Titus with her hand extended. And one after the other they entered the room to greet him. Even Bernadette’s brothers came in to say their hellos. Martin and Marcus kept off to one side, while the adults formed a circle around him.

“Bernadette had her hair done just for you,” his mother whispered to him. “Don’t say anything to her about it. We rescued what there was to rescue.” Out loud, however, she declared it was probably time for a few petits fours. Rising above a flat porcelain serving plate were pale pink, marzipan white, and yellow towers, which you put on your own plate along with a little paper coaster and then divided vertically with your fork. Even the children were masters of the technique. Her mother poured tea. You could choose between red and white china cups as thin as paper or larger shallow bowls decorated with women with pointy breasts and shaved heads.

Bernadette’s permanent made her look like she had a bird’s nest atop her head. Only her mother continued talking. The boys giggled. Without blushing, he got up and walked toward Bernadette. They shook hands, and the first thing Bernadette said as she turned slightly to one side was, “My father.” He entered, taking hurried, short steps.

Titus did not recognize him. At first he looked like Bernadette’s father, nothing more, and only when the great Böhme simply introduced himself as “Böhme” was Titus aware of who was standing before him—“Ah,” he responded, it just slipped out of him, “Ah.” And they all knew what he meant. He almost added that given the address he should have realized, or something of that sort. But he held his tongue, because nothing could have a greater effect that his “Ah.”