Ingo Schulze - New Lives

As we could see, the baron instructed, the authentic hallmarks of age had been preserved. His gift came with one modest request — that we invite him to partake of only a half glass of each.

Ah, Jo! His nose almost touched the label. He removed the first bottle from the basket as if it were a newborn being lifted from its bath to be dried and swaddled.

“Let us begin with the youngest, with you, Herr Türmer — a ’61 Château Ducru-Beaucaillou.”

I had stood up, but he motioned for me to remain seated and pretended he could see me over the rim of his glasses. He noted that he never opened an old bottle without consternation, indeed anxiety, for what was to be revealed in a single moment was the work of decades. The baron scratched the enamel seal on the cork with his fingernails — which are far too short, I think he chews them. “Even I am helpless,” he declared, “against the actions of time and chemistry.”

Of course every child knows that wine can turn to vinegar. But none of us comprehended the enormity of this admonition.

We heard the baron bark a laugh. Almost soundlessly he pulled the cork from my bottle and gave it an investigative sniff. “My congratulations!” he said, pouring me some — not much, barely more than a finger. We both reached for the glass at the same time, I jerked back. The baron swirled the wine endlessly, just as Jan Steen had with his brandy, and held it up to his nose. “May it be a blessing,” he said, filling the glass for me. I felt like a charlatan as with purposeful circumspection I gave the wine in its chalice a swirl, smelled it, and then, following the baron’s example, set it to my lips. I rinsed my mouth with it properly, but swallowed as I felt the tongue and lining start to turn numb somehow. Well that’s that, I thought. The baron fixed me with his eyes, no one said a word.

Gradually something earthy rose up within me — alien and pleasant, the herald of the remembrance of another existence.

Am I boring you? My words awaken no memories within you. It’s six o’clock already, it’s my turn to read proofs in Leipzig. So I’ll cut this a bit short.

What happened next was somehow depressing, although we didn’t want to admit it.

The baron passed white bread around before picking up Jörg’s bottle and announcing, “Vintage ’53!” I wasn’t really paying close attention as the baron described this ’53 Beaujolais. When I looked up, he was red-faced, struggling with the cork. His cheeks, which had been parentheses for a smile, suddenly went limp. He could tell just from the odor of the cork. We couldn’t even persuade him to let us sip at our own risk. Barrista, his face still red, was deaf to our pleas. I was surprised how easily he lost his composure.

Georg muttered something about how he was usually the wet blanket on such occasions, Jörg attempted a laugh. He’d never liked the year of his birth anyway, so this hadn’t come as much of a surprise. I’m afraid Jörg’s remark was closer to the truth than he admitted. But — not that I’m blaming him — it was Barrista’s fault. Perhaps Barrista felt he’d been swindled, a wine like that doesn’t come cheap.

Georg, our ’56 baby, sipped the Barolo dedicated to him. It took a good while, and then he said, “Thanks so much. That was magnificent.”

Then came a most extraordinarily noble chateaubriand and for dessert, chocolate pudding and Italian schnapps. 81

The baron chattered away about the hereditary prince, but he wasn’t able to hide his own disappointment. Just one dud had ruined the atmosphere.

We left the honey gold Prince’s Suite shortly before midnight. The waitress escorted us downstairs, along with the wolf, who needed to be walked. Out on the street Jörg asked what Barrista really wanted of us. Whereas I, with a glance toward the old familiar train station, asked myself where we had been exactly. What did he suppose Barrista wanted? To find out who he was dealing with. If only everyone would make half the effort he had.

We had gone our separate ways when it came to me where I knew the waitress from. She was the buxom blonde who had stumbled past us leaving the bar back in January.

Your E.

PS: Something I keep forgetting to write: Gesine’s musical presentation so impressed Robert that, although we didn’t buy Aunt Trockel’s piano from her, we did manage to jockey it into Robert’s room. Robert’s actually taking lessons. What poor Aunt Trockel was never able to accomplish, Gesine did. We’ll see what comes of it. At least he’s already learned a few notes.

Thursday, March 8, ’90

Dear Nicoletta,

Ever since you left, I’ve thought only of you. I don’t have to imagine you. You’re present, and I listen to you. Only sleep interrupts our tête-à-tête. When I awoke, the separation was more than made up for by a sense of incredible joy — it was no dream, you really had visited me. Your presence had restored me to consciousness. Don’t laugh! It’s not easy to write something like that. I was happy to be with you. When I’m with you I find myself in a state of grace — I don’t know what else to call it. Nicoletta, I want to tell you everything, everything, and all at once, but I would give up all those words just to see you.

Do you remember — you were telling me about your famous uncle, 82about the peculiar circumstances surrounding his death — how you said that when it comes to really important things we never know what we should actually think? You said it so offhandedly and went on to something else. No, we don’t, I said, still stuck on that remark, and you looked at me in surprise, and I had to control myself to keep from kissing you.

I was in agony the whole hour I knew you were still in Altenburg. You should have waited here, in my room, even if we hadn’t said a word. That would have really helped me to “rest up.” I didn’t calm down until the moment I could assume you had left town. I hope your train was on time and you made all your connections.

Wasn’t the proof room 83like being in school? You, the new girl, looked hesitantly around the classroom, as if not knowing where to sit. Then you decided on me, to share my desk, and stuck out your hand, as if you’d just read in a guidebook that that’s how it’s done in the East. And while the others were running around during recess, we sat there like model pupils. I watched the calligraphy of your proofreaders’ marks grow denser and denser, and my courage failed me. The goose bumps on your arm, clear up to the shoulder, the scar on your left elbow, kept distracting me. There wasn’t a single motion of your right hand that I failed to notice. You asked for a dictionary and were so intent on making corrections, it was as if you wanted to give me time to get used to your presence.

It suddenly seems so absurd to be writing you, instead of simply taking off to see you. I can only plead my current condition as my excuse. By now I’m in hardly any pain. 84

I kiss your hands,

Your Enrico

Friday, March 9, ’90

Dear Nicoletta,

The first bus has already gone by, and the next thing I hear will be footsteps above me and the sounds of morning. My window is cracked ajar. How are you doing? I would love to talk with you. And when I think of how you won’t get this letter before a few days have passed, these lines seem to lose all meaning. I can’t wait that long!

The headaches have become bearable. I convinced the doctor at the polyclinic to remove the neck support. Holding his hands to my temples, he watched me as intently as if he expected my head to fall off. I’m supposed to imagine I’m balancing my “skull” on my neck, then the right posture will follow all on its own. I don’t think people moved around the Spanish royal court with any more dignity than I do here within my four walls.