Ingo Schulze - New Lives

In the West the streets were heated from below ground, the gas stations never closed, and when people in the West didn’t know what else to improve, for the fun of it they tore up streets only recently paved with asphalt. Neon signs flashed above every shop, every door, the nights were bright as day and flooded with more traffic than filled our streets after a May Day parade. All the same, in the West you could always find a seat on a tram, bus, or train. In the West gas smelled like perfume, and train stations were tropical gardens where travelers could buy the most marvelous fruits. In the West people had hair down to their shoulders and wore jeans and chewed gum that let you blow bubbles as big as your head. And what was more, the global market was in the West. I didn’t know exactly where, but it was definitely in the West. When you pronounced the word “East,” didn’t your mouth spread in a simpleton’s grimace? Whereas “West” hissed like a Lamborghini Miora speeding off on superfast tires. “East” sounded like cloudy skies and omnibuses and abandoned excavations. “West” like asphalt streets with glass gas stations, terraces where the drinks came with straws, and music drifting across a blue lake. Cities with names like Cottbus, Leipzig, or Eisenhüttenstadt couldn’t possible be located in the West. What a different sound places like Lahr, Karlsruhe, Freiburg, or Graching had. Vera and I — despite all our quarrels — were always in agreement when it came to the West.

Just one thing more (please be patient with me): packages were something that by definition came from the West. Their contents weren’t immediately put away, but left lying out on the living-room table. It was New Year’s before the coffee, soap, stockings vanished into cupboards and drawers, where they never lost the aroma of their origin. They were resistant to all attempts to blend them into the world, were a category of things all to itself. They didn’t lose their value when used or eaten. The idea would never have entered our heads to throw away an empty tin of Kaba or Caro. Our cellar storage space was full of such cans and tins.

I would often go down into the cellar just like Willi Schwabe entering his attic — does the name Willi Schwabe mean anything to you? 88And just as he might find a roll of film or maybe some other object that reminded him of an actor, the Kaba and Caro tins filled with nails or screws spoke to me of happy holidays and the West. Today I’d say that they first had to lose their use-value to become sacred objects.

These treasures also proved that Aunt Camilla and Uncle Peter had always thought about us, had always known our most secret wishes, and wanted only the best for us.

When I prayed, I prayed to God, who knew everything about me, always thought of me, and would always be there for me. And although he didn’t look like Aunt Camilla and Uncle Peter, he must in fact have been like Aunt Camilla and Uncle Peter, except more so.

Robert’s alarm just went off. 89I’m going to make breakfast, wait for the mail carrier, and then go to the doctor again this afternoon.

With you in my thoughts, I remain

Your Enrico T.

PS: It was from Aunt Camilla that I first heard I was a writer, because in my thank-you letter I described what our Christmas was like and how we had barely been able to wait to open her package — which was a lie, since Aunt Camilla always stuffed it with candy (and coffee and, rather absurdly, condensed milk — truly no rarity for us), whereas in Uncle Peter’s package you might find Matchbox cars or even a cassette, which always made his package a real event. Aunt Camilla wrote back that my letter was the loveliest letter she had ever received, a real short story, which she often read aloud to other people.

Monday, March 12, ’90

Ah, Verotchka, you were two hours early! 90And now you’re paying for your mistake with worry. But this message is sure to get lost like all the others. It’s so absurd.

If only it had been Georg or Jörg who picked up the phone. But Ilona! An accident! His sister! How marvelous! She told me she calmed you down and provided you all the details. I can just imagine how she calmed you down. By the time she was done you probably thought it was a stroke of good fortune that your brother ended up in a wheelchair instead of in Hades.

There’s a rumbling inside my skull — a concussion, but nothing more than that. What did she tell you about Nicoletta? She came away with just some bruises.

We had left Leipzig and were heading for Frohburg by way of Borna. We were on our way to the Schwind pavilion. 91It was actually nobody’s fault. A Lada (a white one, I think) had passed us in a curve to the left, slipped back in between us and the car ahead of us because of oncoming traffic, I braked, and in the same moment the windshield shattered — nothing but ice crystals up ahead. 92I banged it with my hand, trying to see something, the car went into a skid, and we plunged headlong down the embankment — I think I heard, and felt, the second loud crash. Sudden silence. We had come to a halt and were staring through a big hole in the windshield. The silence came straight out of a fairy tale.

I wasn’t in any pain, but what I wanted most was just to sit there. We had managed to sail right through a gap between trees; on Nicoletta’s side the clearance wasn’t two feet.

I didn’t notice the blood until later. Nicoletta used her handkerchief to dab at it. And then — you know me — I started to feel sick to my stomach. I tipped my seat back, closed my eyes, and left everything to Nicoletta. The people who came to our aid were more of a nuisance. Someone spread a blanket over me and kept trying to tuck it under me on both sides. I pushed the guy away because I thought I was going to throw up. From this position I studied the little piece of ground beside the car for a good while.

By the time the police and ambulance arrived my nausea had given way to a nasty headache.

Everything took forever, the ride to Borna, the X-rays, the neck support, the police again, the endless sitting around, then finally the taxi ride to Altenburg. There are suddenly more taxis than you can shake a stick at. Robert stared in horror at my neck support and turban à la Apollinaire. Nicoletta told the cabdriver to take her to the train station right away.

She lives in Bamberg. People like her can’t or don’t want to believe that I left the theater voluntarily. She has contributed a lot to our newspaper, 93and since she’s writing about De Chirico and Moritz von Schwind is supposed to have been one of his favorites, I had arranged for her to visit the frescoes in Rüdigsdorf.

I’ll write about Barrista some other time. Thanks to his boots and Astrid the wolf he’s already become a fixture in town. He’s interested in everything and everybody, and he gawks at women’s breasts with his google-eyes. But that “von” in front of his name, his mission on behalf of the hereditary prince, and, last but not least, his courtesy and consideration — including a phenomenal memory for names — have not failed to have an effect. Was he ever one of your unrequited admirers?

Ah, Verotchka, my darling, how long must this waiting last?

Kisses from

Your Heinrich in his neck support 94

Tuesday, March 13, ’90

Dear Nicoletta,

I’m feeling better, much better. I plan to give the office a try on Wednesday, just for a few hours. And what about you? How are you doing? When I catch myself not thinking about you, it scares me, as if I had lost my wallet.

For some strange reason you’re the only person with whom I feel free to talk about my past and to explain why I’ve become the way I am. 95

There’s something I want to mention first, however.