Ingo Schulze - New Lives

Robert’s questions became increasingly more specific — where did he spend Christmas, where did he go on vacation, what were his hobbies? And each time the baron responded with angelic patience and candor.

He once again declared how, except for himself, he knew no one who interpreted the job of a business consultant the way he did, that is, who invested in speculative projects by being paid his fee in shares of them — because he had no problem sharing the risk for his own decisions — provided his advice was followed. “Actually,” the baron said, without taking his eyes off Robert, “it’s a matter of trust. And since far too many people nowadays no longer even trust the word of a gentleman, I have to deprive them of a bit of their tidy profit.” He hastily chewed a pickle and then continued, “Thus far everyone who has paid me with shares has regretted doing so. They could have had it all at less cost, far less.”

And after yet another pickle, he provided his summary: “I make money out of ideas in order to have money for my ideas.”

What did that mean, making money out of ideas? Could the baron divulge one of those ideas to him?

“And who can assure me,” the baron replied, “that you won’t take it and earn a pile of money and I’m left out in the cold?”

“Because I promise I won’t,” Robert said, as if perfectly accustomed to carrying on such conversations.

“I read each weekly issue very carefully,” Barrista began. In the latest he had found two articles that instantly gave him an idea. Could Robert guess which articles those had been — he had sold the same paper, after all. Robert looked at me, I shrugged. The baron meant the committee that was supposed to provide new street names by June. “Well? Any lights go on?”

Robert blushed.

“What’s the first thing a businessman does when he arrives in Altenburg?”

“He goes to his hotel,” I said.

“Wrong! Utterly wrong! How does he know here his hotel is?”

“He stops and asks someone.”

The baron covered his eyes with one hand. “And what if it’s one o’clock in the morning?” he asked. “A businessman,” Barrista cried in triumph, “drives to the nearest gas station and buys himself — a map of the town!”

We vied with each other to inform the baron that gas stations are closed here at night. With a single gesture he brought us to silence. “I swear to you,” he said, and it sounded in fact as if he were swearing an oath, “that within a year there will be maps at gas stations here at one in the morning. Our maps of the city!”

The baron pulled out a note card and began scribbling. “Before we award a printing contract, we need to have calculations of costs and profits in our pocket.” Robert stared at him as if hypnotized. The entire project would be financed by the ads bordering the map.

Deducting all costs, that would leave a profit of approximately three thousand marks. We nodded approval. And that was excluding the sales revenues. And who in Altenburg wouldn’t want a map with the new street names? And why just in Altenburg? Why not Meuselwitz, Schmölln, Lucka, Gössnitz? And who said that there should be just one map for Altenburg? Those three thousand marks had suddenly become thirty thousand, sixty thousand. “Let’s say,” the baron concluded, “we’re talking about clear profit — that will amount to between forty and eighty thousand, forty to eighty thousand D-marks. Just takes a little organization. Gentlemen, money is lying in the streets of Altenburg. And this idea is my gift to you.” And with that he handed Robert pencil and note card and leaned back.

The performance was over. We didn’t know what to do — clap, say “Thank you,” ask questions?

But the big bang still awaited us. Caught up in the mood, I thought I had to present my own brilliant idea and proposed that the same people who approached shops and firms for ads in the map should canvass for advertising in the paper as well. Robert nodded.

I could see a goo of potatoes and sausage in the baron’s half-open mouth.

“What?” he asked, chewing more quickly. “You don’t have a sales force?” I shook my head.

“No agents in the field, no canvassers, or whatever it is you call them here?”

“No,” I protested.

“You…” he began, hurrying now to swallow, “you sit in your editorial offices and wait for people to come to you?”

I replied in the affirmative.

“And Frau Schorba?”

“She’s the exception,” I said.

The baron burst into terrible laughter — and swallowed the wrong way.

I can’t describe the entire evening for you. But it ended strangely. For it suddenly occurred to Barrista to say that he had been able to keep his hotel room after all. This was followed by an abrupt departure.

We walked with him to his car, a red Saratoga. As he said good-bye he put on a cap, one identical to the one he had given Robert. As he drove off a taxi turned down our street, and Michaela climbed out of it.

At first she was taken aback, then she went into a tirade about how it was way past Robert’s bedtime. She felt his forehead — he actually did have a slight temperature. We transplanted the jungle bouquet to our biggest stoneware pot. It’s now standing on the living-room floor and the fragrance is enough to befuddle you.

I thought about the maps and a sales force, slept fitfully, and awoke as frazzled as if the night had cost me as much energy as the day before. But just the thought of Robert picked me up again.

My plan was to greet Georg warmly and ask him straight out to sell me his share. I planned to offer him ten thousand D-marks for starters.

Michaela had a headache and stayed in bed. I promised I’d be back as soon as I could.

When I entered the office, I abandoned all hope. Georg, Jörg, and Marion were sitting cozily together drinking tea. It sounds absurd, but I had come too late. I had missed my chance by about half an hour.

Their friendliness, or better, chumminess was a cruel blow. I was given a cup of tea and a large piece of Marion’s cake. The fact that today of all days was her birthday seemed to seal my fate.

But then everything turned out differently.

One of Georg’s boys suddenly let out a howl in the garden, and Georg went to see what was wrong.

From across the table Jörg remarked that everything had been cleared up, that I didn’t have to worry about a thing. Georg wanted a nice clean break, that was all. And now it was up to me whether I wanted to take on Georg’s share and from here on out put my head on the block with him, Jörg, and share full responsibility. He didn’t want to place that burden on Marion, the paper shouldn’t be their family enterprise. I didn’t have to decide right off, but it would be a load off his mind if I could find my way to saying yes.

I drank my tea sip by sip and waited until I thought I could reply with a firm voice.

It’s two in the morning, and I hope I’m tired enough now to finally get some sleep.

Your E.

Wednesday, April 4, 1990

Dear Nicoletta,

I have no idea whether or not my letters ever reach you, not to mention whether you read them. But as long as none is returned or you don’t expressly ask me to spare you my story, I’d like to continue to write them.

I didn’t hear anything from Geronimo for a long time. At the start of his junior year, he had moved to Naumberg, to a preparatory seminary there, whose three-year course was not officially recognized, so that he would de facto graduate without a diploma. Now and then he sent greetings my way in letters that he wrote to a few girls in our class.

Astoundingly enough, at the start of my junior year I was accepted into the school choir and by November — hidden among the baritones — had already taken part in a performance of Brahms’s German Requiem. This isn’t the place to describe either our music teacher or what rehearsals with him were like, although those hours as a singer — even a very mediocre one 144are the only classes I can recall without chagrin.