Ingo Schulze - New Lives

Piatkowski stood leaning against the newel, sucking on hard candy. The building had belonged to his in-laws, there had been a greengrocer here at one point, with first-rate connections to the farmers of Altenburg as well as of the more distant reaches of Saxony. They themselves, Piatkowski and his wife, had never earned a penny from it. There had been nothing but squabbles about the rent. And now this dump belonged to all four siblings, so there wasn’t anything left to speak of. The hardware store downstairs, and up in the garret a married couple, refugees back then, from Silesia — but the town had been full of them. “Ah,” the long drink of water said, “Silesia,” and buttoned up his coat.

The stairway is drafty and dark as a chimney, the light switch doesn’t work. On the second floor, two doors lead off a small vestibule to rooms looking out on the street. The one on the right, the smaller of the two, is twice as large as our editorial office. The door on the left opens onto an almost ballroom-size space with high windows and a door to another room almost as large.

“With windows like these you might as well just move out onto the street!” The baron stuck a fingertip into his mouth and then held it up to a windowpane, as if trying to determine the wind direction. “A pretty kettle of fish you’ve got here,” he chided Piatkowski, who took a deep breath and nodded twice.

“But I’ll take it! As is! With the shop downstairs. Agreed, Herr Piatkowski? Agreed?” The long drink of water gesticulated wildly.

“Have a look at the rest,” Piatkowski replied, and then warned Fred, who had shouldered open a warped door, “It gets a bit risky, leave that to me.”

We entered a long windowless hallway. To the left a wallpapered door opens onto the vestibule, so that you can move in a circle. Along the right are some tiny rooms — which Fred declared to be storage space.

Suddenly it turned bright again. The hallway ends in a room with windows facing a courtyard, and beyond it the rear walls of buildings lining the market.

Piatkowski remained in the doorway. The little room that I would have liked to move into then and there has been declared off-limits by the police — both the floor and the exterior wall are in danger of collapse. We all had a look before beating a dark retreat.

“Dear Herr Piatkowski, you actually want rent for that? What if my life insurance company were to hear about it!” The baron called back his wolf, who was sniffing in nooks and crannies. Even the long drink of water fell silent this time.

“Rubble!” the baron declared. “Quite simply rubble.”

The rent they had received up till now had barely paid the chimney sweep. And they’d put every penny into a new roof, Piatkowski said by way of apology.

“And now you want more rent? Who should I tell that to?”

The long drink of water shouted, “I’ll take it!”

“I’m really very sorry,” Piatkowski repeated.

“Are you even listening? I’ll take it!”

“Let’s go on upstairs,” Piatkowski proposed. We waited till we had lined up in our accustomed sequence, but this time the long drink of water backed off. He wasn’t about to play this game. He would rent it for a year, and that was that. He was sure they’d come to an agreement about price.

“Whereas I,” the baron said, “am unwilling to buy a pig in a poke.” He insisted on being led upstairs.

“But of course, but of course,” Piatkowski said, trying to mollify him. And that was why the long drink of water entered both rooms well behind the rest of us. Each of these rooms was likewise entered via a vestibule.

“How much do you want for this?” the baron asked, tugging and chewing at the hairs of his mustache. “It might work for the summer.”

“Now listen here…” the long drink of water broke in. He evidently no longer knew whom to address.

“What are you willing to offer?” Piatkowski asked.

“Not much, right?” The baron looked at me and then at Jörg. “Three hundred at most, 250 East-marks?” Jörg nodded, I nodded, Fred and Ilona thought that this was way too much, while Kurt wandered from window to window, digging his thumbnail into the putty and then blowing off the flaking paint.

“A thousand,” the long drink of water shouted in relief, “one thousand West-marks! Agreed?”

That was out of the question, the baron replied angrily, it would be the ruin of the market here, offering a thousand for a dump like this, totally off the mark, it was immoral, a man couldn’t do that, truly he couldn’t. If that were to set the pace…For a moment the long drink of water looked exasperated, but then triumphed over his response and said, “It’s a market economy.”

“Yes,” Piatkowski said, 250 would be about right, he really didn’t want to ask for more than that, he wasn’t a moneygrubber and the place needed some serious investment—250 East-marks, that was all right with him, but always in advance, on the first.

The baron held a hand out to him. “Starting May first,” he said. “May?” Piatkowski asked, but then shook hands.

The long drink of water gave a shrill laugh. “Herr Piatkowski! Herr Piatkowski? A thousand West-marks, agreed?”

“Yes,” Piatkowski said. He had understood him, calling the long drink of water by his long and melodious name, but surely he must realize that this was among locals, and just in general, it’s how we were used to doing things around here.

“Yes,” Fred said, “we’re locals!” Kurt nodded, one thumbnail cleaning the other.

The long drink of water gave a snort, stepped up to the baron, extended him a hand like a knife to his stomach, and bellowed, “Congratulations, really, my congratulations!” Since the baron was pressing his attaché case against himself with both hands, the long drink of water made do with some vigorous motions of his head, turned around, and vanished like a shade into the gloom of the vestibule. Piatkowski handed us the keys, and we said our good-byes.

Fred immediately started planning the renovation. If we gave him and Kurt a free hand, it would be completely taken care of within two weeks, completely. Jörg asked me to keep working on my article on Piatkowski, who was still deputy chairman of the Christian Democrats, even if he was our landlord now. He had promised Marion.

The baron is proud of his achievement. As soon as he has his new stationery he’ll send us his bill as the agent, one month’s rent — standard is three — his first earnings in the East.

The old married couple in the attic have yet to let us know if they are happy with their new co-renters. The hardware store people don’t seem to care one way or the other.

Furniture is no problem — Helping Hand is selling off the inventory of the Stasi villa cheap. And there’ll be more than enough parking spaces. We just have to clean up the area at the upper end of Jüden Gasse. 157

And now about the weekend. I wanted to check in on Fred and Kurt, who have been renovating since Friday, and on Saturday I drove over to the new building with several boxes of cookies and a bag of coffee. Ilona had mobilized her husband and children. They were ripping off wallpaper as if there were nothing they’d rather be doing. Kurt was plastering holes in the walls with stoic equanimity. Pringel was happy that I could see him in his mechanic’s jumpsuit. Fred was already painting the office. Next to the shashlik and Ilona’s cream torte my cookies would have looked pitiful, so I just left the coffee.

Jörg, Marion, and I had worked till midnight on Friday, and the twelve pages for Monday were as good as finished. I don’t know myself why I drove back to the office — maybe the others’ enthusiasm was infectious. As always I first went through the mail, slitting one envelope after the other with Ilona’s Egyptian letter opener, stamped readers’ letters, inquiries, manuscripts as “received,” and sorted subscription forms and small ads. Like some bonus, the last envelope was embossed with a coat-of-arms on the back.