Ingo Schulze - New Lives

The light went on, Johann was saying good-bye to his buddies.

I soundlessly freed myself partway from Franziska and pulled her glasses back down on her nose. But neither my presence nor Franziska’s condition seemed to surprise Johann.

“He loves me,” Franziska said, “he loves me!” But since she was glancing back and forth, now at Johann, now at me, it wasn’t clear whom she meant.

I waited in the kitchen while Johann attempted to put Franziska to bed. When he reappeared in the kitchen, all he wanted was a bucket, into which he ran some water, and then vanished back to her bedroom.

“She’ll be all right,” he said later, after he had drunk a glass of tap water and sat down beside me. He looked bone tired.

“I just brought Vera to the train,” I said. “She sends her good wishes.” I don’t know why I invented that. But Johann was happy to hear it.

In sequence I told him about the telegram, my trip home, about my mother and her suitcases and how she had called Vera back to her. I regretted that Franziska wasn’t at the table with us, since, or so it seemed to me, it was a great story. I had just got to the part about the pigeons when Johann leapt up and took off for the bedroom. As if in some film take, I watched him go and saw how the kitchen door swung farther and farther ajar.

And suddenly it happened — a feeling, a yearning, a certainty: I want out! I want to go to the West!

Maybe it was only my admission of a wish long latent within me. I sat there and enjoyed the clarity that comes with being governed by one single emotion. Yes, I too now loved the West with my whole heart — a love that flooded over me and coursed through me and that embraced Vera and all those people sitting on that train with her.

When Johann returned, we quickly said our good-byes — it was well after midnight. I ran the whole way to Klotzsche.

I was too exhausted to deal with considerations that would have led me any further. I wanted nothing more than to carry home with me this one decision, whose perfection would relieve me 232of every uncertainty. 233

Your Enrico T.

Monte Carlo, Sunday, May 14, 234’90

Dear Jo,

I’m sitting on the balcony of our room in the Hôtel de Paris, wrapped in a white bathrobe, gazing out at the casino and a swatch of sea to the left and right. I’m sick as a dog. My exhaustion is like a crying jag, but no sooner do I close my eyes than I’m dizzy. Writing is a good distraction. Vera hardly slept, despite earplugs. She’s out strolling through the hotel now and, if she manages to strike up a casual acquaintance, will probably end up in the pool. Vera is far more suited to this life. She’ll not be returning to Beirut all that soon. The latest bloodbath, although it took place on the “other side,” was the straw that broke the camel’s back. 235

I’ve been asking myself the whole time why Barrista took the risk, why he pressed five thousand D-marks into my hand, paid for the flight and a hotel room, and in return demanded only that I not leave the roulette table until I had either lost my stake or doubled it. I’m gradually beginning to figure out what he had in mind.

Just taking off all by myself, boarding the flight alone, was something new for me. The flight, the Alps, the Mediterranean, Nice, palm trees, then Vera — as if I had landed in a Belmondo movie, as if the West still existed! Vera looks the same as always. She had flown via Damascus and Athens to Paris on Thursday, but arrived here just before me. She can fit what few things she has into two suitcases.

Barrista had recommended we take the helicopter. Like blasé secret agents we ducked under the earsplitting rotors, the doors were closed behind us, and we lifted off a moment later. Is there any better metaphor for our new life than being hauled up into the air? We flew out over the water; the sailboats below were like a herd of wild beasts. Suddenly Monaco in the noonday sun. The sublime view, however, was visible only over a buzz-cut conk. 236Once we landed, Barrista’s Hôtel de Paris was a magic charm that was rewarded with respect. While the buzzed head climbed into a taxi, someone opened for us the doors of a vehicle that Vera claims was a Bentley.

Palm trees, yachts, blue sky — just as I had imagined it. Following the route of the Grand Prix, we floated up to the hotel. The carpet in the entrance lent my gait a feathery spring. All the same I felt like a tourist at a castle. Vera, on the other hand, passed out currency in all directions as if it were an old habit of hers.

I gave our names to an elderly gentleman who stood up to greet us with a smile and was immediately certain that there would be no reservation for us.

“Bienvenue, Madame Türmer, bienvenue, Monsieur Türmer” —and like a bride and groom we sank into armchairs opposite him. Mirrors set in the wainscoting and patricianly dimmed by time reflected only our faces.

John, yes, his name was John, recommended we reserve a table for the Grill that evening. We agreed, without any notion of what we were getting into. I passed on Barrista’s good wishes—“Makes no difference who you run into there, they all know me”—whereupon John spread his arms and bowed, as if only now had he recognized us. The crown at the top of this page of stationery is warranted if solely on the basis of his demeanor and tone of voice. John accompanied us to the “belle chamber” and explained how the telephone and remote control, light switches and refrigerator function. He was outraged by a full ashtray left on the balcony.

I couldn’t find it in my heart to dispose of a gentleman like John with a tip — though Vera assures me that was a mistake. She had not only given away all her francs, she didn’t have any cash whatever left.

After our luggage arrived — I hadn’t touched it since Nice — we went across to the Café de Paris for “lunch,” as Barrista would call it. Just that hour and a half on the café’s terrace would have made the trip worth it. But I have more important things to write about.

Before falling onto our king-size bed for a siesta, we bought me a bow tie and a pair of sunglasses.

When I woke up it was twenty till eight. I instantly panicked. The very idea of risking all that Western money seemed ludicrous. I didn’t calm down until I was under the shower. I put on fresh clothes as if suiting up in armor. These were the socks I would wear, and these the under-shorts. Every button I buttoned became a token of security. Except that the top button wouldn’t close.

That bit of bare skin called everything else into question. It’s more than likely that I don’t own a single shirt whose collar button I can button.

While Vera got herself ready in the bathroom, I put on my bow tie — and behold, a miracle! Le nœud papillon hid the blemish, was my seal of approval, so to speak.

An hour later I was confident I had discovered why I was here. This wasn’t about the casino, this was a totally different game. Here, in the Grill, on the ninth floor, vis-à-vis the castle of the Grimaldis — this was where we had to pull it off, to hold our own.

Doesn’t it require courage to pass in review before a phalanx of waiters, each repeating with the most cordial of smiles, “Bonsoir, madame. Bonsoir, monsieur.” Doesn’t it take bravery to fall blindly back onto a chair without reaching for it, in utter trust of a waiter’s dexterity? And what is valor if not a tranquil smile when confronted by such a menu? Although I admit I did warn Vera, whose menu contained no prices, about the Iranian caviar. At that point I couldn’t have brought myself to order an appetizer that cost over a thousand francs. On the other hand I repressed my thirst for beer and demanded the wine list. While I searched for a red wine under four hundred francs, Vera discovered that the footstool between us at the corner of the table was an ideal spot for her purse.