Ingo Schulze - New Lives

I gave the baron a copy of my calculations for a free paper financed by ads, and assumed it would evoke no more than a smile. He gave it a once-over, said it was perfect, handed it back, asked, as he riffled through his attaché case, what I thought of the reunification of Yemen 296—about which I hadn’t heard a thing, was clueless as to the point of his question — and pulled out his own figures, which, he suggested, reached conclusions similar to mine. The only entries I had forgotten were the interest on credit and the rent.

The baron invited me to accompany him to visit Dr. Karmeka, our new mayor. He guaranteed it would be interesting, since he planned to make him a proposal — and I should watch the mayor closely as he made it — that could prove crucial for the future of the town.

Karmeka, who’s actually a dentist and switched to politics because of a bad back, has fired as many members of the city administration as he could. Only the “antechamber” has survived. Along with two secretaries there’s a personal assistant, Herr Fliegner, a pallid, frail young man who was busy sorting papers on Karmeka’s desk and didn’t even look up as we entered.

Karmeka, as everyone knows, receives all his visitors with the same ritual — no sooner have you taken a seat than he pulls out a pack of cigarettes (he smokes Juwels, an old GDR brand) and, holding it and his lighter up, asks, “Do you mind?”

In lieu of a reply the baron handed him a shiny brown leather etui. “A little something.” Karmeka (the accent is on the first syllable) froze, laid his own toys to one side, extracted a cigar, and sniffed as he drew it under his nose. With our permission, he proposed as he slid the case back to Barrista, he would smoke this delicacy come evening, in peace and quiet, which during work was almost out of the question — for although our presence was of course most welcome and ought not be considered work in any real sense…then he took a puff on his cigarette and forgot to end his sentence.

The baron led off with a complaint about the flood of petitions that had followed the announcement of His Highness’s visit. He himself had been forced to devote a great deal of time to them, since it was not something one could ask of the hereditary prince. Further lamentations of much the same sort followed. The vertical crease that began in the middle of each of Karmeka’s cheeks, ran past the corners of his mouth, and ended at his chin, began to twitch every now and then.

Things had in fact gotten so bad, the baron exclaimed, that our valued friends from the Altenburg Weekly were being subjected to something close to extortion to get them to publish His Highness’s home address. He mentioned this vexation only so that one might have a very clear picture of what all the visit would demand we be prepared for.

In response to Barrista’s palaver Karmeka’s gestures grew increasingly guarded and limp. He cautiously extended both arms to accept the schedule for the visit — a suggestion, merely a suggestion — contained in a folder of the same fine leather as the cigar case. And the instant his fingertips touched the leather, he was seized with a coughing fit that caused him to draw his arms up and hunch over as if he were being beaten, until he rotated to one side and finally, still bent over, stood up and turned his back to us.

The baron was relentless. “His Highness will not be arriving empty-handed,” he exclaimed, but since he was trying to drown out Karmeka’s coughs it sounded more like a reprimand than a promise. His face fiery red, his head tucked as he fought for air, Karmeka stared at us wide-eyed. He hadn’t understood what the baron had said about the hand reliquary. The solemn ceremony itself had not merely been a subject of discussion with the church, but indeed enthusiastic preparations — for the procession, for the transfer of the object — were already underway. “Can you — please…I didn’t…I mean — repeat that?” Karmeka managed to gasp.

“We’re bringing Boniface home!” the baron shouted, and with a smile handed the folder back to an exhausted Karmeka.

“Just a moment!” I heard a voice above me say. Fliegner had stepped between us and Karmeka with a glass of water. Fliegner shielded him so deftly that we couldn’t even see him take a drink. “Ten minutes,” Fliegner said, addressing Karmeka, and stepped soundlessly back.

“Please,” Karmeka said, now obviously recovered, “where did we leave off?”

The baron handed him the folder with the schedule one more time. Karmeka laid it down in front of him and gazed again at the baron.

“And now an offer,” the baron said. “I have an offer to make to the city.” And with a glance at Fliegner he added, “And I expect the greatest discretion.” Karmeka just kept smiling steadfastly at him. The baron appeared to be considering whether he should even continue the conversation. There was the sound of papers being reshuffled on the desk.

“A three-figure sum in millions, currently invested abroad in dollars, will become available this year,” the baron said. He was considering parking the lion’s share of it here, yes, here in Altenburg, and of course in D-marks, with the proviso that the city come to an understanding with the local savings and loan and offer him — given the size of the sum and its investment over several years — terms appropriate to such a transaction. “Altenburg is dear to my heart,” the baron concluded.

Karmeka’s attention was now directed inward, his tongue probed a molar. As he attempted to stub out his cigarette, it broke and lay still fuming in the ashtray. Fliegner had once again stepped soundlessly behind Karmeka and now bent down to whisper something in his ear.

“How can I reach you?” Karmeka asked. The baron pointed to me and bowed, as if thanking me for my services ahead of time. His smile flickered and died.

Karmeka, who was the first to stand up, grasped the baron’s elbow, as if to help him to his feet. “I shall enjoy your cigar this evening in my garden.” His eyes sparkled with cordiality. “See you soon,” he said. Turning to me, he whispered, “Keep up the good work!”

In the reception room Fliegner caught up with us to return the cigar case. We departed without an exchange of greetings. We crossed the main hall of the Rathaus in silence.

“Incredible,” the baron sighed as we stepped out under a blue sky. “Have you ever seen the like? Of that shyster? Plays the village idiot and the next moment gives us the cold shoulder.” The baron groaned. “Now that’s a humbug, that’s a bamboozler!”

I had never seen the baron so peeved.

“You need to send a shot across his bow, otherwise he won’t know whom he’s dealing with here. ‘Keep up the good work!’ How dare he! Did you notice that proboscis as he sniffed my cigar? But no, no luxuries, these Protestants can’t handle those.”

I would have liked to inform the baron that Karmeka is a Catholic, but there was no holding him back. “‘City Hall Turns Down Three Hundred Million!’” The baron punched the headline word for word in the air. “A shot across the bow, a nasty one!”

At our portal he blocked my path. “Do you know how much I hate that? How I hate to be kept waiting?”

“But what had you expected?”

“I hate it, hate it, hate it!” he shouted.

But then, when Frau Schorba opened from inside, the mere sight of her sufficed to make a total gentleman of him. Astrid the wolf came trotting up behind her. Frau Schorba takes care of her during the day. The dog lies under her desk, waits to be fed and taken for her midday walk, and to be played with. She never tires of fetching her green ball. In the afternoon Georg’s boys or Robert take her for a walk. These walks are a regular fountain of youth for her. Of an evening the baron stops by to pick her up.