Uwe Tellkamp - The Tower

‘Look, over there.’ Richard pointed to the bank of the Schwarze Schwester, which, now visible, was winding its way along the Rose Gorge like a snake gleaming purple and tar-black.

‘The statues?’

‘Yes. I’d like to know who this wilderness belongs to.’ Richard took his jacket off and slung it over his shoulder.

‘Arbogast, I assume. At least, it’s below his Institute. As far as I know it was supposed to have been a rose nursery.’

‘As far as I know, it still is. — I once had a patient who worked here. An accident at work with interesting consequences for the insurance. Got a thorn in his forefinger and it festered, eventually we had to amputate. — It stinks of petroleum here. I wouldn’t be surprised if Arbogast’s chemical laboratory didn’t discharge into the stream. Everything’s dead down there.’

‘Who knows?’ Meno replied. The marble statues, green with age and neglect, were on the bank of the Schwarze Schwester, up to their waists in nettles and asphodel; here and there the face of a stone warrior could be seen entwined by roses; Amazons with bows and arrows that on his last visit Meno had seen with their breasts clear of foliage had been almost completely swallowed up by the hedges.

‘Anne told me you were doing a book with Arbogast?’

‘His autobiography, I’m helping him, sifting through material, listening to him. He’s very much in favour of oral expression.’

‘What does he say about the time he spent in Sochi? There’s all kinds of rumours.’

‘Not Sochi. Sinop.’

Richard nodded. ‘Yes, you know more about that, having been born over there.’

Meno seemed not to notice the jibe. ‘So far we haven’t talked about it and you know how it is — that phase might be left out. It doesn’t depend on us.’

‘He wrote me a letter, he wants to work together with the clinic. Medical projects on combating tumours.’ Richard had let the little dig slip out without giving it much thought and now he wanted say something friendly to Meno, who seemed taciturn and subdued; it couldn’t be him or Christian’s problem that was bothering him, perhaps it was just the heat. ‘By the way, those string quartets you gave me — top class. The Amadeus Quartet play outstandingly well. Those guys at Eterna must know what they’re getting for their limited resources of hard currency.’

‘Nothing but the best.’ Meno smiled. ‘What has Niklas to say about them?’

‘Benchmark recording. He’s got it, of course, though not the Eterna but the Deutsche Grammophon original. He hinted that I should note the difference.’

‘Oh’ — now Meno made an effort to speak in a serious tone — ‘so you’ve already checked which recording had the better sound mixer?’

‘Impossible to say, our man as well as the one from over there are both masters of their art but Grammophon have the better microphones and speakers, that’s just the way things are, we can’t do anything about it. And the better vinyl, of course.’

‘But you have the better record player?’

‘The very idea! Not even the better needle. Niklas is fair, I have to give him that. It would be no problem for him to decide the matter once and for all by bringing stuff back with him. But that would be like the high jump on the moon — only the Americans can get there, so they’d only be defeating themselves, in the long run it’s no fun.’

‘It’s self-irony, is it? I thought music was sacrosanct, especially German music.’

‘Well, we’re not exactly the norm, I can see that.’ Richard laughed. The last time Meno had seen him laugh was at the birthday party, when he’d been given Landscape during a Thaw . Meno remembered Christian and fell silent. He looked across to the ruinous pseudo-baroque town house that used to belong to a manufacturer of photographic paper but now housed the rules committee for the game of skat; four flags were hanging limply from the flagpoles outside the building: the ace of clubs, the queen of spades, the king of hearts and the ten of diamonds; there were lights on, they seemed to be pondering over enquiries.

The DEFA film studios were beyond the Rose Gorge, in the valley of the Schwarze Schwester, the sheds and the rails, on which scenery was moved backwards and forwards, could be seen. The studio grounds were fenced in, there were watchtowers, tall street lamps curved like cobras mingled their dull light with that of the searchlights from the towers. A gigantic Sandman waved, his helicopter was slowly coming towards him from the far end of the valley, the sleepy-time sand was in a third car, Richard and Meno observed it squashed in a corner that the roses from the gorge had already taken over. The bulbs hanging from a chain over the bridge went on but only about half lit up, some were making rasping noises, would soon go out.

‘Odd that you can’t see anyone,’ Richard said, ‘the scenery cars seem to go of their own accord.’

‘Remotely controlled, perhaps?’ Meno raised his hand, music came from one of the studios: ‘First we-he wa-a-tch our bedtime sho-how, then ev’ry chi-i-ld to slee-eep must go-ho …’; the familiar ditty of the Sandman programme, which started at ten to seven. They continued on their way. Settings for Westerns could be seen, on a poster a larger-than-life-size DEFA Indian was brandishing his tomahawk. Beside it were rows of garden gnomes, next to them an arbour, probably for the popular programme You and Your Garden . A searchlight caught the Weather Fairy at the entrance to the site, a cardboard eagle perched on an aerial, the emblem of the Monday-evening programme of carefully selected clips from Western TV, The Black Channel , by and with Karl-Eduard von Schnitzler, known as ‘Sully Eddy’. That’s where Frau Zwirnevaden works, Meno thought.

The closer they came to the Ascanian Island, the more nervous Richard grew, imagining scenarios of what would happen to Christian if Sperber couldn’t find a way out or, contrary to Londoner’s assurance, refused to take on the case. ‘What else could we do then?’ He went through lists of names. Could Londoner himself not do something, after all he was a close friend of the Chairman of the State Council; would Meno ask for an appointment with Barsano or perhaps with Arbogast? He was an influential man, valued by the high-ups, an important earner of hard currency.

Meno tried to calm him down. ‘First of all let’s see what Sperber says.’ But he too was wondering what they could do if Sperber held back. ‘And Christian? Has he written that essay?’ ‘That essay’ had been Anne’s idea, Christian was to present his view of the affair, explain why he’d read the memoirs of a U-boat commander in Hitler’s navy.

‘Yes. It’s been sent to the Regional Schools Officer and to the Schools Committee.’ Again Richard started thinking, found new names, examined and accepted or rejected them.

‘Has he recovered a bit by now?’

‘He is, let’s say, reasonably approachable once more. By now he seems to have come to understand what he’s done. Anne and I have discussed the matter: if all goes well, it would be best if he didn’t come on holiday with us this year but has the chance to think things through, get over it by himself. He’ll stay with Kurt. You can go and see him, of course, that will certainly do him good. He should be free for a few weeks and have time to reflect on what’s happened. Perhaps he has a girlfriend? The boy never tells me anything.’ Richard looked at Meno, Meno shrugged and raised his hands.

The bridge ended with a sign warning, in four languages, that unauthorized persons were not allowed onto the island. There was dense woodland either side of the well-trodden path, only sparse light came through the tops of the trees, Meno and Richard started when a guard suddenly asked to see their papers.