Uwe Tellkamp - The Tower

‘That’s something we must discuss … As you wish. Did you get my letter? I thought of calling you several times. — I suspect you have other things than my project to worry about at the Academy.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Moreover I share many of the views expressed in your piece, Herr Hoffmann. I’ll think the matter over.’

‘The fee —’

Arbogast smiled. ‘Oh, you know, that wouldn’t be a problem, Herr Hoffmann. A few jokes … you know perhaps that I collect them? Possibly the Bier/Braun/Kümmell surgical manual you have? Your brother-in-law from the Italian House told me about it. — Let’s both think it over. Will I see you at the Sibyllenhof afterwards? — Pity.’ Arbogast stood up, smoothed down his red jacket as, on the horizontal face of a desk clock behind the forest of sharp-pointed pencils, a dancer, an ivory Thumbelina, began to turn to the strains of a waltz.

A fancy-dress ball! The foyer of the Sibyllenhof restaurant was decorated with Chinese lanterns and garlands with streamers dangling down, flickering coloured bulbs had been hung over the window bays, a banner across the ceiling announced, ‘Dance your way into May’. Meno showed his invitation, took his old zoologist’s overalls and microscope out of his rucksack and went to the cloakroom, where a Red Riding Hood attendant hung up his hat between the Borsalinos of the two Eschschloraques. Karlfriede Sinner-Priest, dressed as a lady-in-waiting from the baroque period in Saxony, was standing next to Albert Salomon (August the Strong) by the Sibyllenhof telephone booths, which could be opened with a Allen key you were given after your name had been entered in the house telephone book at reception, and seemed to be in animated conversation with several writers — Meno recognized Lührer (embarrassingly also dressed as August the Strong) and Altberg (as a miner, who raised his hand in a half-wave of greeting). The main room of the restaurant was bathed in bluish-purple light that, coming from disco spotlights, ran down the wall like veins of ore. Albin Eschschloraque was wearing a nightwatchman costume and sitting, looking quite forlorn, with his lantern and nightwatchman’s horn, at one of the tables with white cloths; he waved to Meno. ‘Well then, man at the microscope, how’s things?’ he called out gloomily; Meno replied evasively but in markedly friendly tones.

‘Things might get quite lively tonight.’ Albin Eschschloraque pushed a bowl with pieces of Brockensplitter chocolate across to Meno but was dipping into it so frequently himself that Meno felt obliged to tear open one of the triangular packets from VEB Argenta and refill the bowl. Stewards in white that the Sibyllenhof, short of staff as were so many businesses, appeared to have borrowed from Arbogast’s personnel (by the entrance Frau Alke was occupied making last-minute adjustments to the buffet), were putting out carafes on the tables; Albin filled two glasses with the juice of a reddish tinge: ‘Rhubarb juice,’ he announced with a look on his face that still appeared undecided whether it was to express appreciation or displeasure. ‘They urgently need to make an inventory of the drinks in East Rome.’ The Sibyllenhof had hardly made any contribution, it didn’t have an allocation for such events; that was a Michurin product or one of the scientists’ little jokes to celebrate the day, as was, for example, the punch, brewed in Arbogast’s laboratories in Grünleite. ‘Have you brought your excommunicated sphinx, Herr Rohde, the grey-haired Roman lady?’

‘She doesn’t need to get me to escort her.’

‘Do I detect a note of bitterness? That’s true, she’s once more held in esteem and dread, as Papa, for whom the dread a person arouses is definitely part of a mature personality, would say. It’s the same with paternosters as with this guy here.’ He felt inside his costume and held up a ballpoint pen, the barrel of which was filled with a transparent liquid in which a little figure floated up and down when you turned the pen. ‘A Cartesian diver, quite nice. They’re handed out free as advertising in West Elbia, usually by pharmaceutical firms. The guy over there’ — Albin jerked his thumb at the barman, reputedly the tallest man in the Republic — ‘sells replicas. Of course, they can’t copy the reservoirs. Instead of pills, promotion of our little town in its little hills, and instead of the Argonauts there’s a daughter of the winds dancing here. — Here come the others.’

Malthakus had simply hung a Beirette round his neck and gone as a photographer, Record-Trüpel as a chimney sweep with ladder and top hat, Frau Zschunke wore bundles of radishes as ear-rings; Frau Knabe, in her overalls and carrying a molar on her shoulder, was beside Frau Teerwagen and the Honichs, who had hardly made any effort (Babett in a Young Pioneers blouse and a blue cap; her reply to Meno’s nod was rather silly: she put her hand up vertically to the top of her head in the Pioneer’s salute; Pedro in his combat group uniform with a full row of medals). Behind them came Joffe, rather amusingly dressed as a red taper, in lively conversation with Frau Arbogast; in that light the Baroness’s blue rinse looked metallic, the leather tan of her face contrasted sharply with the Dalmatian fur she had draped over her shoulders more for decoration than for warmth. After her, Guenon House arrived, led by a merrily laughing Widow Fiebig as the witch Baba Yaga on the arm of Herr Richter-Meinhold, who was dressed in yellow-and-red, like the covers of his maps.

‘Look, here come the balloonists.’ Albin Eschschloraque pointed to the terrace outside the main room that was now lit by floodlights. Alke and some of those in white overalls opened the French windows, where a crush of curious onlookers was growing.

‘Why don’t you come over here if you want to see something?’ a slim figure with an ass’s head, whom Meno recognized as Eschschloraque senior, called out to them. ‘You look surprised, Rohde — and would be justifiably so: not everyone has the self-irony to discover this grey fellow within himself. Most don’t even look for it. And imagine they’re lions and eagles. — They’re landing.’ A balloon came down, steered by Herr Ritschel, who was wearing a sailor’s peaked cap and had a bosun’s whistle. Beside Arbogast in his black cloak, Meno saw Judith Schevola — in a balloonist’s jaunty leather outfit; she’d even managed to get hold of a pilot’s leather helmet — and Philipp Londoner, he in the picturesquely ragged costume of a buccaneer.

‘The Flying Dutchman.’ The mocking comment came from the ass’s head. ‘Through the thunder and storm, from distant seas. And that on the eve of the day of the working class. He’s also got his steersman with him. Together with Senta in leathers. — Fatigant, hideux , and, above all, by no means fair. What do you think, Albin?’

‘I think she should beware. The sea is cold and deep.’

‘Your colleagues’ — the ass’s head nodded to the entrance — ‘Heinz Schiffner in a toga, laurel wreath round his brow. And in his hand a thistle, probably even a real one. That must symbolize clauses in a contract. What do you say to your boss appearing in his true colours, Rohde? That’s going over the top. It really shakes you up, doesn’t it, Rohde?’

‘Fräulein Wrobel as the Chocolate Girl,’ Albin said, licking his lips, ‘a delicious child, all at once I have a yen to see that sharp girl’s sweeter vein. A pair of scales she has as well, the pans say come then go again. — I’ll keep your seat for you,’ he shouted after Meno.

The nomenklatura of Dresden’s Party rolled up. They rolled up in the rubber-tyred horse-drawn charabancs from Heckmann’s carriage business; Julie-the-horses was on the box of the first one, cracking her whip merrily as she drove the two draught horses. The funicular brought more guests and locals, directing furtive glances at the Party secretaries dressed as knights who were toasting each other in loud voices. Their wives, in the costumes of high-born damsels, were quieter. The passers-by kept their heads down and quickly continued on their way.