Uwe Tellkamp - The Tower

When Meno returned, Judith Schevola looked through his microscope. ‘I hope those aren’t infectious.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Meno asked irritatedly.

‘About those pretty things on your slide, of course.’

‘Well, they’re certainly not things,’ said Albin, who was also peering through the eyepiece. ‘Do enlighten us, Herr Rohde. All I can see is full stops, dashes and commas.’

‘I didn’t bring a preparation with me,’ Meno said, bending over the microscope. ‘Cocci stained with eosin, I’d say at a glance. Someone must have stuck it in.’

Eschschloraque senior’s ass’s head suddenly came alive again: ‘Eosin, what a poetic name in the cool realm of tissue science. Eos, rosy-fingered dawn, Aurora in Latin. And that shot in the year of seventeen that made a breach in the gate of time. What I wanted to ask, Fräulein Deepyear: what is it like flying with the Chilly Councillor? — But silence, comrades. Our prince is about to have a shot at addressing us.’

Barsano spoke poorly but kept it brief. It was the same empty catchphrases as ever and Meno wondered whether Barsano believed in what he was saying, whether there was a man behind the public figure as he knew there was with Londoner, who spoke quite differently at university staff meetings and on other occasions from how he did among friends and family at home. There were rumours about Barsano going round, Londoner had told Meno that for some time now their First Secretary had no longer been so highly regarded in Berlin, he was too close to ‘our friends’ in Moscow, too sympathetic towards certain ideas of the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet. There had been ‘visits’.

That evening old Londoner was ill at home on Zetkinweg, but only yesterday he had enjoyed a play-reading with the parts cast, corrected Meno’s English pronunciation and joined in at favourite passages, so joyfully carried away that his absence through illness gave Meno pause for thought. But at the very least, Meno was convinced, Londoner would have advised Philipp, Judith, the Eschschloraques and himself not to attend Barsano’s party if it had been dangerous. Perhaps though, Meno reflected, Londoner had deliberately not given them such a warning since it increased the credibility of his own excuse if he didn’t attend himself but those closest to him did; in that way Barsano wouldn’t suspect anything. The balance of power seemed to be changing … Barsano had been attacked in Neues Deutschland , which Pravda had found ‘disconcerting’, which in its turn caused deflections on the seismograms that alarmed even less experienced quake-observers.

An emcee took over, he had the same red tie as the pianist, who appeared with arms outstretched and eyes closed, groping in the dark (the piano had had to be turned round); the other members of the dance band were also sporting red ties, which resulted in a barrage of algal up-and-down cross-beats when they began their tasteful manipulation of a few evergreens; a routine that made Meno think of the sales assistants at the Christmas market who showed the same matter-of-fact efficiency in packing the balls to decorate the trees as these instrumentalists in playing their way through their musical comfort food. Judith Schevola leant over to him. ‘One, two, three, another bar fini . The socialist work ethic applied to dance music. So silent, Herr Rohde? Actually your name ought to be Kibitzer. May I beg one of your Orients?’

… but then, all at once …

Else Alke brushed against flowers as she went past, the flowers withered. Malthakus and Frau Fiebig and the Guenons were drinking punch and started to twist and turn on their chairs as if they could hardly hold themselves back; their legs twitched in time to the music.

click,

Meno heard, beside him, the flame of a cigarette lighter lit up Judith Schevola’s features, Altberg was giving her a light. From Barsano’s table came the feverish laughter of the high-born damsels, vodka, punch, schnapps trickled down throats, eyes glistened as if blackened by deadly nightshade. Meno heard dogs barking, heard the wind carrying voices to him through the dreamily slow movements of the guests, across the tables and the brushed-aside chords of the dance band; howling and wailing; but it might have been an illusion like the two men in green at the window, like Eschschloraque’s voice, quiet but distinctly audible through a hubbub of voices, as he said to Philipp, ‘I’ve looked through your papers; as far as I can understand it we’re heading for bankruptcy. That’s explosive stuff, if the figures are right, and I can’t understand why they’re shutting their eyes to it.’

The emcee threw his head back like a stallion, his mane, fixed with Dreiwettertaft hairspray, looked frosted in the disco light, his moustache lifted on one side, revealing long teeth. ‘The floor is yours, ladies and gentlemen.’

Heinz Schiffner, his eyes on Babett Honich’s cleavage, searched in vain for a comb in the folds of his toga.

… but then, all at once …

‘They’re not interested in that kind of report. D’you know what he says? “For me that’s of no value whatsoever. That’s exactly the same as what’s in the Western press.” That’s why it doesn’t bother him.’

‘Since that which must not —’

‘— cannot be. I would start to wonder if people on Grauleite were saying the same as Der Spiegel . In that case there might be something to it. But those at the top think in exactly the same way and that’s the problem.’

‘Recently the Politburo was looking into the panties problem. There are no panties, neither in Berlin nor in the unimportant rest of the country,’ Albin Eschschloraque said, ‘so they were trying to develop a panties-problem-elimination plan. But the Women’s League had already started a newspaper campaign with patterns for making your own panties.’

‘The two Kaminskis have come as angels! God, if only virtue could be taught.’

‘But don’t listen to that Eschschloraque, Rohde. We’ll deal with him soon enough. That count with the slick, Frenchified tongue — who’s only in favour of communism because it means everyone will have time to go to his plays.’

‘Oh, Paul. Don’t say you’re jealous.’

‘And you, Lührer? Wherever you go you’re gabbling on about journeys to the West and hard-currency royalties.’

‘Herr Schade, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you for a long time —’

‘Oh, are you still around, Fräulein Schevola?’

‘As you see.’

‘Yes, OK, things can change. And what is it you want to say to me?’

‘You’re useless.’

‘What?’

‘Completely. You’re a functionary but not a writer.’

‘I tell you … I tell you, the Jews … they’re back in power again. They’re stirring things up against us in America, getting our loans blocked … We’ve come to an agreement with Japan. The Japanese are helping us. There are certain traits of character, national … whatsits.’

‘You’re drunk, Karlheinz. You … revolting.’

‘Just grin and bear it, Georgie Altberg. Like Comrade Londoner. Don’t get worked up. My God, this is pretty strong stuff. Almost as bad as the boss’s accordion playing.’

‘Ladies’ panties? Let them tie Pioneer neckerchiefs round them — like that Honich woman. There’s no shortage of them.’

‘Karlheinz, I’ve always kept my mouth shut when you go on like this, but now I’m asking you to apologize to Philipp and Judith.’

‘Hey, what’s got into you? Have you got something you want to get off your chest now, Georgie? Usually you’re the best at keeping your trap shut. You’re finished, I mean — dead.’

‘You may well be right. But being dead’s not that bad. You can get used to anything. If you refuse to apologize I will pass on what you said to the Party Control Commission.’