Uwe Tellkamp - The Tower

A shrill bell sounded. ‘Closing time!’ The office window rattled shut.

The ten-minute clock struck twenty to five; once more Meno checked his manuscript, key, the letter of invitation written by Arbogast’s secretary, took the rose for Arbogast’s wife out of the water, wrapped it in paper and left. He went down Wolfsleite, waved to Herr Krausewitz, who, puffing away at his Mundlos cigar, was busy in the garden of Wolfstone: ‘Oh, good evening, Herr Krausewitz, isn’t it a little early for flowers?’ — pointing at the garden tools in Krausewitz’s wheelbarrow.

‘For flowers yes, Herr Rohde, but it is time for the fruit trees, and the branches of the old apple trees are too thick, I’ll have to thin them out, otherwise we’ll only get little apples in the autumn.’ — ‘Pretty cold, isn’t it?’ — ‘Oh,’ said Krausewitz, waving the comment away, ‘fear ye not the cold March snow, a good warm heart doth beat below, as the farmers say. And the caterpillars have to be dealt with as well. Look’ — he pointed to several branches — ‘I put some glue-bands on — and now the blasted creatures have laid their eggs underneath the strips. The winter moth especially, it was a real pest last year. The bands aren’t sticking on any longer, I’ll have to renew them. Otherwise the caterpillars will crawl up the branches and that’ll be it for the fruit and everything that goes with it.’

‘In our garden the trees have lots of splits in the bark.’

‘You mustn’t leave them open, Herr Rohde. No wonder given how cold it’s been. The bark splits like dry skin. I recommend you cut away the edges smoothly and then seal them with a proprietary product. Frau Lange should still have some, I saw her getting in a good supply in the pharmacy last October. Otherwise just come and ask.’ — ‘So cut away smoothly?’ — ‘Like a surgeon, yes. These trees are living beings too. And they have a character of their own as well. But, as I said, don’t forget to seal the splits.’

How were things at the airport, Meno asked. Krausewitz worked there as a controller. Same as ever, routine you know, they tried to transfer him from the tower to ground control, after all he had turned fifty-eight, hadn’t he? But in the tests he’d outperformed two younger colleagues and then there was the experience, so he was still slotted into the cycle of four-hour shifts like all the rest. Give the Langes my best wishes, won’t you. With that, Krausewitz tipped his angler’s hat and dug the spade, which he’d been leaning on while they talked, into the soil, which was still dappled with snow.

Meno had gone home rather earlier than usual that day, which was easier on a Friday since the publishing section in the Ministry of Culture didn’t call after one and Schiffner left at that time when he’d come from Berlin: not to start the weekend but for his beloved visits to artists’ studios where he hoped to find up-and-coming young artists. ‘Until this evening, Herr Rohde, we’ll see each other then at Arbogast’s, I’m very much looking forward to your talk. You could have told me what your hobby is, after all we can do something for that sort of thing — you just sit here quietly pondering over literature and keeping yourself to yourself.’

Meno really ought to have done some more work on a manuscript by Lührer, an urgent task, but he wanted to read his paper out loud again and had gone to see his colleague Stefanie Wrobel, known as Madame Eglantine. ‘Off you go,’ she’d said with a resigned smile, ‘and all the best for this evening.’

‘Thanks. I owe you. If I can do anything for you —’

‘You could put on a pot of water for my coffee before you go. I’d also like a copy of your talk, a detailed report of course — and an honest explanation.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of how you managed to saddle me with our classical author’s latest opus.’ She pointed at Eschschloraque’s manuscript.

‘He’s threatening me.’

‘Who is he not threatening?’ Madame Eglantine shrugged her shoulders and hurriedly downed the last of her coffee.

Darkness was still falling quickly, the lights above Wolfsleite and the Turmstrasse crossroads drifted into view like moons. A white Citroën turned into Wolfsleite and stopped outside the first house after Turmstrasse. That had to be the car of Sperber, the lawyer. Meno kept in the shadow of the trees on his side of the road. The lawyer got out, there was a jangle of keys, the gate at the end of the wrought-iron fence opened and Meno watched Sperber, about whom there were many rumours circulating in the Tower: that during the week he worked in a lawyers’ chambers on the Ascanian Island, where he also had an apartment and a mistress, whom his wife not only knew about but had selected for him herself from among the throng of female students in the law faculty, where he also gave lectures; that he was a fanatical supporter of Dynamo Dresden — Meno had that from Ulrich, who had often met him in the stadium — and that he was ready to listen to anyone who was in political difficulties. Sperber turned round, fixed his eyes on Meno, waved: ‘Good evening, Herr Rohde, it doesn’t start until seven, if I’m not mistaken.’ Does that mean Sperber’s part of Urania as well? Concealing his surprise, Meno went over to Sperber, trying to appear unselfconscious, for he was embarrassed at being discovered in his attempt to hide. But he’ll be familiar with that, he told himself with amused irritation, it’ll be the behaviour pattern of his clients. Sperber said it was good they’d finally got to know each other, he was a fan of Dresdner Edition, a subscriber, you might almost say, and since the name of the editor was always given in the imprint, he had in a way already made his acquaintance, assuming one could take a person’s approach to their work for the person, as he also had that of Frau, ‘or Fräulein?’ — Sperber gave a charming smile — Wrobel, who, however, ought to be more strict with some authors, there were errors, naming no names, of course. — Of course. — Some of our living classical authors are quite unsure about punctuation. For prices you need an em dash, not a two-em dash nor a hyphen. Recently he’d come across a word division he’d immediately made the subject of his lecture: surg-eon instead of, correctly, sur-geon! Sperber chopped down with the side of his hand and screwed up his right eye. Schiffner was one of the old school, couldn’t he … But more of that later. Sperber laughed and took Meno’s hand in a limp handshake.

Turmstrasse was busier, a squad of soldiers was marching in the direction of Bautzner Strasse, perhaps heading for the Waldcafé or the Tannhäuser Cinema or, more likely, to a dance in the Bird of Paradise Bar in the Schlemm Hotel; no, thought Meno, when he saw that the leader had a net of handballs slung over his shoulder, and recalled a plain notice on the advertising pillar on Planetenweg: a friendly between the German and Soviet brothers-in-arms in the sports hall in the grounds of the sanatorium. People were coming out of Sibyllenleite, from the funicular, some familiar faces among them; Meno nodded to Iris Hoffmann, who worked as an engineering draughtswoman for the VEB Pentacon combine, she nodded back. And there was the sweet chestnut outside Arbogast’s Institute already, there was the People’s Observatory behind the wall, the wide gate on rollers with the flashing light at the cobbled drive to the Institute buildings on Turmstrasse, there the modern cube of the Institute for Flow Research at the beginning of Holländische Leite, into which Meno turned. On Unterer Plan he waited at a high, wrought-iron gate; the elaborate Gothic tendrils combined to form a black gryphon; the top of the gate was in the shape of a bee lily.