Uwe Tellkamp - The Tower

Meno went to the Leipzig Book Fair every year. Philipp put him up for those days and continued to do so after Hanna and Meno had separated, for the two men felt a liking, a quiet respect, for each other, what Hanna had once called ‘a kind of awkward friendship’. The crows were still there, their numbers seemed to have increased over the years until there were legions of them. Worse for Meno than their squabbling and squawking, their sputtering and chattering, was the moment in the evening when the gates of the cotton mill opened and the workers went home: then the crows fell silent, you could hear many shuffling steps, rhythmically interrupted by the sound of several time clocks punching cards, now and then by the grinding of a tram going round a bend or accelerating. When the wind in Leipzig turned to the north, bringing the fine brown-coal dust from the open-cast mines of Borna and Espenhain that slewed in broad sheets round the houses and dust devils the height of a man — the ‘cypresses’ — appeared in the streets, the crows would sit, silent, in the jagged black trees that were like veins of ore against the brighter sky, and look down on the workers, most of whom ignored the birds and made their way, head bowed, with sluggish gait, to the bus stop or the central bicycle racks outside the mill. Sometimes a woman would raise her fist and scold the crows in the silence or a man would throw a stone at them and swear, at which a raging, discordant swarm, an avian giant consisting of clamorous take-offs, cries of fury and the clatter of feathers, would swell up over the factory in pulsating rings that circled round in the sky, screeching, and then slowly sink, appearing to be sucked into funnels that gathered together in a thin swirl, like a storm spindle, back down into the elms; individual birds separated from the fraying downflow, folded their wings, came to rest. Meno would observe all this from the window of the little room Philipp had given him, the cotton mill was opposite; in the morning, as he was getting ready for the Book Fair, he could see the workers of the early shift at their machines, silhouettes with swift and measured movements under fluorescent lights.

Meno unpacked his suitcase. In the study a young woman was sitting beside Philipp.

‘This is Marisa.’ Philipp lit one of his cigarillos, Cuban; perhaps it was the only privilege he took advantage of. ‘I’ve already told her who you are.’

‘You haven’t shaved your moustache off,’ Meno replied.

‘She says it’s modern in Chile nowadays. One for you too?’ He handed Meno a silver case.

‘Not something we get every day. With pleasure.’

‘When your Spanish is a bit better,’ Marisa said, winking at Philipp, ‘we’ll accept you as a compañero . I’ll go and make some tea.’

Philipp waved this away. ‘No, don’t bother. I’ll make it.’

‘No, you’ll stay here and talk to him. Talking is men’s business. I’ll make the tea. That’s women’s business.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘When the time comes to fight, I will fight. Fighting is women’s business as well. But now it’s time to drink tea.’ She lifted up her head proudly and went out.

‘Don’t think I support that. But lots of our Chilean comrades are the same. These remnants of bourgeois attitudes —’

‘They’re not bourgeois … whatsits. You’d be surprised how many members of the bourgeoisie in our country have long hair like you! If I go for you to bring you the tea it is out of emoción . And la revolución needs warm hearts and not the one most German comrades have —’

‘ Corazon del noviembre? ’ Philipp tried out his Spanish.

‘November hearrts,’ said Marisa.

DIARY

Discussion between Schiffner, Schevola and me before leaving for the Fair. We still have to discuss the title, The Depths of These Years. A title like that claims something that the text doesn’t yet match up to, it’s trying to meet the specification and sometimes that just doesn’t happen because the book has different ideas about itself from the author. I don’t know who it was who said that a book should be named after its ‘hero’, anything else was mere journalism — the longer I’ve been in this profession, the more I’m persuaded by that statement, though it does have its problems too, for who can say for certain that this method avoids ‘mere journalism’ and that where ‘Anna Karenina’ is written on the cover, Anna Karenina is also inside it. So Schevola’s book is to be published by us, something that was a surprise to me. Usually when Schiffner decides on a book, he puts detailed instructions in our pigeonholes — and doesn’t remain silent, as he has done in this case. Everything’s still vague, of course — as always with printed stuff in general, especially with Schiffner and especially especially with the PLAN. Frau Zäpter, his self-assured secretary — she makes the decision on unsolicited poems — was noisily making coffee as Schiffner sat down opposite Schevola and invited me to join them. He regarded his fingernails, the manuscript in front of him with two pages sticking out that, as the kettle started to whistle, he tried to tap back in. Madame Schevola seemed calm and reserved, she had put her fingers together, was staring at the table and was pale .

‘So you’ve written something here and now you want to publish it. Well, I’ll explain the philosophy of our publishing house, my child.’ I hate these moments — and enjoy them at the same time, strangely enough, for how an author feels when they’re greeted with stuff like that as the very first sentence — not even a ‘Good day’, that’s what the outer office is for, Schiffner just stands up, straightens, briefly runs his hand over his hair, glues the author’s wandering gaze firmly to his fatherly publisher’s gaze, extends his right hand and, with an inimitable waggling gesture, mutely indicates the penitential chair at the conference table opposite his imperial throne studded with yellow upholstery pins the size of coins — how Schevola, who looks controlled, is feeling is something I can appreciate .

‘We publish authors, not books. We don’t even just happen’ — he raises his chin and gently waves his left hand — ‘to publish a book, my child. No.’ The way he shakes his head as he says that! The way he says that ‘No’, not with emphasis, not with a dismissive raising of the voice, he lowers his chin and shakes his head, forbearing, as if he were talking to a badly behaved pet, his hand comes down, flat, like a seal’s flipper, gently through the air, as if there were nothing more to say apart from that soft ‘No’, and as he does this he purses his lips. Tasting the effect. And when he then raises his left eyebrow, Frau Zäpter knows it’s time to serve the coffee, with a little bobble of cream for him that sputters out of a vigorously shaken syphon, and then, after he’s taken a sip, raising his eyebrow a little higher, it’s the time for: ‘Just come over here, my child.’ Now he shows her the prints and paintings on the walls between the shelves, portraits of writers, all done by renowned figures from the Artists’ Association. He flicks out his right index finger, which has a ring with a green stone on it, stabs it in the direction of the first picture: ‘Who is that?’ — ‘X.’ Second picture: ‘Who is that?’ — ‘Y.’ Third picture: ‘And that?’ — ‘Z.’ He pats her cheek and says, ‘Wrong, it’s A.’ Then he takes a mirror off the shelf, holds it up to the baffled Schevola’s face: ‘And who is that?’ — ‘Another one?’ — ‘That’s an author who can’t write.’ He watches her closely, waiting for her response, eyes slightly screwed up, his tongue feeling its way along his left teeth; he spins the mirror round as he puts it behind him, then pauses, like a gunslinger slipping his Colt, still smoking, into its holster, then he places the mirror, carefully, precisely, as if it were a precious object, back on the shelf .