Adam and Evelyn (27 page)

“Not that great.”

“With Katja?”

“Oh, Katja mothered me from start to finish. She even sent along a little something.” Evelyn hooked her arm under Adam’s. They passed a boy who was rattling the lock on his bike and cursing softly to himself, then turned down the street leading into town.

“Katja’s apartment is a dream come true, in the entryway there are mirrors and a chandelier, all very elegant—the real West.”

“And how many rooms?”

“Just one, but it’s huge. There are two other students in the apartment, each with her own room. The kitchen is huge, they even throw their parties in there, and there’s an old-fashioned bathroom with a huge tub. Makes you realize just how dull and middle-class all this is. I bought some tissues, here.”

Adam stopped to blow his nose.

“Any problems?” Evelyn asked.

“Not really.”

“But really?”

“His latest maxim is ‘No pain, no gain.’ ”

“I’ve heard that one.”

“I can’t find my house key anywhere.”

“Adam …”

“I’m just saying that I can’t find it. I thought maybe you took it by mistake.”

“I did not take your key by mistake.”

“Eberhard wanted me to sign up at the supermarket, they’re looking for people to run the bottle return, part-time.”

“At the Tengelmann?”

“Something like that.”

“And?”

“ ‘And’ what?”

“Were you there?”

Adam stopped in his tracks. “You think I should be sorting bottles?”

“I’d do it.”

“That’s easy to say.”

“I really would do it.”

“And I won’t. Were you at the university?”

“I first have to get a document notarized.”

“What?”

“My graduation exams.”

“Why would they need to be notarized?”

“I don’t know, but that’s the way it is. And then I’ll be majoring in art history and Romance languages.”

“And in the afternoons you’ll work the bottle return.”

“Everybody wants a security deposit. You can’t rent anything without a deposit. I was at the jeweler’s.”

Adam stopped in his tracks. “You promised me—”

“He didn’t want them.”

“What?”

“He flat-out didn’t want them.”

“What do you mean, ‘he didn’t want them’?”

“He says they’re not genuine.”

“Is he crazy?”

“He said none of the stones is real.”

“He just wanted to haggle.”

“No, not at all. He just shoved them back at me—no interest, period.”

“I told you you shouldn’t. And this is your punishment. You hold on to family things.”

“You sold Heinrich for the first offer that came along.”

“Family jewels are only for a very rainy day.”

“Well, it looks like it’s pouring down. I don’t want to be a beggar forever.”

“That’s one for Uncle Eberhard. ‘You don’t roll up your sleeves, you land in the garbage dump.’ ”

“Stop it now.”

“Did you show the jewelry to anyone else?”

“No, that was enough for me.”

“Well, they’re still beautiful. In my eyes it’s all genuine.”

“I wonder if she knew.”

“Of course she had to know.”

“My mother didn’t. She blew her top because I got them instead of her. I gave Katja one of the rings.”

“You’re a generous soul.”

“But how does that make me look now?”

“So you think she ran off to the pawnshop with it?”

“ ’Course not. But all the same—”

“How did she find a place to live so fast?”

“Through her relatives. They’re taking care of everything for her. Besides, she has a boyfriend, a Polish guy.”

“She could have come by one of those with a lot less trouble.”

“He’s been here a good while. He studied landscape gardening and something else, and is going to get his diploma soon. He and Katja are going to Zurich in two weeks, they’d like for us to come along.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“It would be nice. He has some business to take care of there, and we could take a look at the city. Leave in the morning, back the same evening.”

A bell rang behind them. The boy they’d seen before now went around them on his bike. Once he was past he called out something they couldn’t understand.

“I saw the doctor, too,” Evelyn said.

“The gynecologist?”

“Yes.”

“And? Everything okay?”

“Yes.”

“What was it Katja sent along?”

“Marble cake.”

Adam tugged at Evelyn to sit down on the bus-stop bench. “Come on, let’s have a little picnic.”

“Not here, it’s too cold. You’ve already got a cold.”

“You have something against picnics?”

“Are you trying to catch more cold?” Evelyn walked a few steps farther and then turned around to Adam. “Where’s your winter jacket?”

“It’s not my jacket, I won’t wear it.”

“Then we’ll buy you one, but you can’t go without one. Come on, let’s do it now.”

“No.”

“You put up with Eberhard’s little maxims, you can put up with his jacket.”

“Yesterday there were two hundred thousand people in Leipzig, and there’s to be a huge demonstration in Berlin, a legal one.”

“What does that have to do with your jacket?”

“Which means, we have to hope they don’t pull it off, right?”

“Cut that crap.”

“But we do, we hope they won’t pull it off, and Eberhard hopes they will—that’s how it looks to me.”

“Well, I in fact have other problems. Come on, please!”

“Saint Eberhard would be happy to give his jacket to our sisters and brothers in the East.”

“Come on now!”

Adam turned around. She watched him walk away. When he got to the bus stop, he pulled a newspaper from the trash can, spread it out on the bench, stretched out his legs, and pursed his lips as if he were about to start whistling.

Slowly, very slowly, Evelyn walked back to the bench. With each step she covered a vast distance. Just a few more breaths and she would be standing before him, look him in the eye, and say those familiar words, words so familiar that it suddenly seemed pointless to speak them.

“WE SHOULDN’T
have separated. I knew it wouldn’t work.”

“Marek hasn’t showed up yet either.”

“We should’ve just boarded and that’d be that. Now we’re standing around here cooling our heels and looking silly.”

“We’ve seen a lot, though. And as punishment for our mistake, let’s finish these off.”

“What are they called again?”

Katja had opened the little white cardboard box and now held it up so she could read the blue printing: “Lux-em-bur-ger-li, Sprüng-li.”

“Is that who makes them, or what they’re called?”

“Probably Sprüngli because they spring right up into your mouth.”

“The pink ones are the best.”

“Have another.”

“Should we save at least one for each of them?”

“Oh, we’ll buy some more.”

“Do you have that much money?”

“They only cost a couple of francs. We’re not going to think about money today.”

“Funny, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“That we’ve got the kind of money now that will get you anything? Does that already feel normal to you?”

“These Sprüngli here,” Katja said as she chewed, “are beyond description—ice cold inside and melting, and suddenly you think it’s done its thing, and then you bite into something hard, that’s the wildest experience.”

“And the mountain peaks, snowcapped, and that glow as if heaven were peeking through. I sometimes think Adam lives on another planet. I stand here looking at them and I’m happy—and him, he doesn’t see a thing.”

“Well, you did give him a hard nut to crack.”

“He acts like he’s the first and only person on earth.”

“And you really haven’t spoken to each other since?”

“Nope.”

“Not a word?”

“Nothing, zilch.”

“Does he want the baby? He must have said something, didn’t he?”

“He asked who the father is. And then he said he’d have to think about it.”

“Dead silence for ten days now?”

“Five. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, couldn’t get the words out.”

“I can’t imagine how you can go five days without talking to each other. He was cheerful enough earlier today, him and Marek.”

“It wasn’t exactly the perfect moment, maybe. He had been writing job applications, a slew of applications. But everyone tells him that doesn’t do the trick. You have to appear in person, present yourself, get acquainted with people. I told him he’s got to try harder, to make the extra effort—because we’re expecting a baby. The baby part was the last straw.”

“What a shame, I’d hoped—”

“He takes off somewhere every night, or almost every night. The stairs creak something awful—by the time he’s at the bottom, our fine hosts are sitting bolt upright of course in their pillows and asking themselves what’s happened now. Eberhard was even convinced Adam was going to set the house on fire. Twice I woke up, and there he stood
in his pajamas at the foot of my bed. Oh, dammit, it’s so beautiful here, and he manages to louse this up for me too.”

“It’s really incredible. Have you ever heard about the green light? It’s the rarest light there is, it’s only when the air is very very pure and you watch the sun sink into the lake, and suddenly there’s a burst of turquoise-green, a brief supernatural glow. Let’s link arms, maybe something will happen now.”

“And if Marek shows up, and he’s still not here?”

“Then we’ll come up with a plan. You need to tie your scarf, you look frozen to death. I think Adam was truly shocked when he saw the bill.”

“He needed that feeling again that lunch was on him.”

“But then he chose that Terrasse place or however you pronounce it. We could have gone Dutch.”

“Let him be, it’s okay. You guys paid for the trip. That’s his car money. The sooner he spends it, the better. Best thing would be we’re completely broke, maybe he’ll catch on then.”

“His hands were a little clammy.”

“He smells different somehow too. I’m not allowed to say ‘somehow’ when he’s around, but it’s the case all the same.”

“That’s your pregnancy nose.”

“No, he really smells different.”

“Adam’s been given a tough role to play.”

“Stop it. He should take an example from Marek, who just forged on ahead—he even had to learn German, and now he’ll soon have his diploma in his pocket. Marek is a treasure—I’d turn Catholic for him.”

“I don’t think he’s Catholic, at least I haven’t noticed any telltale signs yet.”

“Adam can’t get his nose out of some ancient bird and plant guides he found in the car. Of late he’s been visiting the zoo. And if I ask him what he does there, he says he’s ‘taking a walk.’ He could at least sew something for me, maternity things, dresses, pants. The water’s so clear here.”

“You just have to have an idea, and then you’ll make it,
easy
. Marek has a friend who buys the chicest clothes at Zurich flea-markets, and then she marks them up and resells them in Munich—it’s evidently going very well.”

“I thought everything was more expensive here?”

“They wear things here twice and then give them to their cleaning lady, who turns them over for a few quick francs.”

“Ah, I just want everything to be normal again, so that it’s perfectly natural to go into shops here and buy Sprüngli. Will we ever get to the point where we can stroll along here and say: ‘That hat there, that’s mine now.’ ”

Katja unlinked and ran toward the bridge. Marek spread his arms wide. Evelyn turned her head away. The bus to Küsnacht opened its doors a second time to let a woman board. Then she looked out over the lake. The bluish clouds were threaded with narrow orange veins. She heard Katja laugh. Katja called her over.

“Marek has something to tell us, come here!”

Evelyn’s steps slowed as the two of them went into another hug.

“Have you heard?” Marek asked. “You really haven’t? You didn’t notice the newspaper headlines? Everybody’s talking about—that’s all they can talk about.”

“Okay, but what is it?” Katja asked. “Spit it out.”

“Have you seen Adam?” Evelyn asked.

“I thought you were going to do the boat ride together.”

“We’ve been waiting here for forty-five minutes.”

“Look, it reads: ‘These are to be enjoyed on the spot’—and that’s what we did. You’re too late.” Katja split open the empty Sprüngli box.

“The wall is gone,” Marek said.

“Who’s been spreading that nonsense?” Evelyn asked.

“Everyone. On TV they’re showing nothing but Berlin, how everyone’s running across, it started late last night. You’re the last ones to know! I swear it’s true.” Marek raised one hand. “Wait a sec!”

“Marek, no, please.”

Marek walked over to an elderly couple. “Excuse me, my girlfriend here doesn’t believe that the wall has been torn down in Berlin.”

“Oh, indeed it has,” the man said. The woman nodded. The man touched the brim of his hat. They walked on.

“So then,” Marek called across. “Do you believe me now?”

Evelyn and Katja had already turned away. They were gazing across the water to the mountains and the sunset, whose colors now filled the entire sky.

THE RADIO MUSIC
helped calm her a little. Half past—she gave herself another twenty-eight minutes. If Adam still wasn’t back she would go to the phone booth and call Katja. She’d leave at ten on the dot, ten o’clock wasn’t too late. Is he there with you? she would ask Katja. Why Adam, who else? He’s taken off again. Since last night, without one word, left in the middle of the night. He doesn’t tell me anything, he only talks to you guys. How should I know where he is? Evelyn knew what Katja’s voice sounded like in those huge rooms, where everything was lovely and well thought-out, everything in its place. Katja was her friend, her only friend, but she wouldn’t hear a word said against him. She would do anything, Katja had said, for Adam. But she had also said that Adam shouldn’t treat her like a doormat, that he had no right to simply take off and not say anything. Evelyn pictured Adam there with her, standing at the window, without moving, without breathing, as if even that was too much for him, and when he did breathe, take a deep breath and let it out again like a sigh, he would massage his chest. She could see his larynx, his Adam’s apple, like something was stuck in his throat and he was choking on it. Maybe that’s why he’d been certified ill. She knew no one like him, no one who kept trying to get used to his own death. But she would never say anything about that to anyone, wouldn’t talk about it even to Katja, that would be a betrayal. But she would tell her what happened
yesterday evening, when they had gone out together again, to get away from Uncle Eberhard, that ogre, that Bautzen prisoner of 1957 who hadn’t fled but was a political refugee, who hadn’t run away from his responsibilities. Eberhard the Ogre claimed Adam broke the dishwasher. They had just wanted to have a beer at the Blue Angel, where Adam could play pool. She would tell Katja about the painter who had joined them at their table, a painter from Dresden. They had instantly recognized he didn’t really belong here, here in Bavaria, sitting there by himself. But he had no regrets about having left, having cut and run four or five years ago now. But now he was afraid they would all be coming here, that he’d have to see people he had hoped never to see again. She had no fear of that, but the fact that everything had just fallen into their laps over there, without their having to flee or risking anything, just like that, while they sat on their butts at home—there was something unjust in that. They could talk with him. His name was Frank, and not all that unknown a painter either, Frank, but she’d forgotten his last name. Frank had invited them to stop by and have a look at his studio, have a drink, talk and eat—most painters, he had said, are good cooks. He issued us a real invitation, his address on the beer coaster. And do you know what Adam said? Not what you think, nobody would ever guess. Thanks, Adam said, would love to, love to—and here it comes—would love to stop by sometime with my sister. With his sister! Can you imagine! He meant me. He was trying to fix me up with him. What could I have said? It would only have exposed him. And of course the painter reacted instantly, new person, new role—bang!—knee to knee, the whole routine. I would have taken a look at his work, but now I’m not going to play along. Besides, Adam wouldn’t come with me anyway. His head’s in a muddle, in a fog. And then his breathing. I keep thinking he’s just lying out there somewhere. I don’t cry, I’ve done enough sobbing by now. I don’t even know why I cry, I really don’t. He loves me. Yes, he loves me, he loves me and hates me. Ever since he fell in love with me, he’s hated me too. Because he wouldn’t be here otherwise.
That’s the truth, there’s no denying it. Evelyn blew her nose. Five times a day I think we ought to separate. But then—Do you know where he was that day in Zurich, where he really was? I couldn’t believe it. But then he didn’t let on either. On the way back from Villa Wesendonck, he left his camera on the streetcar, on the tram. So he ran off trying to track down his camera, back to the stop where he got off, to the police, the lost-and-found. And the only reason I caught on was because Adam was making all these calls to Switzerland. At first I thought he had some business contact, because he’d been very impressed by the way the Swiss dress—Switzerland, that was his West. And I thought maybe he’ll be able to make it in Switzerland. But it was always just talking with the lost-and-found. All gone, not just the camera, but the pictures from Lake Balaton and Lake Sims, too, they were all still on the roll of film inside, all of it down the drain, gone, gone, as if it never was. He was embarrassed, he was furious with himself, desperate, yes, desperate. Suddenly Adam’s like a little boy. But in the next moment out he comes with his maxims, à la Eberhard the Ogre, but turned around. For him there’s too much of everything. Too many words, too many dresses, too many pants, too much chocolate, too many cars—instead of being glad that there is finally enough of everything, he says: Too much, too many, an inflation of stuff that buries everything else, the essential things, the real things. That’s how he talks. Once he even started in about original sin. No kidding, original sin! He said original sin is what drives people to want more and more money, and that ruins everything. Not just in Switzerland, but in a fundamental way. Because everybody always wants more and more and nobody knows any better anymore, just more and more. And when I said that if there really is such a thing as original sin, then it’s God’s fault, because people have too little. And if you have too little … But that just ticked him off. He thought I was joking. But all the same he wants a new car. Or at any rate he wants his Heinrich back. Maybe he’s been reading the Bible too much. I’ve had it with him! I can’t listen to any more of his speeches. If I could I’d move in
with you. The moment it’s available, a room next to yours, beautiful, just like yours. You don’t have to worry that I’ll come bawling to you or talking your ear off, no, that’s not it, but just not to be here alone anymore and always to have to pass by Eberhard when you want to get out. Or you could come here, that’d be lovely too, but if you say you’re coming, then come, come here, or I’ll come to you, just for one night, but do come, do come, if only for a few hours. Come here, it’s quiet here, good for sleeping, just twenty minutes now, just nineteen.…