Adam and Evelyn (4 page)

“And otherwise?” Adam asked.

The garageman stared straight ahead as if he had to give the question some serious thought. “I was supposed to have taken my vacation by now,” he finally said. “But there’s my coworker, and if she doesn’t show …”

Adam gave him a two-mark tip.

“Just a sec,” the garageman said. He came back out of the office with a hand on his leg pocket.

“You know this stuff?” He turned around, his back to the Škoda behind them now, pulled out a spray can, shook it, squatted down at the radiator, squirted a blob of foam on the chrome bumper, and rubbed it. “Now ain’t that somethin’?” The spot did in fact look shinier. Adam was hoping the garageman would do the rest of the bumper, but he stood up instead.

“You have another can of it?”

“Na-a-a-h!” the garageman bleated. “Got it from some Czechs.
Wanted to ask, just in case you ever head that way, if you might bring me one back.”

“We’re off to Warnemünde,” Adam said.

“Thought you might keep it in mind, if you ever do happen to—”

“Sure,” Adam said and nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind. Have you got a funnel, by the way?”

“For you I’ve got it all.”

Tucking the spray can back in his leg pocket, the garageman vanished again. Adam was generous in rounding up the price. The money disappeared into the garageman’s bib pocket. They shook hands good-bye. Adam could see in the rearview mirror that the garageman was tugging a red-and-white chain across the station entrance, all the while watching him pull away, as if taking note of the license number.

Just after Saint Bartholomew’s Adam took a right at Ebert Strasse, crossed Dr. Kulz Strasse, then made a left, bringing him at last to Martin Luther Strasse. Evelyn’s bike was beside the front door of number 15, and directly across the street was a red Passat hatchback with West German plates and HH as the first two letters. He couldn’t think of any major city that had two Hs in it.

Adam was hungry. Once back home he forced himself to take his time, garnishing his plate of cold cuts with pickles, setting mustard, horseradish, and the bowl of stewed quince on the tray, plus two plates, each with a cloth napkin in its own silver ring.

After he had wiped off the oilcloth on the garden table, he fetched the turtle from its little enclosure and put it on the table, just as Evelyn had always done. The turtle crept closer to his plate. Adam made a point of eating slowly and drinking slowly. There was a pleasant evening breeze, a blackbird was sitting on the ridge of the roof. To finish off his meal he tried peeling the figs, but finally sliced them in half and ate them with a spoon. He laid the leftovers in front of the turtle, which immediately began nibbling away. It felt good having an animal close by, as if he had already been alone too long.

Evening was falling by the time Adam turned the garden hose on
the flower beds and shrubs. He always had his best ideas when gardening, which was why he kept a drawing pad in the shed, for a quick design sketch with a carpenter’s pencil.

He took time out to set the turtle in the grass, to speak with the neighbors and clean the little pond. Along its rim were four sandstone frogs that spat jets of water. He was as delighted as always with the flat stone he had laid in the middle of the pond last spring—perfect for birds. When he had finished with the garden and the turtle was back to crawling around in its pen, he treated himself to a second beer and a cigar. If Evelyn came by, she would see that not only was she expected, but also he was sticking to his agreement to smoke only in his workshop or outside.

Every thought that entered his head ended up as a kind of self-justification, as if he were being interrogated, as if his mind would allow no uncertainties, no contradictions. It seemed to him as if his just sitting here and smoking had been entered on the police report, with date and time. He still had to take out the garbage, check the windows, including those in the cellar, and make sure that all the doors inside were left open—to unplug everything, wipe up any water in the fridge, pack, and find a box for the turtle. His reward would be a shower and a shave.

Adam was just setting the alarm clock when the doorbell rang. What flashed through his mind was: the garageman. But why him? Evelyn! He turned on the outside light and opened the door.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said. The telegram delivery boy greeted him and handed him an envelope. Searching for his wallet, Adam frisked his jacket, hung on a clothes hanger dangling from the entryway wardrobe. He pressed a mark into the delivery boy’s hand and waited until he had remounted his chug-chugging moped and ridden off.

“Sunday a problem. Monday afternoon? Monika.”

Adam grimaced and sat down on the stairs. He had thought of everything, just not of his women.

There was a piece of cardboard tucked between his garden shoes,
which he stored in the niche beside the door. He slipped it out and fanned himself. Years ago he had written “In the garden” on it in red pencil, so that if he didn’t hear the doorbell his clients wouldn’t think he had left them in the lurch. Some came from as far away as Leipzig, Gera, or Karl-Marx-Stadt.

He would have to write about twenty postcards: “Quick vacation till early September. Greetings, Adam.” He had time, he was all packed. He had canceled the newspaper clear back at the start of the year. The mailbox was big enough for all the rest. He pushed the sign back into its slot between the heavy shoes.

No lies, no need to hide, he told himself suddenly, stood up, and locked the door from inside. For a moment he thought of leaving the key in the lock—but then pulled it out as always. He was used to Evelyn coming home late. Out of the wardrobe Adam grabbed her straw hat, which he wore sometimes himself for work in the garden, and laid it atop his packed suitcase. He padded the turtle’s box with a few fabric remnants and added a water dish.

There were lights in several windows until a little after midnight, Adam included in his imaginary police report while he brushed his teeth. Quickly rinsed and gargled, and went to bed.

ALTHOUGH ADAM
hadn’t used an alarm clock for years, he woke up as he always had just before it rang. As on every other morning, he imagined his own death. Today the thought was more unsettling than comforting.

Still in his pajamas, he went down to the living room, opened the old writing desk, took out the jewelry box, and put on his wristwatch, a Glasshütte, Evelyn’s present to him on his thirty-second birthday. To make room in the suitcase for the jewelry box he had to remove his extra pair of loafers. He had more stewed quince for breakfast and rinsed out the empty jar. He dried the spoon and laid it back in its slot in the drawer.

When he had finished packing the car, he unscrewed all the fuses for the house.

As he turned into Martin Luther Strasse he spotted the red Passat hatchback from a good distance away. Evelyn’s bike was no longer parked at the front of the house.

Adam stopped, rolled down his window, and gazed up at the open windows on the second floor. Compared with those rooms with their high ceilings and fine plasterwork and art nouveau sliding doors, his little house from the thirties looked humdrum, a dump. Adam drove to the end of the street, turned around, and maneuvered his car into the nearest parking space, three down from the house. To keep an eye
on the front door over the top of a hedge, he had to sit up straight. The turtle hadn’t budged. He got out and lit a cigar. Except for some distant traffic, all he could hear was birds.

Adam inspected the Passat. The backseat was strewn with candy wrappers and crumbs. Adam scowled when he saw that the cover over the driver’s seat was made of little wooden balls. The seat was pushed so far back that there was room behind it for a kid at best. From the sidewalk Adam gave the front tire a kick. All he had to do was flip open his pocketknife and do two quick knee bends, and they would be stuck here. He twirled his car keys—one for the door, one for the engine—on his index finger, strolled up the street, tossed the stack of postcards in the mailbox, walked back, and, leaning against his Wartburg, smoked the rest of his cigar. He dropped the butt, it vanished down the storm drain without touching the grate.

Adam pulled the cup from his thermos and filled it halfway. He sipped cautiously, blew on the coffee, took another sip, held the plastic cup to his nose, and smiled. This was what vacation smelled like. Had smelled like for ages now. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d drunk coffee from a thermos. Although there was no smell that was more a part of him. It meant fresh air, a girlfriend, freedom.

He felt the pressure ease at his temples, he could breathe again. “It’s gonna be a long ride, Elfi,” he said, clapped on the straw hat, and then pushed it back with his index finger. Suddenly it all seemed very simple.

THE KNOCK
woke Adam up. “I told you I could smell it.” Simone and Evelyn were looking in at him. Although he was sitting up straight by now, Simone kept on rapping at the window. He had no idea how long he’d slept.

Adam took off the hat and opened the door. “Good morning,” he said.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Evelyn asked. “Are you a spy now, too?”

“I knew it!” Simone gave the car roof a slap. “That’s Adam standing down there puffing on a stogie.”

“Since when is smoking on the sidewalk forbidden?”

“What do you think you’re doing, Adam?”

“I didn’t want to wake you up, had no way of knowing when you’d be getting up. But here’s your straw hat, you should take it with you.”

“Thanks,” Evelyn said. “Anything else?”

“It’s nice to see you.”

“That’s not the impression I had yesterday.”

“Yesterday was a horrible day.”

“You’re right for once.”

They eyed each other.

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes, in fact there is.” Adam looked from her to Simone and then back at her.

“I’ll be right there,” Evelyn said.

Simone rolled her eyes. “Don’t let him sweet-talk you,” she said and walked across to the red Passat. The hatch was open.

“I’m on pins and needles, Adam. So what is it?”

“I wanted to ask you if you’d like—or better, ask you if you won’t please come along with me to Hungary.”

Evelyn burst into laughter. “You can’t be serious.”

“Sure I am. Everything’s all set to go. And Elfi’s in the car too.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Our Heinrich here,” Adam said patting the roof of the Wartburg, “is going to make it all the way, really, he promised me.”

“No, it’s too iffy, in all sorts of ways. See you.”

“Then we’ll take the train, like you wanted, Evi, please.”

“You’re one day too late with that, Adam. Bye. We’re on our way.”

Evelyn turned around and walked off.

“Evi!” Adam called. “Evi!” He wanted to ask her why she was wearing one of Simone’s skirts. Evelyn tossed the hat in the back, someone was pushing down on the hatch door—and now he saw the cousin, and it came to him. His name was Michael. Michael was tall, midforties maybe. He was wearing jeans and a loose white shirt that made his face look even redder. It took several tries to close the hatch. A flame shot up from Michael’s lighter. He fiddled with it until the flame was almost invisible, lit a cigarette, and stuffed the pack back in his shirt pocket. Spreading his arms wide, he opened both car doors at once. Simone beat Evelyn to the punch and squeezed into the back. Evelyn protested, they argued and laughed. Michael just stood there, like a silent chauffeur.

Adam flung himself behind the wheel. Although he was looking straight ahead, as the Passat drove by he could see that they were staring at him. Michael even gave him a nod.

Adam wanted to make a slick U-turn at the next intersection, but was forced to back up to complete it. But as he started down Martin Luther Strasse again, the Passat was just pulling away, and Adam sped up close behind them—closer than the traffic law allows.

He followed them down to the Polyclinic, they turned right at the gas station, drove along below the castle and past the theater, then took a left into the Street of Worker Unity, which would lead them to the Large Pond. The light turned yellow, the Passat came to an abrupt stop, and Adam could already hear the crunch—but nothing happened. He got out, walked up to them, and rapped at the window behind the driver’s seat. The music was so loud they didn’t hear him. Even Evelyn was smoking. Simone let out a quick shriek when she saw him.

“The hat, you’re squashing your straw hat!” Adam shouted. He was amazed she hadn’t noticed, Michael at any rate ought to have spotted it in the side mirror. Adam walked back to his car, shifted into first gear, and waited.

When the Passat pulled away and picked up speed as it climbed the hill leading out of town, Adam fell back. But he knew the way. They were taking the road through Gössnitz, at Meerane they would cross the autobahn and then keep going in the direction of Zwickau. He guessed Bad Brambach would be their border crossing, on the Czechoslovakian side that would take them through Cheb. Or they might try the eastern route via Oberwiesenthal and Karlovy Vary/Karlsbad, the first foreign city he had visited with his parents. Or were there other crossings? What Michael gained by driving like a maniac, Adam planned to make up for with slow but steady.

At the light in Gössnitz the Passat was stuck behind a truck. The straw hat was still squashed against the back windshield. Once they were moving again, Adam fell back to avoid the truck’s dense exhaust fumes.

No sooner were they through town than the Passat came to a stop
on the shoulder without signaling. Adam pulled off to the right as well. Evelyn jumped out and walked toward him. Those sandals with low heels were new, too.

“You’re making an ass of yourself, Adam. What do you think you’re doing?”

Adam tried to get out, but Evelyn was standing too close to the car—he would have had to shove her out of the way with the door.

“You trying to trail us? You can’t be serious.”

A car raced past, honking its horn. Evelyn pressed up against the Wartburg.