Out of the Line of Fire (21 page)

It’s new, he said, adjusting the rear-view mirror. He glanced at his watch.

Nice, I said looking around. Very nice. How long have you had it?

Not long.

The car was moving quickly now as he wove it expertly through the traffic. I began to think that perhaps Vladan was right. Perhaps Karl was a fraud after all. One day I could see myself knocking on his door and there would be no answer. Karl would simply have disappeared, finally bored by the pretence of living a bohemian life. And twenty years from now perhaps one or two of us might make the connection between Karl X., head of some huge multinational firm of Industrial Chemicals and the Karl whose hands now calmly gripped the wheel of the speeding black BMW.

I was suddenly jolted back to reality as we swerved wildly to avoid a car stopped at a set of traffic lights in front of us.

I grabbed for the dashboard to steady myself.

That was a red light!

So?

We were going
very
fast now. The radio was on. The music was up. They were playing Nina Hagen’s hit ‘Superboy’.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror, muttered something, then looked quickly left and right.

Just hang on for a bit will you, he shouted. I have to make a detour.

Instantly the car braked hard and with the tyres howling Karl flicked it left through a tiny gap in the stream of oncoming traffic which I swear was smaller than the proverbial eye of a needle. We hurtled into a narrow side-street.

Jesus, I said.

He pushed the car hard through the gears. My heart began to race. Up over a stomach-wrenching rise we went. A blur of faces turned to watch us as we passed. The car’s nose dipped. Hard right and right again. Over the music I could hear the suppressed roar of the engine as he took the car to its limit.

What the fuck are you trying to do, Karl, I yelled. Get us killed?

He didn’t answer. Instead we shot back out across three lanes of autobahn in a truly spectacular high-speed slide. He adjusted the rear-view mirror again and laughed. He did a drum roll across the steering wheel in time to the music.

Superboy, he mimed.

When we arrived, Karl parked the car a couple of blocks from the theatre. We got out.

Aren’t you going to lock it? I said.

He stood looking at me for a moment.

Jesus, Wolfi. Do I have to explain everything?

He walked off up the street shaking his head.

When we got to the theatre the auditions were already underway. Karl nodded to a tall thin haggard-looking man pacing up and down in the foyer of the old theatre. He ushered us into the darkened auditorium. Inside there were about twenty other people dotted about the place towards the back. Four rows from the front were seated the panel of three who would make the eventual selection. We watched as a young, spot-lighted woman gave a transparently heart-rending performance of tragic despair. One trembling hand was outstretched in a gesture that reminded me of Grünewald’s Isenheim crucifixion, her fingers twisted agonizingly skywards. Her other hand clutched at her peasant blouse. Her face contorted in a spasm of grief. A ripple of suppressed laughter passed through the audience.

Why? she was sobbing. Why, why?

She mopped her brow with her forearm and stood transfixed by some point on the floor. Suddenly she looked up at us and tore open her blouse. She clutched at her breasts.

How am I to feed my children? she implored.

There was a loud guffaw from the far side of the theatre. This only seemed to increase the anguish on her face. Her eyes rolled wildly, farcically. I could see the shoulders of one of the judges shaking with suppressed laughter.

Mein Herz [my heart]…Mein Herz…brecht, she cried.

There was another loud burst of laughter at the unintended pun. She fell to the floor. Now there was open laughter. Even the judges were laughing. The girl got up, looked desperately into the auditorium, and then ran from the stage.

Karl explained to me how the selection was made. It was on the basis of an improvised piece. Topics would be drawn from a hat or a box and the candidate had two minutes to think about their topic, one minute to give an introduction to the piece if they needed it and three minutes to present it.

Like hers was probably grief or sorrow, something like that, he said. But it could be anything—an anorexic bus, an honest politician, a TV set, the colour blue…anything.

An actor’s name was called. The tall nervous-looking fellow we had met outside made his way down to the stage. One of the judges held up what looked like a pack of cards to him. He selected one. He was asked to announce his subject to the panel.

He looked at his card.

Empörung [Indignation], he said.

You have a preparation time of two minutes starting now.

The spotlight began to dim.

Hang on, he shouted. Mach’ das verdammte Licht wieder an [Turn that bloody light back on].

What’s the matter, Herr Bruer?

What’s the matter, Herr Bruer? he mimicked with obvious sarcasm. What do you mean what’s the matter? This is a fucking farce. I’ve been an actor for ten years, five of those with the State Theatre Company and never before,
never
have I had to put up with such an amateurish load of shit as this in all my life.

He began tearing the card up into little pieces as he walked towards the edge of the stage. The spotlight followed him. When he got to the stairs leading down into the auditorium he threw the pieces up over his head and they showered back down on him like confetti.

You’re entitled to a second draw, Herr Bruer.

Shove it up your collective arses, he yelled.

He stormed up the aisle and the door to the foyer crashed to.

Karl started to clap. Others, hesitantly at first, began to join in. The members of the panel realized they had been duped. One of the judges stood.

Would someone ask Herr Bruer to come back in please.

A young woman got up and went out to get him. A few seconds later she returned.

He’s gone.

Gone?

Yes, gone, vanished, verschwunden. I think he was serious, she said.

Then it was Karl’s turn.

He went down to the stage and selected a card.

Your topic please.

Spannung [Suspense], he announced.

He sat down on a chair at the back of the stage. The lights dimmed into semi-darkness. When they came up he got quickly to his feet and strode to the front of the stage. He spoke rapidly, gesturing as he did so, showing us where things were located.

At the end of this introduction, he said, I want the lights out for fifteen seconds. Now I want you to imagine you are looking at a film set of a café. There is only one table. It is covered with a piece of black and white checked material. On the table in a silver ashtray a cigarette is burning, a thin trail of white smoke rises towards the ceiling. At the table are seated a man and a woman. She is wearing a black, loose-fitting evening dress in the style of the late thirties.

Karl’s hand seemed to rest on her shoulder as he looked down on her.

Beside her a man is sitting. He is wearing a tuxedo. The action has been frozen and his right hand is suspended over the table. He could be reaching for the cigarette but we cannot be sure. Both their faces are obscured by a TV camera which hovers over the table. On a screen behind them is projected what the camera sees. It shows the burning cigarette. When the lights come up the camera is going to pan up and away from the table and move to a point adjacent to the man’s head so that we see what he sees. And what he sees is that as the woman moves forward her right breast, with its pale pink nipple, appears outlined against the inner darkness of her dress. They are about to be joined by a third person. Okay—lights!

The theatre darkened. Silence.

Even when I got back to my room later that afternoon Karl was still not home and none of the others had seen him. It wasn’t until a couple of days later that I caught up with him and by that time he had not only found out that he hadn’t got the part but he had had another falling out with his own theatre group. Again it was over the same thing—what they saw as Karl’s moneyed arrogance.

When I did see him he was sitting alone in Maximilians.

Mind if I join you?

It’s a free country, he said without looking up.

I sat down. He looked pale, jittery. The waiter made his way over to us.

So, what’ll it be? he asked.

Just a coffee, thanks.

Don’t you ever drink anything but coffee?

I went to answer.

No, don’t bother me with the boring details.

He turned to the waiter.

Another coffee thanks.

I’m sorry to hear you didn’t get the part.

Win some, lose some.

Who did in the end?

Our despairing woman got the lead female role and some complete unknown got the male lead.

You’re joking. But she was dreadful. You said so yourself.

Yes, that’s what I thought at the time but apparently she was brilliant. What I didn’t know was that she was playing the role of dissatisfied customer. Her soup was cold. She had apparently improvised the entire scene using quotes from Brecht, which is why her final line broke the audience up. It had been deliberately farcical. Thanks.

He paused as the waiter placed my coffee on the table.

But tell me, what happened after I left?

I recounted how, in that fifteen seconds of darkness, I had gone quickly over the details of the scene he had created in my mind. The table, the cigarette, the man and the woman sitting there and the image of her breast appearing on the screen behind them. So much so that when the lights came up I had the momentary impression that the entire scene he had outlined was there on stage. But of course there had been nothing. Absolutely nothing. No Karl, not even the chair he had been sitting on. Just empty space.

Cretins, he said.

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

Tell me, he said suddenly, why did you give up your Ph.D.?

His question took me by surprise. Karl had never asked me anything about my personal life before, at least, not without my having mentioned it first.

Well you know, I said, it’s like Wittgenstein compared a proposition to a solid body that restricts the freedom of movement of others. A tautology—for example, he is here or he is not here—leaves open to reality the whole of logical space. No restriction is imposed on anything. A contradiction on the other hand—for example, he is here
and
he is not here—fills the whole of logical space and leaves no room for reality.

So?

Well, central to my thesis was Kant. But eventually I got to the point that whenever I thought of Kant all I could think of was Andrea. Perhaps it’s the English, I don’t know.

I see, he said laughing.

I thought for a moment about what I was going to say next, then plunged in.

While we’re on the subject of true confessions, I said, and I know it’s none of my business, but what gives between you and Marianne?

You’re right, Wolfi. It’s none of your business. Besides, I wouldn’t have any misplaced ideas about Marianne if I were you.

Why not?

You know what she calls you behind your back.

No, what?

Karl’s little clown.

Really?

Uh huh.

I sat there thinking about what Karl had said. It certainly tallied with Marianne’s reaction to me which was one of barely disguised disdain. Fuck her, I thought.

Well, if that’s the case, while I’m at it, do you mind if I ask you something else?

What?

What
does
your father do?

What do you mean?

Well, you obviously live pretty well and you don’t work. The money must come from somewhere.

I have never in my life seen anyone get to their feet as quickly as Karl did. For a moment I thought he was going to up-end the table.

Not you too, he shouted. You complete fucking arsehole, Wolfi.

The pleasant hum of café conversation gave way to an uneasy silence as heads turned our way. An espresso machine hissed in the background. I sat uncomfortably looking up at Karl, half-expecting him to throw the remains of his cup of coffee over me. The waiter was already making his way over to us but as he reached our table Karl turned and roughly brushed him aside.

You don’t have to tell me, he said. I’m going.

People turned to watch him leave, then went back to their coffees and the noise level resumed. The waiter began clearing the table suggesting as he did that perhaps it would be better if I left as well.

I didn’t see Karl after this for some weeks and in any case I was busy myself. Then one day to my amazement, when I answered a knock on my door Karl was standing there smiling.

Wolfi, he said.

Karl?

Aren’t you going to invite me in?

I gestured for him to enter.

We’re having a party on Saturday night to celebrate the opening of our new play and I need some help to do the shopping. Want to come along?

Now Karl
never
allowed anyone to shop with him. It was one of the things he was secretive about, so my curiosity was aroused.

When? I asked suspiciously.

Can you meet me tomorrow at ten?

Sure, okay.

Well, that’s settled, he said. See you tomorrow then.

He said goodbye and left.

Later that day I was to have a real find. At the State Library I discovered the original programme notes, dated 12 October 1925, to the Berlin performance of Pirandello’s play
Six characters in search of an author
in which Marta Abba herself had actually starred [deren Hauptrolle die Marta Abba selbst gespielt hatte]. I was ecstatic.

Next morning I was still thinking about my discovery when I knocked on Karl’s door. It was five past ten. Knowing Karl’s impatience I wasn’t surprised when no one answered. I knocked again and was just about to make off when I heard a series of muffled coughs and heavy footsteps approaching the door. It opened and I was confronted by a short, exceedingly fat, bearded man in his fifties. A wave of putrid-smelling smoke which seemed to fill the room seeped past him. In his hand he held a cigar. He coughed hoarsely.