The Tower: A Novel (101 page)

‘Perhaps our guest could tell us something about that,’ said Weniger pointing at Richard, ‘he has contacts not everyone has –’

‘That’s a malicious insinuation, Manfred, you’ll take it back, please.’ Anne had stood up.

‘Great, the way you stand up for your husband. – You should have
told us you were inviting him, Nina. I can see too many unknown faces anyway.’

‘When we talk and want to get beyond our little circle, then we have to go outside. You agreed with that, Manfred,’ the bearded man replied.

‘Maybe, but I would like to have been told whom you’re inviting. If he stays’ – Weniger avoided looking at Richard – ‘I’m going. The risk is too great.’

‘Sit down and eat your cake,’ Clarens begged him.

‘We have to take risks,’ said a man with a shaven head. Richard knew him, one of Gudrun’s colleagues at the theatre. His leather coat came down to the ankles and was very scuffed. He folded his arms (rich creaking of leather), licked the cut end of a cigar. Two young women sitting cross-legged, both wearing keffiyehs as neckcloths, spoke up. – ‘I’m Julia,’ said one. – ‘And I’m Johanna,’ said the other. ‘We think what Annegret’s just suggested is a good idea. And I’m sure Robert in Grünheide would also –’

‘And would Robert in Grünheide also have known where the sit-in’s to take place?’ Weniger broke in. Did they seriously believe they could compel them to introduce reforms with methods like that?

‘Absolutely,’ a man in a suit and tie replied in measured tones, ‘in general yes.’

The man beside him, wearing a jean jacket with a ‘Swords to Ploughshares’ sew-on badge, argued that they should read Bonhoeffer.

‘No, read Bahro,’ someone on a settee under an acrylic Stalin with a black eye demanded.

Richard could see the woman with the fishing gear waving. Police burst into the room. The interest in art had suddenly become widespread.

‘Identity card check! No one is to leave the room.’

‘Ah, there you are.’ Arbogast leant back against the window, looking at the butterfly on the tip of his forefinger. He handed it to Herr Ritschel, who put it in a net and left, walking carefully.

‘It’s no small matter you’re asking of me, Herr Hoffmann.’

‘You have published something before.’

‘Our Assyriologist’s blue book, yes. But that was entertainment. Your piece is about politics. To accede to your request would be to give them pretexts.’

‘So you won’t help us?’

‘Who is “us”?’

‘A group of people who are more than just concerned about the situation. Who are determined to do something about it.’

‘– are determined, aha. There’s something direct about determination, that could well be seen to correspond to the principles of my institute. Why don’t you approach a newspaper, Herr Hoffmann? The best place for multiple copies. There have been many interesting reports recently and not all editors are blinkered.’

‘Herr von Arbogast – no newspaper in the country will publish such an appeal. You know that just as well as I do.’

‘That’s something we must discuss … As you wish. Did you get my letter? I thought of calling you several times. – I suspect you have other things than my project to worry about at the Academy.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Moreover I share many of the views expressed in your piece, Herr Hoffmann. I’ll think the matter over.’

‘The fee –’

Arbogast smiled. ‘Oh, you know, that wouldn’t be a problem, Herr
Hoffmann. A few jokes … you know perhaps that I collect them? Possibly the Bier/Braun/Kümmell surgical manual you have? Your brother-in-law from the Italian House told me about it. – Let’s both think it over. Will I see you at the Sibyllenhof afterwards? – Pity.’ Arbogast stood up, smoothed down his red jacket as, on the horizontal face of a desk clock behind the forest of sharp-pointed pencils, a dancer, an ivory Thumbelina, began to turn to the strains of a waltz.

A fancy-dress ball! The foyer of the Sibyllenhof restaurant was decorated with Chinese lanterns and garlands with streamers dangling down, flickering coloured bulbs had been hung over the window bays, a banner across the ceiling announced, ‘Dance your way into May’. Meno showed his invitation, took his old zoologist’s overalls and microscope out of his rucksack and went to the cloakroom, where a Red Riding Hood attendant hung up his hat between the Borsalinos of the two Eschschloraques. Karlfriede Sinner-Priest, dressed as a lady-in-waiting from the baroque period in Saxony, was standing next to Albert Salomon (August the Strong) by the Sibyllenhof telephone booths, which could be opened with a Allen key you were given after your name had been entered in the house telephone book at reception, and seemed to be in animated conversation with several writers – Meno recognized Lührer (embarrassingly also dressed as August the Strong) and Altberg (as a miner, who raised his hand in a half-wave of greeting). The main room of the restaurant was bathed in bluish-purple light that, coming from disco spotlights, ran down the wall like veins of ore. Albin Eschschloraque was wearing a nightwatchman costume and sitting, looking quite forlorn, with his lantern and nightwatchman’s horn, at one of the tables with white cloths; he waved to Meno. ‘Well then, man at the microscope, how’s things?’ he called out gloomily; Meno replied evasively but in markedly friendly tones.

‘Things might get quite lively tonight.’ Albin Eschschloraque pushed
a bowl with pieces of Brockensplitter chocolate across to Meno but was dipping into it so frequently himself that Meno felt obliged to tear open one of the triangular packets from VEB Argenta and refill the bowl. Stewards in white that the Sibyllenhof, short of staff as were so many businesses, appeared to have borrowed from Arbogast’s personnel (by the entrance Frau Alke was occupied making last-minute adjustments to the buffet), were putting out carafes on the tables; Albin filled two glasses with the juice of a reddish tinge: ‘Rhubarb juice,’ he announced with a look on his face that still appeared undecided whether it was to express appreciation or displeasure. ‘They urgently need to make an inventory of the drinks in East Rome.’ The Sibyllenhof had hardly made any contribution, it didn’t have an allocation for such events; that was a Michurin product or one of the scientists’ little jokes to celebrate the day, as was, for example, the punch, brewed in Arbogast’s laboratories in Grünleite. ‘Have you brought your excommunicated sphinx, Herr Rohde, the grey-haired Roman lady?’

‘She doesn’t need to get me to escort her.’

‘Do I detect a note of bitterness? That’s true, she’s once more held in esteem and dread, as Papa, for whom the dread a person arouses is definitely part of a mature personality, would say. It’s the same with paternosters as with this guy here.’ He felt inside his costume and held up a ballpoint pen, the barrel of which was filled with a transparent liquid in which a little figure floated up and down when you turned the pen. ‘A Cartesian diver, quite nice. They’re handed out free as advertising in West Elbia, usually by pharmaceutical firms. The guy over there’ – Albin jerked his thumb at the barman, reputedly the tallest man in the Republic – ‘sells replicas. Of course, they can’t copy the reservoirs. Instead of pills, promotion of our little town in its little hills, and instead of the Argonauts there’s a daughter of the winds dancing here. – Here come the others.’

Malthakus had simply hung a Beirette round his neck and gone as a photographer, Record-Trüpel as a chimney sweep with ladder and
top hat, Frau Zschunke wore bundles of radishes as ear-rings; Frau Knabe, in her overalls and carrying a molar on her shoulder, was beside Frau Teerwagen and the Honichs, who had hardly made any effort (Babett in a Young Pioneers blouse and a blue cap; her reply to Meno’s nod was rather silly: she put her hand up vertically to the top of her head in the Pioneer’s salute; Pedro in his combat group uniform with a full row of medals). Behind them came Joffe, rather amusingly dressed as a red taper, in lively conversation with Frau Arbogast; in that light the Baroness’s blue rinse looked metallic, the leather tan of her face contrasted sharply with the Dalmatian fur she had draped over her shoulders more for decoration than for warmth. After her, Guenon House arrived, led by a merrily laughing Widow Fiebig as the witch Baba Yaga on the arm of Herr Richter-Meinhold, who was dressed in yellow-and-red, like the covers of his maps.

‘Look, here come the balloonists.’ Albin Eschschloraque pointed to the terrace outside the main room that was now lit by floodlights. Alke and some of those in white overalls opened the French windows, where a crush of curious onlookers was growing.

‘Why don’t you come over here if you want to see something?’ a slim figure with an ass’s head, whom Meno recognized as Eschschloraque senior, called out to them. ‘You look surprised, Rohde – and would be justifiably so: not everyone has the self-irony to discover this grey fellow within himself. Most don’t even look for it. And imagine they’re lions and eagles. – They’re landing.’ A balloon came down, steered by Herr Ritschel, who was wearing a sailor’s peaked cap and had a bosun’s whistle. Beside Arbogast in his black cloak, Meno saw Judith Schevola – in a balloonist’s jaunty leather outfit; she’d even managed to get hold of a pilot’s leather helmet – and Philipp Londoner, he in the picturesquely ragged costume of a buccaneer.

‘The Flying Dutchman.’ The mocking comment came from the ass’s head. ‘Through the thunder and storm, from distant seas. And that on the eve of the day of the working class. He’s also got his
steersman with him. Together with Senta in leathers. –
Fatigant, hideux
, and, above all, by no means fair. What do you think, Albin?’

‘I think she should beware. The sea is cold and deep.’

‘Your colleagues’ – the ass’s head nodded to the entrance – ‘Heinz Schiffner in a toga, laurel wreath round his brow. And in his hand a thistle, probably even a real one. That must symbolize clauses in a contract. What do you say to your boss appearing in his true colours, Rohde? That’s going over the top. It really shakes you up, doesn’t it, Rohde?’

‘Fräulein Wrobel as the Chocolate Girl,’ Albin said, licking his lips, ‘a delicious child, all at once I have a yen to see that sharp girl’s sweeter vein. A pair of scales she has as well, the pans say come then go again. – I’ll keep your seat for you,’ he shouted after Meno.

The nomenklatura of Dresden’s Party rolled up. They rolled up in the rubber-tyred horse-drawn charabancs from Heckmann’s carriage business; Julie-the-horses was on the box of the first one, cracking her whip merrily as she drove the two draught horses. The funicular brought more guests and locals, directing furtive glances at the Party secretaries dressed as knights who were toasting each other in loud voices. Their wives, in the costumes of high-born damsels, were quieter. The passers-by kept their heads down and quickly continued on their way.

When Meno returned, Judith Schevola looked through his microscope. ‘I hope those aren’t infectious.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Meno asked irritatedly.

‘About those pretty things on your slide, of course.’

‘Well, they’re certainly not things,’ said Albin, who was also peering through the eyepiece. ‘Do enlighten us, Herr Rohde. All I can see is full stops, dashes and commas.’

‘I didn’t bring a preparation with me,’ Meno said, bending over the microscope. ‘Cocci stained with eosin, I’d say at a glance. Someone must have stuck it in.’

Eschschloraque
senior’s ass’s head suddenly came alive again: ‘Eosin, what a poetic name in the cool realm of tissue science. Eos, rosy-fingered dawn, Aurora in Latin. And that shot in the year of seventeen that made a breach in the gate of time. What I wanted to ask, Fräulein Deepyear: what is it like flying with the Chilly Councillor? – But silence, comrades. Our prince is about to have a shot at addressing us.’

Barsano spoke poorly but kept it brief. It was the same empty catchphrases as ever and Meno wondered whether Barsano believed in what he was saying, whether there was a man behind the public figure as he knew there was with Londoner, who spoke quite differently at university staff meetings and on other occasions from how he did among friends and family at home. There were rumours about Barsano going round, Londoner had told Meno that for some time now their First Secretary had no longer been so highly regarded in Berlin, he was too close to ‘our friends’ in Moscow, too sympathetic towards certain ideas of the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet. There had been ‘visits’.

That evening old Londoner was ill at home on Zetkinweg, but only yesterday he had enjoyed a play-reading with the parts cast, corrected Meno’s English pronunciation and joined in at favourite passages, so joyfully carried away that his absence through illness gave Meno pause for thought. But at the very least, Meno was convinced, Londoner would have advised Philipp, Judith, the Eschschloraques and himself not to attend Barsano’s party if it had been dangerous. Perhaps though, Meno reflected, Londoner had deliberately not given them such a warning since it increased the credibility of his own excuse if he didn’t attend himself but those closest to him did; in that way Barsano wouldn’t suspect anything. The balance of power seemed to be changing … Barsano had been attacked in
Neues Deutschland
, which
Pravda
had found ‘disconcerting’, which in its turn caused deflections on the seismograms that alarmed even less experienced quake-observers.

An emcee took over, he had the same red tie as the pianist, who appeared with arms outstretched and eyes closed, groping in the dark
(the piano had had to be turned round); the other members of the dance band were also sporting red ties, which resulted in a barrage of algal up-and-down cross-beats when they began their tasteful manipulation of a few evergreens; a routine that made Meno think of the sales assistants at the Christmas market who showed the same matter-of-fact efficiency in packing the balls to decorate the trees as these instrumentalists in playing their way through their musical comfort food. Judith Schevola leant over to him. ‘One, two, three, another bar
fini
. The socialist work ethic applied to dance music. So silent, Herr Rohde? Actually your name ought to be Kibitzer. May I beg one of your Orients?’

… but then, all at once …

Else Alke brushed against flowers as she went past, the flowers withered. Malthakus and Frau Fiebig and the Guenons were drinking punch and started to twist and turn on their chairs as if they could hardly hold themselves back; their legs twitched in time to the music.

click,

Meno heard, beside him, the flame of a cigarette lighter lit up Judith Schevola’s features, Altberg was giving her a light. From Barsano’s table came the feverish laughter of the high-born damsels, vodka, punch, schnapps trickled down throats, eyes glistened as if blackened by deadly nightshade. Meno heard dogs barking, heard the wind carrying voices to him through the dreamily slow movements of the guests, across the tables and the brushed-aside chords of the dance band; howling and wailing; but it might have been an illusion like the two men in green at the window, like Eschschloraque’s voice, quiet but distinctly audible through a hubbub of voices, as he said to Philipp, ‘I’ve looked through your papers; as far as I can understand it we’re heading for bankruptcy. That’s explosive stuff, if the figures are right, and I can’t understand why they’re shutting their eyes to it.’

The
emcee threw his head back like a stallion, his mane, fixed with Dreiwettertaft hairspray, looked frosted in the disco light, his moustache lifted on one side, revealing long teeth. ‘The floor is yours, ladies and gentlemen.’

Heinz Schiffner, his eyes on Babett Honich’s cleavage, searched in vain for a comb in the folds of his toga.

… but then, all at once …

‘They’re not interested in that kind of report. D’you know what he says? “For me that’s of no value whatsoever. That’s exactly the same as what’s in the Western press.” That’s why it doesn’t bother him.’

‘Since that which must not –’

‘– cannot be. I would start to wonder if people on Grauleite were saying the same as
Der Spiegel
. In that case there might be something to it. But those at the top think in exactly the same way and that’s the problem.’