The Tower: A Novel (34 page)

The three doctors walked together in silence, deep in thought – what was there to discuss? They’d known each other for a long time and at work it was not usual, unless you were friends like Richard and Weniger, to cross a certain boundary in conversation. Private matters were kept out of it, not through lack of interest but through a sense of tact that appeared as fellow feeling which, according to an unwritten code, would have been violated by too confidential a conversation between colleagues. You knew whom you were dealing with, you knew who you were (or appeared to be), gave a silent nod and that was all, that was sufficient.

They heard hurried steps behind them, Nurse Wolfgang waved to Prokosch.

‘Where?’ he asked.

‘Ward 9D. Your on-call presence is required in Dermatology. The god of night duty doesn’t like sleep.’

‘There’s no point in kicking against the pricks.’ Prokosch shrugged his shoulders in resignation. ‘We’ll see each other later, I should think. Off we go, then.’

An ambulance was approaching from the Academy gate, but without its blue light; they watched where it was going; it turned off to the right beyond the car park, heading for the Stomatology Clinic.

‘Not for us,’ Weniger said. They walked slowly back along the road.

‘May I ask you something, Manfred?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Have you sometimes thought of leaving?’

Weniger gave Richard a quick glance, then carefully looked all round. They moved to the middle of the road.

‘I imagine we all have. – At the last Gynaecological conference I was offered a post.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘They’re
not good thoughts.’

‘But you get them.’

‘Every person’s different. I don’t think you can live with them.’

‘Did you never think, when you were a student, what it’s like to be a father, to have children with a woman, bring them up –’

‘I can’t remember. I don’t think so.’

‘To love one woman in all –’

‘You know that.’ Weniger stared into the darkness.

‘And –’ Richard broke off. A woman was approaching; even from a distance he could tell it was Josta. His first impulse was to turn off onto one of the side paths, but she was looking at him and Weniger had seen her as well. ‘Still here this late, Frau Fischer? Is there something special going on in Administration – something we ought to know about?’

‘No,’ she said tersely, not using his name or saying good evening. ‘Just a lot of work. But nothing special. Construction plans and applications, Herr Doktor.’

‘How is your daughter?’

‘Oh, she’s in the middle group in kindergarten. She loves drawing. I think she ought to go and see the paediatrician, she keeps complaining about earache.’

‘Who are you with?’

She named a name. She avoided looking at Richard.

‘Are you happy with him?’

‘Well, it’s a general hospital, there are long waiting lists and I don’t want it to drag on –’

‘I’ll have a word with Professor Rykenthal, if you’re agreeable. Give me a call tomorrow.’

‘I’ll do that. Thank you, Herr Doktor. – But I won’t hold you up any longer. I wish you a quiet night. Goodbye.’

‘Pretty woman,’ Weniger said when she’d gone. ‘If only I were twenty years younger – and’ – he ran his hand over his bald head – ‘wasn’t
as hairy as an ape. God, I can still see her little girl, umbilical cord cut and wrapped up warm, and her face when the midwife gave her the baby. That’s always the best moment.’ Weniger looked at his hands. ‘Then you know why you’re here and what these paws are for. I’m sure it’s the same with you.’

‘Was it a difficult birth?’

‘Yes, pretty difficult. But she didn’t say a word. You don’t often get that nowadays. You used to, out in the country.’

‘We were interrupted.’

‘You want to stick to the topic? – We really ought talk about it some other time, not while we’re on duty and can get called away any moment and have to break off things that would be better made crystal clear.’

‘Agreed,’ Richard said after a cautious glance at Weniger.

‘No, no, that’s OK, no one’s calling us yet,’ Weniger replied with a faint smile, ‘and we’ve known each other long enough to be able to set what’s being said against the situation in which it’s being said.’

‘You’re right there, of course.’

‘I should think so!’ Weniger exclaimed cheerfully. ‘But to go back to what you were saying … You can think about it, but that’s merely theoretical. Thoughts don’t have consequences; you can play with them, like children with building blocks, and if you build a house with them that you don’t like, then you change it … Tell me, aren’t you getting cold? I can lend you my coat.’

‘No, I don’t feel cold … It’s fairly warm.’

‘I saw it was eight degrees on the thermometer just now. – You can change the house any way you like, and with no consequences.’

‘Which isn’t possible in real life.’

‘It’s perhaps possible, Richard, but some people have the problem that they’re never satisfied with the houses they build, they keep building houses and discarding them, they do it their whole life long and never have a house that’s finished, while their neighbour, to whose
house they paid no attention because it’s crooked and perhaps not very distinctive, because it’s made of cheap materials, lives in a house that’s finished –’

‘A nice way of describing renunciation.’

‘No, I wouldn’t say that. He’s made a decision, a decision to make the best of what he’s been given – and not to waste his time looking for things he can’t have.’

‘How does he know he can’t have them?’

‘By a sober assessment of his situation.’

‘How do you bring up your children?’

Weniger didn’t answer immediately. ‘I tell them they’re free.’

‘Free? In this country?’

‘In that sense I don’t think people are free anywhere. What I mean is free to find out about themselves – and to build their house. – I have to say, you don’t look well.’

‘Could be. I’ve not been sleeping very well.’

‘It happens to all of us,’ Weniger said with a smile.

‘For example, when something happens to you that makes you furious; something that, let’s say, gives you the impression you’re pretty helpless –’

‘Has something given you that impression?’

‘No, I just mean … As an example, purely as an example to put these thoughts in context. So, if something like that happened to you, would it be better to hit out at once – or to wait and see?’

‘It depends very much on what kind of thing has happened to give you that impression. And what you mean by “hit out”. In this country the opportunities for “hitting out” must be limited. If you aren’t one of them.’

‘Just a minute, I’ve probably not put it very well. “Hit out” really does sound a bit over the top –’

‘Another time, perhaps,’ Weniger said calmly.

Philipp Londoner lived in a seventy-square-metre apartment in a working-class district of Leipzig. The building bordered on a canal, the water of which had been turned gelatinous by the effluent from a cotton mill. Dead fish were floating in it, slowly decomposing, flakes of white flesh sliding off the bones; single fins, blind eyes were swept against the bank where they bobbed on the grey foam with the bare elm branches stretching over it, occupied by thousands of crows that found rich pickings there. The inhabitants of the district had a name for the factory: ‘the Flock’; within a radius of several kilometres the streets were covered in cotton flocks that were trodden down, forming a slimy, decomposing crust in which the smell of all the dogs of Leipzig seemed to be concentrated. Drifting cotton got caught in the undergrowth, blocked the chimneys in the summer, floated up in the breezes warmed by the extracted air, formed whirling veils over the roofs, drifted down into puddles and onto railway lines, so that passengers could tell with their eyes closed when the train entered the district: suddenly the sounds were muffled and the general murmur of conversation in the compartment stopped.

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
.

‘If that’s your opinion why did you even bother to ask me to come here?’

‘Ah, my dear, it’s good that you’re furious. In general the talent of authors who can get furious is capable of development.’ He contemplated his fingernails, then looked at me: ‘That is a task Herr Rohde will undertake; you are already acquainted with him. An experienced editor of great tact and sensitivity. One more thing.’ He took a book down off the shelves: ‘You make inflationary use of the semi-colon. Here is a book by Gustav Regler. Do you know Gustav Regler? – Well you ought to. You’ll sit down now and study the way Regler uses the semi-colon in chapter four. It is’ – index finger raised, the green stone flashes – ‘a substitute for a full stop! One can also discuss the rule for using it before “but” with a following main clause. Study the old grammarians. And nota bene: German is a complex language with some features that don’t appear to make sense, but when you look more closely there is a good reason for everything. Come and see me again in an hour.’

She does so. In the meantime Schiffner has made a telephone call, leafed through folders of prints, ruminated out loud on the three rules about starting a complete sentence after a colon with a small letter, eaten an ice cream from the office freezer with great relish and freshened up by rubbing his temples with eau de Cologne. He takes the book from her and puts it back
on the shelf. He looks at her breasts, gives her a pile of books worth a thousand marks and dismisses her
.

We spent weeks preparing for the Leipzig Book Fair. We didn’t go there just to pick up a few books, open then close them; we went to look through a window into the Promised Land. The window could be in sextodecimo, octavo, quarto and folio format but most often it measured 19 × 12 cm, had no hard cover, but three fishes or ‘rororo’ on the front, was in a rainbow-coloured row, or was white and had drawings in pastels: then Niklas or someone would say, we’re in the right place; then the covers were by a man called Celestino Piatti and the books with his scrawl on it became the subject of many a plan. 19 × 12 cm: paperback format. The measurements were established with a ruler and Barbara used them to tailor the inner life of Book Fair coats, for paperbacks needed a pocket into which they fitted snugly.

DIARY

Today I, as a zoologist, learnt something: the African desert locust has an East German relative, the book-grasshopper (
Locusta bibliophila
), a two-legged species wearing Wisent or Boxer jeans, hand-knitted roll-neck pullovers and olive-green or earth-brown ‘habits’ (parkas) that come down over their calves (special models from the Harmony Salon furrier’s on Rissleite, undertaken during free time or by arrangement with the boss – he too has preferences in his reading – after which Barbara and, depending on demand, a colleague are diverted from their contribution to the realization of the socialist to that of the individualist plan)
. Locusta bibliophila
feeds on books, though only on those from the Non-Socialist Economic Area.
Locusta bibliophila
’s attack is planned like a military operation weeks before the Leipzig book-feast and I, happy to be the advance guard in the cyclically recurring paper comet, was given strict orders: ‘Where are they? When are they coming? You must prepare them. For us. You must take lockers at Central Station. We have to think about a system of signals. Perhaps a
handkerchief on which you blow your nose at the approach of danger. What d’you mean, it’s the time of year when everyone gets a cold. Of course you have work to do there as well – but you can do that once we’ve left.’

The book-grasshopper’s combat gear (the aforementioned parka-style Book Fair coat) is subjected to a thorough examination about two weeks before the campaign; right interior: two parallel rows of five pockets each, sewn in from breast-top down to about the knee (partly overlapping), size: 21 × 14 cm, the ease of insertion is checked using the Harmony Salon’s copy of Heinrich Böll: ‘
Wanderer, kommst du nach Spa …
’, which has to go

‘smoothly’

‘fully covered’

‘with minimal bulge’

into the pocket. The habit is two sizes too big and not fitted with the standard Solidor zip (the zip gets stuck at the bottom too often, also in this version of the habit it is so low down that the wearer would have to bend, which might perhaps be detrimental to the desired minimality of bulge), but with snap fasteners that can be closed more quickly – and at different points. On the left-hand side are two large pockets for coffee-table books or others of unusual format. On the outside of the Book Fair coat there are more large snap-fastening pockets and, in addition, over each hip a snap karabiner attached to a sturdy leather loop: they are to take the many plastic bags into which it is intended to slip ballpoint pens, brochures, books, chocolate, catalogues, bananas, even more ballpoint pens, Western cigarettes and even more books – leaving the hands free and the bags can’t be appropriated by fellow citizens and sufferers
.

The approach of the book-grasshopper takes place in carpools: Anne and Robert in Rohde’s Moskvitch, Malthakus and Dietzsch in Kühnast’s Škoda, Prof. Teerwagen and his wife take the Knabes, whose Wartburg is being repaired, Trüpel, the owner of the record shop, with the Tietzes. Conversations: Oh, look at that magnificent opera book, oh, and that magnificent Picasso book (Däne, the music critic, and Adeling, who arrive by train); the strategy for outwitting the people on the doors (the ‘fall-guy’ system:
one starts bellowing and the others take advantage of the subsequent confusion to get their spoils out). I’ve prepared things for my colleagues, I’ve managed to lease two (!) lockers in Leipzig Central. – ‘Only two?’ Däne’s despair comes from ignorance, even after all these years of attending the Book Fair. He should know that lockers in Leipzig are handed down from one generation to the next
.