The Tower: A Novel (7 page)

Anne took Meno and Christian to one side. ‘I think we should give it to him afterwards, when there’s just the family. I don’t know a lot of the guests very well; I don’t want it made that public. Agreed?’

Richard made a short speech of thanks. His final words brought a grin from Christian and Ezzo: ‘But now, colleagues and friends, eat your fill.’

‘You can rely on that!’ Ezzo chortled, already on the edge of his chair. But still he hesitated – because everyone else was hesitating. Clearly no one had the courage to be the first at the buffet and therefore liable to be suspected of a lack of good manners. Müller, playing delicate trills in the air with the fingers of his right hand, was already jutting out his chin purposefully and pouting his lips when Emmy got up and set off for the buffet with short but nimble steps – forgetting the walking stick that Richard took over to her. ‘Thank you, young man,’ she cried, but the last word was drowned out by the noise of chairs being pushed back. Very few, Christian observed, replaced their chairs at the table – Niklas did, demonstratively taking his time over it, carefully placing his long, slim hands on the exact point of the chair back that precluded any misunderstanding; Niklas even had to lift the chair slightly, the calm and precision of his orderliness in stark contrast to the precipitate and distasteful rush of the others; he even replaced Gudrun’s and Ezzo’s chairs and nodded to Christian, who had also stood up. Then Niklas strolled to the buffet; Ezzo unobtrusively shifted his weight, leaving a gap between himself and Gudrun, who was standing in front of him. If you closed your eyes for a moment, you could still see the thirty-centimetre gap well to the front of the queue, and when you opened them again, the gap was filled by Niklas. Either as the
result of a general tendency to observe successful manoeuvres or of an unconscious but necessary part of the atmosphere, the phenomenon was repeated when Müller too left his seat. He moved no more quickly than his position permitted – a position that had, so to speak, vanished into thin air, though not because he was not on official business – and after elegantly and, with an obliging smile, giving his wife his arm, he first headed back to
Landscape during a Thaw
rather than towards the buffet. Wernstein and another junior doctor at the buffet exchanged glances and the doctor in front, who worked more closely with Müller, took his time moving forward, thus allowing Professor Müller and his wife, Müller patting his lip with his signet ring and bending his ear to his wife, to join the queue … Christian had gone to say hello to his father and wish him a happy birthday and was now standing behind him, pretty near the end of the queue. Adeling and another waiter had taken the lids off the dishes and the room was now filled with enticing aromas. There was the clatter of crockery and cutlery, muted conversation. Weniger, a senior doctor in his late forties with receding hair and red, shovel-like hands, and a slim, grey-haired doctor called Clarens, with glasses and a sparse beard, were standing with Richard discussing medical matters, the main topic being the forthcoming ‘Health Service Day’.

‘When you’re awarded the title of Medical Councillor, my friend, you can open a few more of these foreign bottles for us. We know you – you’ve only sent part of them into battle here, the rest are keeping cool in your cellar. You’ve still got your supplies, you old desert fox.’ Weniger filled his glass to the brim and had difficulty raising it to his lips without spilling some. Clarens laughed. ‘Don’t drink so much, Manfred. Think of the drive home.’

‘Don’t worry, my wife’s driving.’

‘What’s all this about supplies! I haven’t a drop left in the house. I wouldn’t let my friends go thirsty on my fiftieth birthday. But what’s all this about a Medical Councillor? What does it matter anyway? – Or have you heard something?’

‘Oh,
come on, Richard, it’s common knowledge. From what one hears you’re going to get a Med Councillor or the Hufeland Medal, Pahl the Hufeland Medal or perhaps even the Fetscher Prize.’

‘Really? One hears that, does one? I don’t.’

‘But my boss did. At the last directors’ conference.’

Richard lowered his voice. ‘Much more important than all this frippery would be if we finally didn’t have to beg for every drip bottle and every lousy bandage! If they could sort out their structural problems so that we could work efficiently! They can keep their gongs, for God’s sake. That’s just a sedative to stick on your chest … If we butter up the directors and the consultants now and then, the rest’ll sort itself out – that’s the way they think!’

‘Not so loud, Richard.’ Weniger had become serious and was looking round nervously. When he caught sight of Christian, his expression brightened. ‘Well done, that sounded just like a concert. How long have you been playing?’

‘For …’ Christian screwed up his eyes as he thought. ‘… for about eight years.’ He felt embarrassed because it wasn’t just his father and the two doctors who were looking at him but all those waiting in the queue, in front and behind.

‘Do you want to take it up professionally? As a cellist?’

‘No. Graduate from high school.’

‘Ah.’ Weniger nodded. ‘Then you can follow in your father’s footsteps?’

‘I’d like to study medicine, yes.’

‘A good decision.’ Weniger pursed his lips and nodded vigorously. ‘And, if I may ask: your grades?’ Before Christian could answer, he made a dismissive gesture. ‘If I had my way – good grades in themselves don’t make a doctor. If I think of some of the young ladies who come to us … Nothing but “A”s for their studies, but no feel for it, fingers like thumbs to put it crudely, and they keel over at the first post m—’

‘Oh,
my grades are quite good. Apart from maths …’

‘Oh yes, the medic’s old problem. My God, in maths your father and I were a real pair of duffers. Don’t you worry about that. There is less mathematics in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy … Hmm, it’s all very well for me to talk. Just do your best. But how are things otherwise … a girlfriend?’

Christian, who by now had a plate and cutlery, carefully helped himself to some rice and cleared his throat in embarrassment. ‘Hmm, no, not yet.’

‘Well, that’ll come, you’ll see. And don’t worry about those little pimples on your face, they’ll go of their own accord, and a girl who sees nothing but that’s not worth bothering with, young man.’

‘How’s your lad?’ Clarens asked the medical director from gynaecology. Christian had gone bright red.

‘Matthias? He’s doing his military service at the moment, signals. Spends all day running round the countryside laying telephone lines. But he’s no idea yet what he wants to do afterwards. “Don’t panic, Dad …” is all I get from him whenever I have the temerity to ask a question or drop a hint. At one point he wanted to be a stage technician, then a radio presenter, then a forester … Gesine and I were thinking that was something definite, forester, when he applied for a place at the forestry school in Tharandt last year; but then he withdrew his application. What will be next – who can say? All he knows is what he doesn’t want to do: study medicine. “I don’t want to be rummaging round in the holy of holies like you, Dad,” the brat says that to my face and smirks.’

The laughter was something that Christian found irritating.

‘Come on, Manfred, you’ll need to tuck in after that. Take one of these splendid stuffed peppers …’ Clarens looked at Weniger over the top of his glasses. ‘Oh, I was going to ask you – you know the boss of that car repair shop in Striesen, Mätzold or whatever he’s called …’

‘Pätzold. Yes, what about him?’

‘You
performed the abortion on his daughter last year, didn’t you …?’ Clarens leant over to Weniger and murmured something. What Christian could hear sounded like ‘cavity seal’ and ‘carcass’ but he couldn’t imagine what a dead body could have to do with a Moskvitch.

‘… a Friday car, I can tell you. It’s already starting to rust through at the front, where the passenger puts their feet. I told my wife: “Once it goes through you’re really going to have to run fast” … and the brakes, soft as butter. I’d like to know how the Russians manage that. But probably nothing happens over there because there’s only five cars on the road, or they just don’t worry about it … The armour plating on their Volgas is just the same. Oh, this looks good, I’m going to have some of this … So, Manfred, could you set something up with this Pätzold … ? You know that departmental head at VEB Vliestextilien, the fabrics company from Chemnitz? Well I’m still treating him. He says the targets in the economic plan have given him a nervous breakdown. I managed to get him a place for a course of treatment in the spa at Bad Gottleuba; at the same time I made it clear to him that a psychiatric clinic needs an incredible amount of dressing material … an
incredible
amount. Just like a gynaecological clinic. I assume I’d have to send you what you might call a referral form for this, er, patient?’

Weniger stuck his tongue in his cheek as he thought. ‘I’ll give Pätzold a call on Monday. But I can’t promise anything. There’s a problem there, you see – he threw his daughter out when he discovered who the father was. The son of some guy on the Party District Committee. And Pätzold’s had about as much as he can take from them, I can tell you. The guy’s son was in the clinic too. Always the same. Hit the booze then get your oil changed and pull your dipstick out of some stranger in the morning, then have kittens at the result of the pregnancy test and collapse into the capable arms of Nurse Erika … You didn’t hear any of that, Christian.’

The queue moved forward slowly. Adeling was at the other end of the buffet, serving consommé with meatballs; he had his left arm
behind his back, the ladle in his white-gloved right hand, and each time before he served the soup, with a smile and a twitch of his nostrils, he briefly closed his eyes in acknowledgement of the guest’s wishes.

Weniger leant forward to Richard and Clarens with a conspiratorial expression. ‘Since the District Committee has cropped up, have you heard this one: The teacher says: “Make a sentence with the two nouns, Party and peace.” Little Fritz puts up his hand. “My father always says: ‘I wish the Party would leave me in peace.’ ” ’

‘Hahaha, very good. But yesterday Nurse Elfriede told me a great one during an operation: Why does
Pravda
only cost ten pfennigs and
Neues Deutschland
fifteen? – “I can explain that,” the assistant at the newsagent’s says, “for
Neues Deutschland
you have to add five pfennigs translation costs.” ’

‘Now then.’ Weniger slapped Richard on the shoulder with his shovel-like hand. ‘You’d better not tell Herr Kohler that one.’

‘An idealist and a schemer,’ Richard replied. ‘And not a bad doctor, either.’

‘The worst are the ones who really believe in what they believe in. And have enough energy for the professional doubters.’ Weniger gestured diagonally upwards with his thumb. ‘Doubtless you laughed.’

‘Wernstein laughed so much the forceps in which he was holding the disinfection swab fell open … But I’ve got another: The General Secretary is on the breakwater in Rostock watching the ships being loaded. He asks the sailors, “Where are you going?” – “To Cuba.” – “And what are you carrying?” – “Machines and vehicles.” – “And what are you coming back with?” – “With oranges.” He asks the sailors on another ship, “Where are you sailing?” – “To Angola.” – “What are you carrying?” – “Machines and vehicles.” – “And what are you coming back with?” – “With bananas.” – And he asks the men on a third ship, “Where are you going? – “To the Soviet Union.” – “What are you carrying?” – “Oranges and bananas.” – “And what are you coming back with?” – “With the train.” ’

Clarens
whispered, ‘Listener’s question to Radio Yerevan: “They say a new history of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union has been published for the sixtieth anniversary of the October Revolution?” – Answer: “Yes, illustrated even! With cuts by Brezhnev.” ’

‘That’s a good one! We could put it up on the Party Secretary’s noticeboard.’

‘I know one too.’ Having filled his plate with fruit, crisply fried hamburgers and loin steaks, bread and rice, Christian joined in the conversation, his face burning. ‘Brezhnev is visiting the USA. On the second morning President Ford asks him what he dreamt of. – “I dreamt of the Capitol in Washington, there was a red flag flying on it!” – “Strange,” says Ford, “I dreamt of the Kremlin and there was a red flag flying on that too.” – “But of course, you can always see that.” – “Yes, but there was something written on it.” – “What?” – “I don’t know, I can’t read Chinese.” ’

‘Careful,’ Clarens warned. Müller came over, a forced smile on his face and a plate with kebabs and peaches in his left hand. ‘What is it, gentlemen? May I share the joke?’

‘We’ve just heard a new one, Herr Professor,’ Weniger said in a provocative tone. Müller raised his eyebrows.

‘A banana machine has been set up in Berlin, on Alexanderplatz. If you put a banana in, a mark comes out.’

Müller pursed his lips. ‘Hmm, yes. Well, gentlemen, I have to say I don’t think that’s a particularly good joke.’ His eyes narrowed, his lips became thin. ‘Certain circles would be delighted if they knew they’d managed to make so much progress here … And I find it all the more regrettable, Herr Weniger, when I see that you have a banana on your plate …’ Müller’s eyes narrowed to thin slits. ‘We bear a responsibility, gentlemen, and it’s all too easy to join in cheap jokes about our country … But it doesn’t change anything, you know, it doesn’t change anything … And you above all, gentlemen’ – he shook his head disapprovingly – ‘we, we should be aware of our position.
With or without bananas … And above all we ought’ – he pronounced it ‘ouought’, softly and drawn out, his head still slightly on one side – ‘to refrain from mockery of a great man whom our Soviet brothers have lost. Don’t you agree?’

Weniger swallowed and looked to one side. ‘Of course, Herr Professor.’

‘I’m glad we are of one mind.’ Müller gave a gracious smile. ‘By the way, Herr Hoffmann, your wife is a quite superb cook. She prepared the steaks and the soufflé together with the restaurant chef, I believe? Excellent, really excellent. I’ve already expressed my appreciation to her and asked her to let my wife in on the secrets of a few recipes, above all the cherry pie at your house this afternoon. Superb!’ He slowly walked back to his seat, chatting to some of the doctors on the way. Weniger and Clarens, pale-faced, watched him go.