The Wall (85 page)

But was it right to dismiss it all before I had even heard her out? I had to look into it. I just had to avoid senseless compromise, or take any promise seriously, refuse any improper impositions, as well as keep a watchful eye on the separation between my own aims and invidious requests. Either I would be taken for the person that I am, and allowed to have my say, or she would be willing to listen to me and allow me to accomplish something for which I would be responsible. If, nonetheless, it became clear that this was not what she had in mind, then I wouldn’t be disappointed, but cheerfully and calmly withdraw my name from consideration before I was even offered anything. I couldn’t be so dumb as to offer up all my effort and work for nothing the way I had done with Eberhard S.

That night I talked with Johanna at length about whether I should just answer the letter with silence, politely decline, or look up Fräulein Knispel. Johanna worried that I would get upset if I let myself become involved with people like this again. She was happy to see that I had achieved a partial and tolerable sense of resignation, and advised sending a friendly note to decline or writing to ask for more information. I could reassure Johanna that I now knew enough already, that writing would only draw things out, that I felt I was above all trickery, and that I would take it all in stride, even if it was a sham.

The next day, I went to see Resi Knispel. She lived in a sleepy neighborhood with expansive gardens. It didn’t take me long to find the house, which
seventy years ago would have been considered posh but had long since been neglected. The entrance to the uncared-for garden was open; the door to the house was perched above a flight of steps that were well worn and certainly not swept for many days. The door was closed, and to the side there were buzzers for each individual apartment, but only next to two buttons were there legible names, neither of which was Knispel. I took a chance and pressed one button and waited a few minutes. I was about to press another when I heard steps and the door opened. Fräulein Knispel stood within it.

“It’s wonderful that you came, Landau. It’s at least five years since we’ve seen each other. Or maybe even longer. Well, then, come on in!”

The wooden steps were covered with a worn carpet, the walls of the stairwell were gray with grime. Thus was I even more surprised by the apartment, with its unusually large rooms, everything modern and done in good taste, and furnished almost luxuriously. Resi Knispel led me through two rooms and then a third that was an office, a massive desk weighed down with books and manuscripts, the walls lined with full bookshelves, an open cabinet containing folders full of notes and letters, comfortable seating around a low table, cognac and glasses, little cakes and bonbons and cigarettes, and a man sitting there whom I didn’t recognize right away. Only when he stood up politely did it come to me that it was Herr Buxinger, the bookseller. We greeted each other, and I was asked to have a seat while being offered everything that was there. I had to answer a bevy of questions—how I was, how had I settled in, and what I did. While I wasn’t tight-lipped, I nonetheless remained cautious in responding. I also posed polite questions whose answers didn’t interest me whatsoever.

Soon I learned that Herr Buxinger indeed still had his bookshop. Though he complained that I had never paid him the honor of a visit, Buxinger now had a much smaller shop inside a courtyard, where he focused less on traffic from the street and instead did mainly distribution for some foreign publishers. He spoke badly of Jolan Haarburger, calling him an unfaithful friend who had nearly ruined him. When many years ago Buxinger was in a bad way, it seemed to him the most natural thing in the world to ask his childhood friend Haarburger for a loan. The clever fox was not a willing donor, but he couldn’t turn down the request, for in many ways he felt responsible for Buxinger, yet the loan did the bookseller little good, for now
he owed the wily lawyer and had to dance to his tune. Haarburger got involved in the business, about which he knew nothing, and everything went downhill—the sales falling off, the receivables remaining uncollectable, the bills ever higher, the creditors ever more skeptical. When, finally, matters had gone too far, such that either Haarburger had to dig into his pockets once more or Buxinger had to turn over future control of the business, Haarburger did the dumbest and most despicable thing possible: he called in the loan on short notice. Buxinger didn’t feel at all ashamed and could say openly that he went bankrupt, all of it a mixture of bad luck and bad intentions. A legal bankruptcy, that he could certainly handle at great sacrifice, but not a burdensome settlement; he had to repay all of the loan, and it took a long time. And, best of all, this Haarburger, who had never made clear the length of the loan at the start, didn’t want to hear anything about an arranged settlement; it was either swift payment or legal action. Buxinger then had no choice but to sell his valuable collection of autographs of writers, musicians, and other famous figures. Just imagine, Goethe and Dickens, Chopin and Johann Strauss, and a long letter by Garibaldi. True, whenever one holds such a fire sale the prices are low, Herr Saubermann picking up the nicest items for chicken feed, while one even had to thank him for doing so. The proceeds from all this were not enough, such that Frau Buxinger’s jewelry also had to be used, as well as anything that had the slightest value, in order to pay this nemesis, Herr Haarburger, the entire sum at once, albeit without interest, which he had to relinquish in order to keep it all on the up and up. Could I even imagine it all was possible?

Oh, yes, that I could, and I wasn’t surprised at all. At this, Buxinger was as happy as a child. Of course, Resi Knispel, who still knew the Haarburgers, was not amused by Buxinger’s talk. She said that, yes, it was all unfortunately handled in a shoddy way, but even the best had their flaws, one had to understand that. She had tried to talk to Haarburger in good conscience, but he turned a deaf ear to it all. Well, that’s what happens, but now it was an old story upon which a lot of grass had grown. Buxinger wished to protest, yet Resi Knispel assured him that she understood his position, certainly. Nonetheless, there was no need to waste another word on it; we were here for another reason and wanted to speak about some practical matters. The bookseller agreed, and it was fine with me as well. But she had hardly finished
making her useful recommendation and explaining that they wished to turn to the matter of the journal, when suddenly she switched back to Haarburger. Buxinger had to admit what he had always resented about Jolan—namely that Hannah was a gem about whom nothing bad could be said. Buxinger didn’t want to hear anything more about Hannah. She had aided and abetted everything her husband had done. He had not always been such a miser, just petty and anxious, but she was a monster. Sweet and flattering, yes, she could be that, but that was all part of her craft, for otherwise she knew just how to get her way. She was the one who had really tied Jolan up in knots; otherwise, the mishap would never have occurred. Fräulein Knispel was beside herself, because Buxinger didn’t have a single good thing to say about Frau Haarburger—terrible, he should stop, she’s a good-hearted soul, didn’t he know that? Fräulein Knispel wanted me to acknowledge this well-intentioned view. When I obviously and coolly held back from doing so, there was no end to her astonishment, for even today Hannah still asked after my wife, as she liked her very much and always wanted to know what would make Johanna feel good. I’d had enough of such talk, and so it was I this time who wanted to change the subject.

“Could I perhaps hear a bit more about the journal?”

“Yes, fine. Landau and Buxi, private battles lead to nothing, that’s what I think, and at some point some kind of reconciliation will occur. Then you’ll extend hands to one another as best friends.”

“What about the journal?” I asked intently.

“Yes, the journal. It will be fantastic. Do you want to be a part of it, Landau?”

“I can’t make any promises without learning more.”

“Buxinger will be the publisher.”

“That sounds great!” I said.

“But only as a straw man. He will lend his name and experience, and he’ll oversee sales.”

“That is, if there are any,” said Buxinger cautiously.

“Go on, enough of that, Buxi! You’re a killjoy. You yourself have been the one most excited about the idea from the start.”

“Hopefully, then,” he said politely.

“Okay, then, I will actually run the firm, but behind the scenes. I have to
maneuver carefully. Once the journal is up on its feet, then I can jump in for real. My work with the Swiss press will continue, for it can only be of help, what with the contacts, the literary agents—you know, of course, Landau, that’s what I do. I won’t give that up. Sometimes one can make discoveries there and bring together excellent contributors. A journal stands or falls with its contributors.”

“What kind of journal will it be, Fräulein Knispel?”

“You’ll soon hear. Tell me, I recall, and someone said to me a couple of times, you write about all kinds of things, don’t you, Landau? Sociology, suffering, misery, and such. You’re at home with all of it, yes?”

“Yes, if you wish to put it that way.”

“Do you already have a book out?”

“No, not out—inside, inside the desk drawer.”

“That’s no good. You have to bring it out! It’s worthless inside the desk drawer.”

“That could be, Fräulein Knispel.”

“Well, then. You are sensible. And why isn’t it out? Too much time spent in the ivory tower? Too learned? Too lofty?”

“I’ve been unlucky, one might say. But I’ve come to terms with that.”

“Your writing needs to be snappy; I can help you with that. What with your talent! You need to grab hold of people, carry them along. That indefinable something—that’s what you need to be successful. Well, Landau, do you want to give it a try—trust me for once? I’ll give it my all, guaranteed.”

“I don’t think you’ll have much luck with it.”

“Let me worry about that. Bring me something and I’ll read it; you’ll have my unvarnished opinion. Maybe there’s nothing. But if there’s something to it, and I think there is, then I can do something with it. Isn’t that true, Buxi?”

“But of course, Resi. You can count on it, Herr Landau. Only that which is purely literary cannot be used, no artsy novels. But, hopefully, it’s not that kind of stuff, is it?”

“No, no,” I whispered, half in apology, half in embarrassment.

“Listen, Landau, I have some top-notch journalists who can rewrite your dense scholarly prose so that it flows like light and sweet wine. Then I’ll place it wherever you want.”

“Couldn’t I now at least learn a bit more about the journal, Fräulein Knispel?”

“You certainly haven’t written just a bunch of heavy stuff, have you?”

“No—essays, articles, reviews, and other short items.”

“Excellent. And could you write an article about a theme I assigned you or one of your own choice?”

“I would think so.”

“
Primissima!
Then I can count on you!”

“That I don’t know, Fräulein Knispel. I need to know more about your journal.”

“Patience. I’m getting to that. As I already said, we need above all to have a staff that is experienced. In some ways, I have that already. But I need more. You need to let those who have something to say have an outlet. Do you know some people?”

“Unfortunately not. I stay out of things.”

“Oh, so you’re a cellar rat. Always rummaging about, yes? You need to come out into the fresh air sometime. Then you can crawl back like a badger into his den. Well, who do you know, then? Everyone belongs to some kind of circle.”

“I don’t have any circle. I write some reviews for journals. Of late, also some short articles on assignment—mere shoptalk, nothing important. Because of this, I haven’t earned much respect. Now and then someone asks me to write a professional opinion or sends me some work to copyedit. That’s about it.”

“What, copyediting? Well, then, a professional, almost my equal. You have my respect. That’s something. You must come across some pretty good names, no?”

“Names? Yes.”

“Then let me make a recommendation straightaway. If you come across something that would interest a publisher, then show it to me. We can then talk about your cut.”

“That I can’t do. The author, the journal, the publisher will have put their trust in me.”

“No, that’s not what I mean! Often, something is free for the taking. Then bring it to me! It won’t be your fault. Obviously you’ll get something
if I make something off it. It makes perfect sense. But it needs to be popular, though also learned. Scholarly, yet understandable to the common reader. Topical, it can even have a political slant to it—it doesn’t matter whether it’s right or left.”

“I hardly ever come across anything like that.”

“Buxi, he’s hopeless. Much too serious, this Landau. But he could be a nice piece of finery to have attached to a journal. We indeed need something serious that is brutally earnest that can inspire readers simply because they can’t understand a syllable of it. You could pull that off, couldn’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

“But only short articles by such clever visionaries, a hundred and fifty to two hundred manuscript lines for each—that we could manage.”

“Would it also pay, Fräulein Knispel?”

“It’s a matter of honor! Something for something. At the start, I can only promise a little. Luminaries will, of course, be paid straightaway. Do you know any luminaries?”

“Certainly not.”

“Too bad. Later, everyone will certainly be paid, even well. But first the journal has to get off the ground.”

“When will that happen?”

“Soon. We want to have the first issue out in four to six weeks, five to eight thousand copies, sixteen pages of text, later more, four to eight pages of advertising. For that, we already have a fantastic salesman. Buxi will help us with that. Saubermann also promised support—advertising and also money.”

“So, then, the financial side of things is assured, Fräulein Knispel?”