The Valley of Unknowing Page 4

  ‘I’m Bruno, by the way,’ I said, as I handed out the drinks, which the other musicians accepted gratefully. They were mostly young, student age, with unruly hair and skinny frames.

  ‘I know,’ the girl said, still blushing. ‘Bruno Krug. I got your book from the library. I’m in the middle right now.’

  My book. As if there had only ever been one.

  ‘The middle is always the hardest part. Keep going.’

  ‘Oh, but I’m loving it. I read it before I fall asleep.’

  ‘I’m afraid that happens a lot.’

  ‘I mean, I read it in bed.’

  With the mention of bed, her cheeks burned even brighter.

  ‘Novels go to bed with whoever pays for them,’ I said, quoting myself. ‘They’re the prostitutes of the art world.’

  The girl laughed nervously; then, after a moment’s hesitation, held out her hand. It felt cool, in contrast to the mood, which was warming nicely. ‘Theresa Aden.’ She spoke softly, her head slightly downturned. ‘I’m studying here.’

  She was not a native of Saxony. I couldn’t place her looping, sing-song accent, but it made me think of meadows and cattle. There were other clues besides: hints of perfume more refined than I was used to, hair with a deeper sheen, teeth that were whiter and straighter than any in the room. And she was tall, broad-shouldered, straight-backed – like some of our famous lady athletes, but without the Adam’s apples and the lusty baritone voices.

  I wanted to ask where she was from, but the other musicians, grateful for their refreshments, gathered round, eager to join in the conversation. It turned out they were all students from the Carl Maria von Weber College of Music, which used to be the Royal Conservatory before Saxon royalty was collectively vacuumed by the wind of revolutionary consciousness into the dust bag of history. I felt obliged to act the avuncular pedagogue, and the best I could manage by way of private conversation was to touch Theresa on the shoulder and ask her to wait for me, before an impatient stare from Barbara Jaeger sent me scuttling away across the room. Theresa smiled again and pointed reassuringly at the floor where she was standing, as if to say: I’ll be right here. I knew then, for the first time, that everything was going to work out just fine.

  The sensation of triumph, breathless and uplifting, did not last. Barbara was soon up to her old tricks, introducing me to a succession of supposedly well-connected people. I don’t know who was supposed to be more impressed, they or I. In any case I remember nothing about them. I was anxious to pick up where I had left off with Theresa Aden and barely managed a minimum of conversation.

  Barbara must have noticed what was going on, because as soon as we were alone again she put a hand on my arm and squeezed. ‘I’d forget about her, Bruno.’ She followed my gaze in the direction of Theresa. ‘If I were you.’

  ‘You think she’s too young for me, I suppose.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Although, now you mention it, she is a little wet behind the ears.’

  I shrugged and turned my back on the girl, though it took an effort of will. ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is: she’s a Westerner. An Austrian.’ Barbara laughed. ‘Honestly, Bruno, where do you think she got that accent?’

  ‘So that’s an Austrian accent? Well, so what? You think she’s a spy?’

  Barbara regarded me coolly. ‘You don’t know what she is, Bruno.’

  ‘Even if she is a spy, what’s she going to learn from me? The secrets of punctuation?’

  I turned round again, but instead of Theresa I saw Michael Schilling shouldering his way towards me, an ingratiating grin on his face. And there just behind him, evidently with him, was none other than his new discovery, Wolfgang Richter. He had put on a little weight since our last encounter (most of it muscle), his ugly shaving rash had cleared up and his brown hair was longer; but it was unmistakably him, dressed now in a black roll-neck sweater and a dark grey corduroy jacket. I took care not to catch his eye.

  ‘Hello, Bruno,’ Schilling said. ‘Congratulations.’

  We shook hands in a curious puppet show of formality, which was certainly not for my benefit.

  ‘Frau Jaeger, a pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Barbara said. It was obvious to me that she had entirely forgotten who Schilling was, in spite of having met him on at least two previous occasions. ‘Who’s your young friend?’

  We all turned, but Richter had been waylaid by some old acquaintances, and was being slapped on the back and handed drinks from several directions at once. It seemed Two on a Bicycle had been a bigger hit than I’d thought.

  ‘Wolfgang Richter,’ Schilling said. ‘He’s a writer.’

  ‘Another writer?’ Barbara said with pointed enthusiasm. ‘How interesting. What’s he written?’

  ‘Screenplays mostly. Although I believe he’s also working on a novel.’ Schilling gave me a knowing look, which I ignored. ‘I don’t suppose you caught Two on a Bicycle?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Very droll. Have you seen it, Bruno?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You know, I thought it was a bit like your Factory Gate Fables; only funnier.’

  It was then that Richter saw me. He looked me up and down, friends either side of him still intent on their conversation, took in the medal, and laughed – not a loud laugh, not a laugh that anyone but me would even notice, but a small, involuntary laugh, just big enough to wound.

  Then another of Barbara’s cultural circle appeared. I saw my chance to escape. But no sooner had I turned away than I found Michael Schilling tugging at my elbow. ‘So? What did you think?’

  ‘About what?’ I said, though I knew.

  ‘The manuscript.’

  ‘To be honest, I haven’t finished it. I’m reserving judgement.’

  Schilling frowned. ‘I’m not looking to quote you.’ He parked himself square in front of me, looking me straight in the eye. ‘Seriously, Bruno, it’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘That depends on your definition of good. An age-old philosophical question, of course, and a difficult one in the cultural sphere.’

  With his index finger Schilling pushed his huge glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘You know, I thought . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I thought you of all people . . .’

  ‘I told you, Michael: I haven’t finished it yet. I’m only halfway through. Besides, I thought you didn’t want to influence me.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t.’ Schilling sighed, his deflation obvious and almost touching. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ I said, with a great show of generosity. ‘I’ll press on with it tomorrow. That’s a promise.’

  After so many glasses of wine I needed to empty my bladder, an exercise that involved traipsing up to the second floor, because the men’s lavatories in the basement were closed for maintenance. I had plenty of time to reflect on my reticence regarding Richter’s novel. It had never been my intention to disappoint Michael Schilling. I fully intended to rhapsodise about the book at the appropriate time and place. But then and there, on that night (my night), in that company, it was verging on the insensitive to expect an ovation. The sneaky business with the title and the identity of the author, the fact that I had not been trusted with either – these things still rankled. And then there was the whole business of the content, its debt to The Orphans of Neustadt. Schilling seemed to assume that I would be perfectly happy about it, about being, in effect, supplanted, my story colonised and taken over – as if the only thing that could possibly matter was the quality of the resulting work; as if fiction had a life of its own.

  I returned to the party, determined to let nothing keep me any longer from Theresa. I wasn’t put off by what Barbara had said. Barbara liked to be the centre of attention and was instantly jealous of any woman who threatened that position, no matter how innocently. Besides, I wasn’t thinking about some conjoined future with the student musician, or about where a relationship might lead. My thoughts were not of romance. Th
eresa was a beautiful object I wanted to possess for a while and then let go of, the experience leaving me with a comfortable glow of affirmation and achievement. She was, I had no great trouble acknowledging, too young for me in any case.

  I felt sure she would still be waiting for me, just where I had left her. But in spite of her promise (it had seemed like a promise) she was not there. In fact, she was not anywhere in the room, which was beginning to empty. I went out into the lobby, then out on to the front steps. I looked up and down the street. I waited, as discreetly as possible, outside the ladies’ lavatory, hoping she would eventually emerge, having perhaps applied a new coat of lipstick. But several minutes went by and all I got for my pains were dubious looks from the women going in and out.

  There was no sign of Theresa anywhere. She had left. And so too, I soon noticed, had Wolfgang Richter.

  6

  The following morning, a Saturday, I was woken by the telephone at a quarter to eight.

  ‘I’m ringing to remind you about the pool committee,’ a voice said.

  It was Frau Wiegmann, a vigorous and efficient female who worked at the local high school, teaching mathematics and dialectical materialism.

  I had slept very badly, partly on account of too much alcohol, partly on account of Wolfgang Richter and his novel, mostly on account of Theresa Aden, whose picture I couldn’t keep out of my mind.

  ‘I thought the meeting was this afternoon,’ I protested.

  ‘It is. But last time you were late. You said you had written down the wrong time. So I thought this time I’d make certain you have it down correctly.’

  ‘Very kind of you, I’m sure.’ My head was in a bad state. Standing up was making it worse. ‘What time is the meeting, then?’

  Frau Wiegmann sounded shocked. ‘You mean you haven’t written it down this time at all?’

  I knew I had, but at that precise moment I could not recall exactly where.

  ‘Two o’clock?’ I ventured.

  ‘One o’clock, Herr Krug, one o’clock! At two o’clock we have to make way for the chess club.’

  Even Champions of Art and Culture, I should explain, had occasional uses in those days. One such was to sit on committees, like Frau Wiegmann’s, adding celebrity ballast to petitions and appeals to the authorities: for an improved supply of bathtubs or batteries, for better toilet facilities at a factory or a school, for fairer holiday allocations, housing, pensions, for cleaner air or fresher eggs or coffee that was made predominantly of coffee beans. In the Workers’ and Peasants’ State the appearance of a Champion’s name on such Eingaben, so it was believed, lent them intellectual weight – even a degree of political and cultural relevance – making them harder to ignore.

  Frau Wiegmann’s committee had been going for three and a half years. Its aim, a noble one in my opinion, was to bring about the restoration and reconstruction of an old indoor swimming pool that lay fenced off and derelict a few blocks from where I lived. Although in past eras Blasewitz had been an affluent neighbourhood, its outdoor leisure facilities were meagre, obliging the local children to travel long distances for exercise and recreation – much further than those who dwelt in the new housing developments to the south and west, with their abundant playgrounds, gymnasia and sports halls. I would see them often, traipsing on and off the trams at unsociable hours of the day and night, looking sleep deprived and weary in their grubby sports clothes, their latch keys hanging round their necks. Such supervised activities were important in the Workers’ and Peasants’ State, not just for fitness reasons, but because the right and duty of women to hold down full-time employment left the family home empty not only at midday, but usually well into the evening. My upstairs neighbour, Frau Liebegott, made rice pudding every morning for her children’s lunch and placed it in their beds to keep it warm.

  The old swimming pool itself had taken a direct hit during the firebombing of 1945. Like many such sites, I had never seen it other than in ruins, but at one of our first meetings Frau Wiegmann had produced some old photographs, taken before the war. They showed lines of grinning children queuing outside a squat brick building with a vaulted roof of wrought iron and glass. The pool had remained open until the invasion of Russia, when the oil for heating could no longer be spared. But the water had not been drained, which was fortunate because when an incendiary crashed through the roof, exploding on contact, most of the phosphorus landed in the deep end. The remainder started a fire that brought down one wall and half the roof, but the rest of the structure had remained sound. All that was needed to restore it were voluntary labour, materials and official permission.

  ‘One o’clock,’ I repeated. ‘I have it down now. Thank you, Frau Wiegmann.’

  ‘Really, Herr Krug, I do think you should write these things down immediately.’

  ‘Oh, I will, I will, rest assured.’

  But as I hung up, I knew that Frau Wiegmann would not rest assured and that from now on she would call me first thing in the morning every time a meeting was scheduled, until either the pool committee achieved its objective, or one of us died.

  *

  It is often said in the West that the central planning system under Actually Existing Socialism deprived the population of any need for initiative. With education, employment, housing, health care and pensions all parcelled out by the state, and with almost all forms of commerce monopolised by state enterprises, what room was left for personal goals? How was the citizen supposed to strive, assuming he or she was of a striving disposition? What was there to strive for?

  It is true that when it came to the basics, a sense of entitlement was deeply inculcated, which in turn led to a good deal of moaning, especially when expectations were not met. Official encouragement of Eingaben – which the Party saw as an important channel of communication between the people and the planners – formalised and normalised the moaning phenomenon. Moaning became not only socially acceptable in the Workers’ and Peasants’ State, but practically desirable. Skill in moaning – moaning creatively, with the optimal blend of political, social and personal ingredients – was highly prized, because it could occasionally get things done. If the Eingaben had been a recognised literary form, like the epistolary novel, the haiku or the Rustavelian quatrain, our little republic would have led the world.

  And this is not where the initiative ran out. There is very little initiative involved in going to a shop that has everything you want – a bathtub, a boiler, a battery – and buying it. When the shops have nothing you want and you do not have the spare cash to pay for it anyway, that is when initiative is required. That is where improvisation, barter and adaptability become essential. The West may have had the better of us when it came to supply-side initiative, as an economist might put it, but in demand-side initiative we were in a league of our own.

  I permit myself this politico-economic digression only so that you may appreciate the difficulties Frau Wiegmann’s committee had faced, and the initiative required to overcome them. It was not merely a question of raising money, though money was needed; nor of obtaining the necessary permissions, difficult as that was. Every brick, every roof tile, every bag of cement and tin of paint had to be procured through the exploitation of contacts. Likewise every shovel, spade, skip, cement mixer and paintbrush, and the labour – skilled and unskilled – to use them. So long was the list of requirements that the committee was forced continually to recruit new members. Frau Wiegmann had begun with just seven. My addition (the original crew had turned up on my doorstep en masse, each armed with a lovingly dog-eared copy of The Orphans of Neustadt) made nine. Since then nine further members had been enlisted, although the total stood at only sixteen, Herr Baumgartel having died from a myocardial infarction and Frau Springer having succumbed to dementia. The loss of these two stalwarts had set the project back months. Herr Baumgartel had spent his working life in the construction business and enjoyed excellent contacts in scaffolding; while Frau Springer’s brother had access to large amounts of elec
trical wiring.

  In spite of many such setbacks, Frau Wiegmann battled on like a true socialist heroine: exhorting her followers with visions of the promised land, banishing despair and crushing dissent with her indefatigable energy, enormous bosom and complete absence of self-doubt. In this she had always reminded me of Sonja, the young communist organiser in The Orphans of Neustadt – not in the enormous bosom perhaps (although I had always pictured Sonja as physically voluptuous), but in the way she saw every setback and every challenge as an opportunity to make things better.

  I was on my way to the committee meeting, my thoughts of Theresa shrunk to a dull ache of regret, when the first winter snows began to fall – lazy, feathery snowflakes that tickled as they brushed against the skin, promising all the childish pleasures of the season ahead: sledging, snowball fights, Christmas. All the other members of the committee seemed affected by it. The greetings at the door were heartier than usual, accompanied by much theatrical shivering and stamping of feet. This meteorological bonhomie added to a general sense of anticipation. The rubble had already been cleared from the swimming pool site and in less than a week’s time reconstruction was due to begin. Everything, so we thought, was ready at last. Nobody noticed, until we had all sat down on canvas chairs in the brightly lit gymnasium, that several of our number were missing.

  Frau Wiegmann wasted no time in giving us the bad news. Herr Begler, the construction site foreman who had been drafted in two years earlier to replace Herr Baumgartel, had been officially reprimanded for drunkenness following an accident at work. Consequently he was no longer in a position to procure either the cement or the cement mixer he had promised us. Without cement, we could not repair the pool. We could not even begin to repair the pool.

  We had suffered many such reverses in the past, but for the first time I thought I detected a trace of hopelessness in Frau Wiegmann’s demeanour.