The Valley of Unknowing Read online

  Herr Zoch often asked why I did not include more artists and writers in my books, since that was the world I knew best. My response was to say that writers were too few in number to be socially significant. This answer did not stop him raising the subject every time we met. The one time he didn’t ask was two days after the Kulturpalast concert, when he and Herr Andrich turned up at my apartment unannounced. On that occasion he and his companion had more pressing matters on their minds.

  ‘I expect you’ve heard about Dressler,’ Herr Andrich said.

  He was, I think, the more senior of my two handlers: a fat, middle-aged man with a bald head, pouchy bloodhound eyes and a permanent odour of stale cigarillos. He had probably been bullied at school – but not by the likes of Herr Zoch, who was half his size, bespectacled and slight, and who sat, when he was not taking notes, with his hands cupped over his kneecaps, as if the latter had been secured by cheap adhesive and were in danger of popping off.

  ‘Manfred Dressler?’ I said, feigning ignorance. ‘The sculptor? He hasn’t died?’

  ‘It would be better if he had.’

  ‘He’s fled,’ Herr Zoch said. ‘From Yugoslavia. Using a false passport.’

  There followed a few moments of head shaking, mine actual, the others’ implicit.

  ‘A People’s Hero of Art and Culture,’ Herr Andrich said, looking quite hurt.

  ‘A hero,’ Herr Zoch repeated. ‘Like you.’

  I briefly considered correcting Herr Zoch on that point, but decided against it.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ I said. ‘And he showed such promise.’

  Herr Anders nodded. ‘Such promise. Still, I always say it’s the promising ones you have to keep an eye on. More subject to temptation. Didn’t you know him?’

  I explained that I had met the sculptor on a couple of occasions, but that we were certainly not friends.

  ‘A pity,’ Herr Andrich said.

  ‘A great pity,’ Herr Zoch said. ‘We might have seen it coming, if you’d kept your ears open.’

  I hurried away to the kitchen to fetch the coffee and the Lebkuchen. Usually my discussions with the agents of the state security apparatus were of a general nature. I was encouraged to set out my views on the direction of cultural activity in our country and to offer earthy critical appraisal of literary works. I had never been asked to draw out people’s secrets or to note down gossip. It was not, I thought, part of our understanding. I supposed the Dressler affair had been embarrassing, a failure by whichever department was responsible for cultural affairs. And perhaps there had been other failures like it that I knew nothing about. In any case, I sensed that Herr Andrich and Herr Zoch were under pressure to up their game. My attempts to steer the conversation in a less concrete direction were unsuccessful.

  ‘You really should put yourself about more,’ Herr Andrich said. ‘Among the artistic community. A writer can’t live like a hermit. A hermit serves no useful purpose at all.’

  I agreed that hermits were not socially useful, but protested that I was more at home with ordinary working people. I reminded him that I had grown up in an orphanage and trained as a hydrodynamic technician long before it ever occurred to me to write a book.

  ‘The truth is, I’ve never felt very comfortable among the intelligentsia,’ I said. ‘So often they strike me as . . . They have a way of being . . .’

  ‘What?’ Herr Zoch asked, taking out his notebook and ballpoint pen.

  ‘Well . . . arrogant, I suppose. A cut above. Didn’t Lenin say . . . ?’

  ‘Like who, for example?’ Herr Zoch readied the ballpoint with a flip of his thumb. ‘Give us a name.’

  It was snowing outside: big, fluffy flakes like the aftermath of a celestial pillow fight. I pictured myself outside, walking arm in arm with Theresa Aden, the chill of the air a delicious contrast to the inner glow of companionship and love. But Theresa was lost to me now. Wolfgang Richter had got to her first. He had snatched her away while I sat around listening to chamber music and admiring his literature. All I was left with was the cold and a feeling of emptiness deeper than I was used to.

  ‘I’m not talking about anyone in particular,’ I said. ‘I’m just not one of them, that’s all, the intelligentsia. I never have been.’

  Herr Andrich sighed and reached into his coat pocket for a pack of cigarillos. He smoked only Sprachlos, the local brand, a name which in English means ‘speechless’ (branding was not an advanced science in the Workers’ and Peasants’ Republic).

  ‘This is very disappointing,’ he said. ‘Your observations on the artistic scene are so highly valued. Your opinion is trusted, more than you know. Yet you prefer to keep your head buried in the sand.’

  To avoid further awkwardness, I thought it best to hold out some hope of change. ‘I talked to Frau Jaeger the other day. She’ll be having another one of her soirées soon. There’ll be plenty of intellectuals there.’

  ‘We’re not interested in Barbara Jaeger,’ Herr Andrich said. ‘Her husband’s . . .’

  Herr Zoch coughed. The sentence remained incomplete. Herr Andrich frowned and stared at the end of his cigarillo, as if having doubts about the wisdom of lighting it. For a few moments nobody spoke. Then Herr Zoch said, ‘Tell us about the swimming pool project. How’s that coming along?’

  I was happy to change the subject. ‘Quite well,’ I said. ‘We’re due to start work on the site very soon. Although we have had a bit of a setback.’

  ‘Yes, we heard about Rudi Begler. Drunk on the job, wasn’t he? Great shame. Still, someone could have been killed.’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘Where are you going to get your cement from now? And the mixer? You can’t make cement without a mixer.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘We were counting on Begler. He was our lynchpin.’

  I shook my head, remembering now my rash promise to Frau Wiegmann and the rest of the committee. Soon she would be calling me – or, worse still, calling round – wanting to know how I was getting on with my string pulling. I had made a number of calls; so far all without results.

  ‘Such a worthwhile project,’ Herr Andrich observed. ‘A swimming pool. It’d make all the difference to the children around here, poor little devils.’

  He sniffed his cigarillo and looked at Herr Zoch. Herr Zoch looked back. Both men sucked their greying incisors.

  ‘I suppose we could ask around,’ Herr Andrich said. ‘See what we could come up with. How about that?’

  ‘Yes, how about that?’ said Herr Zoch.

  I had to acknowledge that this would be a great help. When it came to pulling strings, Champions of Art and Culture had nothing over employees of the state security apparatus. Theirs was a very network of string, one that reached into every corner of life, like cobwebs in a neglected attic.

  ‘We’ll see what we can do,’ said Herr Andrich indulgently, finally mustering the courage to light up.

  ‘So.’ Herr Zoch looked at his notes. ‘You were saying: arrogant, a cut above. Examples?’

  ‘All I meant to say was . . .’

  ‘You really must give us an example. If only for the sake of clarity.’

  ‘For the sake of clarity,’ Herr Zoch repeated, as if there were some danger I hadn’t heard the first time.

  ‘It goes without saying that anyone talented and clever is going to have a high opinion of themselves,’ I said. ‘It’s only natural.’

  ‘And who in your circle of acquaintance would fit that bill?’ Herr Andrich looked at me with his pouchy eyes, his chin dropping on to his chest. ‘Or are you simply making all this up for our entertainment?’

  That was when I mentioned Wolfgang Richter. Put on the spot, I couldn’t think of anyone else. ‘He’s young, of course,’ I added. ‘The young are often . . .’ But what were they? Threatening? Usurping? Physically superior? ‘He’ll learn anyway.’

  ‘Is that Richter with an “i”?’

  Neither Herr Zoch nor his colleague had ever heard of Wolfgang Richter. I
had no choice but to fill them in on his curriculum vitae.

  ‘I liked Two on a Bicycle,’ Herr Andrich said. ‘Very amusing film. Not unlike your Factory Gate Fables.’

  ‘Only funnier,’ added Herr Zoch.

  ‘Yes, that scene when the chickens get on the roof . . .’

  Both men laughed heartily. I found myself thinking of Theresa Aden, she and Richter embracing in the snow.

  ‘He’s writing a novel too,’ I pointed out, instinctively hedging by way of the present tense.

  ‘A novel?’ Herr Zoch made another note in his notebook. ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘I was asked to look over a few pages.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘The title hasn’t been decided on.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘It’s set in some unspecified place in the future.’

  ‘So science fiction, then?’

  ‘Of a kind.’ I wondered if I would ever actually see Theresa again and, if not, how long it would take me to forget her. ‘The whole thing has a mythic quality.’

  Herr Zoch sniffed and made another note. He seemed to have run out of questions.

  Herr Andrich watched me, eyes narrowing as he exhaled a pungent plume of smoke. ‘How would you describe this unfinished book in a word?’

  I considered my answer, my stomach gurgling all the while. ‘I thought it was very . . .’

  ‘Original?’

  ‘Not exactly. The word I’d choose would be . . .’

  ‘Would be?’

  ‘Promising.’

  Herr Zoch looked at Herr Andrich. Herr Andrich looked at Herr Zoch.

  ‘Promising? You’re quite sure that’s the word?’ Herr Andrich asked.

  Everyone was a fan of Wolfgang Richter, it seemed, even the employees of the state security apparatus; and all thanks to one comic film.

  ‘Yes, promising,’ I repeated, sticking to my guns.

  10

  Autumn had finally given way to winter by this time, but when I look back at the Workers’ and Peasants’ State autumn is all I see. This was especially true of those later years, when our anti-fascist liberators cut their annual shipment of Caucasian oil by two million tonnes, obliging us to burn brown coal instead – coal that we gouged and scraped with terrible haste from the green hills of southern Saxony. To autumnal mists we added gritty miasmas, the one indistinguishable from the other, except for the carboniferous taste. The sky above – yellow, russet, dusty pink, depending on the time of day – had a persistent autumnal tinge, its colours mixed by the same celestial hand on the same celestial palette.

  Aesthetic shocks, it could be said, were eschewed generally in the Workers’ and Peasants’ State, at least where the colour scheme was concerned. Contrast was contained, partly by accident (if soot can be called accidental), partly by design. Colours stood in fraternal relation one to the others, none enjoying more than its fair share of attention. I have only to close my eyes and there they are, the distinctive hues of Actually Existing Socialism: grey, brown, grey-brown, caramel brown, rust brown, brown ochre, burnt sienna, coffee, beige. These were the colours of the apartment blocks and factories, offices and shops, of construction and decay and all points in between; of stucco and brick, roof tile and render, nylon, polyester, acetate and rayon, wallpaper, linoleum and squeaky velveteen.

  And then there was red. Red, the exception to the fraternal rule, denoting as it does fraternity itself. Red to be used sparingly: on flags, emblems, May Day carnations and the scarves of the Thälmann Pioneers. Never on party dresses, socks or hats. And certainly not on underwear. There are no red knicker days in the socialist republic. The workers’ flag is deepest red (it shrouded oft our martyred dead), but the workers’ pants are greyest grey. Red hogged the limelight on all occasions, big and small, fluttering from flagpoles and balconies, stamped on to posters and Party exhortations. Pure red, arterial red. Politically, as visually, it triumphed in our urban spaces through sheer absence of competition, an unflinching reminder that we are all one flesh and blood, all brothers and sisters; and that, from the highest to the lowest, we all bleed the same way, chromatically speaking, when we are shot.

  The interview with Herr Andrich and Herr Zoch did not play unduly on my mind that Christmas. If there had been any clear thought behind my mentioning Wolfgang Richter’s name, it was only that publication of his book might be delayed, pending revisions. As an act of vengeance this would have been thoroughly petty had I not also believed that to produce a less politically charged version was in his best interests and, more importantly, Michael Schilling’s. Once a book is published it cannot be unpublished. Schilling might have succeeded in slipping the novel past unsophisticated officials at the Ministry of Culture, but what if the subversive nature of the work had been revealed subsequently? He would still have shared the blame. And the greater the success of the book, the greater that blame would have been. If the authorities paid Richter more attention than they might otherwise have done, what would that cost him? If he had nothing to hide, he had nothing to fear.

  On the other hand. I had gone behind Schilling’s back. He had given me the manuscript in confidence (although those words were never used) seeking my opinion as to whether the book’s political character would be noticed. I had rendered the question academic, because it was certainly going to be noticed now. The Valley of Unknowing would need more than a new title. Its connections to the history of our republic would have to be rendered invisible, its relevance excised. There could be no agenda, no message, subliminal or otherwise. In its new incarnation, the novel would be a fantasy, an entertainment, nothing more – or rather, nothing else. For who in this modern world really cares for the message anyway? The notion is quaint. Who buys a novel to be lectured?

  Schilling had to be told, but the difficulty was how to go about it. My occasional meetings with Andrich and Zoch, harmless as they might be, were supposed to be secret. I could have asked my old friend to share that secret, but it came to me on one of several solitary walks that complete honesty served no useful purpose. It only exposed me to risk. Besides, how could I ask Michael to share my secret when I had just failed to keep his?

  I decided a fiction was called for (fictions were my business, after all): I would say I had heard something. Better still, I had overheard something – at one of Barbara Jaeger’s soirées. One Party man to another: something about Wolfgang Richter, something about a novel. Enough to know that the authorities were aware of it and that they were on the lookout. The who and the how were not important. The important thing was that Schilling watched his step, avoided sticking his neck out, took evasive action – the result being that he and Richter would stay out of trouble, not just this year and next year, but indefinitely. In the end, what mattered more than that? Certainly not, I decided, the integrity of a sequel, even one so brilliant I wished I had written it myself.

  I did a lot of walking during those weeks. The stomach pains that now regularly plagued me were alleviated, I found, by exercise and fresh air. I walked several times all the way to Schilling’s office, but was finally told that he had taken a spell of leave in Berlin and would not return until January. I left messages, asking him to call me back. Finally, one evening, he did.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ I said. ‘How are things in Berlin? How’s . . . ?’

  ‘I’ve got news,’ he said.

  ‘About Paul?’ I felt sure if it was bad news it would be bad news about that. The sudden dash to Berlin, just the state of the boy. It was good news that would have been surprising. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s not about Paul. It’s about Wolfgang Richter.’

  ‘I’ve finished his book,’ I said. ‘But I really think we have to . . .’

  ‘I just got a call from his father.’ Schilling drew a long, unsteady breath. ‘Wolfgang Richter is dead.’

  PART TWO

  * * *

  11

  The facts were these: upon his return to the valley,
the young screenwriter had reportedly contracted a rare and deadly disease. It had incubated in his blood or his lymph for a week or so, then struck at the lining of his brain. According to his father, he had collapsed on a quiet street in the district of Loschwitz, on his way back from a party. He had been taken unconscious to a small hospital nearby and placed in intensive care. Treatment with antibiotics proved ineffective. He never regained consciousness and was dead within twenty-four hours. The microbe responsible was reportedly a meningococcal bacterium, one the authorities feared might be highly contagious. That was one reason his father had telephoned Michael Schilling: to warn him.

  ‘And now you’re warning me,’ I said.

  By this time I was in my chair, staring out at the steely blue dusk. Fingers of sleet were running down the window, gathering soot as they went.

  ‘Yes,’ said Schilling.

  ‘We didn’t meet. I never spoke to Richter. I didn’t even shake his hand.’

  ‘Maybe you wouldn’t have to. Maybe this bug spreads through the air. We were all in the same room with him when you got your award.’

  ‘So we were.’

  ‘Although what we’re supposed to do about it, I don’t know. Get a blood test, I suppose.’

  ‘Right. We should definitely do that.’

  I put a hand to my forehead. It felt distinctly clammy. And there was an unfamiliar tension in my shoulders and my neck.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Schilling said. ‘The funeral. Wolfgang’s father asked if you were going to be there.’

  ‘He did? Why?’

  ‘He was a great admirer of yours. The Orphans of Neustadt was one of his favourite books.’