Out of the Line of Fire (20 page)

It had been a major triumph and a small group of us went back to Karl’s room to celebrate. Those who came included Marianne, a tall independently minded, unusual-looking woman in her mid-twenties and Vladan, bearded, intensely serious, in his early thirties. I had only met him in passing but from what I had heard he had defected to the West while touring with a Czech theatre group about six months previously. There was also Irena, young, pretty, naive and two others whom, to tell you the truth, I hardly remember at all. I had seen Karl and Marianne together often and assumed that they were lovers but, once again, I wasn’t sure of the exact nature of their relationship.

When I recall the short sequence of events that took place in Karl’s room that night, I’m sure that Karl’s every gesture, so apparently natural, had been carefully calculated. Even his room seemed to function in some strange, complicitous way. It was significantly different from the rooms the rest of us occupied. The building, after all, had been on the condemned list for some time so everything was in a fair state of disrepair. The moulded plaster ceilings of once elegant apartments had begun to sag and crack. Sections of faded wallpaper hung in tired curls from many parts of the walls exposing the stonework beneath, tiles were cracked or missing, sinks and baths had corrosion stains of varying degrees of intricacy etched into their enamel surfaces and, in most cases, carpets had been ripped up leaving a layer of fine dust covering the floorboards beneath.

Karl’s room had probably not been much different when he moved in. But now it was conspicuously clean, corners of unstuck wallpaper had been torn away leaving a flat, if collaged, surface and the dust had gone. Through the doorway to the bedroom could be seen a large comfortable-looking bed. In the main room, which also served as the kitchen, was an old sofa and a couple of old armchairs. Against one wall stood a battered table and a number of wooden chairs in poor condition. Hardly unusual. But on the table were an electric typewriter, a cassette player and a number of cassettes, a couple of expensive-looking pens, a gold watch, a small bronze statue and a number of new records. This was only the start. He also had an impressive stereo system, one entire wall was covered with books [most of which looked new] stacked into a makeshift bookshelf. His electric jug was new, his cooking utensils looked new and, unbelievably, he had a microwave oven and a small fridge!

Watching Karl emerge from his overalls was like watching a strange metamorphosis. By comparison with the rest of us he always seemed meticulously dressed, which is to say his jeans were clean, his shirts were pressed and he often wore a red scarf rakishly tied around his neck.

This calls for champagne, he said.

He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles.

This should do, he said, inspecting the labels. He reached up into the cupboard over his head and got down half a dozen glasses, champagne glasses. He may have even said something about them being genuine crystal. He smiled as he expertly uncorked the bottles and poured the champagne. It was only when Karl jovially handed one to Vladan, who hesitated slightly before accepting, that I began to sense the air of increasing tension in the room.

Vladan, who was sitting at the table, placed the glass of sparkling liquid on it without drinking any. Karl picked up his own glass, raised it and said: ‘Nasdrovie’ [Russian for ‘cheers’]. Each of us, except Vladan, took a sip. I watched Karl looking at him, clinically, dispassionately, as though he were little more than some curious form of insect life. Marianne glanced quickly from one to the other.

I’m hungry, Irena said, oblivious to all this. Got anything to eat, Karl?

Look in the fridge. Take what you want.

Irena got up to go to the fridge.

What’s the matter, Vlad? French champagne not good enough for you.

Vladan didn’t reply. He just sat looking at the bubbles rising in the glass on the table. He ran his finger around its lip.

Jesus, Karl, where do you get this stuff?

Irena was kneeling in front of the fridge. The door was wide open and it was clear that the fridge was well stocked. She began taking items from it and examining them.

There’s a fucking feast in here. Look at this—smoked salmon, caviar, camembert…marinated dates, marinated dates? I don’t believe this.

Prefer some Russian caviar, Vlad. Might make you feel more at home.

Lay off, Karl, Marianne said.

He turned towards her.

Well if it isn’t left-wing chic come to the rescue of the sensitive but oh so silent proletariat. And speaking of
come
to the rescue, I hear left-wing chic has developed a, how shall I put it, a taste for Russian c-c-c-caviar.

Instantly Vladan was on his feet and his glass of champagne swept up and burst against Karl’s face. His mouth twisted with rage and he was breathing heavily. Karl began mopping his face with his scarf.

Dear me, it looks like you spilled a bit, Vlad, Karl said amiably. Like a top-up?

Vladan turned disgustedly away. He picked up his coat and looked across at Marianne.

Are you coming?

She hesitated for a moment before hopping down from the table. Vladan walked to the door, opened it and turned back to her again.

Well?

She picked up her bag.

You’re an arsehole, Karl, she said, you know that. Why couldn’t you just leave things as they were?

Vladan disappeared through the doorway and Marianne made to go after him, but as she reached the door Karl was by her side. He gripped her high on the arm. They stood looking at each other for a moment before she twisted free. Karl turned back to us. We were all too stunned to move.

Why don’t you all just fuck off, he screamed. Go on, get out…Are you deaf?
Out!
Jesus fucking Christ.

We picked up our things and left. The door slammed to behind us. Moments later the sound of breaking glass echoed up the corridor. In my mind’s eye I could see the slow-motion image of a bottle of champagne exploding against the wall of Karl’s room.

After this incident I was to discover that the small group who shared the building were about equally divided in their opinion of Karl. There were those who, even given his unpredictability, were fiercely loyal to him, claiming that despite his apparent wealth and ostentation he never refused them money, food, coffee, books, whatever. And it was true. What was his was yours. He was almost lavishly generous. This is what Vladan hated about him, quite apart from the fact that Marianne refused to stop seeing him. To Vladan, Karl was a fraud, a charlatan, someone who had grown up a spoilt kid and still had a rich father in the wings who dropped around every month or so with money for him, and whom it amused to indulge his son’s whim to slum it with the lower classes. Karl, on the other hand, made it obvious that he hated Vladan’s self-righteousness and the self-congratulatory moral hypocrisy that allowed him to denounce the ‘evils of capitalism’ and yet, at the same time, enjoy its comfortable oppression. What was indisputable, however, was Karl’s commitment to the theatre.

For reasons that were never clear to me, in the weeks that followed, Karl and I became close friends. Despite this, it still remains difficult for me to give an adequate account of him. He was quirky, tangential, quick-witted, superficially erudite and secretive. Whenever I was with him time seemed to accelerate. You never knew where you’d end up. One day, for example, we were sitting at one of the outdoor cafés along Kudamm (the long main avenue that passes through Berlin’s central business district) with the Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtniskirche in the background. It was busy and we had been forced to share a table with an older, business-suited man who sat reading his newspaper, occasionally sipping his coffee. A young, attractive-looking waitress took our order and I watched as Karl’s eyes followed her back into the café.

God, what I wouldn’t give to have her sit on my face, he said wistfully [sagte er wehmütig].

The old guy opposite coughed into his coffee, looked up and frowned.

What about Marianne? I said.

No, Marianne doesn’t dig women.

She came back with our two coffees.

She’s gorgeous, he said when she had gone.

Did you know, he said, in ancient Babylonia every woman was obliged to sacrifice her virginity by prostituting herself in the temple of Ishtar. Have you read Herodotus?

No, I said.

He launched into an epic discussion about the rise of the romantic conception of love, from the heroic hedonism of antiquity to the subsequent identification of sin with the carnality of woman by religion. He went on and on, sweeping through the dark ages, through the medieval courtly love tradition and its idealization of feminine beauty until, finally, we arrived at what he called the ‘bourgeoisification’ of love through marriage at the end of the eighteenth century. It was a great performance. I watched as the old guy opposite began to revise his opinion of Karl.

But now, he said, all that has changed. It’s so difficult these days having a relationship with someone you know. All
we’re
left with is the existential despair of anonymous sex—again and again.

I couldn’t tell whether he was serious or not.

You know, he said, the thing I like most about Marianne is her sex. It’s so rich, so full. Every time I look at her I think of the opening word in the movie
Citizen Kane
.

I laughed.

No, seriously. Have you ever seen the film?

No.

Well, the opening scenes show the incredible domain of Charles Foster Kane’s Xanadu. It starts with an illuminated window, you know, in the distance. All around, the screen is almost entirely black. The camera moves slowly towards the window. Other forms begin to appear. Barbed wire, cyclone fencing and then, looking up against an early morning sky, an enormous iron grillwork. Through this and beyond you see the fairy-tale mountain tops of Xanadu, the great castle a silhouette at its summit, the little window a distant accent in the darkness.

Karl seemed to sketch an image of Xanadu in the air above us as he spoke.

There follows a sequence showing the facade of the castle, emphasizing its ludicrous combination of architectural styles, its alligator pit and so on. A great ape is outlined against the dawn murk. He is scratching himself slowly, thoughtfully, looking out across the estates of Charles Foster Kane. Then there follows a long shot of Kane’s huge bed, silhouetted against the enormous window.

There is a dissolve. The year is 1940. A snow scene appears on the screen: gigantic snowflakes cascade down over an overly picturesque farmhouse. There is a snowman and the jingling of snowbells. The camera pulls back showing the whole scene to be contained in one of those glass balls you can buy in toy shops and novelty stores everywhere. A hand—Kane’s hand—which has been holding the ball, relaxes. The ball falls out of his hand and bounds down two carpeted steps and falls from the last step to the marble floor below where it shatters.

You hear Kane’s old voice utter the opening word: ‘Rosebud’.

Karl repeats the word in a cracked and shaky voice.

Ro-se-bud. Of course, in the film rosebud appears to be a reference to Kane’s childhood sled. But in actual fact using it to open the film was a brilliant move by Orson Wells. You see, it’s a sexual pun—the opening word, the word that opens. Rosebud was Randolf Hearst’s pet name for his young mistress’s blond-haired genitalia.

You’re kidding?

No, amazing isn’t it.

He paused for a moment.

Want another coffee?

You just want another look at her.

So?

Don’t let me stand in your way.

He caught the girl’s attention and once again she came over. A few minutes later she returned with two more coffees.

She reminds me of my sister, I said. Not to look at, but her mannerisms, her age.

I told Karl of my own experience with Andrea and how watching Elena masturbating while perched up a tree had led to it.

She masturbates up trees?

No,
I
was up the tree. She was in her room. You’re not taking me seriously.

Sorry.

You don’t think it was perverse of me?

What?

Well, watching my sister masturbate.

That depends, he said. There’s a big difference between eroticism and perversity. I’ve thought about it a lot. Do you know what the difference is?

No, what?

Well, eroticism, he said leaning forward, eroticism is when you use a feather, and perversity is when you use the whole chook!

He burst out laughing. Even the old guy, whom I’d forgotten about and who had apparently been following the entire conversation, started to laugh.

You’re too much, Wolfi. You know that. But it’s true in a way. I mean, it’s all a matter of degree isn’t it.

He laughed again.

God, you think that’s perverse. Catherine the Great of Russia died when the harness supporting the horse that was being lowered onto her broke and it fell and crushed her. Apparently she’d outgrown her interest in men as lovers.

I don’t believe you.

It’s true, it’s true, he said smiling. Incredible, but true.

He glanced at his watch.

Holy shit, it’s two-fifteen. I’ve got an audition at two-thirty. Come on, let’s go.

We got hurriedly to our feet. Karl picked up the bill and handed it to the old guy, thanked him profusely and while he stared after us open-mouthed, we made off. When we reached the corner at Joachimstalerstrasse Karl stopped and turned to me.

Wait here until I get the car, he said. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.

Before I could say anything he had gone.

A few minutes later a sleek black two-door BMW pulled recklessly to a stop beside the kerb.

Don’t just stand there gaping, Karl yelled. Get in!

I went quickly around to the passenger door. It was still open when, with the rear tyres screaming, he gunned the car into the middle lane. He shifted quickly and effortlessly through the gears.

I didn’t know you had a car, I said, strapping myself in.