The Blind Side of the Heart (28 page)

You can take that with you, said Martha, who didn’t care about the trunk and wanted to be rid of it. Her cloche hat was moth-eaten now; Helene wondered where her own was. She must have left it in the cloakroom of the White Mouse club that evening two years ago.

There’s going to be a vacancy on my ward, said Martha. You could apply. Helene said no, she didn’t want to be travelling north to work in the Jewish Hospital. The pharmacist was paying her better now, and she no longer thought about him when she stood in the pharmacy alone in the evening, mixing tinctures. Carl wouldn’t take any rent from her; his parents gave him an allowance at the beginning of every month. When he went to visit them he took Helene with him on the train to Wannsee, left her in the garden of the inn on Stölpchensee, ordered a raspberry sherbet for her and came back an hour later. Sometimes he asked her if she wouldn’t go with him, saying he would like to introduce her to his parents, but she shrank from the meeting. They might not like me, Helene pointed out, and wouldn’t give way to either his encouragement or his protests. In fact, she enjoyed those Sunday afternoons when she could sit reading in the garden of the inn, undisturbed.

At the end of the summer, through Bernard’s good connections, they got tickets for the new play at the Schiffbauerdamm theatre. Carl sat next to Helene and forgot to hold her hand. His fists clenched, he struck his forehead, he wept, and next moment was shouting approval. Only when the audience demanded the Army Song again as an encore, and people in the back rows stood up, linked arms and rocked in time to the music, did Carl lean back, mildly exhausted, and look at Helene.

Don’t you like it?

Helene hesitated and tilted her head to one side. I don’t know yet.

It’s brilliant, said Carl. His eyes were on the stage again by now, and did not turn back to Helene throughout the performance. He listened, spellbound, to Lotte Lenya, looking almost dazed. When the first verse of the jealousy duet was over and a second followed, Carl was spluttering, doubled up with laughter.

His cheeks were red as he stood up, applauding, even before the final curtain fell. The audience was bubbling over. They simply wouldn’t go until the closing verses of ‘Mack the Knife’ had been sung again. They roared along with it – even Harald Paulsen, playing Macheath, moved his lips, although in all the noise no one could hear if he was singing that song or another one. There was stormy applause. Spectators in the circle and stalls threw flowers on stage. The actors bowed. They looked like dolls, Helene thought, tiny pop-up toys with claqueurs making them bow low, demanding their reappearance again and again. The spotlights wouldn’t allow any of the actors to leave the stage or any of the audience to leave the theatre. They were clapping too, thought Helene, cautiously looking around her. Roma Bahn, who had been cast only recently as Polly, tore off her long bead necklace and scattered the glass beads in the auditorium; she looked as if she was about to walk offstage, but men whistled, either in anger or delight, and she stayed. People shouted, trampled their feet and one man in the stalls threw coins all around.

Helene put her hands over her ears. She had stayed in her seat, the only person to do so; she leaned forward, her chin on her chest, looking down at her lap, and wished she could just disappear. It was more than an hour before they could leave the theatre. People were jamming the exits, they kept stopping, clapping, turning to go back, pushing and shoving. The air was stuffy. Helene was sweating. The uproar frightened her. Someone punched her shoulder, she assumed it was a young man who quickly turned away. Helene did not let go of Carl’s hand. People pushed between them, and again and again it seemed as if they would be forced apart. Helene felt sick. Out of here, she thought, I must get out of here.

Carl wanted to walk along Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden. The water in the canal was black, an S-Bahn train ran by overhead. On the bridge, Helene leaned over the stone balustrade and threw up.

You didn’t like it. He was making a statement, not asking a question.

You’re mad about it.

I’m full of enthusiasm, yes.

Helene looked for her handkerchief and couldn’t find it. The sour taste in her mouth wouldn’t let her nausea go away. She felt a little dizzy, so she held on to the stone of the balustrade.

Isn’t this a new departure, true modernity? We’re all a part of the whole, the barriers between being and representation are breaking down. Being and appearance are coming closer. People are hungry, hungry and thirsty for a world that they’ll determine themselves, haven’t you noticed?

What are you talking about? What world will they determine? You talk about enthusiasm and the mob screams. It scares me, oh, that pitiless, overbearing attitude at all social levels scares me. Helene had to straighten up; she felt sick and dizzy, everything seemed to be going up and down. She turned her back to Carl and leaned over the balustrade again. How nice the sandstone felt, rough and firm.

Now Carl put his hand on her back. Darling, are you ill? Do you think the meatballs were off?

Helene’s face hung over the water. She imagined jumping into it. Strings of mucus streamed from her mouth, her nose was running too, she had no handkerchief.

He wasn’t to know that she didn’t have a handkerchief, all she needed was a handkerchief to be able to stand upright again. She had to ask him: Do you have a handkerchief?

Of course I do. Here you are. Come on, let me help you. Carl was solicitous, but Helene was losing her temper.

How can you be so simple, calling that enthusiasm? You read Schopenhauer and Spinoza, then on an evening like this you fling yourself into the crowd as if there were no tomorrow, no yesterday, nothing at all but wallowing in a bath along with the common man.

What do you have against the common man?

Nothing. Helene realized that she was pressing her lips together. I respect him. She wondered whether to tell him that she herself was a common woman. But what good would that do? So she said: The little man isn’t the little man, the great man isn’t the great man. Perhaps people have to be born in comfortable circumstances, like you, to glorify the little man as you do. Open your eyes, Carl.

Carl hugged her. Let’s not quarrel, he said.

Why not? Helene asked softly. She would have preferred to quarrel rather than admit that the play’s effect on Carl, so obvious to her, was genuine enthusiasm. Goodness, she thought, it was nothing but a lot of popular songs strung together.

Carl put his hand on Helene’s mouth to soothe her. Hush, hush, he said, as if she were crying and he wanted to comfort her. I couldn’t bear it if we fell out with each other.

We won’t. Helene smoothed the collar of his coat.

I love you. Carl tried to kiss Helene, but she was ashamed of her sour-tasting mouth and moved her head aside.

Don’t turn away, darling. You’re all I have.

Suddenly Helene had to laugh. I’m not turning away, she laughed. How can you think that? I’ve been sick, I don’t feel good and I’m tired. Let’s go home.

We’ll take a taxi. You’re not feeling well.

No, let’s walk. I need some air.

They walked deep into the night in silence. The narrow wooden bridge in the Tiergarten creaked and gave off its usual musty smell. There was rustling in the undergrowth; rats scuttled across the path in front of them. They stopped under the lime tree near the lock and heard the monkeys calling out from their enclosure.

It seemed strange to Carl that he was the first to speak. But what he wanted to say wouldn’t have fitted into a conversation anyway. He bent down and picked up a lime leaf. Is anyone invulnerable? He held the leaf in front of his chest, roughly where most people think the heart lies. Helene placed her hand on his and carefully guided it to mid-chest instead. She said nothing. Carl dropped the leaf, took both her hands in his, and thought she must feel his heart beating in his own. I could ask you whether you’d marry me, he heard himself saying. You’re twenty-one now. Your mother is Jewish, so my parents won’t object to my choice.

You could ask me, yes. Her eyes didn’t reveal what she was thinking. He looked searchingly at her.

Your shoe’s undone, she said, without looking at his feet. She had obviously noticed some time ago. Carl bent down and tied his shoelace.

You don’t know my mother, my father, any of us.

I know Martha. Your parents are nothing to do with me, just as mine are nothing to do with you. This is between the two of us, no one else. Will you promise to be my wife?

A monkey’s screech met their ears. Helene had to laugh, but Carl looked at her gravely, waiting for an answer.

She said yes. She said it quickly and quietly, and for a moment she was afraid he couldn’t have heard her. Next moment she hoped he hadn’t, because it had sounded so feeble and she would have liked to say a clear Yes from her heart. But a second Yes would have made the first sound even more hesitant and cowardly.

Carl drew Helene to him and kissed her.

Don’t I smell as if I were fermenting?

Carl agreed. A little, yes. Perhaps I’ve waited too long?

He took her hand. The ice was broken. Maybe you’ll give me children, he said, imagining how pleasant it would be if they had two or three small children.

Helene had fallen silent again as they walked on side by side.

Could you have been sick because you’re expecting a baby? Carl liked this idea.

Helene stopped at once. No.

What makes you so sure?

I just know, that’s all. She laughed. Believe me, a nurse knows perfectly well how to prevent that.

Helene was still cheerful, but Carl was shocked.

You shouldn’t say such things. I don’t like it. Don’t you want children too?

Yes, of course, but not now. I want to finish my evening classes. I still haven’t given up my hopes of studying at college. I’m working hard and still I’m barely earning enough for me to rent a place of my own.

Of our own. You can rely on me. You give me children, I’ll pay for your studies. Carl meant it seriously.

Are you trying to do a deal with me?

My parents will support us.

Well, perhaps. Your parents whom I don’t know at all yet. Carl, I must tell you something. I’m not
giving
a man children. Children can’t be given. Christians give their Lord something, they give love. There was a lot of talk about giving in the theatre just now. I think that’s nonsense. I don’t want you
giving
me the chance to study.

Why not? My father has promised me money if I pass my exams with distinction.

That will be far too late for me. Helene could sense her own impatience. When I’ve finished the course of evening classes I shall work to pay for my own studies.

Don’t you trust me?

Carl, please, don’t make it a question of trust.

If our children have your hair, your golden hair, I’ll be happy. Carl took her face in his hands.

Helene smiled. Carl kissed her again. He didn’t seem to mind the sour taste, he pressed her back against the trunk of the lime tree and tasted her cheeks, licking round her mouth with the tip of his tongue.

Some people out walking passed them, and Carl claimed they couldn’t be seen in the dim light from the street lamp and in the shadow of the tree. A leaf fell off and landed on his shoulder.

Perhaps all our children will have is my small nose and your thin bones. Helene blew at the leaf, trying to dislodge it from Carl’s shoulder.

I wouldn’t mind. Carl stroked her face with both hands, then covered it. Let’s go home. He put his hand under her summer coat and felt her lowest rib bone. That’s the most beautiful part of you. Helene was afraid he might have mistaken the curving rib for her breast; you could make a mistake under a summer coat, however light it was. She blew at his shoulder again, but the leaf still clung. Now she raised one hand; she didn’t want him to notice the lime leaf, so she stroked his collar and, out of the corner of her eyes, saw the leaf drifting to the ground.

At the Zoo station they took the tram to Nollendorfplatz. Hand in hand, they ran up the stairs to his attic room. He opened the door, hung his hat on the hook and helped her to take off her summer coat, her shoes, her dress. Let’s have a look at you. She revealed herself. He could never have hoped that a woman would ever show herself to him as she did, he had simply had no idea. She laughed as if ashamed, but he knew that she felt no shame. He loved her for the game she was playing. She placed her hand on her belly, as a woman might do to cover herself, but then she moved her hand down to her mount of Venus, her groin, between her thighs. As she did so her gaze grew more concentrated, her nostrils flared and her mouth sketched a smile. Her fingers seemed to know their way. Then she brought her hand to her mouth; it looked as if she were embarrassed and had to bite her nails. Suddenly she turned, looked over her shoulder, where those dimples were tempting him, and asked: What are you waiting for?

He laid her down on the bed and kissed her.

Day was dawning when they finally left each other alone.

Carl got up and opened the window. It was cool; autumn was in the air.

Come here. Helene patted the pillow beside her. Carl lay down with her. He didn’t want a blanket. She liked the sight of him naked. He was exhausted; he had last slept long ago. She had been working all the previous day, he had been studying, they had gone into a little café for a meal, Königsberg meatballs, her favourite, they had gone to the theatre and then stood on the bridge. Later there had been her faint Yes under the lime tree. She was ashamed to think of it. She caressed his chest, circling his navel, from which a long scar ran down. Acute appendicitis, an obstruction of the bowel, which had almost been the end of him. Her clever hand touched every part of his body around his sex, sought his loins, avoided the penis. He knew she was playing with him, he knew how she could grasp him just there on other days. There was no part of his body that she feared. That sometimes seemed strange to him; after all, she said he was the first man she’d made love with. Who cared about being the first? He wanted to be the last, so he had told her: You’re my last woman, do you hear, my sweet, my very last. He laid his hand on her hip.