The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (117 page)

During the subsequent serving of light refreshments (bread, wine, olives), the abbot not only seemed relaxed, he
was
relaxed. He said that, after having managed to achieve almost a full complement during the visit of an eminent Scandinavian guest—forty-three monks in the choir!—he had been obliged to reopen the “safety valve.” In reply to the bishop’s sarcastic question as to what relevance the words “safety valve” had to the monastic rule, the abbot responded with a cordial invitation to have a look at the medical reports of the psychiatric clinic. The two gentlemen who had come to inflict a defeat on the abbot suffered one themselves. The abbot declared that he for his part couldn’t care less about state visits, and that he found the politicians who from time to
time fled to Staech in search of consolation and tranquillity a nuisance. He expressed his willingness, in the case of state visits of special importance, to allow alumni and minor orders to take part in choral prayer as guests dressed in monks’ habits. Transportation for such auxiliary personnel, as well as the procurement of monks’ habits, would be a matter for the Most Reverend Lord Bishop and/or the Right Honorable Herr President to arrange. “And should you wish,” he added, with irreverent frankness, “to resort to actors, by all means do so! I decline any further responsibility.”

At the next state visit (a Catholic dictator from southwestern Europe), seventy-eight monks could be counted in the Staech choir, by far the majority youthful. In the car, on his way back to the capital, the dictator remarked to his escort, “These Germans! There’s no one like them! Even their new generation of ascetic young monks can’t be beaten.” What he never found out, and what could never be confirmed in the capital, was that sixty of the young monks had been students who had demonstrated there in protest against the dictator’s visit and had been arrested; they had been promised release and, in return for a honorarium of forty marks (they had first demanded seventy but finally consented to forty), had been persuaded to have their hair cut.

Meanwhile people have been saying in the capital that the chief of protocol came to a verbal agreement with the chief of police: to be more generous in the arrest of student demonstrators during state visits
and
more generous in their release. Since a relationship exists between state visits and student demonstrations analogous to that between state visits and sightseeing tours of Staech, the Staech problem is regarded as solved. On the occasion of a visit of an Asian statesman, who then evinced an almost churlish lack of interest in monks, eighty-two monks could be counted. It seems there are now also some freeloaders, who obtain more accurate information on the dates of pending state visits than the abbot has as yet been able to do, and who then proceed to demonstrate rather too demonstratively (in the opinion of objective observers)—even investing now and again in a few tomatoes or eggs—in order to be arrested, then released, and acquire a free haircut plus
forty marks and a copious lunch at Staech which, at the express wish of the abbot, is charged to diocesan rather than state funds.

Musically speaking, neither freeloaders nor students have so far presented any problem. Gregorian chants seem to come naturally to them. The only problems are those arising between the demonstrating groups, one group denouncing the other as “mercenary consumer-opportunists” and the latter denouncing the former as “abstract fantasists.” The abbot of Staech gets along well with both groups, some of the young men—seven so far, apparently—have already entered the monastery as novices, and the fact that now and again during choir practice they slip a Ho Chi Minh into the Gregorian rhythm has so far gone unnoticed, even by a recently converted American statesman who, weary of NATO talk, spent a longer period at Staech than had been provided for by the protocol department. In a farewell communiqué he intimated that his visit to Staech had enriched his image of Germany by an important facet.

In the draft from the swing door her first match went out, a second one broke on the striking surface, and it was nice of her attorney to offer her his lighter, shielding the flame with his hand. Now at last she could smoke—both felt good, the cigarette and the sunshine. It had taken barely ten minutes, an eternity, and perhaps it was that eternity as well as the permanence of those endless corridors that put the hands of the clock out of action. And the crowds, all those people looking for room numbers, reminded her of a summer clearance sale at Strössel’s. What was the difference between divorces and bath towels at a clearance sale? Lineups for both, only that—so it seemed to her—in divorces the final decision was announced more speedily, and speed, after all, was what she had been after.
Schröder
vs.
Schröder
. Divorced.
Naumann
vs.
Naumann
. Divorced.
Blutzger
vs.
Blutzger
. Divorced.

Was the nice lawyer really going to say at this point what he was obliged to say? The only thing he could say? He said it: “Don’t take it so hard.” Said it although he knew she wasn’t taking it hard at all, yet he had to say it, he said it nicely, and it was nice that he said it nicely. And naturally he didn’t have much time, had to hurry off to the next case, appear again in court, line up again.
Klotz
vs.
Klotz
. Divorced.

Things had been much the same at the clearance sale: waiting politely, never impatient yet ever attentive until the woman who was too old to wear out even a single new bath towel had decided to take a whole dozen; then on to the next customer, who was clutching three swimsuits. After all, even at Strössel’s there was still such a thing as personal service, not like at those discount stores where they unload junk on the customers. After all, the attorney couldn’t go on standing beside her forever, there really not being much more to say than “Don’t take it so hard.” Her position at the top of the steps reminded her acutely of another occasion, seven years ago, when she had stood at the top of the steps leading up to City Hall: parents, witnesses, parents-in-law,
photographer, cute little trainbearers—Irmgard’s, Ute’s, and Oliver’s kids; bouquets, the taxi decorated with white roses, the “Till death us do part” still ringing in her ears, and on by taxi to the second ceremony, and once again, this time in church, “Till death us do part.”

And here was the bridegroom waiting for her again at the foot of these steps, elated at the successful outcome and a bit embarrassed but also visibly proud of his second success of the day: having managed to find, here at the very foot of the steps, in one of the most hopeless parking areas in town, a spot for his car. Successes of various kinds had played quite a role in the divorce proceedings.

Now it wasn’t death but the court that had separated them, and the occasion had lacked all dignity. And if the court, in pronouncing the divorce, had established death, why then wasn’t there a funeral? Catafalque, mourners, candles, funeral oration? Or at least the wedding in reverse? Cute little kids, this time maybe Herbert’s—Gregor and Marika—who would unfasten her train, lift the bridal wreath off her head, exchange her white dress for a suit: a kind of nuptial striptease performed in public on the steps if there wasn’t going to be a funeral?

She had known, of course, that he would be waiting for her here, to start another of those futile discussions, since death had now been established—futile because he couldn’t grasp the fact that there was nothing more she wanted from him now that she had moved with their son into a small apartment, neither money, nor her share in the “jointly acquired assets,” nor even those six Louis—the how-many-th was it again?—chairs that were indisputably hers, inherited from her grandmother. One day he would probably unload them outside her door because he “simply couldn’t stand disputed ownership.” She wanted neither the chairs nor the set of Meissen porcelain (thirty-six pieces), nor any kind of a “property settlement.” Nothing. After all, she had the boy, for the time being, since he was still living, unmarried, with that other woman—which one was it now, Lotte or Gaby? Not until he married Lotte or Gaby (or was it Connie?) would they have to “share” the boy (and there was no Solomon holding the sword over the child to be shared); all those nasty details about custody had been agreed upon, settled, and so there would be visiting rights, she would hand over the child to be stuffed and spoiled. (“Are you sure you don’t want any more whipped cream?” and “Do you really like your new parka?” and “Of
course I’ll get you the model airplane.”) For one day, for two, or a day and a half, and she would pick him up again. (“No, I really can’t buy you a new parka, and I can’t buy you a color TV for your first communion”—or was it confirmation? “No.”)

Another cigarette? Better not. Now that the nice attorney with the chic little lighter no longer stood at her side, that draft from the swing door would force her to light the new cigarette from the old, and little things like that would make her look more of a slut than ever and, when it came to the final decision about the child, would certainly count as a black mark against her. This habit of smoking on the street had already been noted in the divorce files; besides, since she had admitted to being guilty of adultery (before he had, which also had to be admitted), she had anyway been recorded in the court documents as a kind of slut. All that nattering about whether or why women shouldn’t, couldn’t, mightn’t smoke on the street had been described by the opposing attorney as a “pseudo-emancipatory” affectation not appropriate to her “educational level.”

A good thing he didn’t come up the steps, that he restricted himself to beckoning gestures; a good thing, too, that he shook his head in disapproval when she did, after all, light that second cigarette—not from the first one but with a match that didn’t go out, although the clearance sale kept the swing door in constant motion.

Despite the absence of either priest or registry official, of tearful mothers and mothers-in-law, of photographer and cute little kids, at least there might have been an undertaker who would have driven off with something—what?—in a coffin, cremated it, and somewhere—where?—secretly buried it.

Probably he was even missing an appointment for her sake (the merger negotiations with Hocker & Hocker, perhaps, where he had been appointed to solve personnel problems); but would he really miss the Hocker & Hocker negotiations for the sake of a few chairs? He couldn’t grasp, simply couldn’t, that she didn’t hate him at all, that she wanted nothing from him, that he had not merely ceased to matter to her but had become a stranger, someone she had once known, once married, who had become someone else. They had been successful in everything: building a career and building a house. They had failed in only one thing: keeping death at bay. Nor was it only he who
had died—she had died too; even her memory of him failed her. And perhaps the clerics and bureaucrats couldn’t and wouldn’t grasp the fact that this “Till death us do part” didn’t mean physical death at all, much less a death before a physical death, that it meant only the entry of a total stranger into the conjugal bedroom insisting on rights he no longer possessed. The role of the court that issued this death certificate and called it a divorce was as irrelevant as that of the priest and the registry official: no one could revive the dead or make death reversible.

She threw down the cigarette, ground it out, and waved him away, finally and firmly. There was nothing further to discuss, and she knew exactly where he was intending to drive her: to the café out in Haydn Park, where at this hour the Turkish waitress would be placing miniature copper vases, each containing one tulip and one hyacinth, on the tables, and straightening the tablecloths; where—at this hour—somewhere in the background a vacuum cleaner was still being used. He had always called it the “Café of Memories,” condescendingly pronouncing it “quite good, not high class, certainly not smart.” No, she repeated her final dismissive gesture, once, twice, until, shaking his head, he finally did get into his red car, maneuver out of his parking slot and, without waving to her again, drive off, “carefully but self-confidently,” in his customary manner.

It was not yet nine-thirty, and now at last she could walk down the steps, buy a newspaper, and enter the café across the street. What a relief that he no longer barred her way down the steps! She was in no hurry, and there were a few things she wanted to think about. At twelve, when her son came home from school, she would give him a big pancake with some canned cherries, and some grilled tomatoes, he loved that. She would play with him, help him with his homework, and maybe go to a movie, maybe even to Haydn Park, to establish the final death of memory. Over canned cherries, pancake, and grilled tomatoes he would naturally ask her whether she was going to get married again. No, she would say, no. One death was enough for her. And would she be going back to work at Strössel’s, where he was allowed to sit in the back room, do his homework, play with fabric swatches, and where that nice Mr. Strössel sometimes stroked his head in a friendly way? No. No.

The tablecloth at the café pleased her, felt good under her hands; it actually was pure cotton, old rose with silver stripes, and she thought of
the tablecloths at the café in Haydn Park: maize-yellow, coarsely woven, those first ones had been, seven years ago: later came the green ones, with a printed daisy pattern, and finally the bright yellow ones, with no pattern at all but a fringed border, and he had always (and would have done so today) fidgeted with the fringe and tried to persuade her that she really did have a right to some kind of compensation, at least fifteen—maybe twenty—thousand marks that he could (and would) easily raise with a mortgage on the unencumbered house—after all, she had always been a “good although unfaithful spouse, careful and thrifty without being stingy” and had participated “quite positively and productively in the enhancement of their standard of living.” As for those Louis chairs and the Meissen porcelain, she really was entitled to those. His fury at her refusal to take any of that had exceeded his fury over her lapse with Strösser; and finally he had (and would have done so today) ripped off some of the cheap fringe and thrown it on the floor—disapproving looks from the Turkish waitress, who was just arriving with tea and coffee, tea for him, coffee for her—further grounds for ominous remarks about her health and a scornful gesture toward the ashtray (which, incidentally, was ugly, dark brown, floor-colored—and which, she must admit, already contained three butts!).