The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (63 page)

It was just at this time that the assistant drama producer had finished listening again to the one-act play scheduled for that evening. He liked it, only the ending did not satisfy him. He was sitting in the glass booth in Studio 13 next to the technician, chewing a match and studying the script.

There were twelve such questions called out by the atheist into the church, and each question was followed by—? Silence.

The assistant producer removed the chewed match from his lips, replaced it with a fresh one, and looked at the technician, a question in his eyes.

“Yes,” said the technician, “if you ask me, I think there’s a bit too much silence in it.”

“That’s what I thought,” said the assistant producer; “the author thinks so too and he’s given me leave to change it. There should just be a voice saying ‘God’—but it ought to be a voice without church sound effects, it would have to be spoken somehow in a different acoustical
environment. Have you any idea where I can get hold of a voice like that at this hour?”

The technician smiled, picked up the metal container which was still lying on the shelf. “Here you are,” he said, “here’s a voice saying ‘God’ without any sound effects.”

The assistant producer was so surprised he almost swallowed the match, choked a little, and got it up into the front of his mouth again. “It’s quite all right,” the technician said with a smile. “We had to cut it out of a talk, twenty-seven times.”

“I don’t need it that often, just twelve times,” said the assistant producer.

“It’s a simple matter, of course,” said the technician, “to cut out the silence and stick in ‘God’ twelve times—if you’ll take the responsibility.”

“You’re a godsend,” said the assistant producer, “and I’ll be responsible. Come on, let’s get started.” He gazed happily at the tiny, lusterless tape snippets in Murke’s tin box. “You really are a godsend,” he said. “Come on, let’s go!”

The technician smiled, for he was looking forward to being able to present Murke with the snippets of silence: it was a lot of silence, all together nearly a minute; it was more silence than he had ever been able to give Murke, and he liked the young man.

“Okay,” he said with a smile, “here we go.”

The assistant producer put his hand in his jacket pocket, took out a pack of cigarettes; in doing so he touched a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out and passed it to the technician. “Funny, isn’t it, the corny stuff you can come across in this place? I found this stuck in my door.”

The technician took the picture, looked at it, and said, “Yes, it’s funny,” and he read out the words under the picture:

“I prayed for you at St. James’s Church.”

Monday

Unfortunately I arrived too late to go out again or pay any calls; it was 2330 hours when I got to the hotel, and I was tired. So I had to be satisfied with looking out of the hotel window at the city lying there scintillating with life—bubbling, throbbing, boiling over, one might say: there are vital forces hidden there just waiting to be released. The city is still not all it might be. I smoked a cigar, abandoning myself wholly to this fascinating electric energy; I wondered whether I should phone Inna, finally resigned myself with a sigh and had one more look through my important files. Toward midnight I went to bed: I always find it hard to go to bed here. This city is not conducive to sleep.

Night jottings

Strange dream, very strange: I was walking through a forest of monuments, straight rows of them; in little clearings there were miniature parks, each with a monument in the center; all the monuments were alike, hundreds, thousands of them: a man standing “at ease,” an officer to judge by the creases in his soft boots, yet the chest, face and pedestal of each monument were covered with a cloth—suddenly all the monuments were unveiled simultaneously, and I realized, without any particular surprise, that
I
was the man standing on the pedestal; I shifted my position on the pedestal, smiled, and now that the covering had dropped off I could read my name thousands of times over:
Erich von Machorka-Muff. I
laughed, and the laugh echoed back to me a thousand times from my own mouth.

Tuesday

Filled with a deep sense of happiness, I fell asleep again, woke refreshed, and laughed as I looked at myself in the mirror: it is only here in the capital that one has dreams like that. Before I had finished shaving, the first call from Inna. (That’s what I call my old friend Inniga von Schekel-Pehnunz, a member of the new nobility but an old family: her father, Ernst von Schekel, was raised to the aristocracy by Wilhelm II only two days before the latter abdicated, but I have no qualms about regarding Inna as a friend of equal rank.)

On the phone Inna was—as always—sweet, managed to squeeze in some gossip and in her own way gave me to understand that the project which was the main reason for my visit to the capital was coming along very well. “The corn is ripe,” she said softly, and then, barely pausing: “The baby’s being christened today.” She hung up quickly, to prevent me from asking questions in my impatience. Deep in thought I went down to the breakfast room: had she really meant the laying of the foundation stone? My frank, forthright soldierly nature still has difficulty understanding Inna’s cryptic remarks.

Again in the breakfast room this abundance of virile faces, most of them well-bred: I passed the time by imagining which man would be suitable for which post, an old habit of mine; before I had even shelled my egg I had already found first-rate material for two regimental staffs and one divisional staff, and there were still some candidates left over for the general staff; playing games in my head, so to speak—just the thing for a veteran observer of human nature like myself. The memory of my dream enhanced my pleasant mood: strange, to walk through a forest of monuments and to see oneself on every pedestal. I wonder whether the psychologists have really plumbed all the depths of the self?

I ordered my coffee to be brought to the lobby, smoked a cigar and observed the time with a smile: 0956 hours—would Heffling be punctual? I had not seen him for six years, we had corresponded occasionally (the usual exchange of post cards one has with inferiors in the ranks).

I actually found myself feeling nervous about Heffling’s punctuality; the trouble with me is, I am inclined to regard everything as symptomatic: Heffling’s punctuality became for me the punctuality
per se
of the ranks. I remembered with a touch of emotion what my old divisional chief, Welk von Schnomm, used to say: “Macho, you are and always will be an idealist.” (Memo: renew the standing order for upkeep of Schnomm’s grave.)

Am I an idealist? I fell into a reverie, until Heffling’s voice roused me: I looked first at the time—two minutes after ten (I have always allowed him this microscopic reserve of privilege)—then at him: how fat the fellow’s got, grossly fat around the neck, hair getting thin, but still that phallic sparkle in his eyes, and his “Present, Colonel!” sounded just like old times. “Heffling!” I cried, slapping him on the shoulder and ordering a double schnapps for him. He stood at attention as he took the drink from the waiter’s tray; I drew him by the sleeve over to the corner, and we were soon deep in reminiscences: “Remember the time at Schwichi-Schwaloche, the ninth …?”

It is heart-warming to observe how powerless the vagaries of fashion are to corrode the wholesome spirit of the people: the homespun virtues, the hearty male laugh, and the never-failing readiness to share a good dirty story, are still to be found. While Heffling was telling me some variations of the familiar subject in an undertone, I noticed Murcks-Maloche had entered the lobby and—without speaking to me, as arranged—had disappeared into the rear of the restaurant. By a glance at my wristwatch I indicated to Heffling that I was pressed for time, and with the sound instincts of the simple man he understood immediately that he had to leave. “Come and see us some time, Colonel, my wife would be delighted.” Laughing and joking we walked side by side to the porter’s desk, and I promised Heffling I would come and see him. Perhaps an opportunity would offer for a little adventure with his wife; every now and again I feel the urge to partake of the husky eroticism of the lower classes, and one never knows what arrows Cupid may be holding in store in his quiver.

I sat down beside Murcks, ordered some Hennessy and, as soon as the waiter had gone, said in my straightforward fashion:

“Well, fire away.”

“Yes, we’ve made it.” He laid his hand on mine and whispered: “I’m so glad, Macho, so glad.”

“I’m pleased too,” I said warmly, “that one of the dreams of my youth has come to pass. And in a democracy too.”

“A democracy in which we have the majority of Parliament on our side is a great deal better than a dictatorship.”

I felt constrained to stand up; I was filled with solemn pride; historic moments have always moved me deeply.

“Murcks,” I said, choking back the tears, “is it really true then?”

“It’s true, Macho,” he said.

“It’s all settled?”

“It’s all settled—you’re to give the dedication address today. The first course of instruction is starting right away. Those enrolled are still being put up in hotels, till the project can be officially declared open.”

“Will the public—will it swallow it?”

“It’ll swallow it—the public will swallow anything,” said Murcks.

“On your feet, Murcks,” I said, “let’s drink a toast, let’s drink to the spirit to which this building is dedicated: to the spirit of military memories.”

We clinked glasses and drank.

I was too moved to undertake any serious business that morning; I went restlessly up to my room, from there to the lobby, wandered through this enchanting city, after Murcks had driven off to the Ministry. Although I was in civilians, I had the impression of a sword dangling at my side; there are some sensations which are really only appropriate when one is in uniform. Once again, while I was strolling through the city, looking forward to my tête-à-tête with Inna, uplifted by the certainty that my plan had become reality—once again I had every reason to recall one of Schnomm’s expressions: “Macho, Macho,” he used to say, “you’ve always got your head in the clouds.” He had said it when there were only thirteen men left in my regiment and I had four of those men shot for mutiny.

In honor of the occasion I permitted myself an apéritif at a café not far from the station; I looked through some newspapers, glanced at a few editorials on defense policy, and tried to imagine what Schnomm—if he were still alive—would have said had he read the articles. “Those Christians—” he would have said, “who would have thought it of them!”

At last it was time to go to the hotel and change for my rendezvous with Inna: her signal on the car horn—a Beethoven motif—made me
look out of the window; she waved up at me from her lemon-yellow car: lemon-yellow hair, lemon-yellow dress, black gloves. With a sigh, after blowing her a kiss, I went to the mirror, tied my tie, and went downstairs; Inna would be the right wife for me, but she has been divorced seven times and, not unnaturally, is skeptical about the institution of marriage; besides, we are separated by a deep gulf in background and outlook: she comes from a strict Protestant family, I from a strict Catholic one—all the same, numbers link us together symbolically: she has been divorced seven times, I have been wounded seven times. Inna!! I still can’t quite get used to being kissed on the street.…