Aladdin's Problem (6 page)

45

One thing was not as bad as I had pictured it: the close bond between tragedy and business. Whenever I entered as the harbinger of Charon's boat, followed by my assistant with his tape measure, I actually sensed a feeling of relief among the mourners. The chaos was beginning to ease — I could take over some of their worries. And also, the moment comes when, hard as it may be to say farewell, one wishes that the dead person were under the ground.

Then again, I could not neglect business. Once, when I submitted an order to Uncle Fridolin, he said: "They would have been more than willing to spend twice as much for their father and they are even obligated to do so: he was a general. After all, we're not running a charity here."

I took his words to heart; on the other hand, I could not exploit the bewilderment of the bereaved. Gradually, I struck a balance.

Why did I care less and less about these visits the more routine they became? The answer would require a bit of soul-searching, for I would not wish to present myself to myself as a good person. Nevertheless, the work was stressful. My situation was roughly that of a thespian who has to perform in dramas every evening. At first, he is passionate, then it becomes a daily habit; it imbues his language, his gestures, his acting — the mask becomes constant.

That was what happened to me. Now, when I went to the homes of the deceased, I had no stage fright; this development was harmful to my character.

46

It was Bertha rather than I who noticed the change. She said, when I came home exhausted: "You can stop looking as if you've been to your own funeral!" And she was no longer trying to be funny.

When I started neglecting her, my work was only partly to blame. At breakfast, I was already leafing through the newspaper and skimming the obituaries. If was possible that an important death had eluded us. Next I drove to Potsdamer Strasse (for I now owned a car), telephoned, made house calls, and came back in the evening, often tardily. Usually, I read until late at night, since, for me, a day without books is a lost day.

Bertha had to understand that I could not devote as much time to her as back then, in the tiny room where we had huddled together, comforting one another. Poverty unites, prosperity divides. Mercury is detrimental to love.

Once I got the hang of my work, I developed a gambling addiction. Anyone who has been accompanied by success even once in a lifetime is familiar with that addiction. You now enter your office in a good mood instead of with a heavy heart as in the past. Things go smoothly. The way an expert card player shuffles and fans the cards — the sheer act of watching is a delight.

47

The atmosphere in our refined apartment grew cooler; we treated one another gingerly. Our alienation expressed itself in trivial matters — say, a necktie that she did not like. Yet she was the one who had given it to me. But it did not go with my suit.

I never allowed an argument to develop, though I am particularly touchy at breakfast. But this was not to her liking either. She would say: "Friedrich, I think you're becoming too glib. Oh, I know: The customer is always right."

I realized it — my work was rubbing off on my character. In marriage too, an acute attack is better than a chronic disorder; a knock-down, drag-out fight clears the air, and the reconciliation restores domestic peace.

However, I have to do some more thorough soul-searching and ask myself whether my change was not in fact consistent with the core of my being rather than merely symptomatic of an occupational disease.

48

Have I already mentioned that I view myself as capable of getting along with any woman provided I do not find her inherently repulsive? Bertha had realized that too. She once said to me when we were lying side by side: "I believe you love me less because I am I, than because I'm a woman — isn't that insulting to me?"

That was the age-old question of which is preferable: the wine or the beaker? I prefer the wine. The King of Thule drank from a golden beaker, which his beloved had given him; but he tossed it into the sea, gave it back to the mother. There are also earthenware beakers, and perhaps the wine tastes better from them; knowledge and culture are more likely to do damage to love. This is a problem that even the gods argue about; I cannot solve it.

That night, I kept the answer to myself an embrace is the best argument. Now I am not saying that Bertha could not have kept up her side of the conversation and not only because the studies that she had broken off for my sake had been classical languages and therefore mythology as well. She resumed them later on.

49

To deal with Bertha's question in detail, I have to enlist the aid of mythology. Our psychologists and characterologists, often without realizing it, have their roots there too. I get less from their measuring skills than from a chapter of Plutarch or Vico.

What tied me to Bertha was not just taste but also passion. We owe this distinction to Stendhal; it was he who established it. But when passion grew weaker, good taste prevented our having a quarrel a la Strindberg. Nor did another man, another woman emerge. We drifted apart,
and this caused both of us distress — certainly Bertha wondered, just as I did, to what extent it was her fault.

She did not hold back with the small overtures at which women are better than we. For example, dates, which we forget more easily than they do — why were there flowers on the table today? Right — it was the anniversary of our first night together. Then again, a favorite dish would be on the table, or else she was wearing the cheap jewelry that I had given her in our student days, and her hairdo was the same as back then. These were memories of the old times, but only memories.

50

We would have drifted apart even without my work, which occupied me more and more, ultimately affecting my health, especially when the firm rose to sudden notoriety. If anyone was at fault, it was I — because of my character, which was exposed by my profession; however, time would have done the same, even under different circumstances. As a moralist once said: Aging makes not only our profiles but also our characters more distinct.

I wonder whether, in regard to eros, I fit into one of the prevailing typologies. If I were to fill out a test questionnaire, I would be the paragon of a normal spouse. I cannot oblige with any surprise, any physical or mental deviation.

One should not be content with that; statistics are
devised for parochial minds. What does, say, the question "What is your favorite color?" mean to someone who feels good in a fog or who is delighted by a palette, an opal, a rainbow, a sunset in Manila? Besides, under every normal stratum, we come upon a more deeply universal stratum, the human one. Man remains
the
enigma per se.

After putting aside the books, I reached a conclusion: You are an erotic nihilist. What does that mean? To put it tritely: the kind of woman I like best is the one whose presence does not disturb me, who is simply not there. This, as I have said, is a very general case, and that was what disturbed Bertha about me.

Now I could get out of the predicament by claiming that I may even be an erotic idealist. A beloved's presence would be disturbing insofar as it interfered with. Aphrodite. The final chamber remains locked, and only a ray of light flashes through. That is the secret reason for so many disappointments.

The yearning for a new life can become very strong. I am thinking of the influence that the Provencal love cult exerted on the Renaissance.
La vita nuova —
nine-year-old Dante is transformed by Beatrice, as P etrarch by Laura; the poem is for human beings what a flood is for the cosmos: a response to vast distances.

However, I do not wish to play the metaphysical swain. Aphrodite may be missing or veil her face: the Great Mother is always there. Love changes to the extent that materialism progresses.

My nihilism is based on concrete experiences. And, as so often, it was the first encounter that served as a model, preshaping the subsequent ones.

51

It is, above all, the gods who change. Either they assume different forms and faces, or they vanish altogether. But similarities always remain, no matter how many generations are produced. It is the same as with breeds of animals.

I regard it as a mistake to call Dionysus a god; I contest it. He has a place on Mount Olympus as a close relative, also as a guest of honor. Dionysus is more than a god and less — he is earth exposed, nature revealed. He is a demon, a polymorphic Titan. This is not contradicted by one of the myths about him which says he was torn to shreds by the Titans — that is simply the way they are. Dionysus himself is torn, he tears, he is overpowering. His place is not so much on Olympus as in Eleusis, between Persephone and Demeter.

I therefore feel that Old Gunpowder-Head was wrong to put Dionysus as a god opposite Apollo — theirs was actually an encounter between Titanic-demonic and divine power. Still, Gunpowder-Head did understand that this conflict brought forth two kinds of art, especially two kinds ofmusic. He returned to Dionysus. Rather than expatiating on this, I wish to focus on the present. The fact that we, largely in a passive manner, are participating in a fall of the gods is obvious as far away as India and New Guinea. Titanic forces in mechanical disguise are supplanting the gods. Wherever Zeus no longer rules, crown, scepter, and borders are becoming senseless; with Ares, the heroes are making their farewells; and with Great Pan, nature is dying. Wherever Aphrodite is waning, there is promiscuous interbreeding.

The power of Dionysus testifies to the fact that he alone survives. He is the master of festivities in palaces and among the masses, he is at home with princes and beggars. His light enchants the mayfly, which burns itself on him.

52

Aside from being the place where Stellmann used to drill us so hard, the Liegnitz Culture Park was still as unpleasant as could be. Its very name was paradoxical. On weekdays, it served as a training ground when the area in front of the barracks was occupied; and on Sundays, it was used for parades. The lawn was worn down, flowers were out of the question. At the center of the park stood a gigantic shell, a dud, commemorating, as the inscription on the pedestal explained, the conquest ofthe city. An avenue lined with trees and statues led to this monument. The statues were the artworks, some in plas
ter, some in concrete. Naturally, they were not meant for eternity. As Zhigalev demands in his program, the elites were liquidated from time to time. The heads of statues, as I witnessed twice, would then be replaced. Likewise, names were deleted and dates changed on street signs and in reference books — in short, there was no more history, just stories.

How could it be that this wasteland was so marvelously transformed for a night? It was a Friday, the First of May. This is a day of festivities and mysteries throughout Europe. In Wurzburg, the devil drove through the city in a splendid carriage. The witches danced on Mount Brocken; Brunhilde was seen in the Valley of the Bode. The poor souls haunted the rivers, infernal bells tolled. In my native Silesia, the people said: If you see a falling star on that midnight, you should dig in your garden; you will find a treasure.

53

Now the pageants had become obligatory, but the day had remained, for every regime lives on mythology, albeit in a diluted form. The crowd must have been inspired by a memory which, after the flags were rolled up, drove them out into the countryside, toward the true master of festivities. He must have, if not appeared, then at least entered; the metamorphosis was extraordinary. I too was overcome, despite my sadness when arriving.

A fog had risen, as often around this time. Stars were probably shining above it, but people and things could be seen only through a dense veil, almost unsubstantially. Music was being played in the taverns of the city, but the only sound that penetrated the Culture Park was the dithyramb of a drum, like the strokes of a faraway gong.

I walked along the great avenue. The statues too had changed; they were neither artworks nor their mockeries. The Party chairman had become Hercules, the hangman had become the ultimate benefactor, the Indian god. Even the concrete revealed its secret: its atoms were also those of marble — indeed, those of our hearts, our brains. An utter hush prevailed: the throngs had scattered throughout the park. They were performing a grand consummation of marriage.

Now I ought to speak about the encounter I had; but words fall me for the ineffable. Merely breaking the silence would be betrayal. Nothing similar has ever been granted to me again. I do not even know if we touched. However, my nihilism is based on facts.

54

Let us get back to my job. As I have said, I was a climber. There was a surprise — not merely because business was thriving; it was as if a base were being raised to a higher power: a jackpot.

When checking through my papers, Uncle Fridolin had paid special attention to my degree in statistics and media. Indeed, both subjects are important: our dealings rest on statistical foundations, and our needs are aroused by media. The Romans were different: they dealt in hard facts, allowing everyone to form his own opinion. For example, t made no difference to them whether the Jews believed in the Twelve Gods; the Romans nailed no theses on the portals of the Temple of Zion; they merely erected a statue of Caesar in front of it. In our culture, opinions precede facts — that is why media, coupled with statistics, is such an important subject.

Needs are both real and metaphysical; they are geared to life in this world and in another world. The two cannot be sharply separated: they overlap in dreams, in intoxication, in ecstasy, in the great promises.

The art of arousing new needs covers a wide range from the apostle Paul to Edison's inventions. A need can be recognized suddenly or it can spread gradually. Take tobacco: it has come a long way from the first cigar of the Conquistadors to the international power of the cigarette industries.