Lanceheim (28 page)

T
en years is a long time. Had something happened to Maximilian in prison, something I don't know about, or was it my mental image that had re-formed reality? I do not know, but the stuffed animal who returned was not the same as the one the court had taken from us. The first weeks I consciously avoided making comparisons, and I did not speak with others about the matter when I became certain. But I am positive that at least Adam Chaffinch saw it as I did. It was an older, more serious Maximilian who had come back to us; his youthful energy was gone.

We installed Maximilian in Maria's House on eggplant purple Damm Weg. For me Maria Mink's financial successes remained just as unfathomable as Maximilian's similes. Despite the fact that she worked hard with her Retinue, and despite the fact that I saw her spend just as much time as Dennis and Adam with Maximilian, her financial position only seemed to get stronger.

Damm Weg 62 was a typical three-story brick house built during the fifties. We had arranged a pleasant two-room apartment with a pantry and bathroom for Maximilian on
the top floor. On the second floor were three classrooms, smaller than a traditional classroom but somewhat larger than an ordinary living room. Our expressed intent was to avoid institutionalizing the training or the need for such; we offered time to stuffed animals who sought us out. Over the years certain distinctive features of Maximilian's teachings had nonetheless crystallized—even if you, reader and doubter, have already understood the main ideas because I have anticipated our later conclusions in this text—and animals who wanted to do more than simply take part in one of our three Retinues had to be taken care of in some way.

“This is not about an education with a special degree,” Adam Chaffinch emphasized. “More like a deepening in Maximilian's teachings in an organized form.”

Our worry was partly political. Starting an educational institution required permission, and one of the referees would in all likelihood be the theological department at the university in Mollisan Town. We already knew what they would say.

On the bottom floor of Maria's House were a large kitchen, some storage areas, and the Planning Room, where Adam, Dennis, Maria, and I usually met. There was also the Chancellery, where Beetle Box and some of his temporary helpers worked. The Chancellery was our heart—or perhaps more accurately, it was the central hub, from which the nervous system of the three Retinues sprang. At that time Adam, Dennis, and Maria each held two lectures per week. Finding new places, and not least spreading information about where the lectures would be held, was an extensive process. Beetle Box was not only responsible for making this work, he was also forced to maintain a low profile, use decoys, and write contracts under assumed names, all to avoid incidents like the one on Maximilian's birthday.

 

The Planning Room was
windowless, narrow, and filled with the type of soft, colorful, plush-covered furniture that was modern in the seventies. I used to sit in a green-and-yellow-striped armchair that was very comfortable, and which could be tipped back. We needed a constant supply of fresh lilies in the room, however, to cover up the odor of unwashed fabric.

“Is this just the top?” I asked my friends. “That's what I am worried about. That I haven't even seen the vegetable itself.”

I was again speaking about the threat that the Kwai family was still subjected to, and I readily admit that the comparison was not the most brilliant. What I meant, and I think I understood, was that perhaps we weren't taking the threat against the Retinues seriously, that we only saw the harmless outgrowths of an invisible, far more imposing organism.

“I wouldn't worry,” said Dennis. “We have, mm, talked about this before, Diaz. Apart from, uh, that this bull is crazy, I can't really take him seriously.”

“Sometimes I think you isolate yourself too much,” said Maria. “I think it would do you good to go out with me sometimes, Diaz. I don't mean to the Retinues, but out into the real world…”

She did not finish the sentence, but Adam was thinking along the same lines.

“What we are trying to say, Wolf, is that even if they turn against Maximilian, it's not him, but the society, that is the problem. We respect your instinct, but there are things going on in this town far more dangerous than youthful hoodlums.”

I shrugged. This was not the first time they had dismissed me; in fact, by now I was used to it. It was my own fault. I had not been able to make the threat real to them.

I peeked out the window, but saw that I had time. Every day I went up to Maximilian a while and sat. Ever since his release he had, as I mentioned, been different. We let him stay highest up in Maria's House, but yet we did not see much of him. He mostly kept to himself, in his minimalistic room. Above all, those first months after he came back we made serious attempts to get him to take a greater share in the work. We told each other that that was what was needed; it would entice him out of his shell. But the more we failed, the less we tried. Slowly we were forced to realize that we had built the operation and the three Retinues in a way that did not require Maximilian's presence. This caused us to feel ashamed—we spoke about it often, but secretly we felt a great relief, since Maximilian was not himself.

I was still occupied with my Recording, even if it took no more than a few hours a day; neither Maximilian nor I could concentrate any longer than that. Several days might go by without Maximilian saying anything really important. Of course I asked the question: Did he want to break off these sessions?

“The cat's playing with the ball of yarn does not knit any sweaters,” he replied.

I interpreted this as meaning that he wanted to continue.

 

“Hmm,” said Chaffinch.

I was lost in reverie; like mischievous lambs, my thoughts had wandered off in every direction, and now I was forced to gather them together.

“On Friday,” I answered to the question I knew he had asked.

Dennis nodded.

“Perhaps we can be down at the Wrest again?” Adam proposed.

“Are you joking?” I said. “We can't be at the Wrest. Never again.”

“Simply because it happened once, that doesn't mean it's going to happen there again.” Maria smiled gently.

“You can call me paranoid,” I said, “but we all know how afraid certain animals have become over the years when Maximilian has…healed them. And we all know where that fear can lead. If anyone, such as Rothman, starts systematically spreading lies about Maximilian, it can…I don't know…We live in our little bubble, Adam. Imagine if there are—”

“Diaz,” interrupted Adam when I could not find the words, “I'm not certain that we, you and I, are living in the same bubble. Because I feel, and have felt for more than fifteen years, ever since you were holding forth in the church in Kerkeling, that in the presence of Maximilian there has always been a threat. Rothman or not, what we do…We grant faith, hope, and love to those who need it. We have gathered so many; we are a force, Diaz, we have long been a force that threatens established structures. Why do you think that Dennis, Maria, and I do not preach in Maria's House? Why do you think that we steal away to the most unlikely places to hold our meetings? Why do you think we have so few students? I am certainly living in a bubble, but I have never imagined that we are secure.”

“But Rothman—”

“He is only one of the many who believe they have reason to get back at us, one of many who are afraid of what they do not understand, and transform their fear into anger.”

I did not answer. This was only one of many dialogues that were repeated to the point of exhaustion. The meeting proceeded to practical matters, and when it was over, my frustration was, as usual, as great as my doubt.

I wish with all of my heart that I had been wrong.

R
euben Walrus lay hidden in one of the covered boxes on the second tier as the orchestra musicians came back to the rehearsals on the morning of the thirteenth of April. The murmur from the arriving musicians suggested a certain expectation; they were looking forward to seeing how Walrus had finally finished his symphony. Yesterday evening he had promised that there would be new scores at their places this morning.

Reuben Walrus himself heard nothing from up in the balcony. He had stayed behind yesterday evening when they had all gone home. Perhaps he thought that a miracle would occur in the concert hall during the night? But more or less deaf as he was, he could not even try to produce one. The promise of new scores was empty and stupid, and when he gave it he had consciously avoided looking at Dag Chihuahua.

Did Chihuahua understand what was going on? That Reuben was a sham? Under other circumstances this question would have tormented him, but as things were now, he didn't care.

When they were younger, Buffalo Bill had been a friendly type, labile and headstrong but also loyal and tenderhearted. He had discussed music with Reuben as if they were equals, despite the fact that the opposite was already apparent even in their teenage years. Reuben's talent went far enough to understand the genius that Buffalo was supplied with, but not much farther. In comparison with Bill, Walrus's efforts as an instrumentalist, composer, and director were no more than mediocre.

They were both accepted at the Music Academy, Reuben as one of many ambitious stuffed animals and Bill as a shining talent. Stimulating personal creation was a significant aspect of instruction at the school, and for the walrus it was painful to see at close quarters how the music was born inside Bill without the least effort. What he himself produced was only affected, stolen, or bad. Bill could hear music inside himself, and wrote it down without even touching an instrument. It was fascinating.

And it became not only Bill's music, but also his process, that Reuben borrowed and made his own when Bill was taken into Lakestead House.

Reuben by then had pretended to be the great composer genius for so many years that he almost believed that it was he who had created these amazing works. He had lived for so long with his false role that he had stopped feeling like a deceiver. So deep was his self-deception that in some small part of his heart he actually believed that during the night he would be able to create the end of the Symphony in A Minor, Bill's last composition before madness finally conquered him.

Reuben Walrus had slept in the box during the night, and his body ached when he woke up. He had slept remarkably calmly, but as soon as he opened his eyes, he realized that he had failed, that it was too late. Nonetheless he did not flee. Instead he sat in the darkness and watched the orchestra
members arrive, one by one. He saw them come onto the stage, go up to their places, and search in vain for the music he had promised but which was not there.

Reuben had never been inclined toward self-torment. On the contrary, through his entire life he had chosen to handle problems by closing his eyes to them. Yet he stayed to observe his own defeat. Only when almost the entire orchestra was gathered down on the stage did Reuben get up and steal away.

 

Reuben went home to
Knobeldorfstrasse in the Morning Rain, and was soaking wet when he arrived. On the answering machine there were six messages. From the numbers on the display he could see that five were from Philip Mouse. Instead of calling back, Reuben continued toward the bathroom, undressing on the way. One after another pieces of clothing fell to the floor—his jacket in the hall, trousers, underwear, and socks in the corridor, and at last the damp shirt in the washbasin in the bathroom. Then he climbed into the drying cabinet, turned the heat to maximum, and closed his eyes. He remained in the warm, dark cabinet until long after he had dried.

He heard almost nothing. He tried to stop himself from thinking about it, stop himself from listening, which was actually easier than it ought to be. Only when a sound reached one of his few living hair cells did panic strike him.

He turned off the drying cabinet and got out, positioned himself in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door, and gave himself a crooked smile. It would be known as his unfinished symphony. Perhaps that wasn't so bad? If he forestalled his critics, he could pretend that it was Drexler's syndrome that had kept him from completing this final work. The connection between the illness and the symphony was indisputable. It was better than indisputable; it was true.

The thought gave him a certain consolation and strength, and he went naked out into the kitchen and picked up the phone, dialed the number for private detective Mouse, and waited until he thought he heard someone at the other end.

“Mouse?” he said, and continued without waiting for a reply. “It's Reuben. Mouse, I saw that you'd called. I know what you want. But it's over now, Mouse. I don't need any more help. If you want to find him, you can try on your own. I'm not paying another cent.”

Reuben waited a few moments. He thought he heard Mouse say something, but he was not sure. He knew that the private detective wanted to prolong the assignment, wanted to work on, but at some point you had to bring it to an end. Mouse had played out his role.

“So that's the way it is,” Reuben resumed when he thought that sufficient time had passed. “Your final payment will come in the mail, no later than Monday. Thanks for your help, and say hello to Daisy.”

He was rather sure that Philip Mouse was still talking when he hung up.

 

When the doorbell rang,
Reuben Walrus was on his way from the kitchen back to the bedroom, where his dressing gown waited. It was starting to get cold without clothes. He faintly perceived the sound of the doorbell as he went past the hall, and wondered how long someone had been standing outside and ringing.

His first thought was that it was Mouse, but that was impossible, of course. Reuben shuffled out into the hall. Just as he was about to open the door, he remembered his nakedness and pulled on a coat that was hanging among the outdoor clothes. It was black and made from wool, and he hardly recognized it; it must have been hanging there for many years.

“Yes?”

Outside stood a female in a black suit, a business female in a tailor-made jacket under which she was wearing a white blouse and a discreet, burgundy-colored tie. She was holding an attaché case in her hand, and when she set it down, she produced a little grimace that suggested that the bag had been heavy to carry. For a moment he was uncertain whether this really was a female, but something in her charm made this indisputable. And of course he considered himself a connoisseur.

“Yes?” he repeated.

Then he realized that she was actually talking to him. He held up one fin, the sign for waiting, and went back into the apartment to fetch a pen and some paper. Equipped in this way, he returned to the hall, where the suit-clad stuffed animal politely hesitated outside on the threshold.

“Yes?” he asked again, then handed over the writing implements.

“My name is Maria Mink,” wrote the suit-clad female. “Dennis Coral suggested that I should visit you.”

Reuben read what was there, and looked up again at the mink. It had been impossible to overlook the suit, but now he took note of her beautifully gleaming fur, her long, pointed nose of yarn, and her small, brown eyes that observed him with curiosity. Was this the apostle of love of which Adam Chaffinch had spoken? This surprised Reuben greatly, and he was uncertain whether the surprise was positive or negative.

She took the paper from him and wrote, “Excuse my apparel, I've come straight from a board meeting at one of the real estate companies.”

He stroked his mustache, took a step to one side so that she could come in, and only then realized that he was standing there dressed only in an overcoat. He took the pen from her, and wrote on the same page:

“We both need new clothes.”

When he did not hear his voice, he had become uncertain whether he pronounced the words correctly. That was ridiculous, of course—he had been talking his whole life—but it still felt more secure to write.

“Then I suggest that neither of us change. Then it's equal,” wrote Mink.

 

Reuben Walrus went before
her into his little study, which was right next to the studio where the piano was. The room had originally been a maid's room, but now it was dominated by a large red antique rug. They each sat down in an armchair. The chairs were turned at an angle to each other, heavy pieces with high backs and generous arm support. Between them stood a little round table with a marble top, and at an angle behind Reuben's armchair an old-fashioned lampshade in aged leather peeked out. The heavy curtains had been half closed, and a pleasant calm rested over this small room.

“I want to meet Maximilian,” said Reuben.

But again this feeling of uncertainty, so to be on the safe side he wrote the same thing: “I want to meet Maximilian. I want to get my hearing back.”

Under Maria Mink's curious gaze, he felt neither afraid nor impatient. He realized that this was his last chance, but he no longer had anything to lose.

Maria Mink pointed at the notepad and pen that were on his lap, and he gave them to her.

“What is love?” she wrote on the blank page of the notepad.

She was just as direct as Coral, and just as absurdly naive. There was no answer to what love was, thought Reuben. But he didn't intend to make the same mistake he had made last time. So he decided to put arrogance and irony aside,
and he took the pad that she had set on the little table and put it on his lap.

Love?

“I think,” he wrote slowly when he had thought about it a long time, “that love is the feeling of pain when you think about someone that you're not seeing right then.”

He handed her the pad, as if she was going to correct his answer.

“Pain?” was all she wrote, handing back the pen and paper.

He remained sitting, brooding, not in a hurry. She sat quietly too, with time to wait. When he was through thinking, he began to write. But meditatively, word by word.

“To miss someone. To miss someone so desperately that it causes pain in your heart, pain in your fabric, and in your whole body. To be filled by a longing and an emptiness so strong and deep that it paralyzes you and threatens to destroy you. That the only thing you want and can think about is to see the one you long for again, and before that happens you are no one. Half. Only a fragment.”

Reuben gave her the pad and closed his eyes. That was how he missed both of them, Fox von Duisburg and Josephine. He longed for them, not only physically, to see them and touch them, but also spiritually. That was how he had always missed them. Like an anxious cry for help that echoed in his heart, whether he had them here or had not seen them in a long time.

“And when you are together with them?” wrote Maria Mink.

Carefully she set the pad on Walrus's lap, and he opened his eyes again and looked down at the single sentence.

When he was together with them? How could he describe that? How would he dare explain it?

“Then,” he wrote, “it is like…”

“And love, how would you describe that?”

But he continued to owe her a reply. Somehow he knew that he would not be able to lie to her; it was too late for lies. It had been so easy for him to say untrue words over the years, words that simplified his life. But to sit here and write them down on a pad of paper—was impossible. He thought a long time, but wrote at last, “I don't know.”

“Has it always been the case,” wrote Maria Mink, “that you have only been able to love in solitude? That is not unusual, Reuben. Love requires courage, and not everyone has the means or the opportunity to acquire it.”

But again he owed her a reply. He shook his head, not knowing what he should say. Then he thought of something, grasped the pen, and wrote, “It must not be about them. I can love in solitude. I can sit at my piano and place my fins on the keys, and when I hear harmonies arise out of combinations of individual notes, when I see a pattern form through measures and phrasings, I can—often but not always—be filled with joy, at the same time a kind of deepest satisfaction and exhilarated happiness. That I would call…love. And then I'm not talking about the ability to create music, or even to play it. When I hear it, when I am sitting in a concert hall and an orchestra of distinction and ability performs one of the old masters' pieces…”

He put the pen on the pad and was absorbed in thought. Maria did not move, let him be, let him think about it. How long they sat like that, neither of them could say, but he did not lose his concentration. On the contrary, inside him sounded—note for note and voice for voice—some of the works that he admired the most. Among them Buffalo Bill's unfinished Symphony in A Minor.

At last he grasped the pen and wrote, “Then, in the music, I am complete.”

Maria Mink took the pad and read. When she did not write an answer, he took back the writing implements and added, “Let me meet Maximilian.”

He showed her, and regretted it at the same moment. He should not have written that last thing. He should not have felt sorry for himself, or demanded anything from her.

Maria got up from the chair, and signaled to him to do the same.