Out of the Line of Fire (14 page)

You’re too romantic, Omi. It’s not that. Well, not exactly that.

Then what’s the matter?

I’m eighteen, I said.

So?

I looked at her desperately.

I’m eighteen and I still haven’t slept with a woman. It’s driving me crazy. How can I call myself a man if I haven’t slept with a woman?

I told her I saw the world divided into those who had and those who hadn’t. Making love for the first time, actually holding a woman in your arms, well it must be like crossing some invisible barrier, like entering some other cosmic dimension, like being born or dying. I flung my arm out in a wide arc. She sat there patiently listening to me until it seemed clear to her that I had finished.

This is serious, she said. Or perhaps she said, Are you serious? I can’t remember. When I look back on this conversation with my grandmother I must admit I feel utterly foolish that I could have taken the business of sex so seriously. And yet whenever I
have
gone to bed with someone new, I have still had a faint echo of the feelings I described so clumsily to my grandmother that day.

She excused herself and went into the kitchen and closed the door. I could hear the muffled sound of her voice and a few minutes later she returned.

It’s all arranged, she said, handing me a piece of paper and a sizeable sum of money.

Here is the address of someone who’ll look after you. Her name is Andrea and your appointment is for two o’clock tomorrow. You have all afternoon, so take your time. She’s very pretty and I hear she’s very good at what she does. Think of it as part of your education.

But Omi, the money?

Money, money, Wolfi. What’s money. You have to live. Enjoy yourself, just enjoy yourself. No more of this moping about.

I kissed her on the cheek.

Now, I have some things to do so you’ll have to run along, okay?

She showed me to the door and I kissed her again on the forehead and said goodbye.

*

Where are we? So Kant distinguished objects and events as they appear in our experience from objects and events as they are in themselves, independently of the forms imposed on them by our cognitive faculties. The perversion of the ‘real’ or essential nature of reality by the act of perception is central to his philosophy. All we can ever know, he thought, are phenomena.

On the other hand, Hume’s empiricism was attacked for its phenomenalism, that is, for the view that physical objects, as well as human beings, are no more than collections of their observable properties. ‘Observable properties’ in this context refers exclusively to sensory qualities. Hume held that all concepts derive directly from sensory experience and, moreover, that all nouns naming physical objects refer to concepts that can be completely analysed into simple concepts referring to sensory qualities. This is what had so bowled Wittgenstein over [hatte ihn wirklich umgehauen].

In the twentieth century the whole situation, however, was inverted. Phenomenologists claimed that phenomenological statements were
non
-empirical. What they describe are ‘phenomena’. And what are phenomena? Incredibly, phenomena are now ‘
essences
’. And what’s more, they are
intuited
! What they are definitely not are particular observable objects by reference to which empirical statements are confirmed or denied. Phenomena have turned out to be noumena—things-in-themselves. This is even more paradoxical given the fact that Husserl insisted that phenomenology was descriptive. This distinguished the method of phenomenology, he thought, from the established practice of philosophy which deduced what must be true of the world from prior assumption, instead of looking at the world and discovering what it is like. It looks as though we’re back where we began.

*

Like many major European provincial centres the inner-city business district of G. is expanding. Warehouses, old hotels and some of the larger former residences which used to surround the area are being transformed into professional suites, exclusive boutiques and expensive apartments. It was into one of these elegant tree-lined streets opposite Hindenberg Park that I turned the next day. I had not known what to wear and in the end had opted for my Sunday best, and now as I walked along the street looking for the number written on the piece of paper in my hand I felt, as you can imagine, both nervous and conspicuous.

Number 36 was an imposing six-storeyed brownstone building which two hundred years ago must have looked quite grand indeed. A small flight of stairs led up to a rather formal entrance which was flanked by two new salons retailing exclusive fashion for women. The designs could not have been more different and the mannequins in the display windows seemed to have been deliberately arranged to give the impression that neither would have been seen dead in any of the other’s so-called ‘creations’—an arched shoulder here, a head thrown back there.

Five to two. This was it. With my heart pounding I made my way up the flight of stairs into the plush foyer of the building. Music filtered down from some invisible source in the ceiling through the large polished leaves of the ferns dotted about the place. It was quite busy—men in suits and efficient-looking women were coming and going. The lift opposite me opened and another small wave of noisy success brushed self-importantly past me. I waited for a rather distinguished-looking gentleman carrying a black leather briefcase and wearing a bowler hat [eine Melone] to enter the lift before I too got in. We stood for a moment facing back into the foyer until we both realized that neither of us had pressed the button for us to ascend. Simultaneously we reached for the same floor and our fingers collided momentarily. I mumbled an awkward apology, he raised his eyes and the doors hissed shut.

When we reached level 4 each of us appeared as reluctant as the other to leave the lift first. What if there had been some dreadful mistake? What if he thought
he
had an appointment with Andrea at two? What then? As we slowly walked down the corridor shoulder to shoulder I could feel myself beginning to sweat. We passed suite 2. Suite 3 was next and there were only four suites to a floor.

Suite 3. I stopped, fully expecting my temporary companion to stop too, but fortunately he continued on. I glanced at my watch. Two minutes to two. I took a deep breath to regain my composure and my confidence began to return. After all, I was here for an almost professional consultation. Certain matters would be discussed and Andrea, I knew, had been fully briefed about the exact nature of my problem. A suitably lengthy visit had been arranged. What could be simpler?

As I stood there looking at the sign on her door I was impressed by just how professional the whole arrangement was. In gilt letters the sign read: ‘A. Rudlinger and Associates’. I realized just how naive I had been. Why, in this day and age, shouldn’t a business retailing sins of the flesh be organized like any other consultative enterprise.

I adjusted my tie for the last time and knocked forcefully on the door.

Come in, a female voice called from the other side. It’s open.

I turned the handle and strode confidently in. Directly opposite me sat an attractive young woman at a desk. In front of her was an electric typewriter and in her hands she held what was obviously a leather-bound appointments book. To her right was a low, glass-topped coffee table upon which several glossy fashion magazines were carefully scattered. Beside these stood a single long-stemmed rose in a glass vase. Behind the table was a large comfortable-looking sofa. On the wall above this was an equally large modern print which I recognized as one my Omi also owned.

Sonderborg, I said, half to myself.

Bravo, the young woman cried as I turned back to look at her. She had taken off her glasses and now sat smiling up at me.

I have an appointment for two o’clock, I said. My name is Wolfi…ah Wolfgang Schönborn.

She replaced her glasses and picked up the book again.

What time did you say your appointment was for, Mr…

Schönborn. Yes, um…Two o’clock.

There must be some mistake Mr Schönborn. I don’t seem to have you listed for today.

She quickly checked the days either side. My heart began to sink.

When did you say you made your appointment?

I didn’t. My Om . . My grandmother made it for me…yesterday. She said everything had been arranged…

Just a moment.

She picked up her phone, pressed a button and spoke into it:

Herr Rosenthal, sorry to disturb you. I have a young man here who says he has an appointment for two o’clock. You didn’t by any chance take an appointment yesterday did you?

There was a short pause and she replaced the receiver.

Who was your appointment with Mr Schönborn?

I was just about to answer when what must have been Herr Rosenthal appeared through a door behind her.

What seems to be the problem, Mr…?

Schönborn. Wolfgang Schönborn.

I see. Well then, who was it you were supposed to see?

Andrea, I said.

By this stage my palms had begun to sweat with the growing realization that something was dreadfully, dreadfully wrong. I suspected my grandmother of some grotesque practical joke.

Andrea? he repeated.

He looked at me for a moment and then leant down to whisper something in the young woman’s ear. He rose and stood gazing at me again for a few seconds with a look almost of anguish. Then he turned and walked back into his office. A series of what sounded like suppressed sobs issued from behind his closed door.

The young, infinitely desirable receptionist looked seriously up at me.

Is it true that your grandmother made your appointment, Wolfi?

Yes, I said.

Wonderful. Just wonderful, she replied enigmatically.

She smiled up at me and I smiled down at her. I shuffled a little on my feet.

Well Wolfi…I don’t know how to say this, but this is suite 3, level 4. Rudlinger and Associates are interior design consultants. Andrea is waiting for you in suite 4, level 3. Down the corridor, downstairs, first door on your left.

She got up from behind her desk, walked to the door and opened it.

There’s a good boy. Don’t take it too badly. Enjoy yourself…oh, and Wolfi, say hello to your Omi for me.

As I walked to the door she touched me lightly on the shoulder.

Out in the corridor I forced myself to walk normally, reining in an urge to run, to flee as fast as I could down what now appeared to be a never-ending tunnel closing in around me. How could I have made such a complete fool of myself? ‘Rudlinger and Associates are interior design consultants…’ Mensch! The events of the last few minutes ricocheted through my head, while an echo of suppressed laughter reverberated around me. I imagined them retelling my story for years to come—towards the end of drunken dinner parties. He would barely be able to get the words out for laughter. Tossing himself back in his chair, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

And who, who…who made the appointment, Mr Schönborn? My grandmother, he says. Can you imagine that? There he stood, like a schoolboy, cap in hand…and he says—my grandmother!

The laughter crashed around the walls again as I waded on. I glanced back over my shoulder. The beautiful young receptionist was still standing there outside her door. She smiled faintly and her hand appeared to rise slowly and wave to me, a wave full of nostalgia, as though I were boarding a ship about to leave port for some unknown and mysterious destination. And now as I stood at the railing looking down at the girl I loved, I knew we would never see each other again.

On the landing I leant against the wall and rested for a moment. I wiped the dampness from my forehead and fanned my face with my hand. I looked at my watch. It was two minutes past two. I was stunned. I felt like I had been in there for hours. I watched as the seconds ticked over. Three minutes past two. I began to feel vaguely reassured—I was hardly late at all. I wouldn’t even have to explain why I had been delayed. I could still arrive at Andrea’s door as though nothing had happened, or perhaps nothing more than a few minutes wait for a slow lift. My confidence began to return.

The door to suite 4 was, of course, unadorned. After a moment’s hesitation, I knocked. Almost immediately a young woman appeared in the doorway.

I have read of instants in which the protagonist of a novel, by Proust or Joyce for example, suddenly experiences a powerful visionary moment of epiphanal insight, triggered off by some chance occurrence which transports them from the world of the mundane into a world in which everything is bathed in a luminous halo of light, a light in which all that had previously seemed completely random or purposeless instantaneously coalesces into a unified whole, and that the apprehension of such a moment becomes, for the protagonist, a truly mystical experience. As I stood in the doorway looking into Andrea’s eyes, I experienced such a moment, an instant of rarefied insight suspended in time. Here, standing before me, was a slightly older but no less beautiful version of my sister Elena. Here were the same dark impetuous eyes, the same full smiling mouth, the same irrepressible sensual vitality. In Andrea, however, the fledgling coquette had given way to a look of knowing delight. I felt simultaneously exhilarated and ineffably serene [unbeschreiblich gelassen], as though my life to date had all been heading inevitably towards this moment of apocalyptic summation. I sensed also that the young woman who now took my arm and gently led me into the room, knew and understood this.

I followed her to a large couch covered in white, heavily textured material and she invited me to sit down. She put some music on and then came and sat near me drawing one leg up under her. She rested her arm along the top of the couch. I remember thinking how its smooth texture and soft even colour contrasted with the material of the lounge below.

She was simply dressed—a light, loose-fitting blouse tucked into a brightly coloured cotton skirt, both of which seemed designed to simultaneously reveal and conceal her youthful body beneath. A single-stranded silver necklace followed the undulations of her neck and this was complemented by a pair of beautiful silver pendant earrings, one of which now oscillated slowly from her right ear. Apart from a trace of subtle blush to her lips and cheeks, she appeared not to be wearing any make-up. Her hand reached up to brush a strand of dark hair from her forehead. She smiled at me.