The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (120 page)

That evening, as he sat on the edge of the bed in his pajamas, waiting for the midnight news and smoking one last cigarette, he tried in retrospect to pinpoint the moment at which this pleasant Sunday had slipped away from him. The morning had been sunny, fresh, a coolness of May although it was June, yet the warmth to be expected at noon was already perceptible: light and temperature had reminded him of the old days when he had been out training from six to eight before going to work.

For an hour and a half that morning he had cycled along back roads between suburbs, between allotment gardens and industrial areas, past green fields, toolsheds, gardens, the big cemetery, out to where the forest began far beyond the city limits. On the asphalt stretches he had speeded up, timing himself and testing his acceleration; he had put on spurts and found that he was still in good form, might even risk entering an amateur race again, his legs responding to the joy of having passed his exam and to his intention of taking up regular training again. What with his job, night school, earning a living, studying, he hadn’t been able to do much about it these last three years. He would need a new bike, but that would be no problem provided he could come to terms with Kronsorgeler tomorrow, and there was no doubt that he would.

After his training spin, a few exercises on the rug in his rented room, a shower, clean underwear, then by car out to his parents for breakfast: coffee and toast, fresh eggs and honey, on the terrace Father had built onto the house; the bright awning—a gift from Karl—and, as the morning warmed up, the reassuring stereotype utterance of his
parents, “Well, you’ve almost made it now, you’ll soon have made it now.” His mother had said “soon,” his father “almost,” and always the pleasurable harking back to the fear of the last few years, a fear they had never blamed each other for, a fear they had shared: from amateur regional champion and electrician to passing his exam yesterday, erstwhile fear that was beginning to turn into veteran’s pride. And they kept asking him what this or that word was in Spanish: carrot or motorcar, Queen of Heaven, bee and busy, breakfast, supper and sundown, and how happy they were when he stayed on for lunch and invited them over to his place next Tuesday to celebrate his success. Father went off to pick up some ice cream for dessert, and he accepted a cup of coffee although an hour later he would have to have coffee again at Carola’s parents’. He even had a kirsch and chatted with them about his brother Karl, his sister-in-law Hilda, about Elke and Klaus, the two kids who, they all agreed, were being spoiled, what with their jeans and fringed jackets and cassettes and all that, and constantly there would be those pleasurable sighs: “Well, you’ll soon have made it now, you’ve almost made it now!” That “almost,” that “soon,” had made him uneasy. He
had
made it! All that remained was the interview with Kronsorgeler, who had been favorably disposed toward him right from the start. Hadn’t he done a good job teaching Spanish at the adult education center and German at those evening classes for Spaniards?

Later he helped his father wash the car and his mother weed the garden, and as he was about to leave she brought carrots, spinach, and a bag of cherries from the freezer, packed them in an insulated bag, and insisted that he wait until she had picked some tulips for Carola’s mother. Meanwhile his father checked the tires, asked him to start the motor, listened to it suspiciously, then stepped up to the lowered window and asked, “Still making all those trips to Heidelberg—on the autobahn?” It was meant to sound as if he were querying the capability of his old, somewhat decrepit car to cover those fifty miles twice, sometimes three times a week.

“Heidelberg? Yes, I still drive there two or three times a week—it’ll be some time before I can afford a Mercedes.”

“Oh, yes, Mercedes,” said his father. “There’s that fellow from the government, the Department of Education, I believe—yesterday he
brought in his Mercedes again for a checkup. Insists on my doing the job personally. What’s his name again?”

“Kronsorgeler?”

“Yes, that’s the one. A very nice fellow. I’d even call him a gentleman, no irony intended.”

Just then his mother brought the flowers, saying, “Remember us to Carola, and her parents too, of course. We’ll be seeing them on Tuesday anyway.” As he was about to drive off, his father came up once more and said, “Don’t make too many trips to Heidelberg—with this wreck!”

On his arrival at the Schulte-Bebrungs’, Carola hadn’t come home yet. She had phoned and left a message that she wasn’t quite through with her reports but would come as soon as she could; they were to go ahead with their afternoon coffee.

The terrace was larger, the awning, though faded, more generous, everything more elegant, and even in the barely perceptible shabbiness of the garden furniture, in the grass growing in the cracks between the red tiles, there was something that irritated him like some of those harangues at student demonstrations; things like that, and clothing, were sources of irritation between Carola and himself since she always complained that his clothes were too formal, too bourgeois. With Carola’s mother he chatted about growing vegetables, with her father about bicycle races, found the coffee not as good as at his parents’, and tried not to let his tension turn into irritation. After all, these were really nice, progressive people who had accepted him without prejudice, officially, even, by sending out engagement announcements. By this time he had become genuinely fond of them, including Carola’s mother, whose frequent “charming” had at first got on his nerves.

Eventually Dr. Schulte-Bebrung—a bit embarrassed, so it seemed to him—asked him to come into the garage, where he showed him the newly acquired bicycle that he rode every morning for “a few turns” around the park and the Old Cemetery—a magnificent specimen of a bike. He praised it enthusiastically, quite without envy, mounted it for a test ride around the garden, explained the workings of leg muscles to Schulte-Bebrung (remembering that the senior members of the club had always suffered from cramps!); and after he had dismounted and
propped the bike against the wall inside the garage, Schulte-Bebrung asked him, “What do you think—how long would it take me on this magnificent specimen of a bike, as you call it, to get from here to, say, Heidelberg?” It sounded casual enough, innocent, especially as Schulte-Bebrung went on, “You see, I was at university in Heidelberg, had a bike in those days too, and from there to here used to take me—young and strong as I was then—two and a half hours.”

He smiled, obviously with no ulterior motive, talked about traffic lights, traffic jams, all the cars that in those days hadn’t existed; by car—he’d already tried it out—it took him thirty-five minutes to get to his office, by bicycle only thirty minutes. “And how long does it take you by car to Heidelberg?”

“Half an hour.”

The fact that he mentioned the car took away some of the casualness of mentioning Heidelberg, but at that moment Carola arrived, and she was as sweet as ever, as pretty as ever, a bit disheveled, and you could tell she really was dead tired; and now, as he sat on the edge of the bed, a second cigarette still unlit between his fingers, he simply didn’t know whether his tension had already turned into irritation and been transferred from him to her, or whether she had been tense and irritable—and this had been transferred from her to him. She kissed him, of course, but whispered in his ear that she wouldn’t be going with him today. Then they talked about Kronsorgeler, who had spoken so highly of him, about getting into the civil service, about the boundaries of the regional district, about cycling, tennis, Spanish, and whether he would get an A or only a B. She herself had only scraped through with a C. When invited to stay for supper he pleaded tiredness and work, and no one had particularly urged him to change his mind. The air quickly cooled off again on the terrace; he helped carry chairs and dishes into the house, and when Carola walked with him to the car she kissed him with surprising ardor, put her arms around him, leaned against him, and said, “You know I love you very, very much, and I know you’re a splendid fellow, but you do have one little fault: you make too many trips to Heidelberg.”

She had run quickly into the house, waved, smiled, blown him kisses, and he could still see her in the rear-view mirror, standing there waving vigorously.

Surely it couldn’t be jealousy. After all, she knew he went there to see Diego and Teresa, to help them translate applications, fill out forms and questionnaires; that he drew up petitions, typed the final versions—for the department of aliens, the bureau of social services, the union, the university, the employment office—concerning placing children in schools and kindergartens, bursaries, grants, clothing, holiday camps. She knew what he was doing in Heidelberg, had gone there with him a few times, had done more than her share of typing, and displayed a surprising knowledge of officialese. Once or twice she had even taken Teresa along to a movie and a café, and her father had given her money for a Chilean fund.

Instead of driving home, he had gone to Heidelberg; Diego and Teresa had been out, as had Raoul, Diego’s friend. On the way back he had got into a traffic jam, and around nine had looked in on his brother Karl, who went to the fridge for some beer while Hilda fried him some eggs. Together they had watched the Tour de Suisse on TV, in which Eddy Merckx hadn’t shown up too well, and, when he left, Hilda had given him a paper bag full of used children’s clothing for “that nice gutsy Chilean and his wife.”

Now at last the news came on, and he listened with only half an ear: he was thinking of the carrots, the spinach, and the cherries that he still had to put away in the freezer compartment; he lit a second cigarette after all: somewhere—was it in Ireland? there had been an election, a landslide; someone—was it really the Federal President?—had said something very positive about neckties; someone was issuing a denial about something; the stock market was up; still no trace of Idi Amin.

He didn’t finish his second cigarette and stubbed it out in a half-empty yogurt tub; he really was dead tired and soon fell asleep, though the word “Heidelberg” kept reverberating in his mind.

He had a frugal breakfast, just milk and bread, tidied up, took a shower, and dressed with care. Putting on his tie he thought of the Federal President—or had it been the Federal Chancellor? Fifteen minutes early for his appointment, he sat on the bench outside Kronsorgeler’s outer
office, next to him a fat man in trendy, casual clothes; he recognized him from the teacher-training courses but didn’t know his name. The fat man whispered, “I’m a Communist, you too?”

“No,” he said. “No, I’m not—I hope you don’t mind.”

The fat man didn’t spend long with Kronsorgeler; as he came out he made a gesture that was probably supposed to convey “no dice.” Then the secretary asked him to go in; she was pleasant, not exactly young, had always been nice to him—he was surprised when she gave him an encouraging nudge, having always regarded her as too prim for that kind of thing.

Kronsorgeler received him with a smile. He was nice, conservative but nice; objective; not old, in his early forties at most. A bicycle-racing fan, he had given him a lot of encouragement, and they began by discussing the Tour de Suisse: whether Merckx had been bluffing so as to be underrated in the Tour de France or whether he had really lost his form. In Kronsorgeler’s opinion, Merckx had been bluffing; he disagreed, feeling that Merckx really was almost finished, there were certain signs of exhaustion that couldn’t be faked. Then came the exam: that they had wondered for a long time whether they couldn’t give him straight As, the snag had been philosophy. But otherwise: his excellent work at the adult education center, at those evening classes, never taking part in demonstrations … there was just—Kronsorgeler gave a genuinely warm smile—one tiny little blot.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “I make too many trips to Heidelberg.”

Kronsorgeler almost blushed; at any rate his embarrassment was obvious. He was a sensitive, reserved person, almost shy; bluntness was not in his nature.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been hearing it from all sides. Wherever I go, whoever I talk to. My father, Carola, her father, all I hear is: Heidelberg. Loud and clear, and I wonder whether, if I were to dial the weather bureau or bus information I wouldn’t hear: Heidelberg.”

For a moment it looked as though Kronsorgeler would rise and place his hands soothingly on his shoulders. He had already risen, then he lowered his hands again, placed them flat on his desk, and said, “I can’t tell you how awkward this is for me. I have followed your path, a difficult path, with much sympathy—but there’s a report on that
Chilean that isn’t very favorable. I can’t ignore that report, I simply can’t. I have not only rules to follow but also instructions, I’ve been given not only guidelines but also advice over the phone. Your friend—I take it he is your friend?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have plenty of time on your hands during the next few weeks. What are your plans?”

“I’ll be training a lot—cycling again, and I’ll make lots of trips to Heidelberg.”

“By bike?”

“No, by car.”

Kronsorgeler sighed. It was obvious he was suffering, genuinely suffering. When he shook hands he whispered, “Don’t go to Heidelberg, that’s all I can say.” Then he smiled and said, “Remember Eddy Merckx.”

Even as he closed the door behind him and walked through the outer office, he was thinking of alternatives: translator, interpreter, tour guide, Spanish correspondent for a trading company. He was too old to become a pro, and there were already more than enough electricians. He had forgotten to say goodbye to the secretary, so he turned back and waved to her.

When my father reached the same age as I am now approaching, he (naturally?) seemed older to me than I feel. Birthdays were not celebrated in our family, that was considered a “Protestant aberration,” so I cannot recall any celebration, only a few details of the mood prevailing that October 1930. (My father shared his year of birth, 1870, with Lenin, but that, I believe, was all.)