The Safety Net (29 page)

On that point her attorney had reassured her. Again and again he had dinned into her never to indicate by so much as a hint or a casual phrase that she would probably have run away someday with Schubler anyway; that could be fatal, might ruin her case, even in the category of “endangered by security.”

Moving from the bungalow in Blorr to Peter’s apartment had naturally been a shock resulting in many sighs, many
tears—from eight rooms and two bathrooms, from garden and swimming pool, to these four hundred square feet, with only a shower, and she did so love to lie in the bathtub, go from pool to tub, from tub to pool, and all that. And she was so short of money, felt so cooped up—and then there were those single men in the apartment building who didn’t hesitate to proposition her, offering her fifty for a “swinging time”—an odd, not unpleasing expression, and seeing how short of money she was … no, she didn’t want to go that route. In the old days, before marrying Breuer, she had sometimes come pretty close to it, when she was still working as a salesgirl for Breuer and rich foreigners were buying jewelry and one of them would sometimes invite her over for a drink at his hotel. No. She had never done that, never for money—besides, Peter would notice and never stand for it, though he himself sometimes had to put in a tough day for his fifty: heaving and hauling—moonlighting of course—and with jobs so scarce he was in no position to insist on standard wages; it was a hell of a struggle, she knew that. And though he never grumbled she could feel how he resented all this, considering he had almost been “promoted” at Breuer’s, not exactly made office manager, say, but maybe something like purchasing agent—after all, he had taken a commerce course. No, no, she had to watch her step, hang on, he really did love her and he made her happy, was never quarrelsome or grouchy, he was just quiet and serious at times, always seemed to have his nose stuck in a book—and he couldn’t be persuaded to watch TV; he might go to a movie and for a drink somewhere after, hardly ever took her dancing, considered himself too old for things like discos. Thank God those tiresome interrogations had stopped, and the newspapers left them in peace.

And there was one more thing, maybe the worst: the noise outside, even sleeping pills didn’t help anymore. “Those rotten bastards”—who?—had built the freeway right into the city, into the very middle of it, with an access road lying diagonally to it, and that kept grinding, grinding, grinding, day and night, and when it stopped for two or at most three minutes she knew
it would come back, swelling, subsiding. She would get up and stand in her housecoat on the absurdly small balcony, smoking and thinking of escape—where to? How wonderful it had been in Blorr, and maybe Breuer would eventually have agreed to some “three-way deal,” somehow, if only this rotten security business hadn’t ruined things. That grinding that sometimes turned into a roar—it was no use closing the windows, proper soundproof glass was too expensive, and she needed fresh air. If she had to sleep with closed windows, she’d suffocate. There was no solution, nothing did any good, neither the protests nor the neighborhood initiatives, nor the meetings held at the corner tavern where they had to listen to the mealymouthed blather of those who were responsible; the only solution was to move out, move away, run away.

There were hours during the night when, after many cigarettes and drinks, she would stand shivering on the balcony and pound her temples with her fists, on the verge of leaving, simply going away, without any idea where to. Earplugs were no use, and if it happened to be quiet for a few minutes there was still that roaring in her ears, on and on, it was still there when she took the bus to Blorr, looked up old friends who, in spite of their grins, were still very nice to her—the Beeretz family, for instance, when she implored them to rent her a room, even if it was just a poky little cubbyhole where she could get some sleep, sleep, at last enough sleep. But then came the excuses: oh yes, they could have cleared out a little room in the attic, fixed it up for her, would have been only too glad to let her have a quiet corner, “in spite of everything”—in spite of what?—and would have asked, if not nothing exactly, at least only very little for it. But what they couldn’t accept was that she might sleep there “with that man”; that wouldn’t do at all—but apart from that … And that wasn’t what she wanted: not without Peter, who worked himself to the bone, took on the filthiest jobs, and anyway was by now working only with Turks, hardly even Italians—he had reached the point where a job as a garbage collector seemed to him like a promotion, a
social advancement. And he wasn’t to be allowed to sleep with her? No, in that case forget it.

She didn’t like to go to Mrs. Fischer. She was sorry for the way she had yelled at her over the phone: a nice woman, a pleasant neighbor, and it wasn’t her fault, after all. And she might have been able to spend a weekend at her place except for that husband of hers, who had turned out to be a bit of a groper when she danced with him; no, not that. And as for the Klobers, they might be useful allies, but in other respects she didn’t care for them, they always got so familiar, wallowing in the details of her divorce and hinting sarcastically at the difference in age between Peter and herself. And it was bitter, too, to see, if only from a distance, the bungalow still standing empty. Obviously Breuer was letting the garden go, the swimming pool stagnate, the lettuce had gone to seed and the broad beans were crawling with aphids. Everything had “gone to pot” there, and going home on the bus she thought with horror of the night ahead, of the grinding, the roar, the hell that in the daytime she felt able to stand; and she reached the point when she would lie weeping beside the sleeping Schubler, get out of bed, go back to the bottle, eventually fall asleep, and wake up in the morning when Peter took his shower. Then she would stagger into the kitchenette and make breakfast, but even the coffee didn’t wake her up, and she loved the way he always hugged her as he went off to work, kissed her and whispered: “I’m doing all I can to get us out of here. Don’t hold up the divorce, then we can get married. I do love you so.”

Those were good words from Peter’s somewhat inarticulate lips. But, after all, he wasn’t blind, he must see how her skin was suffering, how sometimes in the morning her face was gray and lined, and that with all her washing and massaging and all those oils and creams she could no longer achieve that “milky loveliness” that had once inspired him to such an intense, though brief, poetic paean. She was getting old, older, with every sleepless night perhaps a month or more older, and bouts with the bottle restored nothing; however much she rubbed
and oiled, massaged and washed, there remained a faint film of gray, and she didn’t want Peter to lose his pleasure in her. He loved her, and those were such lovely words to hear from a tight-lipped student’s mouth, and he meant so much to her, and it was quite true, what she had hinted at to the attorney: one day she would have run away with him, but she wouldn’t have chosen this apartment or this area, where the noise was slowly driving her up the wall. One more year, maybe six months, and she would have got that much more out of Breuer and opened a store someplace in a quiet area, a little neighborhood store, that’d be just the thing for her, or a boutique. And Peter might have finished his studies after all, and she would have adopted a child. After all, she was a completely normal woman, sexually normal too, wasn’t the affair with Peter proof positive of how normal she was? What a shame she didn’t have the peace of mind to play games, chess and all that, and other, less complicated ones that he loved to play, even if it was drafts or Chinese checkers: she lacked the necessary peace of mind. During the first few weeks they had almost got into a fight over the TV; she happened to be in the habit of watching the seven o’clock news, then having supper and leafing through the program to find something for the evening. Peter only had that tiny portable black-and-white—and it wasn’t even working that well, the box, most of the time it flickered, and sometimes the sound packed up altogether. And at night the roar, the grinding, and not even a phone, though she was alone all day and could have called old friends, like Elisabeth, who was now running a bar, or Hertha, who had actually managed to set herself up in a boutique. As for old boyfriends, she’d better not phone them: it would only lead to embarrassing propositions over the phone, awaken memories of indiscretions best forgotten—and she didn’t want to hurt Peter’s feelings. Phoning from a booth was no substitute. There was always someone standing outside, sometimes even knocking on the glass. It was quite a different thing to sit by the phone, smoking a cigarette, and chatter away to one’s heart’s content.

The money was slowly coming to an end too, slowly. Of course she had her own savings account, from the early days, she’d diverted quite a bit of household money—Breuer had never been petty, he’d only become petty now, and these days she had to think twice before taking the bus or streetcar two or three times a day. It was a blessing that she had more to do now than in Blorr, where Breuer had insisted on her doing nothing; now she had the cleaning up, tidying, shopping, cooking—what she enjoyed most was the cooking, because Peter so obviously enjoyed it after all those bachelor years living on fries and hot dogs and, if he was lucky, a warmed-up can or two. She enjoyed cooking, and it took her mind off the grinding and the roar and the thoughts of the coming sleepless night. She enjoyed setting the table quite formally for him—she had been allowed to bring along what was left of the linens in her trousseau—and watching him eat, and his gentle caresses were soothing. He was such a nice boy, not much given to talking, and it was too bad he was so anti-TV, and though he was always asking her to wake him up when she couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t bring herself to do it when he lay there, quietly breathing away, obviously used to the noise. In sleep his face was less stern, and of course she knew: it wouldn’t last forever with him, not forever, and she’d stand in front of the mirror and examine her skin again; it wouldn’t last forever, and not much longer either, and then it wasn’t likely to occur to anyone to offer her “a swinging time.” Perhaps then she would go home, back to Hubreichen, no longer Erna Breuer and not yet Erna Schubler, just Erna Hermes again, still able to run the milking machines, to bring her bedridden father his meals, to wash him, look after him. With Breuer she had never been really welcome there; her family considered him “a slippery customer” or, as her brother claimed, “a bit shady,” and with Peter—she wouldn’t risk that. But she did have a room there that was always ready: the high-sided walnut bed, washstand with basin, chamber pot. “The room will always be there for you, by yourself, mind you,” and: “If you do come, don’t try any more of your funny business!”

Who were they talking about? Jupp Halster, who out of a clear blue sky had shot his wife to death one Sunday morning, or young Schmergen, who, also out of a clear blue sky, had hanged himself one Sunday afternoon? True enough, she had “carried on” with a married man, with Hans Polkt, and he hadn’t got a divorce after all, and she had moved into town. True enough. But that Tolm boy, Mrs. Fischer’s brother, who had a lot more to answer for than her Peter, they allowed him to live there in peace, and he certainly wasn’t married to that girl, that Communist, who had a child by him.

That phoning from a booth got on her nerves. When at the third attempt Mrs. Fischer still didn’t answer, she phoned Miss Blum, was told that Sabine had gone to Tolmshoven, was told there that she couldn’t be given any information, no, not over the phone, but she insisted until she got through to the mother; surely the old lady must remember her from all those afternoon visits, a fine woman, who hesitated nevertheless, then did remember her, and after much digging and hesitation: “I mustn’t, I really mustn’t, my dear Mrs. Breuer—I’m always being told off as it is”—admitted that her daughter had “moved” to Hubreichen—she said moved, not gone—to her son’s, and she even gave her his phone number. But no, she wouldn’t phone there, she’d go there herself, by bus, maybe on her bike, maybe she’d even have Peter come along.

She might be able to ask Mrs. Fischer for some money. She certainly had plenty. Three young teenagers, jingling coins, stood outside the booth, whistling pointedly, and one of the boys muttered: “Didn’t know call girls were operating from phone booths these days.” Did she really look like that—already? Fair game, maybe? It was time to go away, move away. Maybe she could start as a housekeeper on the abandoned Halster farm. She was still capable of a hard day’s work, and it wouldn’t be bad for her skin, and Peter—he might be able to use his commercial knowledge there, and probably no work was too dirty for him; they would just have to have separate bedrooms, then everything would be all right, though
it didn’t mean they had to sleep separately. That young Mr. Tolm, he didn’t need any separate bedrooms, he was allowed to share his bed with his Communist girlfriend, right there in the shadow of the vicarage, never mind that he was himself practically a “suspect.” Much worse, at any rate, than her Peter had ever been or could ever have become. The young punks were still whistling after her.

He couldn’t get Sabine out of his mind. It wasn’t only the annoyance, the thought of the battle with Fischer and the “kindly attention” the Zummerling people would once more bestow upon him, it was the child herself, anxiety over what was to become of her. If it should occur to Fischer to legitimize the child, uncontested, she would probably not accept that and thus set in motion legal problems that were practically insoluble. The thought of having to leave Tolmshoven became fixed, took root, grew. Besides, he was tired, very tired, and regretted his suggestion to invite Blurtmehl and his girl Eva for dinner.

His suggestion had been accepted with surprising alacrity, probably more at the urging of that Miss Klensch, who was prettier than in her picture, probably curious, too, and not unsusceptible to big names. More restless, too, than he had imagined, there was something almost waspish about her, not exactly pushy but not timid either, or even intimidated. For Blurtmehl this must all be rather embarrassing, but he mastered the situation with tact and discretion, was able to switch from
servant to guest with the confidence of a tightrope walker, as it were, helpful without giving any hint of his dependent position. He set the table while Käthe laughed with Eva Klensch in the kitchen, and even setting the table was the helpful gesture of a thoughtful guest, not the act of an invited servant. This adaptability, these indefinable yet perceptible nuances were also somehow disquieting—it was a game, a performance almost, and he could well imagine that at private parties Blurtmehl could and would play every role: the host, the servant, the host/servant, the helpful guest who made it possible to forget that he was a servant. Blurtmehl mixed him a cocktail that actually managed to lift him out of his weariness: allowed him to forget Sabine, conference, interviews, Bleibl, and the leveling of Tolmshoven. Blurtmehl put on a cassette (low-volume Chopin), sliced onions in the kitchen, cheerful, almost gay, seemed a different person and not the least bit embarrassed when Käthe, now that Sabine had moved to her brother’s, offered Eva the guest apartment after all, with the words: “At least you won’t be on two different floors then!” He heard them laughing in the kitchen: a gourmet omelet mixture was being prepared, cans of soup were opened and bottles uncorked in honor of the occasion, and Blurtmehl confessed that, although he was very fond of caviar, he had never had the nerve to buy any, and not even this remark, which was an unmistakable allusion to social differences, disturbed the harmony.