An Ermine in Czernopol (45 page)

The room groaned with laughter. The woman known as Theophila said: “That was fabulous, Adamchik, truly fabulous. Where does he come up with all of that?”

“The happy isolation of the man,” Herr Adamowski went on, after granting just enough time for the applause to play out, “
que sedet post fornacem et habet bonam pacem
—you laugh, my esteemed friends, but deep down you also feel envy for such a person. You would not be able to resist his powers of persuasion, as I myself experienced in a recent visit to Fräulein Paulette and the parents of the young man there in the corner who is reading so nicely and at the same time listening so intently …”

I now had to acknowledge that the laughter was meant for me and acted as if I was so deeply engrossed in my reading as to give the lie to Herr Adamowski's comment. At the same time I was ashamed of being afraid to openly admit that I had been listening in on the conversation—after all, no one could have held it against me. But we often lose our nerve in milieux that we disdain, and when that happens we easily lose our candor as well—otherwise the most reliable of our virtues. However, the embarrassing situation I found myself in did lead me to understand what Herr Adamowski said a little later about the “chemical” makeup of human relationships. Meanwhile he went on:

“The person, Ladies and Gentlemen, who
cultivates his garden
, has a certain unimpeachability, and indeed, I would feel as though I were ignoring my calling if I missed an opportunity to uphold this as an ideal worthy of the highest striving, to lay it as a charge on the general public—in all earnestness! And herein lies another contradiction: on the one hand, the genuine regret that such happy, modest people are harder and harder to find, and a certain indignation that such a lifestyle still exists—an almost criminal removal from the world, a selfish consumption of time that is actually antisocial, just like someone secretly nibbling from the common larder. I only mention it as one example among many …”

“Fabulous,” said Theophila. “Truly, truly fabulous, Adamchik!”

“You will see, Ladies and Gentlemen,” said Herr Adamowski, baring his saw-teeth, “that people show so little understanding for the difficulties of our profession, for the true dilemma that lies at its core, that they begin to mistrust it.” Laughter echoed along the bookcases. “It is so grossly underappreciated that people are inclined to link our efforts to this cause or that—because they fail to understand that journalism is a cause in and of itself. And yet people will dismiss even its most serious attempts to convince the public exactly how great its own misfortune truly is.” Laughter. “I see a time approaching when people will no longer speak of the
terribles simplificateurs
, but of the
terribles complicateurs
…”

“Magnificent,” said Theophila, thoroughly exhausted. She nodded to Fellner, who wriggled uncomfortably on his armchair as he relayed the nodding and sighing on to Leutgeb and Kopetzki. “Simply fabulous.”

“You see, Ladies and Gentlemen,” said Herr Adamowski, “people reproach us for the fact that what we produce—i.e., the newspapers—is so open to dispute. Of course this criticism comes in various degrees, but that is the general accusation. I'm not talking about the loss that occurs between an idea and its execution, between the vision, so to speak, and the hand that gives it form—everyone knows that the best things are always lost in this process. I mean the fundamental misconception that someone who undertakes to put out a newspaper would ever be able to create anything but a newspaper …”

Fellner slapped his thigh and immediately hid his hands again, aware of his faux pas. Leutgeb grumbled, and Kopetzki coughed on his pipe smoke when he started to laugh. “This ought to be written down word for word,” said Theophila, suddenly very serious.

I was watching Aunt Paulette. She was sitting opposite Herr Adamowski, between Fellner and Kopetzki, evidently unmoved. She did not take part in the bursts of applause that were elicited by every other word and came cascading down like loose scree sliding down a mountain. I could tell that she felt the same inner aversion for the surroundings as I did—that she, too, could not abide the peculiar atmosphere, the combination of slovenly comfort, unabashed abandon, and an extreme but nonetheless futile attentiveness. It was as if Herr Adamowski's gait were a feature of his words, in the stamping rhythm that resounded in all those present in the room: rearing up and straining excessively on the upswing, and then collapsing onto itself, as the ambitious stamping leg fell onto the careless swinging leg. We could even smell his sweat, for there was nothing comic to his remarks, which were clearly meant to be taken very seriously. The whole performance was like a feat of strength when the athlete is clearly straining and seeks to escape into the grotesque by clownishly exaggerating his own grimace. Herr Adamowski's own contortions, under a burden that made his forehead bead over with sweat, were repulsive. Today it seems to me that I must have compared his pitiful efforts with Herr Tarangolian's expertise, the juggler-like ease and fluidity with which the prefect mastered the most tangled trains of thought, evincing far more wit than Herr Adamowski was ever able to wrestle out of the angel of
esprit
. I'm not saying that I realized then that the Latin's intellectuality could best be described with the French word
lucidité
, for which there is no German equivalent, but certainly it was that moment that led to my ultimate understanding that the secret to such clarity of intellect lies in the power of discernment, the ability to differentiate the truly simple from the truly complicated—in other words a sense of tact that accords each person his own room to move.

I found Herr Adamowski's guests even more disagreeable than I did the host himself. They were delighted with his faux clown act, wallowed in his sweat, so to speak. The graceless laughter of the men, and Theophila's idiotic, vacuous enthusiasm were better suited to a fairgrounds sideshow than a kaffeeklatsch. In a word: I was in bad company, and, as usual, profited greatly from the experience.

For my own insights were immediately deepened and strengthened as he went on riding his hobbyhorse.

“Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, and I suddenly realized that his relentless holding forth was meant as a provocation for Aunt Paulette. “Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, you don't realize how much of being a journalist is really about innate aptitude. Take, for example, our young colleague from the other school, so to speak: Herr Alexianu of the
Vocea.
This youthful firebrand has literally been dubbed a knight of the press, and by someone to whom we also have a certain connection …” Laughter. “The slap that Herr A. received from this person—there's no need to mention any names—was an act of initiation, a rite of admission, so to speak. The vague inclinations that had merely seethed beneath the surface of this young man suddenly took shape after this painful introduction to manhood. As I say: we are not molded by ourselves alone, by the inner core of our being, but from the outside as well—for example, by the general quality of the times, isn't that right? The true man is revealed to himself and all others first by his enemies. Only when his hatred has a tangible goal does he come into his own, does he find himself. In this connection it is interesting to think of the theory postulated by the well-known Herr Năstase—I will spare a commentary.” Laughter. “According to him there is among men a very definite, let us say, measuring stick, for ranking individual prestige. And widespread feelings of insecurity come from the fact that this—again, let us call it a measuring stick—is seen in its proper proportion where it pertains to others, but in our own case is almost always viewed from above, and so appears foreshortened. Only the condition of exaltation reverses this image, because the elevation to a horizontal plane brings one's own expanded capacity to view, while the optical illusion ceases to play tricks with regard to the other when the focus is on the other. But precisely in this state one should not underestimate the other …” Groaning laughter. “I don't wish to make this mistake. As a journalist I am duty-bound to be objective …” Enormous merriment. “Therefore I am full of admiration for the upright hatred exhibited by Herr A…. All joking aside, Ladies and Gentlemen, we cannot pay enough attention to our young colleague's journalistic success. His holy excitement has made him the guardian spirit of the entire press. His paper, the
Vocea
, which had the keen sense to hire him, is not the only one that has experienced an unprecedented upswing. I'm sure you know how much our own circulation has risen thanks to him, ever since my friend Feuer's response rekindled the general interest in reading newspapers …” Merriment. “Recently this stimulating effect has spread elsewhere as well. The newspaper of the Ukrainian minority,
Narodny Dym
, which you see lying here, has published an incisive piece examining the general legal state of minorities in light of the purge-concept propounded by Herr Ali—exactly what people want to read, my friends, a true example of the press as mouthpiece for the public …” Laughter. “Other ethnic groups won't be far behind, either. So you can see that the spirit that has filled our young genius is one of general enlivenment. And so please bear in mind that being a journalist entails a lot more than curiosity for events, joy in expressing yourself, and a certain talent for writing. You have to be animated by a specific will to assert yourself, rather like a washerwoman using indelible ink to number items of especially fine and beautiful clothing—all to make sure they are returned to the rightful owner …”

“Wonderful, Adamchik,” groaned Theophila, “truly wonderful. Where does he come up with all of this?”

“And to think that this act of will can be conjured by a slap on the face!” Herr Adamowski continued, teeth bared and monocle flashing. “Yes, my dear friends, once we realize that true human relations occur as chemical reactions, outside all logic and even morality, then we land smack in the middle of alchemy. What spirit guided the hand that with one stroke made a hitherto chaste youth into a man, a human being full of the desire and distress of his hatred—with no apparent cause, mind you—it's impossible to have any delusion in the matter, this is not about motives, but a metaphysical rite of initiation, the meaning of which we are able to discern with increasing clarity as it plays out. I tell you, we live in a magical hour, and so it is our human duty to ask, and with the greatest concern: How is the general health of the assembly?”

“Fabulous, Adamchik,” said Theophila. “Ready for print. Amazingly clever. You're outdoing yourself lately.”

Disgust filled me with a restless despair. I was now looking openly at Aunt Paulette, no longer pretending that I was reading my book, and I knew at once that she was lost. I understood that what drew her here was a similar despair, although hers was far deeper and more relentless. Her self-contempt formed a bond of kinship with these people. The terrible act of exposure contained in Herr Adamowski's words must have transformed this contempt into lust. I recalled one of Herr Tarangolian's lines: “
Because if you live in a world so full of disdain and contempt, armed with nothing but your own scorned existence
…” and a terrible pronouncement of the smirking Kunzelmann: “
Humor is when people laugh in spite of everything
…”

At that moment the doorbell rang, and Herr Adamowski got up, saying, “Aha, she decided to come after all …” and rocked out of the room to open the door for a new guest.

It was Tamara Tildy.

She entered with a shy, apologetic smile, nodded to all present, and said, when I was introduced to her, “How is your sister?” She smiled as she explained: “I once wanted to give his little sister my necklace. If I had only done so—but I had mislaid it somewhere, back then. Now I no longer have it.”

Fellner squirmed in his seat, and Kopetzki choked again and coughed prolifically. Aunt Paulette didn't move, and Theophila in the taffeta dress was also frozen in a mix of hostile defensiveness and gruesome curiosity that was evident in her hard eyes.

Tamara Tildy sat down in a chair that Herr Adamowski had wedged into the circle after freeing it from a load of magazines. Fellner came to his aid, brushing off the dust that had collected there with his handkerchief.

Madame Tildy smiled with strained grace, a little painfully, to each guest, one by one, and as she did so her head rocked slowly and slackly to the side, as if she had just woken up from a deep slumber full of happy dreams—a recuperative sleep following a long, strength-sapping illness. She was dressed in the trappings of a bygone elegance, faded and exceptionally feminine, with an abundance of silk scarves as delicate as veils, now frayed and torn. Her silver brocade jacket was now tarnished to a shade of black that hardly matched the hour, much less her delicate woolen dress, which was light-colored and summery. She was carrying a gold mesh purse, clutching it somewhat frantically, as if she were afraid someone might take it from her; its long chain was forever getting caught in the fringes, corners, folds, and bulges of her overburdened attire.

“It's nice that you could make it after all, my dear,” said Herr Adamowski, staggering around to set a glass of liqueur in front of her. No one seemed astounded at the embarrassing way he addressed her.

“Yes, my friend, I have come to you,” said Madame Tildy gently. “You know that. I always come to you, day after day …” Below her sharp hooked nose, her doll-like mouth expressed a tender irony.

“Here, I have a present for you,” said Herr Adamowski, placing a delicate, high-stemmed glass of rare shape on the table in front of her.

“A Murano glass,” said Tamara Tildy in a cheery voice that was agonizingly distant. “From Venice … I'll put it in my room, in the middle of the floor. It will be very beautiful there, all alone in its beauty.”