New Lives (74 page)

He heard shouts, but those were part of the game. And somebody punching the spy and pulling him from the bed frame—it was all in the plan. Just like kids. If they lose, they tear everything up. But he had to keep working. Here, where the pack had stood, there was still lots to do, countless heel marks in an unusual and complicated pattern.

And suddenly he saw him—the spy. The spy came out of the room. The spy didn't look upset or angry, not even sad. The spy hadn't screamed, he hadn't cried. The spy had his kit under his arm and a towel over his shoulder. He was holding tight to his pants with one hand. A couple of steps, and the spy had vanished into the washroom.

And Edgar went on working. He now realized that he had been standing still, still and erect, the waxer at his feet, the handle clamped perpendicular under his arm.

But first he had to memorize the patterns of the heel marks—at the very same moment that his waxer passed over them. It wasn't easy, but he worked hard, he could feel his stomach muscles. And at last he got his reward too. The faster he swiped back and forth with the waxer, the more clearly he could see the heel marks under the shine, locked in permanent ice.

[Letter of April 17, 1990]

         

Voting

—So twenty?

—Ten, four buttons, ten marks.

—Hey! You just said, twenty. Four buttons, twenty.

—Ten!—Michael held out his hand.

—No way, you doofus.—Rolf blinked through the smoke of his cigarette. As the ash fell it bounced off his sweater.

—Twenty.

—Ten. I've only got ten. Here.—Michael smiled and pulled a crumpled bill out of his pocket.

—Then you'd better start worryin' about how to come up with the rest. Twenty for four buttons.—Rolf flicked the butt into a flower bed and sat down on the rim of a trash can.

—And what if she's already here?—Michael checked his watch.

—You think they're waiting for
you
?—Rolf nodded in the direction of the polling place, where two photographers were standing at the entrance. A group of women emerged laughing. Two of them were holding little red flags. A man in a light-colored suit walking behind them sang: “So comrades, let us rally and the last fight let us…” and then fell silent when a few people turned around to look at him. The women snorted and nudged one another and walked faster.

Rolf rummaged in his sack. He pulled the red cap off a plastic bottle, filled it to the brim, and drank. He poured another and handed it to Michael.

—Smoking leaves a man thirsty.

—What's in it?—Michael gave it a cautious sip.

—Tea, what else?—Rolf grinned.

Michael sipped a second time and made a face.

—Take a gander!—Rolf whispered. A well-dressed, middle-aged couple had come to a halt not far from them. The man buckled forward as if he had a stitch in his side. The woman was trying to comfort him and caressed his shoulder briefly. The man stood up straight again. They linked arms and, taking small steps, slowly made their way to the polling place.

—Full ballot—Michael said.

—He hasn't gone for three days. I remember how it was with my old man.

—Three days?

—That's what I said!—Rolf drank straight from the bottle.—That's nothing for them. They used to hold out for a whole week.

—They didn't use to have anything to eat. That was no great feat back then.

—Bullshit! There's always been plenty right before elections, even chocolate. They really chowed down.

—My mother couldn't hold out any longer yesterday and started bawling, I mean really bawled. And my old man just kept going: You'll make it, you'll make it, you will. And when she wouldn't stop bawling, he said, okay, fine, do whatever you think is right.

Rolf whinnied.—Do whatever you think is right?…whatever you
think
?

—Do whatever you think is right—Michael repeated in all seriousness.

—And, did she?—Rolf coughed. He pulled out a pack of old Juwels and tapped it on the bottom until a filter popped out a little.

Michael shrugged.—Things calmed down. She crept back into bed or whatever. Do I get one?

—Moocher!—Rolf held out the pack.—I thought you didn't like the taste so early in the morning?—Rolf gave him a light.

—Look at 'em waddle.—Michael glanced over to the bus stop.

—They're used to it. They've been waddling their whole life long.

The oldsters had trouble stepping from the bus onto the sidewalk. Once they managed it, they hurried as fast as they could to the end of the waiting line.

—Why don't they order the mobile ballot box? I'd cast my vote with the mobile.

Rolf made a face.—Too revolting for me.

—Revolting, yes, but still better than a hullabaloo like this.

—Absolutely revolting.—Rolf downed the bottle in one gulp, screwed the top on, tapped the last few drops out of the red cap, and fit it back over the bottle.

—A mobile ballot box turns my stomach!—Rolf turned away to one side and let his spit drip down the trash can.

—Frau Rollman said the Free German Youth unhinged three doors, at least three.

—Three doors? They're not allowed to do that, not by law at least.

—Don't give me any bullshit, you'll see. It was an FGY initiative, from way high up.

—My grandma without a door, no way.

—Your grandma'll get a door.

—And Tina?

—Are you so dumb or do you just act like it?—Rolf let the spit splat on the sidewalk pavement between his sneakers.

—Dammit all!—Michael hid the cigarette in the palm of his hand.—Shit, they're waving, hey, they're waving us over!

—No need to piss your pants.—Rolf wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His cigarette fell to the ground, he wrapped the bag around his wrist, and followed Michael.

—Don't fall asleep, sports fans!—Michael and Rolf broke into a run the last few yards.

—So why the loitering?—The policeman hooked his thumbs into his belt.

—Just for once we were…

—I didn't ask how
often,
sports fans, the question was
why
!

—I'm not feeling good—Rolf said.

—But smoking like a chimney?

—An occasional cigarette.

—So what's that?—The policeman pointed to Rolf's right hand, to the yellow stains on his index and middle fingers.

Rolf winced.

—First-time voter, huh?

—Yes—Rolf and Michael responded both at once.

—Your papers!

Rolf and Michael handed the police their passports.

—So what's with all the trips to Czechoslovakia?

—Mountain climbers—Michael quickly replied. They could hear the radio in the police car. The shotgun responded as car 17.

—The Red Mountaineers, ever heard of 'em?—The policeman thumbed back and forth in their passports.

—Kurt Schlosser, sure, know about 'em—Michael said.

—The bag.—Rolf handed it over. The policeman unscrewed the bottle and sniffed.

—Chamomile tea, why's that?

—Little sick to my stomach—Rolf said.

—So why haven't you voted yet?

—Waitin' for a buddy.

—And what's the buddy's name?

—Sebastian—Michael said.—Sebastian Keller.

—Keller, Sebastian. Okay. And where does this Keller, Sebastian, live?

—Georg-Schumann Strasse, one hundred…

—Don't you own a blue shirt?

—I've got it on underneath—Michael pulled at the crewneck of his sweater and tugged the blue collar out over it.

—And you?

—I'm not in the FGY.

—Not in the youth organization?

—Religious reasons.

—But elections, I mean, casting your vote, you are going to cast your vote, right?

Rolf nodded warily.—Plan to.—Rolf turned around and spat on the lawn.

—Well then, enjoy yourself, have a good one!—He handed Rolf back both passports.—And congratulations as a first-time voter!—He gave a nonchalant salute. As he opened the driver's door of his Lada, his shotgun was just saying—Over and out!

Michael and Rolf shuffled in the direction of the polling place.

—What kind of shit was that, religious reasons?—Michael whispered.

—Didn't you see how he backed off?

—And what if he checks it out?

—What's he supposed to check out?

Squad car 17 passed by them and stopped right in front of the polling place.

—Religion is always good. They're even glad if you say you're religious and then tell them you're voting anyway.

—Have you ever imagined being the only person to do it.

—Do what?

—Cast a vote.

—What d'you mean, the only person?

—Just picture it. You come here to do it, and nobody else shows. You're the only one to vote, just you.

—Oh man…

—I'd die. I'd rather die.

—Why die?

—Because it would be so embarrassing. Everybody would say that's the guy who cast his vote, and then they'd giggle and shout stuff as I walked past.

—I'd like to have your problems, I mean really.

—I'll be damned, meathead, there's Tina. There!

The crowd in front of the polling place had begun to stir. The two photographers trotted toward the curb, a second squad car pulled up, a man with a tape recorder and mike around his neck was the first to step up in front of the family, in whose midst stood a young brunette of average height in a blue blouse, a bright red ribbon in her ponytail.

Running the last little bit, Rolf and Michael arrived to hear Tina tell the man with the tape recorder—Oh, quite normal really, like always, lots of exercise, healthy diet, lots of fresh air.—As the reporter was about to ask his second question, she added with a smile—And never get to bed too late.

Everyone laughed, Tina's dark eyes sparkled.

Michael pulled off his sweater, so that he was standing there in a blue shirt now too.

—Four, there are exactly four!—Rolf said in triumph. They had to stand on tiptoe.

—Twenty, Mishi, you owe me twenty. Four buttons!

Michael gazed spellbound at Tina's blue blouse and nodded.—Okay, okay.

—As far back as kindergarten—Tina said—I always pictured just what it would be like, casting my vote for the first time. We painted pictures of it, lots of times. And once we were even allowed to use modeling clay. We've still got that one at home in the living room.

Her father and mother nodded. Tina was the spitting image of her mother, down to the eyebrows almost merging.

—My vote is my good health. My parents taught me that early on. And I always envied my parents, how genuinely happy they were after they had cast their vote. Yes, really, they'd come home simply beaming. And I thought, I want to be able to do that too.

The faces of those waiting in line bore a look of concentration and strain, if anything was said at all it was in a low voice. The line was moving so slowly that some of them had sat down on the pavement, and didn't even stand up to edge forward.

—Is that really necessary?—a balding, skinny man asked as he emerged from the polling place. But the woman who was seated on the steps up to the entrance didn't answer. She didn't so much as look up. The volunteer election warden shook his head and walked on, greeting someone now and then and tugging at the knot of his tie. He stopped beside Michael.

—Comrade Becker!—he exclaimed.—Comrade Be…—An elbow struck him in the sternum. The volunteer doubled over.

—What are you making a pest of yourself for? This isn't your shindig—a young, sturdy guy in a beige anorak hissed.—Can't you see we're broadcasting?

The volunteer nodded and raised a conciliatory hand. He gave a little cough, he cleared his throat, but then stood up straight and reached for the knot of his tie.

—My favorite book is
Fate of a Man
by Mikhail Sholokhov, I found it very moving, such a hard and difficult life, and he struggles and hopes because he wants life to be beautiful. And I have to add that that Sholokhov manages in a hundred pages to capture a man's fate, where other authors write big fat books and have far less to say, yes, Sholokov.

[Letter of April 21, 1990]

I really do admire him. And Aitmatov,
Jamila,
how difficult happiness can be, yes, Aitmatov and Sholokhov.

The volunteer held his left arm up high and tapped his watch. The young guy in the beige anorak cast him a suspicious glance.

—Can it.

—Schedule. We do have a schedule.

—So do we.—The young guy in the beige anorak gave him a gloating grin.

—I think I'm well prepared. And I'm looking forward to being able to cast my vote now. And I'm also happy to be doing it together with other first-time voters.

The volunteer reached into the sleeve of his sport coat and pulled his shirt cuff down. He was watching Michael out of the corner of one eye.

—First-time voter?

Michael nodded.

—And you?

—First-timer too.

—And where's your blue shirt?

—Forgot.

The volunteer was still plucking at his sleeves.—Come along with me, we're going inside right now—he told Michael.

—Me?

—Got your passport? Police record?

—No, I mean, yes, I have my passport.

—Me too?

The volunteer gave a quick shake of his head. He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and stared at Michael.

—Comb your hair, and don't fall asleep when the time comes.

The volunteer handed Michael a little white comb and stood on tiptoe.

—We, my friend and I, he's a first-timer too, we actually wanted to do it together….

—Without a blue shirt? Sorry.

—And if I go get one, I live nearby…

The volunteer took a little hop to one side.—Comrade Becker, Wilfried, here, here I am!—He was waving both arms and running along the queue in the direction of the entrance. Michael and Rolf followed the volunteer.

—Doofus! You're such a doofus.

—I can't help it, I just asked him if…

—Such an asshole!

Suddenly the volunteer pulled Michael by the arm, and a moment later the bright red bow of Tina's ponytail was right in front of his nose. The collar of her blue blouse was rolled up a little. She smelled of shampoo and fresh underwear. Somebody pushed him from behind.—Doofus!—a voice shouted.

In the next instant Michael found himself pressing against Tina. He could feel her rear end, her hair, a shoulder.

—Oh, oooh.

She turned halfway to him so that he could see the dimple on her right cheek.

—Oh, beg your pardon, but…

Michael fumbled for his passport. When he looked up the ribbon and ponytail had vanished. There was the odor of stale air, footsteps echoed through the large tiled room, whose far wall was glass brick. The election commission behind separated desks stood up like a school class and waited. Dead center was the ballot box, a piece of standard stationery covered its opening. The banner on the wall behind it proclaimed in white letters against a red background:
OUR VOTES FOR THE CANDIDATES OF THE NATIONAL FRONT
!