The Blind Side of the Heart (25 page)

Our aunt invited us to stay. She has lots of friends. Helene made a vague gesture. I’m afraid I have to leave now.

Of course. May I accompany you? I don’t think you ought to be limping home alone through the empty streets.

Yes, please. I’d like that. I’m afraid, she said, thinking of the pigeons picking seeds out of the ashes in the Cinderella story, that I don’t have either ashes or pigeons to lend me charms. Then she realized that her ears were burning; she had meant to suggest not so much charms as virginal patience.

Helene said goodbye to her aunt. Fanny didn’t even deign to look at the young student Wertheimer, but assured Helene that Otta would open the door to her when she got home.

It was light now outside. The birds were twittering softly to greet the summer day, although it had dawned long ago and the street lights were out. A cab was waiting for custom. Clearly people must be beginning to go to work. A newspaper boy stood on the corner offering the
Morgenpost
and the
Querschnitt
.

The
Querschnitt
on the street so early in the morning, said Carl, smiling and shaking his head.

Helene was enjoying her encounter with Wertheimer, and as they asked each other the first tentative questions about their lives she did not tell him how close they were to where she was staying. One foot shod, the other bare and touching the paving stones, Helene felt the sticky surface of the street. The lime trees had been dropping their nectar overnight.

Come, let’s conceal ourselves more closely
 . . . Wertheimer looked enquiringly at Helene to see if she recognized his quotation from the poet Else Laske-Schüler.

Life lies in all our hearts.
Quickly, casually, Helene tossed the next line back to him.

As if in coffins.
Wertheimer happily completed the second verse of the poem. But Helene said no more; she just smiled.

What is it? he asked. Won’t you go on?

I’ve forgotten how the rest of it goes.

I don’t believe that. He looked surprised and a little sorry, but she mollified him.

You say it so cheerfully, but ‘The End of the World’ is a sad poem, don’t you think?

You call it sad? It’s optimistic, Helene! What can be fuller of promise than devotion, a kiss, a longing that embraces us and brings us to the point of death?

You believe she was thinking of God when she wrote it?

Not at all, the divine is closer to her. How does the poem begin? Why, with many doubts! She speaks of
weeping as if the good Lord God were dead
. But if she believed in God she’d assume he was immortal, so it’s a double rejection of faith; she doesn’t believe in the good Lord any more than an evil Lord or any other kind of god. Is the death of God supposed to make the world weep for him or because it’s rid of him?

Helene looked at Wertheimer. She mustn’t forget to close her lips. Didn’t Martha keep telling her to shut her mouth or insects would fly into it? She had never heard anyone discuss a poem like this.

But wasn’t the poem hers, all hers? Waxing enthusiastic, Helene was talking away now, for her poem rather than her life, although with a man like Wertheimer you couldn’t draw sharp distinctions between the two.

Laske-Schüler doesn’t regale herself on God, she doesn’t regale herself on mankind and their sufferings either, she grants them only a kiss before dying. Believe me, her own mortality, looking her in the face – whether she’s to die of longing and in tears or not – human mortality, her understanding that it’s inevitable, all that’s clearly opposed to God’s immortality.

Do you always read poems backwards?

Only if I meet someone who insists on linearity.

The young man was going to take the tram or a bus and turned the corner.

So you, with your Latinate terms – regaling yourself on them, in fact! – you accuse me of insisting on linearity? I like to take a winding path myself, but I won’t insist on anything, certainly not to you. There was severity in Wertheimer’s words, but the next moment mischief was sparkling in his eyes. How about all that cultural and scientific stuff? Tell me, don’t you think all our efforts are shocking presumption? Doesn’t a club where anyone can be chairman have the biggest membership? Is Dada a wastepaper basket for art?

Helene thought about it. What’s wrong with differences, can you tell me that? It was an honest question, after all, Helene thought. Who was bothered by all the clubs, so long as everyone could found one and go there as often as he wanted?

At the Kurfürstendamm they let the first tram pass; it was crowded, only brave souls would clamber aboard and their conversation would admit no pause, wouldn’t be interrupted even for the courage to try a kiss.

You know Büchner’s
Lenz
, what is Lenz suffering from, Helene?

Helene saw the curiosity with which Carl awaited her answer. She hesitated. From being different. Is that what you mean? But difference doesn’t always cause suffering.

It doesn’t? Suddenly Carl Wertheimer seemed to know what he was getting at; he wasn’t waiting for her answer any more. You’re a woman, I’m a man – do you think that means happiness?

Helene had to laugh. She shrugged her shoulders. What else, Herr Wertheimer?

Yes, of course, you’ll say that, Helene. At least, I hope so. That’s permitted. But only because happiness and suffering aren’t mutually exclusive. Far from it. Suffering embraces the idea of happiness, keeps it safe inside itself, so to speak. The idea of happiness can never be lost in suffering.

Except that the idea of happiness and happiness itself are different things. Helene felt that she was walking slowly, hobbling along. Briefly, she noticed how her feet hurt. But Lenz has everything, his clouds are rosy, the heavens shine down – everything that others only dream of.

Helene and Carl boarded a bus going east and sat down. The wind was blowing in their faces and Carl put his coat round Helene’s shoulders to keep her warm.

But that makes Büchner’s Lenz suffer, objected Carl. What are the clouds or the mountains to him if he doesn’t win Pastor Oberlin over?

Win him over? Helene thought she had spotted something vague in Carl’s chain of thought; she was paying close attention and couldn’t help noticing. Perhaps he had misunderstood her.

What brings you and your sister to Berlin? Just a visit to your aunt?

Helene nodded firmly. A long visit; we’ve been here three years now. Helene snuggled her chin into the fur collar of his coat. How soft it was, how nice it smelled; a fur collar in summer. Martha works at the Jewish Hospital. I used to be a nurse too, I passed my exams while we were still living in Bautzen, but it isn’t easy for a nurse to get a job here in Berlin if she’s very young and doesn’t have any references. Helene’s feet were sore. She wondered whether to tell him that today was her birthday and she was going to begin an evening course in grammar-school education for girls, adding that she would like to study at college after that, but she decided not to. After all, her birthday was eight hours in the past and the morning sun now shining in her face, the first summer sunlight since the solstice, was more important while she felt that fur collar against her cheek.

So young? Carl looked at her, estimating her age. Helene’s cheeks were glowing. Her feet were cold now, one shoe lay on her lap, her dress, drenched from all that dancing, stuck to her back and made her shiver, but her cheeks were burning and she smiled as she returned Carl’s glance.

He leaned over to her. Helene thought he was going to kiss her, but he only whispered softly in her ear: If I dared, I’d give you a kiss.

Helene drew her thin scarf more closely round her shoulders. She glanced through the leaves of the plane trees and saw the shops they were passing. Oh, she cried, jumping up, we have to get out here.

But we’ve only gone one stop. Wertheimer was following her down the steps of the bus and out into the street.

Helene was limping, her unshod right leg much shorter than her left leg now.

I’d carry you, Helene, but perhaps you wouldn’t like it.

What makes you think that, she asked, rolling her eyes. The night had left her in high spirits and the bright morning made her feel braver. Contentedly, she put her arms round Carl Wertheimer. Surprised, he hesitated for a moment. But he had hardly put his own arms round her to pick her up when she gave him a quick kiss – his cheek was rough – and then, in friendly fashion, pushed him away.

The sun’s already shining. Helene stopped, leaned on Carl Wertheimer’s shoulder and took off her other shoe. Don’t worry, these paving stones are warm.

She was several steps ahead of him now and, as he tried to catch up, she began to run. She told herself he would kiss her goodbye. Suddenly it seemed to Helene as if she could see right through people and knew exactly what action would lead to what result. She could handle people, all of them, pull the strings as if they were marionettes, in particular she could handle Carl Wertheimer, who she knew was behind her, whose steps were coming closer and closer, whose hand she felt on her shoulder next moment. She stopped outside the apartment and turned to Carl Wertheimer. He took her hand, drew her into the entrance of the building and laid his hand against her cheek.

So soft, he said. Helene liked the touch of his hand, she thought she could encourage her new friend, put her own hand on his, pressing it to her face, and kissed its roughened back. Cautiously, she raised her eyes to his. One of Carl’s eyelids was fluttering, only one, like a frightened young bird. Perhaps he’d never kissed a girl before. He drew her towards him. She liked the sensation of his mouth on her hair. Helene didn’t know what to do with her hands; his coat seemed to get in the way, it was too bulky. She put one hand to his temples, his cheekbones, his eye sockets, seeking out the fluttering eyelid with one finger. Then, protectively, she laid her fingers on the lid as if to calm it down. Helene felt a stitch in her side and took a deep breath. She took care to breathe regularly, as regularly as possible. In Carl Wertheimer’s embrace she was neither short nor tall, his hands on her bare neck warmed her and brought gooseflesh out on her bare arms. Helene had to give herself a little shake. This man’s touch was still unknown to her, but her desire was all the more familiar for that. A blackbird sang its loud song, a second drowned it out, first trilling, then whistling – its notes were a triad in a lower register than the first bird, then the two blackbirds began singing in competition. Helene spluttered with excitement, which he might take as laughter. Then she felt his grave gaze resting on her and her laughter died down. She felt ashamed of herself, she was afraid he might have noticed the sense of omnipotence that she had just been feeling, but now there was nothing left of it, it was an empty husk once the kernel had dropped to the ground, leaving nothing but the appearance of arrogance or even vanity, and he wouldn’t think much of that. She wondered what he wanted. What he wanted in general and what he wanted of her. Her heart was in her mouth. They had to part now.

Proudly, she told him that they had recently acquired a telephone.

Carl Wertheimer didn’t ask what the number was. It was as if he hadn’t heard her. He watched her go and waved. She waved back. Her hands were warm.

As she raised the heavy brass ring on Fanny’s fine front door to knock – for she had firmly determined not to look round at Carl again – and as Otta opened the door in her cap and apron, fully dressed already, Helene doubted whether Carl would telephone. Perhaps he wanted an affair, perhaps just a kiss and he’d already had that. Very likely that was all and he didn’t want any more.

There was an aroma of coffee in the air, the grandfather clock struck, it was six-thirty. Helene heard the familiar clatter of cutlery and china from the kitchen; the cook would be brewing the coffee there, already preparing breakfast in spite of the absence of her mistress and the rest of them, cutting up poppyseed cake, stirring the porridge that Fanny liked as soon as she felt able to eat something in the morning. Helene did not feel at all tired. Stepping lightly as if her feet were still dancing to the music of trumpet and clarinet, she went out on the veranda and dropped into one of the low upholstered chairs. Her hair, which hardly came down as far as her nose now, smelled of smoke. She felt the back of her neck; she could move her head so easily without her long hair. She felt tempted to make rapid movements, and if she shook her head suddenly her hair fell over her face. Helene pulled off her false eyelashes. Her eyes were burning from last night’s cigarette smoke. As she put the false eyelashes on the table, she thought it would be nice if she could put her eyes down beside them. Cleo jumped out of her basket under the table, wagging her stumpy little tail and licking Helene’s hand. The dog’s tongue tickled. Helene thought of the goats in their garden at home in Tuchmacherstrasse, the goats that she had sometimes milked when she was a child. As she ran her fingers from top to bottom of the udder, its skin had felt rough against the palms of her hands and she had to wash her hands thoroughly, in hot water and with plenty of soap because the slightly rancid smell clung tenaciously. Rancid goat. She had escaped all that, thought Helene in relief, and as she settled comfortably into the soft upholstery of the chair she was only slightly and sweetly ashamed of feeling glad. What was the real point of escaping, Helene wondered, chasing through your life so fast? Be consistent, be consistent, Helene whispered to herself, and as she heard herself whispering she said out loud, in a firm voice, the concluding words of Büchner’s
Lenz
: Inconsistent, inconsistent. Helene patted the dog’s firm and curly coat. What a sweet little creature you are. Cleo’s floppy ears were soft and silky. Helene kissed the dog on her long muzzle; she had never kissed Cleo before, but this morning she just couldn’t help it.

T
he unexpected advent of Carl Wertheimer on the scene passed largely unnoticed in Fanny’s apartment. He did not call Helene on the telephone, but a messenger brought her flowers. Helene was surprised, alarmed, happy. She placed her hand protectively round the flowers, round the air encircling them, which seemed too dense to carry their faint fragrance. Like a treasure, she carried the anemones to her room. She was alone there and felt glad that Martha would not be back until late. She wondered where he had found anemones still in bloom now. She looked at the flowers; their blue changed during the day and the delicate petals grew heavy.