The Boxer (24 page)

“I’d like to start giving lessons again,” Irma said.

“Where?”

“Here, of course. I don’t have another apartment.”

“Out of the question,” Aron said. “I don’t have another apartment either.”

Because they were together all the time now, they began to fight. The problem was that Irma, who Aron admits was a quiet and by no means a know-it-all woman, was
only boring
. She never tried to back up her point of view with solid arguments. After a discussion she would retreat, hurt, to the kitchen or to the other room; in bed she turned to the other side. However, she bore the tension for no longer than three days; then Aron could be certain that her attempts at conciliation would begin, as was the case this time. When three days later she started to caress him, he admitted to being unjust. He said he could not expect her to lead the same inactive life he did and, if she still wanted to, she could bring her piano students to the house.

“Oh, Arno,” she cried.

“But be merciful and don’t take too many,” he said.

“There must be silence for at least a couple of hours a day.”

She prattled away thankfully. She didn’t know if she would find students in the first place; she wanted to ask around in the neighborhood and put an ad in the papers; it was definitely not for the money, even if a couple of extra marks couldn’t hurt; he would not regret giving his consent.

In the end they found so many candidates that Irma had to turn some of them away. Aron had conceded her three hours a day, but demanded free weekends, so she could give fifteen lessons a week, earning five marks a lesson. Early on, Aron would sit quietly in the corner and listen, but I can certainly imagine, he says, how long he found this enjoyable. In the neighboring room he stuffed cotton into his ears and read a book or he went out for a walk.

He couldn’t walk too far; the doctor had in fact recommended walks but at the same time had warned him against too much walking,
so the view always remained the same
. In the neighborhood there was a bar that Aron had never noticed before and that interested him more and more with every passing day; every time he walked by, an enticing noise was coming through the door.
Simple people
. He caught himself taking detours in order to avoid the place. If the desire became too strong, he would think of his last heart attack; that held him back for a couple of days. Then he told himself boredom could also lead to a heart attack and sat down at a table. He ordered cognac
again
and enjoyed the restlessness all around.

By the following visit he had already made acquaintances; at the tables most people played cards, skat or sixty-six. Aron still remembered the rules of sixty-six; he joined in, they played for drinks or small sums of money. More important than profit or loss was the distraction —
you look at the watch and are grateful at how much time has passed
. It often happened that he came home late at night and drunk, but Irma never reprimanded him. She only said he knew best about his health and should not exaggerate. Aron reacted curtly and would not be lectured. He reproached her that it wasn’t the liquor that made him drunk but her; without her tedious lessons he wouldn’t be obliged to drink a drop. She said no more.

In the middle of a card game he clutched his chest and fell from the chair. He was carried into a separate room; his fellow players didn’t know what to do. They laid him down comfortably, opened his shirt, and waited for him to drink some water. An hour later he stood up; in the meantime an emergency doctor had arrived and given him an injection. Irma immediately understood what had happened to him. The next morning Aron told her, “You saw, I tried my best, but it doesn’t work.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The piano lessons.”

“Yes.”

She begged him to be patient, if only for one more full week, until each student had been to her once. Otherwise, she would have to go to the apartment of each child and resign, and she didn’t know all their addresses. Aron agreed. During the last week of tinkling he no longer went to the bar. If I wanted to, he says, I could calculate exactly how many hours he was
forced to spend
in that bar. Irma had earned over
three thousand marks
with her lessons.

I
CAN‘T HELP THINKING THAT
, for some time now, Aron’s stories have been becoming increasingly long-winded. He often expands the most insignificant event into half a novel or, worse, he tries to enhance the value of minor matters by lacing them with generalized aphorisms. He no longer simply informs me that after a bout of the flu Mark got out of bed too soon and the next thing you know he came down with pneumonia; now he also says, “The greatest enemy of mankind is impatience.”

To the question what is the explanation for this transformation in his narrative style, I find only one reasonable answer: he wants to postpone the end of our interview. He and he alone knows how extensive his supply of stories is — quite small, I presume — and he’s afraid of having to inform me, sooner or later, that there is nothing more to tell. He’s afraid of being lonely again, the way he was before we met. Which means he believes that, as soon as he finishes his story, I’m quite capable of saying good-bye and never showing up again. This thought concerns me. Of course I can’t say, “Don’t worry, Aron, go on with your story just as you have so far, but without these digressions that no one’s interested in. I’ll still come and visit you after our work is done, as often as you like.” Instead, I just sit there trying to look interested, nodding at every third word, and feeling uneasy. For the first time I realize that I’ve taken a place in Aron’s life from which there is no retreat, at least not an honorable one. And it is absolutely irrelevant whether or not that makes me comfortable.

I ask Aron if, like me, he thinks that he is largely to blame for his loneliness, and if he hasn’t withdrawn from everything and everyone a bit too recklessly. Aron replies without hesitating, “I didn’t choose what happened to me.”

“That’s exactly what I’m reproaching you for.”

“One can only choose when there is an option,” he says.

To tell him that such an option exists doesn’t make much sense. He would ask for a list, then I would say first, second, third, and he would immediately start discarding each of these possibilities as silly and not worth talking about. “Such trivialities should be a alternative?” he would ask, without believing me when I say that only the sum of these little activities can lead to a sense of peace. Nevertheless, I tell him that, for example, he could have become caretaker for old people.

“With my impatience?” he asks. “With my heart? I need a caretaker myself.”

Or he could have worked in some business, as a bookkeeper or company secretary, just part-time if he preferred. People like him are desperately needed nowadays.

“I have enough money to live off,” he says.

“Who’s talking about money, damn it!” I cry.

I force myself to calm down and explain that all my suggestions were simply hypothetical, what he might do on his own to extricate himself from his loneliness. Happiness, I say, comes only from interaction with other people, that’s how I see it in any case, never in seclusion, and not through hobbies. Aside from a few technical acquisitions, I say, he still lives in the Stone Age. All around him the most important social changes are taking place, but he refuses to get involved. Not even his attitude toward these changes, be it pro or con, is clear.

I say, “You have papers that identify you as a victim of fascism and certify that you have a right to all kinds of special privileges. Nothing wrong with that, but does that suffice? Don’t get me wrong, but in the long run is that a tolerable situation, to be nothing more than a victim of fascism?”

“Do you want me to return my papers?” Aron asks.

And I say, “Oh, my God.”

And he says, “Don’t get angry, I’m going to die soon anyway.”

And I say, “I’m overwhelmed by compassion.”

G
o ahead and ask me,” Aron says, “what I agree with and what I disapprove of. You can barely wait.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,”I say.

“Of course you do,” he says.

Another misunderstanding. Time and again, I think, he’s tormented by the suspicion that our conversations are actually interrogations in disguise. But, it occurs to me, only people who are suspected of a crime are interrogated. What does he think I suspect him of? No, witnesses are also interrogated; I hope that in his conviction this fact doesn’t escape him. I say, “I won’t ask you something I already know.”

Aron squints at me, because I think I’m so clever. “You know my political opinions?” he asks.

“More or less,” I say.

“How?”.

“We’ve known each other long enough.”

“Really now,” he says. He doesn’t seem to be able to make up his mind whether to laugh or be angry. “Do me a favor and tell me what they are,” he says.

“Your opinions?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you knew them.”

My weak joke doesn’t faze Aron in the least; I can tell that he’s determined not to say another word until I satisfy his wish. So that he won’t consider me a charlatan, I start off by saying that, naturally, these are all suppositions, which nonetheless are founded on observations, or on sentences he has used in various circumstances. He nods impatiently, then I begin. For starters, I say that his attitude toward all social order — between the two of us or with anyone else — is primarily determined by self-interest. It all depends on how much he can gain from it personally.

“That’s a cliché,” Aron says. “What can be said about everybody can be said about me. Go on.”

His relationship to East German Socialism I describe as well-wishing disinterest. Since he never took the trouble to follow the laws that are at the basis of social development, all his likes and dislikes must necessarily be dictated by his moods, his whims. Given which, I say, the situation of other people in the country does not concern him; that’s what I had meant previously by self-interest. He probably approves of the fact that prosperity is more equally distributed now than before, but only marginally. He probably finds that the greatest advantage is that he is no longer persecuted.

“You mean as a Jew?”

“Yes.”

“Am I a Jew?”

I laugh and don’t know what to answer — a joke, I think. Aron says, “All right, we’ll talk about that later.

Go on.”

Political objectives don’t interest him, I continue. Because he doesn’t participate in life, the differences between socialism and capitalism are purely theoretical for him and therefore relatively unimportant. The only thing he’s afraid of is fascism. An unsolvable contradiction: he’s glad that no one threatens his seclusion, which is his greatest misery. A pinch of peripheral indignation, about the war in Indochina, the persecution of blacks in South Africa, the reign of terror in Chile — all this is both reprehensible and unreasonable, but the main point is that it is taking place far away, outside his apartment. He has enough money to afford the bare necessities; his pension is generous because of the labor he was unjustly forced to do in the past and therefore is not charity but salary. What is most disturbing about this new state of things is that it does not offer enough distractions. It’s not colorful enough for him; as far as he’s concerned, the entertainment industry is not doing very well. “You wanted to hear it,” I say, curious.

Aron rubs his cold fingers, which suffer from poor circulation. He says, in a reproachful tone, I was better than he had suspected. I forgot only one thing, the most important, though, namely the justification for his apparently inexcusable behavior. Can I imagine, he asks, that there is a kind of weariness that makes all action impossible?

“Yes, I can.”

And he who is overcome by that weariness barely has the strength, he says, even to take care of himself. The weariness he means should not be confused with resignation, although he understands that to an outsider they may appear one and the same, but he is referring to weariness. He didn’t ask for it and he didn’t want to give in to it so soon, on the contrary. The fight against fatigue was the last and perhaps the most difficult in his life, and he lost it. He is fully aware that it is more commendable to die with your boots on than to end your life in what one might call, to be harsh, inner infirmity. Like a wind, he says, that ceases so indiscernibly that no one is even aware of it. He had certainly never been a great fighter, yet he is totally convinced that this powerful fatigue has brought greater fighting natures than his to the ground.

“But I know that doesn’t mean much to you,” he says.

*  *  *

O
ne day, a few weeks before Mark’s summer holiday, Irma asked, “Why don’t we ever go on a trip?”

And Mark immediately cried out, “Yes, let’s take atrip.”

Aron couldn’t resist, simply because of Mark’s enthusiasm. Traveling a little is a vital part of education, he says, and he wasn’t uninterested either; a holiday meant distraction from the constant tedium that had come to plague him. He even thought it likely that, of the three, he needed a change of place more than anyone, the only question was where. He didn’t know anyone in the country; he remembers the few trips he took before the war: To Carlsbad, Helgoland, Bad Schandau, an expensive holiday with Linda London in Davos; the sea had made the greatest impression on him, the sea was the most obvious difference compared with his daily life. “What do you think of going to the sea?” he said.

Irma smiled, satisfied, and Mark hugged
her
for joy. Aron saw that Mark whispered something in her ear, both looked relieved, as if they had expected him to resist rather than consent. This meant they must have already discussed their desire to travel, Aron thought, unless they have other secrets from me.

“But how and where?” Irma asked.

“First we’ll take a map and look,” Aron said. “Then we’ll take money, then we’ll get onto the right train, and once we’ve reached the sea they’ll rent us a room.”