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[...] Some more names are bandied, friends of her parents, her friends and their parents’ names. He knows all the anecdotes, everyone involved at some time with everyone else, first they were all young, then they had babies together, married, separated, fell in love, became enemies, friends, plotted or practiced withdrawal. Always the same people, at parties, in bars, at openings and premieres. In a small country with no easy exit, everything felt inevitably inbred. [...]
She knows to lay the napkin over her knees before starting to eat, knows to dab her mouth on it before taking a drink, knows to angle the soup plate away from herself, not to put her elbows on the table and not to cut the potatoes with her knife. With all her fears, her hopes, everything that can’t be foreseen and that she doesn’t want to foresee, it helps that she knows that knife and fork should be laid down on the right of the plate, side by side, to indicate that she has finished with them. Face-to-face with the man sitting opposite — a great happiness, a great unhappiness, and a question mark — she appreciates that this is the beginning of her life, for which everything so far has been mere preparation.
And now all the crypts are become transparent, and he and she are standing directly in the graveyard, and the island of the living is no bigger than the tiny patch of ground under their feet. While she takes off his glasses and lays them aside, and he for the first time enfolds her in his arms, humankind begs for peace and everlasting light. She takes his face in both hands and kisses him very gently. Then a lone young voice sounds and praises God, because if she praises Him, He will perhaps spare her. The way her bare shoulder feels in his cupping hand during the prayer, the one curve under the other, is something he won’t forget as long as he lives. To thee comes all flesh, yes, that’s how it is, he thinks, and then he stops thinking. The kisses, the choir, her hair, the moment just before the end of the Introit, the insistent and repeated demands of the living on behalf of their dead: Lead them to everlasting light! that echo away in the empty church. Human beings have to come up with the reply themselves, they are in darkness, their wish has no authority. He is breathing hard, and she too, with her head against him, is breathing hard.
Hans remembers her smile and her breasts, but the way she looks overall, he perhaps doesn’t know. But there she is, turning onto Schiffbauerdamm, and he recognizes her right away. She’s swinging her handbag as she walks, she’s dressed all in black, and as she comes closer, he sees she’s put up her hair and tied it with a black velvet ribbon. Exposed, he thinks, her face. He wanted to be straight with her today, he knows now he will have to be. It’s his only chance. He gives a nod as they pass the two waiters with long white aprons at the entrance, who are performing France for French soldiers over from West Berlin who like to have a cheap meal in East Berlin’s expensive Ganymede.
We will only see each other occasionally, he says, but each time will be like our first time — a celebration. She listens to him attentively and nods. I can only be a luxury for you, because I am a married man. I know, she says. Perhaps that won’t be enough for you, he says. I understand that. She looks him straight in the face, there is a ring of yellow around her pupils, he now sees. I’m not just married, I’m also in a relationship with a woman who works in radio. If you had a thousand women, she says, all that matters is the time that we get to spend together. How can he ever refuse her anything, if she doesn’t demand anything? The black velvet ribbon moves him, it makes her look like a schoolgirl. If he doesn’t manage to say quickly what he needs to say, it’ll be too late. And you can’t expect any sort of public acknowledgment — I know, and you know, and that will have to do. That’s fine, she says, and smiles. Where terms and conditions are set, there is a future. All yesterday and today she was afraid he would just toss her out.
From now on, he thinks, the responsibility for their existence is entirely hers. He has to protect himself from himself. Maybe she’s a monster?
She thinks, he wants to prepare me for difficult times ahead. He wants to protect me. Protect me from myself, and so he gives me the power of decision over us.
He thinks, as long as she wants us, it won’t be wrong.
She thinks, if he leaves everything to me, then he’ll see what love means.
He thinks, she won’t understand what she’s agreed to until much later.
And she, he’s putting himself in my hands.
All these things are thought on this evening, and all together they make up a many-faceted truth.
At six o’clock that evening Hans is in such a hurry to hold her in his arms again he only barely remembers to shut the front door. And yet — by some fluke they have the whole night ahead of them — he is determined to be patient. And she keeps her silver glittering jacket on. He brews Turkish coffee, he put the Rotkäppchen on ice a couple of hours ago. Before long, two cups and two glasses are perched on the headboard among the books, when they lie down on the conjugal bed, though he doesn’t call it that, he calls it a lovers’ couch. There is kissing, but for the moment nothing more, they drink Rotkäppchen, they drink coffee, they embrace, she squirms with pleasure at his touch, but he still hasn’t taken off her little silver jacket. The past week has taught him to wait. It almost killed me, he says, waiting for you, but at the same time I think the pain did me good. She pulls his head down to her and kisses him. Yesterday morning I booked us a table in the Schinkelstube — probably to extort your return from the gods.
Command economy, she says, what a good idea, and she kisses him some more.
I was afraid, he says.
So was I, she very seriously replies.
That strange word “believe,” with “lie” in it, is still going through her head when he has pulled down the straps of her dress, and spun her around, the dress slips over her narrow hips to the floor, and she’s standing in front of him in a little white slip. On the way to the couch they walk hand in hand through the dark corridor, and pause for a moment in front of the large mirror.
Do you suppose a mirror remembers all the people it’s ever reflected?
Maybe, he replies, but you know I — I will remember the picture of you in this mirror as long as I live.
So will I, she replies.
And they go on.
When they part very early the next morning, he is instructed by her to buy pepper and breadcrumbs. Padlizsán, says Katharina, but she won’t tell him what it is in German, it’s to be a surprise. Tomorrow they are planning to cook together, Ingrid and Ludwig will be away at a summer party in the Uckermark. Ingrid knows her husband isn’t keen on such festivities, just stay home, why don’t you, she said. Who knows, maybe she’s planning to meet someone there herself. Years ago now, the couple made a joint decision not to watch each other too closely. Only they didn’t want to make it public, lest it seem too much of a slight to either party. Is there enough wine in the house? When he woke up this morning, he called her his darling, and she reciprocated.
So they tell each other — and tell themselves — everything about the way it was, three weeks ago, when they first met. Some things they both know, some one of them has forgotten, or the other, some one of them didn’t notice, or the other, some one of them thought but didn’t say, and some the other, and so what was present just three weeks ago deepens in the course of an afternoon, deepens, changes its nature, and yet keeps its overall outline which both of them recognize.