Next World Novella Read online

  But to take the comments in at a glance was impossible. He had to read the entire manuscript. Read it from the beginning, or it would be far more difficult to endure. And he really wanted to know, for now he was feeling angry, reproaching Doro, and at the same time he was horrified by the strength of the anger building up inside him. There should be no rancour, no harsh words in the face of death. There must be a misunderstanding. He only needed to read the manuscript from the beginning, then Doro’s final lines would surely make sense. Yes, now Schepp really did want to know what she had intended to discuss with him, and why she had chosen this particular manuscript, one he had never shown her because … because he had decided it was a miserable failure and resolved not to pursue his ambitions to write fiction. He had never regretted the decision, or he would hardly have become the authority he undoubtedly was among Sinologists. Very well, so the novel he had tried to write back then, Marek the Drunkard, had come to such a hopeless dead end on page twelve that he had had no idea how to continue, and he had abandoned it. Only to add a few more wild, frantic scenes which he then destroyed immediately out of embarrassment, or at least he had tucked them away somewhere safe.

  Marek the Drunkard. No sooner had Schepp begun reading at last, beginning with the first line, than he noticed that he was not really concentrating. At first he read as if in a trance, instantly forgetting each word. Then he skipped entire scenes, not wanting to linger line by line over a manuscript he had picked up only because of Doro’s final comments, wishing still less to dwell on her detailed deletions, rephrasings and additions. The church clock struck twelve. He perceived the sound like an admonition to devote himself to reading the pages with the gravity they required. Shafts of sunlight shone into the room. He saw the motes dancing in them. Schepp now stood at the tall reading desk at the far end of the room, where the light was noticeably more muted. He shifted his gaze wearily to the back of Doro’s head, her black and silver shock of hair falling over the chair-back, and noticed a fly circling in the air. With some effort he moved and shooed it away.

  His gaze passed over the gladioli to the chaise-longue, and he remembered how, in the early years of their marriage, Doro would often lie there reading while he worked at the desk, both absorbed in their separate occupations yet not alone. This arrangement struck him as ideal for the situation in which he found himself.

  It was not easy to lift Doro out of the chair. Her shoulders were already stiff, while the rest of her was so limp that she kept slipping from his grasp. When he had finally got a firm hold on her he felt the dampness of her kimono; the fabric around her hips was soaked. But he managed to downplay the awkwardness of this through assiduity – Doro lay so light in his arms, so light.

  When he had laid her on the chaise-longue a little sigh escaped her, which terrified him. Would she suddenly open her eyes? He so hoped she would that the idea almost frightened him. He even held his breath, but Doro remained motionless. The marks of livor mortis on her forearms were large now, you couldn’t miss them; good thing the kimono had sleeves to cover them.

  Schepp was gasping for breath. Schepp had things to do – suddenly everything seemed important. Once he had managed to fold Doro’s hands – they eluded him and came apart again and again, until (I’m sorry, Doro, I don’t want to hurt you, you’re being so difficult today), until he finally forced them to grasp each other – and once he had put a cushion under her neck, she lay there, the familiar filigree figure. He did not dare to straighten the corners of her mouth, he did not dare to press her jaw shut, and he definitely did not dare to close her eyes. He covered her small, stubbornly twisted body – when had he seen it as closely as this during the last few years? – up to the shoulders with a light throw so that she would not be cold.

  Now he felt better, now she would be pleased with him. He pushed back a silvery strand of hair from her forehead and buried his head in the hollow of her throat. Hadn’t he been wanting to do that for a long time? He pressed his lips to her cold skin just where his favourite mole lay on the other side of her neck. One last time, he considered and rejected the idea of calling a doctor – if he had failed Doro at the moment of death, he would at least keep vigil beside her. If he sat down here and now with the manuscript he could at least share her last hours in retrospect.

  He sat on the edge of the chaise-longue, carefully sliding a little further back, then a little further back again, pushing Doro’s legs up against the upholstery. For a while the fly buzzed somewhere or other, then silence returned and with it came a sense of space, as if the things all around were moving further away from him, right back to the walls. Schepp was sitting beside his wife and amidst that great silence. Now finally he could read in peace.

  No one knew whether Marek had been a heavy drinker before Hanni started waitressing and drove us all crazy, every last one of us. Judging by what we heard about him at the Blaue Maus, seems highly unlikely. After all, he lived in a 2CV Dolly delivery van, on the move practically the whole time, and had to watch how much he drank. The cool thing was, he had a water container on the roof of the Dolly. A pipe ran down from the container into a sawn-off aluminium bread bin welded into the wheel housing. That was his wash basin. Imagine that! He liked to park at night in alleys or backyards where the coppers wouldn’t roust him out in a hurry – a guy like that very likely couldn’t even show an official document saying he was unemployed, no fixed abode neither, you can bet the coppers would’ve liked to put him behind bars. His long hair, torn old army surplus jacket, patched jeans didn’t help either – typical dropout, just the sort the law likes to take in for a body search. On the other hand, although we couldn’t really believe it, on the other hand Marek, of all people, claimed to be engaged to be married, and when he showed his narrow gold ring with an inscription inside, PETRA – Let’s do it – 12.4.1971, we all had to admit that it was serious, I mean more than a whole year, incredible length of time!

  The following evening, again, we couldn’t believe it. Marek, secretly and deep down – a bourgeois? However this ominous fiancée of his, who none of us had ever seen, had gone off to Greece without him to some island to be an au pair? Wolfi told us, being the manager here, spreading rumours at the bar was kind of his duty. You got so many rumours about Marek that we eventually gave up asking questions and believed anything of him. Apparently his parents came over from some eastern country. Apparently he was a petrolhead and good at tinkering with stuff. Apparently he drove all the way home from Athens with a broken clutch cable, changed gear just by listening, got a great reputation with some of us that way. Not with the girls, though. Not the ladies, at least not with Hanni. She laughed at him outright when she brought him another beer, ‘There you go, pet, no laying it on too thick!’ While with Big Jörn, who always made a palaver out of putting her tip where she least expected it, with Big Jörn she used to thank him with a cheeky, ‘So I guess that gets you a night with me’. Which Marek of course heard, even if he pretended he was too busy rolling a fag.

  Actually we didn’t know much about him, he didn’t say much himself. He only talked about his Dolly. How he bought it with the rusty floor and no MOT certificate and all for 250 marks. How he fell more in love with it every time he hand-picked a spare part for it off a scrap heap and built it in. And how he finally painted the Dolly bright red with a roller. Always something to be welded, greased, cleaned, like in any household, he said. He also claimed that now his Dolly not only featured a proper mattress, 120 by 180 centimetres, but also a duvet, a spirit cooker, a whole lot of candlesticks, oh yes, and the wash basin had an outlet, he had all he needed. Wasn’t so good on rainy days when he was in the middle of town, he said, everything getting wet, you had to shit in a bucket too. On those days you were glad to get into bed, and then …? Well, what he did then we’d no idea, some claimed he wrote poetry, maybe he read or listened to Jimi Hendrix on his fifty-watt speakers that he’d built in even before the heater and the cooker.

  Or maybe he just lay there and t
hought of Hanni. In which activity, God knows, like I said, he was not alone. The Blaue Maus had always been a great place to crash out, known for it all over town, round about midnight everyone who’d already had a skinful somewhere else was there, ready to make a night of it. But then Hanni came as waitress – as matey with everyone as if she was another guy. And the way she went around in cut-off jeans, T-shirts much too small for her, that didn’t make things any better. She’d push her way through the customers, teasing them while she served the drinks – ‘Fancy a nibble with that?’ – and if someone tried getting back at her, with her freckles and her bold way, making insinuating advances, she’d send him packing, throwing the guy out herself. ‘Is his big brother here too? He’d better leave as well.’ That on its own was worth a visit to the Maus for all of us.

  Life at the Maus was never boring. What with the place being full of alcoholics, jazz trumpeters, philosophers and other such colourful figures, and from two or three in the morning everyone talking to everyone else across tables and up and down the entire bar. In case of doubt there was always Mutt. Because Hanni, as cheerily as she joked, cursed or knocked back tequilas, was basically the opposite of flirtatious. If someone made the slightest move behind her back, suggesting never mind the pretzels and peanuts, he could fancy nibbling something very different, she’d immediately swing round, brown eyes with all those tiny gold flecks in them putting on a fireworks display, hand on her hip, asking so as we could all hear, ‘Who was it wanted a nibble, then?’ And when someone had ordered nuts or cigarettes, reckoning he was in with a serious chance, he’d often take his disappointment out on Mutt, Hanni’s dog, a mongrel who regularly hung out with us. Did the old boy know who the kicks he often got under the table at dawn were really meant for?

  Hanni. Acting so matey and on a level with everyone meant she shielded herself from any problems. Seemed like she didn’t much care for men. Big Jörn, who late at night would behave as if he could have her at the drop of a hat, couldn’t even provoke her into contradicting his claims. As for Marek, the sort who admired her from afar, she mocked him: ‘Still a bit wet behind the ears, are we?’ But he had his devious way of getting closer to her. Through Mutt. Marek treated the dog with particular respect, like an old gentleman. When everything was open-ended chaos around four or five in the morning, he’d move close to the dog to protect him from the worst.

  Most of all Mutt had to be protected from Big Jörn. Jörn liked firewater, gave you ‘smooth body juices and a pure complexion’, he said. When he’d tipped enough of it down his throat to set light to his nerve endings he’d go up in flames, all for Hanni, of course. Then Marek just shrugged and took himself off to a quieter corner. There he sat, didn’t get much joy in the corner either, couldn’t join in the conversation like ours at the bar, just automatically raised his glass when the time seemed right. Couldn’t really get real friends that way. Meanwhile Big Jörn was full of drunk boasting: Hanni, let me tell you, what a live wire, you never know if she’s going to laugh or bite. So when he said that and more of the same, the only thing Hanni would do is pause in front of him flashing her eyes to shut him up. Those nights Mutt usually suffered a lot.

  It could have gone on like this for years. But it all changed one hot, humid July night. ‘Love Like a Man’ had been playing for some time, it was Wolfi’s habitual chucking-out number. But as usual it was only him who set off home, leaving the field to Hanni. And us. Big Jörn really got into his stride on such nights. Entertained the whole Maus with his boastful stories, spiked with racy little details. Stood a round. Firewater for everyone. Every time Marek had to raise his glass to him you can bet he was thinking, the hell with you. ‘Another little one won’t hurt,’ Big Jörn announced, launching into praise for Hanni’s charms – if looks could kill he’d have died several times over. But she said nothing, at most just flashed her eyes, and still no one knew whether Big Jörn was her boyfriend, her ex-boyfriend or just showing off. We wanted him to verify his claims. Now Big Jörn had a reputation to lose. So he reached for Hanni just as she was trying to steer past him with a tray of empty glasses, and, while we were still scattering from their clinking and clattering, he laid her down on the bar and gave her a kiss in front of us all.

  But not a nice sort of kiss.

  The other sort.

  He finally lets her go with a triumphant grin. Hanni is breathing heavily, then she starts screaming. Now we all know what to think, and the next moment there’s a right old punch-up going on, a real clattering and clanking, and all together we throw Big Jörn out into the street. There Hanni gives him a ringing slap. And just as he’s about to get up and scram, Mutt shoots out of the bar barking and snaps at his trouser legs. For a moment Big Jörn glares at the dog, then sends him flying against the wall with a hearty kick. Now everyone would like to kick the shit out of Big Jörn, every last one of us. But while we still stand, gaping, only Marek – Marek of all people, who’d been hanging back until now – first he goes over to Mutt, who’s writhing about whining, then without a word he goes up to Big Jörn and smashes his nose in. You should’ve seen it! Big Jörn howls, there’s blood running through his fingers and down his neck, and off he runs.

  Next day no one’s waiting tables in the Blaue Maus. After much questioning we find out from Wolfi that he’s seen this coming right from the beginning, it couldn’t end well, a girl who carries on with the customers has no place here. Now what? Now nothing. Still nothing the next evening and the next one. When we threaten to go and drink wherever Hanni turns up if he doesn’t take her back of his own free will, Wolfi assures us that he’d rather go bust. But it’s not her fault, says none other than Marek, suddenly raising his voice and

  Schepp had managed to read up to this point in spite of Doro’s corrections, at first with sceptical curiosity, then with horror, finally with mounting anger. At the beginning she had just scored one or two sets of double lines in the margin to draw attention to something, followed by an exclamation or a question mark – he knew her annotation style well enough to understand what she meant. But soon the marginal notes became more extensive, forthright, cutting. Doro had always been a model of discretion, but now that the sharp tone of her comments was unmitigated by lenience, she sparkled with icy elegance. Did she want to make him feel inferior? How was he to take it when she, of all people, told him in the margin what she thought Marek was really doing when the text said expressly that he was just lying there thinking of Hanni? Schepp was embarrassed. In the next section wasn’t she openly criticizing not only his protagonist but him, the author, for being inhibited – why did he keep beating about the bush, circling around the subject? Had he never had a little nibble of someone himself? And when Big Jörn got into his stride, once again there was the remark, ‘Oh, why not call him Hinrich and be done with it?’ On the back of the sheet, however, she had written, ‘Your admiration for him is ridiculous.’

  Schepp was extremely annoyed. The solemn mood in which he had wanted to say his last goodbye to Doro was gone. Being dead means no one can answer you back, he snorted at her. But it was her next correction that cut him to the quick. The manuscript slipped from his hands, he got up and looked around him, at a loss. Then he started pacing back and forth, beating time in the air with his index and little fingers to the rhythm of the retorts bursting out of him.

  What had put him in such a rage, what had him pacing back and forth in full lecturing mode, was a single tiny pen stroke. At the place where Marek spoke up for the first time, Doro had crossed out the name Hanni and written ‘Dana’ over it. The louder Schepp’s heels tapped the wooden floor, the more baffled he felt. As soon as he had convinced himself that Doro had chosen that name at random, it struck him, however, that this could be no coincidence. She had come looking for him, hadn’t she, one evening maybe four years ago, in La Pfiff; she’d seen Dana, even spoken briefly to her. Or had it been five years ago? But what would a girl called Dana, might he ask, have to do with Marek the Drunkard? The only parallel
with Hanni being that Dana had been a waitress too – although decades later!

  Schepp stopped in the doorway through which he had come to begin the day what now seemed an eternity ago. He breathed deeply, in and out, until he thought, again, that Doro must have forgotten to change the water in the vase. With every breath the silence came closer, creeping towards him from the far end of the room. Eventually it once again embraced him entirely.

  But this was a different kind of silence. Schepp stood there listening to what was in his mind. Or outside of his mind? For a while he heard a buzzing, sometimes closer, sometimes further away, as if it were a part of the silence. Only when the sound stopped did he remember what was causing it. He stepped across the wooden floor as warily as a man about to commit murder, reached the chaise-longue, saw the fly sitting on Doro’s eye just where the lids met at a sharp angle. He could hardly swat it while it was there. Where did a fly come from anyway at this time of year; shouldn’t it be dead by now? Only when he was almost touching it could he shoo it away.

  Schepp’s glance lingered on the little slits of Doro’s eyes, moved to the bridge of her nose, which was sticking up in the air, to her lower jaw hanging so inelegantly open. How could he close it without hurting her? All at once he was back to loving her as much as ever; there would be time to quarrel later. Schepp knelt down in front of Doro and looked closely into her open mouth. He could see nothing in that dark space.

  He inhaled the smell of death and shuddered at the thought that she would leave her jaws open like that for ever and ever.

  How exactly did rigor mortis work?

  The fermentation of bodily fluids, decomposition, decay?

  He didn’t want to think about it.

  ‘All right, Doro,’ he said hesitantly, raising his voice, ‘if you’re going to start about Dana then please take things in their proper order.’