In Times of Fading Light

“But you have to take your tablets,” said Charlotte.

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Wilhelm, standing up.

He marched off to the mailbox, but it was empty. It was Sunday. There was no ND on a Sunday. Once there used to be a Sunday ND as well, but they’d stopped it. What a mess.

He went to his room and closed the door. Suddenly didn’t know what to do next—another of those moments. It was probably because of the tablets. He’d suspected as much for some time. The stiffness in his joints. The emptiness in his head. Who knew what kind of thing she was giving him? Those tablets were making him stupid. Making him forgetful. Making him so forgetful that in the morning he forgot he had made up his mind, the evening before, not to take any more tablets.

The fear of losing his memory. On an experimental basis, Wilhelm tried to remember—but remember what?

He went to the cupboard and took out the shoebox where, as well as medals and orders, he kept various documents relating to his life. He took out a newspaper article that was already slightly damaged by frequent folding. Picking up his magnifying glass, he read:

A Life Lived for the Working Class.

Under the headline, a picture of a man with a bald head and big ears looking confidently into the future.

Wilhelm put the magnifying glass over the middle of the text. Beneath the glass, sliding about and rearing up, the words came through:

…joined the Communist Party of Germany in January 1919…

Wilhelm thought it over. Of course he knew he had joined the Party in 1919. He had said so on dozens of CVs. He had told the story hundreds of times: to the comrades, the workers at the Karl Marx Works, the Young Pioneers, but if he thought back, if he really tried to remember that day, all he really remembered was how Karl Liebknecht had told him, “Boy, blow your nose!”

Or hadn’t that been Liebknecht? Or hadn’t it been when he joined the Party?

Charlotte came in with a glass of water, and tablets.

“I’m busy,” said Wilhelm, crossing out the article with a red pencil to lend emphasis to this statement—the way he usually crossed out all articles that he had read so as not to read them twice. Luckily he noticed his mistake at once, and turned the cutting over before Charlotte reached the desk.

“If you don’t take your tablets,” said Charlotte, “I’m going to call Dr. Suss.”

“If you call Dr. Suss, then I’m going to tell him you’re poisoning me.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

Charlotte left—taking the glass of water and the tablets with her.

Wilhelm sat there looking at the life he had accidentally crossed out. Now what? Eliminate it, his conspiratorial instincts told him. He tore up the newspaper article and threw it into the wastebasket… the hell with it. The most important part wasn’t in it anyway. The most important part wasn’t on any of his dozens of CVs. The most important part was kind of crossed out anyway.

His other life. Luddecke Import & Export. His days in Hamburg. Odd, he could remember them without any difficulty.

His office down by the harbor.

The hiding place for his Korovin 635 pistol—he’d still be able to find it today.

Now the tune was back again. He looked out the window. The sun was shining. The sky was blue, and clusters of red berries hung among the gradually yellowing leaves of the rowan tree. A fine day. A fine, wonderful day, thought Wilhelm, grinding his teeth. Trying to grind his thoughts away.

What for?

What had he risked his ass for? What had people died for? For an upstart like that to ruin everything now? Chev, another of them, like Khrushchev back then. Funny thing, both of them ending in chev.

He took the shoebox over to the cupboard. The orders and medals clinked as he put it away.

He went into the hall. For a moment he wondered what he had gone there to do. When he saw the vases for the flowers he remembered. He went back to his room and found the magnifying glass. Then he picked up one of the vases. There was a label on the vase. The label said—nothing. He picked out a second vase: nothing. He checked the third vase…

Wilhelm marched into the salon.

“There’s nothing on them,” he said.

“Nothing on what?”

“On the vases for the flowers.”

“Look, I really do have more important things to do right now,” said Charlotte.

“Damn it all, I said the vases ought to have written labels on them.”

“Then write on the labels,” said Charlotte, taking a tablecloth out of the cupboard and paying no more attention to Wilhelm.

He would have liked to explain to Charlotte that her idea was silly; there was no point in writing on the labels now. Written labels ought to have gone on the vases before the birthday, so that everyone would get the right vase back after it. But arguing with Charlotte wasn’t worth it. His tongue was too heavy to argue with Charlotte, and it took his head too long to turn his thoughts into words.

He marched back to the hall. What was he to do now? He stopped and, at a loss, scrutinized the flower vases drawn up in rows in the cloakroom alcove.

Suddenly they looked like tombstones.

The front door opened. Lisbeth arrived. Bringing the scent of fall in with her. She had a bunch of roses in her hand.

“Many happy returns,” she said.

“Lisbeth, you shouldn’t be spending money on me.”

Lisbeth held out the flowers to him, beaming. Her teeth were a little crooked. But her buttocks were taut, and her breasts rose above her neckline like ripples passing through a swimming pool.

“But you must take them home with you again later,” Wilhelm told her. “Now, make me some coffee, will you?”

“Charlotte said I mustn’t make you coffee,” Lisbeth whispered. “Because of your blood pressure.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Wilhelm. “You just make me some coffee.”

He went into his room and sat down at the desk. What ought he to do? He didn’t know, but as he didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know in front of Lisbeth, he picked up his magnifying glass and looked for a book in the bookshelves. Acted as if he were looking for a book in the bookshelves. But he found the iguana. It was a small iguana. He had killed it with his machete a long time ago and had it stuffed. The iguana was very well stuffed, looked almost lifelike. But it was dead. Dead and gathering dust in the bookshelves, and suddenly Wilhelm was sorry he had killed the iguana with his machete. If he hadn’t, who knew, it might still be alive today. How long do iguanas live?

He found the volume of the encyclopaedia with the letter I, and leafed through it.

Then Lisbeth came back and put the coffee down on his desk.

“Psst,” she went.

“Come here,” said Wilhelm.

He took a hundred-mark bill out of his wallet.

“That’s too much,” said Lisbeth.

But she went over to him all the same. Wilhelm held her close and put the hundred-mark bill down her neckline.

“Ooh, you bad boy,” said Lisbeth.