In Times of Fading Light

voice, almost too high for a man and almost too pure for a member of a species that was as good as extinct, but the voice really did belong to Wilhelm, who was sitting in his dark corner with his eyes closed and singing, simply singing to himself, the text, you might think, was some kind of silly thing that he had just made up, but it wasn’t, it was to do with Lenin and Stalin, someone else even tried singing along but didn’t know the words too well, and Wilhelm sang it solo to the end, a pterodactyl, not much more than a bag of bones, his order on his breast like a winner in the Olympics.

Once again everyone clapped. Wilhelm waved the applause away, but it was no good, the people clapped as if it had been really great. Only Great-Grandmother made a face; you could see that she felt embarrassed on Wilhelm’s behalf, and Markus was wondering again whether this was the right moment to ask her about the conservatory when—he could hardly believe it—the next voice was raised in song. This time a woman’s voice. It was Baba Nadya who suddenly began rocking back and forth in time, uttering Russian sounds in a deep, rough voice, which immediately attracted everyone’s attention to her. Sssh, sssh, they whispered, even Great- Grandmother was shushed, encouraging glances were cast at Baba Nadya, the first heads were beginning to sway in time to the tune, and after Baba Nadya had sung two of three repetitions of a kind of refrain, in which probably the only word that all present understood occurred, to wit vodka, vodka, the first voices began to sing along, always when she came to vodka, vodka, while Baba Nadya gravely and persistently chanted verse after verse, until finally everyone was roaring along with her, vodka, vodka, loudest of all the fat man with the face like a baboon’s behind, and even clapping their hands when they came to vodka, vodka. Incredible what was going on here. The dinosaurs having a ball. His father was missing something, thought Markus, looking around to see if he had arrived at last, but instead of his father he saw, among all this crazy merriment, among the cackling, teeth-baring, tipsy faces, one grave, abstracted face, untouched by any of this, thin and wry and with small, inflamed marks just below the eyebrows.

At that moment something clattered in the next room, someone cried out—and Markus had difficulty working his way past the people suddenly streaming through the sliding door to reach his mother.

“What happened?” he asked.

“We’re going,” said Muddel.

“Why now?”

“I’ll explain outside,” said Melitta.

They left without saying good-bye to his great-grandparents.

He took the iguana with him.

That night he dreamed of chopped-off fish heads again.

1979

Even the snow—no one had been able to keep up with clearing it away for days now—couldn’t make the area look more attractive. The tall apartment buildings to the right and left were dilapidated. The stucco facades were blackened by the smoke of coal-burning stoves, and in places the bare masonry showed through. Balconies looked as if they might fall on your head at any moment.

We can ruin our own buildings without the use of weapons; he remembered the joke. Said to be the slogan of the Municipal Housing Administration.

Across the border in the Wedding district you could see smart new buildings. What did the West Berliners think when they looked over the Wall at this misery?

Number 16 seemed to be uninhabited. Wrong address? The front door was open. Kurt passed through a ruinous entrance hall. The remains of floral reliefs on the ceiling. Like something out of the story of Sleeping Beauty.

Ancient notices: No Hawkers. No Ball Games. No Bicycles to Be Left Here.

Side wing on the right. Mailboxes torn off and broken open. The door stood ajar, couldn’t be closed because a thick layer of ice on the floor blocked the threshold; burst pipes, thought Kurt, very common this winter. When the temperature plummeted after the New Year came in, pipes had burst all over the place.

Kurt picked his way over the frozen floor, climbed two flights of stairs, knocked at the door on the right. Hoped no one would open it. Then he could say he had tried. Only what good would that do? Irina would call the police or, even worse, come here herself—heaven forbid. If Irina saw this, it would be the end.

Sounds. Footsteps. The door opened and Sasha appeared. He was wearing a dreadful blue sweater, conspicuously darned. His hair was as short as a convict’s. He had lost weight, his face had a strangely waxen hue, and the look in his eyes was—kind of deranged.

“Come in,” said Sasha, making a gesture as if inviting him into a palace.

Kurt found himself in an empty apartment. He noticed hardly any details—there were hardly any details. A bare corridor. A kitchen without a single piece of furniture, all the cooking utensils stood around on an old stove. The living room: bare floorboards painted red. A naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. A cupboard. A mattress. A school desk painted blue with a typewriter on it.

Sasha pointed to the only chair in the room.

“Sit down,” he said. “Want some tea?”

Kurt remained on his feet, looking around.

A full ashtray stood on the window sill. There were books lying on the floor.

“I haven’t finished furnishing it yet,” said Sasha.

“Ah,” said Kurt.

He looked past the icy pattern on the window panes at the poplar in the backyard, raising its black branches to the sky.

“Have you been allocated this place or something?”

Sasha laughed, shook his head.

“So how do you come to be living here? Where did you get the key?”

“I fitted a new lock.”

“You mean you just broke in?”

“Father, this place is empty. No one cares two hoots about it.”

Kurt looked at the large brown tiled stove. A tiny flame flickered behind its cast iron door, which was open just a crack. Beside the stove stood a cardboard carton of coal. Against the regulations, thought Kurt. Out loud, he said:

“Right, then let’s go and find a place to eat.”

It was dark by now. Only half of the old streetlamps, dating from before the war, were still working. Smoke rose from a garbage container. “Lovely area here,” said Kurt.

“Yes,” said Sasha, “the best in Berlin.”

They walked single file, because there was only a narrow trodden path through the snow. Sasha was in front. He wore a thin—much too thin—shabby old military jacket, probably what they called a parka.

“Where’s your lambskin coat?” asked Kurt.

“Still at Melitta’s place.”

“Still at Melitta’s place,” murmured Kurt.

“What?” asked Sasha.

“Nothing,” said Kurt.

At last they came out on Schonhauser Allee. Now they could walk side by side.

“Your mother is worried,” Kurt began.

Sasha shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m fine.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Kurt. “Then maybe you can tell me what’s going on.”

“What do you think’s going on? I’m here, I exist. Life is wonderful.”