“Melitta says you want to get divorced.”
“You two have been to see Melitta?”
“Melitta has been to see us.”
“How nice,” said Sasha.
“Can’t Melitta visit us anymore?”
“Go ahead! I’m pleased to hear you’re all suddenly getting on so well.”
“Melitta is the mother of our grandson,” said Kurt. “And none of this was our own choice. It was your decision. You were set on getting married. You were set on having a baby. We advised you against it at the time…”
“True,” said Sasha. “You advised us to kill the baby.”
“We advised you not to go rushing headlong into marriage with a woman you hardly knew. We advised you not to bring a child into the world when you were twenty-two…”
“Okay,” said Sasha. “So you were right, if that’s what you want me to say. Congratulations, you were right. Happy now?”
The Vineta restaurant stood at the intersection with Gleimstrasse.
A handwritten notice hung on its door: “Closed Because of Technical Problems.”
The restaurant on the opposite side of the street was also closed: “Closed On Mondays.”
They went on toward the city center. Traffic passed by in fits and starts. Kurt waited for a break in it, so that he wouldn’t have to shout. Then he tried again:
“It’s not a question of who is or was right. I’m not reproaching you. But you married, you brought a son into the world, and now you have a certain responsibility. You can’t just chuck it all in and run when there happens to be a problem. That’s what marriage is like; there are sometimes problems.”
“It’s not about marital problems,” said Sasha.
“Oh,” said Kurt. “What is it about, then?”
Sasha did not reply.
“Excuse me, but I think that we, as your parents, have a certain right to know what’s going on. You simply disappear for weeks on end, we don’t hear a word from you… can you really not imagine how things are at home? Baba Nadya in tears all day. Your mother is at her wits’ end. I don’t know how many years she’s aged in these last few weeks—”
“Please don’t go holding me responsible for my mother’s age now,” said Sasha.
Kurt was about to protest, but Sasha didn’t let him get a word in. His voice suddenly rose:
“I’m sorry, but I can’t arrange my life to suit my mother’s peace of mind. I’ve a right to a life of my own, I’ve a right to marital problems, I’ve a right to feel pain…”
“I thought you didn’t have any marital problems?”
Again, Sasha did not reply.
“Is there another woman?”
“I thought Melitta had told you everything.”
“Melitta hasn’t told us anything at all.”
“No, there isn’t another woman,” said Sasha.
“What is it, then?”
Sasha laughed.
“Maybe Melitta has another man? There’s always that possibility!—They have broiled chicken here.”
They were standing outside the Goldbroiler restaurant where Schonhauser Allee crossed Milastrasse. Kurt did not fancy broiled chicken, nor did he fancy neon lighting and synthetic laminate tables, but above all he didn’t fancy standing in line in the cold. The line outside was a long one, going all the way back to the door.
“What else is there near here?”
“The Cafe Vienna is over there,” said Sasha.
“Can it serve us anything to eat?”
“Torte.”
“There must be somewhere around here to get a meal,” said Kurt.
“The Balkan Grill,” said Sasha, pointing in the direction of Alexanderplatz.
They walked on.
There was a strong wind blowing. A subway train rattled by—but the subway trains here ran on an overhead line, while the suburban trains ran underground. The world turned upside down, thought Kurt.
He tried to fit the idea that Melitta might be cheating on Sasha into his own thinking. It wouldn’t have surprised him for Sasha to be cheating on Melitta. But vice versa? That was surprising, and to be honest Kurt felt a tiny hint of, yes, satisfaction. Modern marriage! Equal rights! He, Kurt, was better off with his traditional marriage.
Out loud, he said:
“Of course I can understand that that hurts you.”
“Nice of you to say so,” said Sasha.
“I can understand it,” said Kurt. “And even if you don’t believe it I do have a little experience of life. What I don’t understand is why you’re living in that dump.”
“You think I ought to be living in the zoo?”
“I’d like to know why you aren’t living in your apartment.”
“I told you. Because Melitta’s living there, with her…”
Sasha flapped his hand in the air.
“What—he’s
Sasha did not reply to this.
“But you can’t simply leave him your apartment.”
“Father, Melitta will be awarded occupation of the apartment anyway.”
“But you’ll lose your right to it.”
“What’s it all about now? The apartment?”
“Excuse me,” said Kurt, “but yes, to some extent it
“You see, that’s exactly it!” Sasha stopped. He was almost shouting now. “That’s exactly it!”
“Yes,” said Kurt. “That’s exactly it.”
Sasha waved this away and walked on.
“You really are being so unreasonable,” Kurt called after him. Sasha went on walking.
“And I’ll tell you one thing: if it comes out that you broke into that place back there… it’s a
“I’ve finished my studies anyway,” said Sasha, going into the Balkan Grill.
Of necessity, Kurt followed him.
There were already several people waiting for a table in the restaurant, just beyond the door. Kurt and Sasha joined the line and waited too. In fact, the restaurant was full. A fat, dark-haired waiter whom Kurt would have taken for a Bulgarian was running back and forth, emanating a sense of frantic activity. He wore a black suit and a not entirely spotless shirt. His belly was spilling over his waistband. His face seemed to be swollen with effort.
“Two more mixed salads, two more kebabs and rice,” he shouted to the kitchen staff in broad Berlin dialect.
He was the only one letting himself indulge in noise. The guests were talking in muted voices, and spoke up timidly when placing a order. Suddenly Kurt was reminded of this afternoon’s session of the Party Training Year, a ridiculous but obligatory arrangement that, although it called itself a year, met only once a month. Today’s subject: Theory and Practice of the Further Formation of the Developed Socialist Society.
“How long have you been waiting?” Sasha asked the two people standing in line in front of them.
They were a middle-aged couple. They glanced at each other before agreeing—apparently telepathically— on an answer, which the man gave, while the woman silently spelled it out, synchronizing her lip movements with his.
