The Illogic of Kassel

26

When I got a grip on myself, Frau Writer-Writer was saying goodbye to Alka and Pim and leaving. Her absence was immediately noticeable, as I was stuck without potential admirers who would want to spy on what I wrote. The woman went without saying anything to me, as if she had forgotten me immediately after her second savage squeeze.

A German experience, I thought.

And I was left relying on what really interested me: whether Pim, the cheerful girl whose name reminded me of a beach in the Azores called Porto Pim, would take responsibility for the absurdity of my situation, given that there weren’t any people there now to annoy me.

I was going to ask her again what she thought I should do there with my pencil and my eraser and my red notebook on the outskirts of Kassel. Up to that point I hadn’t been interested, but now I wondered if she could give me any idea how those who’d preceded me in this Chinese number had worked out this peculiar situation. I was going to ask, but at the last moment, I decided to inquire about my talk with the title “Lecture to Nobody.” I wanted to know if it had been scheduled for a particular time, as I was keen to give it, even if, I said to myself, it was possibly only to make up for the conspicuously shabby “Chinese number” that they’d entrusted to me. What’s more, it seemed that only if I gave my “Lecture to Nobody” would I feel as though I’d really taken part in Documenta.

It took Pim a while to understand my question, but finally the penny dropped. I was to give the talk on Friday, she said, but they’d changed the venue and I would not do it out beyond a forest without an audience, but in the very center of Kassel, in the conference room of the Ständehaus.

“Then I can’t call it ‘Lecture to Nobody.’ ”

“If it’ll make you happy, we’ll stop the public coming in.”

I laughed and asked what kind of place the Ständehaus was. It was the old Hesse parliament, she said, and one of the few buildings left more or less standing at the end of the war. She’d show me around inside whenever I wanted to get a good idea of where I’d be speaking.

I didn’t want to let the opportunity pass me by and asked whether that meant we could go and see the Ständehaus right that minute.

“Don’t even think about it!” Pim barked.

Bit by bit, she lost her smile, which up to that point had suited her so nicely. Seeing her like that made an impression on me. Noticing that her reaction surprised me, she took it badly, not knowing how to get back to her permanent exuberance, the downside of her charm. The return to that state had seemed expected.

“But we’re not doing a thing here in this Chinese restaurant,” I said.

“What do you mean we’re not doing a thing?” Pim said. She seemed put out.

Far from venting my rage on her false charm or accusing her of taking orders from superiors about what she had to do with me, I kept quiet. Perhaps it was for the best. I smiled, took a step toward her, and positioned myself very close to her face; then I retreated, making out nothing had happened, that I hadn’t noticed she wasn’t always charming. But something had happened, and then some. There was something shockingly horrible about the unpredictable Pim’s face. When it’s artificial, I thought, joy can fall apart in an extremely alarming manner. And what’s more, how frightening people are who suddenly show a side of themselves we’d never imagined (as sometimes happens to me, which is why I try not to be seen out too much at night).