The Third Reich

SEPTEMBER 1

At noon Hanna left for Germany in Charly’s car. As soon as the manager of the Costa Brava heard the news, he said it was a grave mistake. The only reason Hanna gave was that she couldn’t stand the stress anymore. Now, in a dark and inescapable way, we’re alone, which until recently was something that I desired, though certainly not in the way it came about. Everything seems the same as yesterday, although sadness has already begun to roll over the landscape. Before leaving, Hanna begged me to take care of Ingeborg. Of course I will, I reassured her, but who will take care of me? You’re stronger than she is, she said from inside the car. This surprised me, since most people who know both of us think Ingeborg is stronger. Behind Hanna’s dark glasses there was a troubled look in her eyes. Nothing bad will happen to Ingeborg, I promised. Beside us, Ingeborg snorted sarcastically. I believe you, said Hanna, squeezing my hand. Later the manager of the Costa Brava began to pester us by phone, as if he blamed us for Hanna’s departure. The first call arrived while we were eating. A waiter came to get me at the table and I thought, against all logic, that it was Hanna calling from Oberhausen to let us know that she had arrived safely. It was the manager; he was so upset that he couldn’t speak clearly. He had called to confirm that Hanna had just left. I said yes and then he told me that by “fleeing” Hanna had just flouted every principle of Spanish law. Her situation now was very precarious. I ventured to suggest that Hanna might not have known she was breaking a law. Not one law, said the manager, several! And ignorance, young man, is never an excuse. No, the hotel bill was paid. The problem was Charly, because when his body appeared, which no doubt it would, someone had to be present to identify it. Of course, the Spanish police could wire the German police the information that Charly had given when he registered at the hotel; the Germans would do the rest with their computers. It’s utterly irresponsible of her, he said before he hung up. The second call, a few minutes later, was to inform us in astonishment that Hanna had taken Charly’s car, which could be considered a criminal act. This time it was Ingeborg who talked to him, saying that Hanna was no thief and that she needed the car to get back to Germany. Why else would she want it? What she did afterward with the damn car was her business and nobody else’s. The manager insisted that it was a theft and the conversation ended a bit abruptly. The third call, conciliatory, was to ask us whether, as friends, we could represent the “party in question” (by this I suppose he meant poor Charly) in the search efforts. We accepted. Despite the sound of it, representing the affected party didn’t mean much. True, the rescue efforts continued, though no one had any hopes now of finding Charly alive. All of a sudden we understood Hanna’s decision. The situation was unbearable.

Nothing has changed. That’s what surprises me. This morning it was impossible to navigate the hotel corridors because of all the people leaving, but this afternoon, on the terrace, I’ve already spotted the pale and enthusiastic faces of a new influx. The temperature has gone up, as if we were back in July, and the evening breeze that cooled the sweltering town streets has vanished. A sticky sweat makes clothes cling to the body, and going out for a walk is torture. I saw the Wolf and the Lamb about three hours after Hanna left, at the Andalusia Lodge. At first they pretended not to see me; then they came over, looking stricken, and proceeded to ask me the obligatory questions. I answered that there was nothing new to tell and that Hanna was on her way back to Germany. With this last bit of news, their expressions and demeanor changed notably. They grew more relaxed and friendlier; after a few minutes I realized that I wasn’t about to get rid of them anytime soon: the conversation continued along the usual lines, in the same code that they had used with Charly, except that instead of Charly, there I was, and instead of Hanna, there was Ingeborg!

Later I asked Ingeborg what she’d meant when she said that everybody handled Hanna. Her answer put an end to my speculations, at least in part. It was a generalization, Hanna as the victim of men, an unlucky woman, in perpetual search of balance and happiness, etc… . The possibility of a Hanna raped by the Spaniards was absurd; in fact, Ingeborg hardly gave them a second thought: she spoke of them as if they were invisible. Two average kids, not very hardworking, to judge by their schedules, who liked to have a good time; she liked to go clubbing too and even do crazy things once in a while. Crazy like what? I wondered. Staying out late, drinking too much, singing in the street. Craziness— Ingeborg’s—of the mildest variety. Healthy crazy, she explained. So there was no reason to avoid the Spaniards or be angry at them, beyond the obvious reasons. This was how things stood when, at ten o’clock, the Wolf and the Lamb appeared once more on the scene. The conversation, really a spurned invitation to go out, proceeded in highly tasteless fashion, with us sitting on the hotel terrace (all the tables were full and crowded with ice cream dishes and empty glasses) and the two of them standing on the sidewalk, separated from us by the iron railing, the boundary between the terrace and the mass of passersby who at that time of night, suffocated by the heat, were strolling along the Paseo Marítimo. At first neither of them made anything but the tamest of remarks. The one who talked (and gestured) more was the Lamb, and what he said managed to draw a smile or two from Ingeborg, even before I translated. The Wolf’s contributions, meanwhile, were careful and deliberate, as if he were feeling out the territory, expressing himself in an English superior to his education, the manifestation of a steely will, a desire to poke his nose into a world whose outline he could only imagine. Never had the Wolf’s nickname so truly suited him; Ingeborg’s face—bright, fresh, tanned—attracted his gaze as the moon attracts werewolves in old horror movies. Seeing that we were reluctant to go, he insisted, and his voice grew hoarse. He promised clubs worthy of the trip, he assured us that our weariness would vanish the minute we stepped into one of his famous dives… All for nothing. Our refusal was irrevocable and issued two feet over their heads, because the sidewalk is lower than the terrace. The Spaniards didn’t insist. Imperceptibly, as a prelude to their farewell, they began to reminisce about Charly. The capital-F Friend. Anyone would think they really did miss him. Then they shook hands with us and walked offtoward the old town. Their figures, soon lost in the crowd, struck me as unbearably sad, and I said so to Ingeborg. She stared at me for a few seconds and said she didn’t understand me:

“A minute ago you thought they’d raped Hanna. Now you feel sorry for them. The truth is, those morons are nothing but a couple of pathetic Latin lovers.”

Neither of us could stop laughing until Ingeborg suggested that for once we go to bed early. I agreed.

After making love, I sat down to write in the room while Ingeborg immersed herself in the Florian Linden novel. She still hasn’t figured out who the killer is, and from the way she reads one would think she doesn’t care. She seems tired; these last few days haven’t been pleasant. I don’t know why, but I found myself thinking about Hanna in the car, before she left, giving me advice in her broken voice…

“Do you think Hanna’s gotten to Oberhausen yet?”

“I don’t know. She’ll call tomorrow,” says Ingeborg.

“What if she doesn’t?”

“You mean what if she forgets about us?”

No, of course, she wouldn’t forget Ingeborg. Or me. Suddenly I was afraid. Afraid and a little excited. But what was I afraid of? I remembered Conrad’s words: “Play on your own turf and you’ll always win.” But what is my turf? I asked. Conrad laughed in a peculiar way, without taking his eyes off me. The side that calls to your blood. I answered that playing like that was no guarantee of winning; for example, if in Destruction of the Central Army Group I chose the Germans, the most I could hope for was to win one time out of every three. Unless I was playing a complete idiot. You don’t understand, said Conrad. You have to use the Grand Strategy. You have to be more cunning than a fox. Was this a dream? The truth is I’ve never heard of a game called Destruction of the Central Army Group!

Otherwise, it’s been a boring and unproductive day. I spent a while lying patiently on the beach in the sun, trying unsuccessfully to think clearly and rationally. Images from a decade ago drifted through my mind: my parents playing cards on the hotel balcony, my brother floating twenty yards offshore with his arms outstretched, Spanish boys (Gypsies?) roaming the beach armed with sticks, the staffdorm room, smelly and full of bunk beds, a strip of nightclubs, one after the other, running down to the sea, a black sand beach fronting a sea of black water where the only note of color, suddenly, was El Quemado’s fortress of pedal boats… My article awaits. The books I pledged to read await. And yet the hours and days speed by, as if time were running downhill. But that’s impossible.