Read Online The Safety Net by Heinrich Böll - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Heinrich Böll
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first by the older Amplanger, later by the younger: “Just leave that to us.”
Luckily Blurtmehl had a sense of humor, manifested in succinct, brief comments made while dressing him, driving him, serving him, bathing and massaging him—it was the humor of an expert masseur who knew how to avoid sensitive spots, how far he could go, knew too that he had hit the right nerve when he casually said, for example: “May I be permitted the observation that Director-General Bleibl has never gone through such bad times as you—and never will?” Blurtmehl discovered barely detectable damage suffered as a child, a young man, during the war, after the war, as a prisoner of war, forgotten illnesses of bowels and stomach, traces of typhoid and malaria, the scarsof minute injuries, spoke of them as “lying deep, deeper than the skin, going far deeper than the skin … no, no, sir, you’re not thick-skinned!”—here, of course, he was again alluding to Bleibl. Blurtmehl even spoke of the “burden of responsibility placed upon your shoulders which others should be bearing,” and no doubt was referring to the heart of the problem that made his limbs feel so leaden: that he was fed up with the paper, was bored to death when occasionally seated at his vast desk where there was nothing, nothing left, for him to decide—he had let his paper slip through his fingers, had allowed it to be taken away from him, stood only nominally for it, while Amplanger senior had long been representing Bleibl’s interests. He was no longer himself, he was merely the image of himself: irreplaceable as an image; had allowed himself to be deceived by an ever-increasing income, by a proliferating fortune—there must be something very mysterious in Blurtmehl’s hands for him to arrive at such insights under those hands, whereas Grebnitzer, even during long sessions of questioning, never penetrated to the heart of the problem. After all, there was nothing organic to discover, he had never had a heart attack, even his blood count was excellent—and yet there was that lead, that chill, in his limbs. Sometimes he actually feared a total paralysis when seated there at his desk, powerless “at the power center, at the very heart of capitalism,” while his fortune proliferated and he was anxiously concerned not to let a single cigarette “go to waste.”
And now this new office, in which he could decide even less, assuming that he was capable of arriving at any decisions at all. They had made it pretty clear to him, not only Bleibl but Pottsieker and Kliehm too, and most of all Amplanger: he played his part well. By mentioning the literary section, Bleibl had alluded quite plainly, brutally, to his occasional contributions to the paper, when he happened to write about Hieronymus Bosch or Salvador Dali. In him the Association had finally acquired a “literary section,” something for “the ladies.”
Blurtmehl knocked, heard the feeble “Come in!,” entered, and announced: “Your bath is ready.” He was quite obviously ill at ease, would certainly never again open the door in such a way as to make it look as if his boss were stumbling headlong into the room, never again. He was embarrassed after this his first faux pas in seven years, but probably Holzpuke had personally assumed command of him, had given him the order over the transceiver: “Dr. Tolm, our president, is very exhausted, he is struggling up the stairs with his last ounce of strength, now he is entering the corridor, now he is reaching for the door handle—now!” and he had almost fallen into Blurtmehl’s arms. It was with just such precision that assassinations were planned, and the Who began to take shape in the question: would it be Blurtmehl? Why not? He smiled at Blurtmehl, rose slowly to his feet. Of course he knew Blurtmehl’s past history, knew his personal habits down to the last detail, knew about his girlfriend as well as
her
history and
her
personal habits, but no one
Luckily Blurtmehl had a sense of humor, manifested in succinct, brief comments made while dressing him, driving him, serving him, bathing and massaging him—it was the humor of an expert masseur who knew how to avoid sensitive spots, how far he could go, knew too that he had hit the right nerve when he casually said, for example: “May I be permitted the observation that Director-General Bleibl has never gone through such bad times as you—and never will?” Blurtmehl discovered barely detectable damage suffered as a child, a young man, during the war, after the war, as a prisoner of war, forgotten illnesses of bowels and stomach, traces of typhoid and malaria, the scarsof minute injuries, spoke of them as “lying deep, deeper than the skin, going far deeper than the skin … no, no, sir, you’re not thick-skinned!”—here, of course, he was again alluding to Bleibl. Blurtmehl even spoke of the “burden of responsibility placed upon your shoulders which others should be bearing,” and no doubt was referring to the heart of the problem that made his limbs feel so leaden: that he was fed up with the paper, was bored to death when occasionally seated at his vast desk where there was nothing, nothing left, for him to decide—he had let his paper slip through his fingers, had allowed it to be taken away from him, stood only nominally for it, while Amplanger senior had long been representing Bleibl’s interests. He was no longer himself, he was merely the image of himself: irreplaceable as an image; had allowed himself to be deceived by an ever-increasing income, by a proliferating fortune—there must be something very mysterious in Blurtmehl’s hands for him to arrive at such insights under those hands, whereas Grebnitzer, even during long sessions of questioning, never penetrated to the heart of the problem. After all, there was nothing organic to discover, he had never had a heart attack, even his blood count was excellent—and yet there was that lead, that chill, in his limbs. Sometimes he actually feared a total paralysis when seated there at his desk, powerless “at the power center, at the very heart of capitalism,” while his fortune proliferated and he was anxiously concerned not to let a single cigarette “go to waste.”
And now this new office, in which he could decide even less, assuming that he was capable of arriving at any decisions at all. They had made it pretty clear to him, not only Bleibl but Pottsieker and Kliehm too, and most of all Amplanger: he played his part well. By mentioning the literary section, Bleibl had alluded quite plainly, brutally, to his occasional contributions to the paper, when he happened to write about Hieronymus Bosch or Salvador Dali. In him the Association had finally acquired a “literary section,” something for “the ladies.”
Blurtmehl knocked, heard the feeble “Come in!,” entered, and announced: “Your bath is ready.” He was quite obviously ill at ease, would certainly never again open the door in such a way as to make it look as if his boss were stumbling headlong into the room, never again. He was embarrassed after this his first faux pas in seven years, but probably Holzpuke had personally assumed command of him, had given him the order over the transceiver: “Dr. Tolm, our president, is very exhausted, he is struggling up the stairs with his last ounce of strength, now he is entering the corridor, now he is reaching for the door handle—now!” and he had almost fallen into Blurtmehl’s arms. It was with just such precision that assassinations were planned, and the Who began to take shape in the question: would it be Blurtmehl? Why not? He smiled at Blurtmehl, rose slowly to his feet. Of course he knew Blurtmehl’s past history, knew his personal habits down to the last detail, knew about his girlfriend as well as
her
history and
her
personal habits, but no one
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