Read Online The Valley of Unknowing by Philip Sington - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Philip Sington
Ads: Link
suppose. A cut above. Didn’t Lenin say . . . ?’
‘Like who, for example?’ Herr Zoch readied the ballpoint with a flip of his thumb. ‘Give us a name.’
It was snowing outside: big, fluffy flakes like the aftermath of a celestial pillow fight. I pictured myself outside, walking arm in arm with Theresa Aden, the chill of the air a delicious contrast to the inner glow of companionship and love. But Theresa was lost to me now. Wolfgang Richter had got to her first. He had snatched her away while I sat around listening to chamber music and admiring his literature. All I was left with was the cold and a feeling of emptiness deeper than I was used to.
‘I’m not talking about anyone in particular,’ I said. ‘I’m just not one of them, that’s all, the intelligentsia. I never have been.’
Herr Andrich sighed and reached into his coat pocket for a pack of cigarillos. He smoked only Sprachlos, the local brand, a name which in English means ‘speechless’ (branding was not an advanced science in the Workers’ and Peasants’ Republic).
‘This is very disappointing,’ he said. ‘Your observations on the artistic scene are so highly valued. Your opinion is trusted, more than you know. Yet you prefer to keep your head buried in the sand.’
To avoid further awkwardness, I thought it best to hold out some hope of change. ‘I talked to Frau Jaeger the other day. She’ll be having another one of her soirées soon. There’ll be plenty of intellectuals there.’
‘We’re not interested in Barbara Jaeger,’ Herr Andrich said. ‘Her husband’s . . .’
Herr Zoch coughed. The sentence remained incomplete. Herr Andrich frowned and stared at the end of his cigarillo, as if having doubts about the wisdom of lighting it. For a few moments nobody spoke. Then Herr Zoch said, ‘Tell us about the swimming pool project. How’s that coming along?’
I was happy to change the subject. ‘Quite well,’ I said. ‘We’re due to start work on the site very soon. Although we have had a bit of a setback.’
‘Yes, we heard about Rudi Begler. Drunk on the job, wasn’t he? Great shame. Still, someone could have been killed.’
‘So they say.’
‘Where are you going to get your cement from now? And the mixer? You can’t make cement without a mixer.’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘We were counting on Begler. He was our lynchpin.’
I shook my head, remembering now my rash promise to Frau Wiegmann and the rest of the committee. Soon she would be calling me – or, worse still, calling round – wanting to know how I was getting on with my string pulling. I had made a number of calls; so far all without results.
‘Such a worthwhile project,’ Herr Andrich observed. ‘A swimming pool. It’d make all the difference to the children around here, poor little devils.’
He sniffed his cigarillo and looked at Herr Zoch. Herr Zoch looked back. Both men sucked their greying incisors.
‘I suppose we could ask around,’ Herr Andrich said. ‘See what we could come up with. How about that?’
‘Yes, how about that?’ said Herr Zoch.
I had to acknowledge that this would be a great help. When it came to pulling strings, Champions of Art and Culture had nothing over employees of the state security apparatus. Theirs was a very network of string, one that reached into every corner of life, like cobwebs in a neglected attic.
‘We’ll see what we can do,’ said Herr Andrich indulgently, finally mustering the courage to light up.
‘So.’ Herr Zoch looked at his notes. ‘You were saying: arrogant, a cut above. Examples?’
‘All I meant to say was . . .’
‘You really must give us an example. If only for the sake of clarity.’
‘For the sake of clarity,’ Herr Zoch repeated, as if there were some danger I hadn’t heard the first time.
‘It goes without saying that anyone talented and clever is going to have a high opinion of themselves,’ I said. ‘It’s only natural.’
‘And who in your
‘Like who, for example?’ Herr Zoch readied the ballpoint with a flip of his thumb. ‘Give us a name.’
It was snowing outside: big, fluffy flakes like the aftermath of a celestial pillow fight. I pictured myself outside, walking arm in arm with Theresa Aden, the chill of the air a delicious contrast to the inner glow of companionship and love. But Theresa was lost to me now. Wolfgang Richter had got to her first. He had snatched her away while I sat around listening to chamber music and admiring his literature. All I was left with was the cold and a feeling of emptiness deeper than I was used to.
‘I’m not talking about anyone in particular,’ I said. ‘I’m just not one of them, that’s all, the intelligentsia. I never have been.’
Herr Andrich sighed and reached into his coat pocket for a pack of cigarillos. He smoked only Sprachlos, the local brand, a name which in English means ‘speechless’ (branding was not an advanced science in the Workers’ and Peasants’ Republic).
‘This is very disappointing,’ he said. ‘Your observations on the artistic scene are so highly valued. Your opinion is trusted, more than you know. Yet you prefer to keep your head buried in the sand.’
To avoid further awkwardness, I thought it best to hold out some hope of change. ‘I talked to Frau Jaeger the other day. She’ll be having another one of her soirées soon. There’ll be plenty of intellectuals there.’
‘We’re not interested in Barbara Jaeger,’ Herr Andrich said. ‘Her husband’s . . .’
Herr Zoch coughed. The sentence remained incomplete. Herr Andrich frowned and stared at the end of his cigarillo, as if having doubts about the wisdom of lighting it. For a few moments nobody spoke. Then Herr Zoch said, ‘Tell us about the swimming pool project. How’s that coming along?’
I was happy to change the subject. ‘Quite well,’ I said. ‘We’re due to start work on the site very soon. Although we have had a bit of a setback.’
‘Yes, we heard about Rudi Begler. Drunk on the job, wasn’t he? Great shame. Still, someone could have been killed.’
‘So they say.’
‘Where are you going to get your cement from now? And the mixer? You can’t make cement without a mixer.’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘We were counting on Begler. He was our lynchpin.’
I shook my head, remembering now my rash promise to Frau Wiegmann and the rest of the committee. Soon she would be calling me – or, worse still, calling round – wanting to know how I was getting on with my string pulling. I had made a number of calls; so far all without results.
‘Such a worthwhile project,’ Herr Andrich observed. ‘A swimming pool. It’d make all the difference to the children around here, poor little devils.’
He sniffed his cigarillo and looked at Herr Zoch. Herr Zoch looked back. Both men sucked their greying incisors.
‘I suppose we could ask around,’ Herr Andrich said. ‘See what we could come up with. How about that?’
‘Yes, how about that?’ said Herr Zoch.
I had to acknowledge that this would be a great help. When it came to pulling strings, Champions of Art and Culture had nothing over employees of the state security apparatus. Theirs was a very network of string, one that reached into every corner of life, like cobwebs in a neglected attic.
‘We’ll see what we can do,’ said Herr Andrich indulgently, finally mustering the courage to light up.
‘So.’ Herr Zoch looked at his notes. ‘You were saying: arrogant, a cut above. Examples?’
‘All I meant to say was . . .’
‘You really must give us an example. If only for the sake of clarity.’
‘For the sake of clarity,’ Herr Zoch repeated, as if there were some danger I hadn’t heard the first time.
‘It goes without saying that anyone talented and clever is going to have a high opinion of themselves,’ I said. ‘It’s only natural.’
‘And who in your
Similar Books
