Aladdin's Problem Read online

  50

  We would have drifted apart even without my work, which occupied me more and more, ultimately affecting my health, especially when the firm rose to sudden notoriety. If anyone was at fault, it was I — because of my character, which was exposed by my profession; however, time would have done the same, even under different circumstances. As a moralist once said: Aging makes not only our profiles but also our characters more distinct.

  I wonder whether, in regard to eros, I fit into one of the prevailing typologies. If I were to fill out a test questionnaire, I would be the paragon of a normal spouse. I cannot oblige with any surprise, any physical or mental deviation.

  One should not be content with that; statistics are devised for parochial minds. What does, say, the question "What is your favorite color?" mean to someone who feels good in a fog or who is delighted by a palette, an opal, a rainbow, a sunset in Manila? Besides, under every normal stratum, we come upon a more deeply universal stratum, the human one. Man remains the enigma per se.

  After putting aside the books, I reached a conclusion: You are an erotic nihilist. What does that mean? To put it tritely: the kind of woman I like best is the one whose presence does not disturb me, who is simply not there. This, as I have said, is a very general case, and that was what disturbed Bertha about me.

  Now I could get out of the predicament by claiming that I may even be an erotic idealist. A beloved's presence would be disturbing insofar as it interfered with. Aphrodite. The final chamber remains locked, and only a ray of light flashes through. That is the secret reason for so many disappointments.

  The yearning for a new life can become very strong. I am thinking of the influence that the Provencal love cult exerted on the Renaissance. La vita nuova — nine-year-old Dante is transformed by Beatrice, as P etrarch by Laura; the poem is for human beings what a flood is for the cosmos: a response to vast distances.

  However, I do not wish to play the metaphysical swain. Aphrodite may be missing or veil her face: the Great Mother is always there. Love changes to the extent that materialism progresses.

  My nihilism is based on concrete experiences. And, as so often, it was the first encounter that served as a model, preshaping the subsequent ones.

  51

  It is, above all, the gods who change. Either they assume different forms and faces, or they vanish altogether. But similarities always remain, no matter how many generations are produced. It is the same as with breeds of animals.

  I regard it as a mistake to call Dionysus a god; I contest it. He has a place on Mount Olympus as a close relative, also as a guest of honor. Dionysus is more than a god and less — he is earth exposed, nature revealed. He is a demon, a polymorphic Titan. This is not contradicted by one of the myths about him which says he was torn to shreds by the Titans — that is simply the way they are. Dionysus himself is torn, he tears, he is overpowering. His place is not so much on Olympus as in Eleusis, between Persephone and Demeter.

  I therefore feel that Old Gunpowder-Head was wrong to put Dionysus as a god opposite Apollo — theirs was actually an encounter between Titanic-demonic and divine power. Still, Gunpowder-Head did understand that this conflict brought forth two kinds of art, especially two kinds ofmusic. He returned to Dionysus. Rather than expatiating on this, I wish to focus on the present. The fact that we, largely in a passive manner, are participating in a fall of the gods is obvious as far away as India and New Guinea. Titanic forces in mechanical disguise are supplanting the gods. Wherever Zeus no longer rules, crown, scepter, and borders are becoming senseless; with Ares, the heroes are making their farewells; and with Great Pan, nature is dying. Wherever Aphrodite is waning, there is promiscuous interbreeding.

  The power of Dionysus testifies to the fact that he alone survives. He is the master of festivities in palaces and among the masses, he is at home with princes and beggars. His light enchants the mayfly, which burns itself on him.

  52

  Aside from being the place where Stellmann used to drill us so hard, the Liegnitz Culture Park was still as unpleasant as could be. Its very name was paradoxical. On weekdays, it served as a training ground when the area in front of the barracks was occupied; and on Sundays, it was used for parades. The lawn was worn down, flowers were out of the question. At the center of the park stood a gigantic shell, a dud, commemorating, as the inscription on the pedestal explained, the conquest ofthe city. An avenue lined with trees and statues led to this monument. The statues were the artworks, some in plaster, some in concrete. Naturally, they were not meant for eternity. As Zhigalev demands in his program, the elites were liquidated from time to time. The heads of statues, as I witnessed twice, would then be replaced. Likewise, names were deleted and dates changed on street signs and in reference books — in short, there was no more history, just stories.

  How could it be that this wasteland was so marvelously transformed for a night? It was a Friday, the First of May. This is a day of festivities and mysteries throughout Europe. In Wurzburg, the devil drove through the city in a splendid carriage. The witches danced on Mount Brocken; Brunhilde was seen in the Valley of the Bode. The poor souls haunted the rivers, infernal bells tolled. In my native Silesia, the people said: If you see a falling star on that midnight, you should dig in your garden; you will find a treasure.

  53

  Now the pageants had become obligatory, but the day had remained, for every regime lives on mythology, albeit in a diluted form. The crowd must have been inspired by a memory which, after the flags were rolled up, drove them out into the countryside, toward the true master of festivities. He must have, if not appeared, then at least entered; the metamorphosis was extraordinary. I too was overcome, despite my sadness when arriving.

  A fog had risen, as often around this time. Stars were probably shining above it, but people and things could be seen only through a dense veil, almost unsubstantially. Music was being played in the taverns of the city, but the only sound that penetrated the Culture Park was the dithyramb of a drum, like the strokes of a faraway gong.

  I walked along the great avenue. The statues too had changed; they were neither artworks nor their mockeries. The Party chairman had become Hercules, the hangman had become the ultimate benefactor, the Indian god. Even the concrete revealed its secret: its atoms were also those of marble — indeed, those of our hearts, our brains. An utter hush prevailed: the throngs had scattered throughout the park. They were performing a grand consummation of marriage.

  Now I ought to speak about the encounter I had; but words fall me for the ineffable. Merely breaking the silence would be betrayal. Nothing similar has ever been granted to me again. I do not even know if we touched. However, my nihilism is based on facts.

  54

  Let us get back to my job. As I have said, I was a climber. There was a surprise — not merely because business was thriving; it was as if a base were being raised to a higher power: a jackpot.

  When checking through my papers, Uncle Fridolin had paid special attention to my degree in statistics and media. Indeed, both subjects are important: our dealings rest on statistical foundations, and our needs are aroused by media. The Romans were different: they dealt in hard facts, allowing everyone to form his own opinion. For example, t made no difference to them whether the Jews believed in the Twelve Gods; the Romans nailed no theses on the portals of the Temple of Zion; they merely erected a statue of Caesar in front of it. In our culture, opinions precede facts — that is why media, coupled with statistics, is such an important subject.

  Needs are both real and metaphysical; they are geared to life in this world and in another world. The two cannot be sharply separated: they overlap in dreams, in intoxication, in ecstasy, in the great promises.

  The art of arousing new needs covers a wide range from the apostle Paul to Edison's inventions. A need can be recognized suddenly or it can spread gradually. Take tobacco: it has come a long way from the first cigar of the Conquistadors to the international power of the cigarette in
dustries.

  Why was it that within a few years, Uncle Fridolin's modest firm enjoyed that incredible, virtually uncontrollable boom?

  55

  It began, as so often, with car trouble. Together with Kornfeld, the sculptor, and Edwin, the chauffeur, I was driving to Verdun, the Capitale de la Paix, where we had some business. Edwin was a good driver, but unreliable — an "airhead." I am quoting my uncle who had threatened him several times, saying that "the fifteenth is going to be the first." He also said: "Edwin is the sort who calls in sick on a Monday." That was true, but Edwin made up for it during the week.

  And today was Monday; we had spent the night at Kleber's in Saulgau and tasted the wines that thrive along the Neckar. Edwin had neglected to fill the tank; we ran out of gas on one of the hills outside the Black Forest. It was a lonesome place; no car passed, so Edwin had to take two canisters and go on the road. Actually, we did not mind our sojourn; it was a beautiful morning—we were in the mood for a stroll, a pipe, and a good conversation. A chapel stood on the hill; it reminded me of the chapel on Mount Wurmling near Tubingen — Uhland wrote a beautiful poem about it. A gray wall enclosed the chapel grounds; we entered through the gate and found ourselves in a deserted cemetery. Kornfeld said: "Lo and behold — the lure of the relevant."

  Kornfeld was a renowned sculptor, but he no longer practiced. He said: "We sculptors are like the butterfly collectors who hang up their nets because the butterflies are dying out. For us, it is heads that are growing rare. We would have to go to the Africans, and even they..."

  He added: "For me, a tyranny would be advantageous, though naturally, I can't say that out loud."

  "But Herr Kornfeld — our experiences would tend to confirm the opposite."

  "My dear Baroh, you are confusing tyrants and demagogues — that is a common error in our time. The demagogue stirs one and the same dough; he is a pastry chef, at best a plasterer and painter. The tyrant supplies individual shapes. Down to his bodyguards. Think of the Renaissance tyrants ruled everywhere, from every small town up to the Vatican. That was the great era for sculptors, for art in general."

  That gave me food for thought. In any case, Old Gunpowder-Head would agree. "Caesar Borgia as pope."

  Kornfeld had worked chiefly in marble; he had also studied the ancient kinds, touring the Greek islands in quest of forgotten quarries. One ofhis favorite books was President de Brosses's Confidential Letters, which so often talks about marble. Critics and academics are reluctant to mention Kornfeld's name; nevertheless, it pops up precisely when it is ignored. The museums contain some good heads ofhis. But ever since he put down his chisel, he had been doing architectural consultation and designing parks, gardens, and cemeteries. Our trip was linked to such a commission.

  No one had been buried on this hill for a long time, and, as Kornfeld said, the place was about to be plowed under. Soon the countryside would consist purely of roads and gas stations. We peered at the headstones, deciphering the inscriptions. One of the deceased had been a hundred years old. We had to lift the ivy off a humble monument and saw that it commemorated the single military casualty that the village had suffered in one of the campaigns of the previous century; the Iron Cross surmounted his name.

  The headstones of the parish priests were lined along the wall of the chapel. The dates reached all the way back to the Thirty Years' War. Chalice and wafer were reiterated in red sandstone from Baroque style to Art Nouveau. A sovereign judge, a seminarian, a man who had been struck by lightning, many children, but mostly peasants who had tilled the soil. Perhaps their families had died out, but the stone preserved their names, stirring the reflections of strangers who, like us today, happened to pass by. They had even memorialized a tightrope walker who had plunged down in the village square.

  56

  When Edwin had returned with the canisters, and we were driving back to the highway, Kornfeld said:

  "Now that was a graveyard worthy of its name. When I think of the cemetery in my hometown, where I may end up: a switchyard, worse than in New York."

  He expounded: "You see, I maintain a family vault that I inherited, it dates back to my great-grandfather. I don't know how much longer I can afford it. No year goes by without my being pestered by the administration. The very word 'inherit' annoys people today like 'destiny' or 'the Good Lord.' I'm afraid that the North German lowland has become a seismic area. Now one headstone wobbles, now another, although they're located along the wall and most likely wobble only when some sort ofviolence is inflicted on them. I get bills from stone masons, cemetery gardeners, miscellaneous fees yet one hundred twenty years ago, my great-grandfather paid for the spot once and for all — and in gold. Evidently, more land speculators are at work there than death watchers; that's why most of the old families are giving up their rights."

  Kornfeld went on: "The family vaults are then replaced by rows of uniform stones. Those people arrogate authority for themselves even in questions of taste. But just take a look at the Campo Santo in Genoa. It teems with examples of poor taste — and they all combine into a wonderful tableau."

  I had to agree. The ahistorical person knows no peace, especially eternal peace. He has adjusted even his graves to his chauffeur style. Like all structures, they are meant to last thirty years. The mourners are content with a standing order at a gardening center. Such is their piety. I was acquainted with it from my job.

  "That's the way it is," said Kornfeld, "the old washerwoman who saved up for her funeral, taking her shroud from her chest every Sunday in order to caress it —you'll find her only in half-forgotten poems."

  He mused: "And yet something has remained — you discover it when you scratch the polish: a grieving in November, when the leaves are falling and yet seeds are already stirring in the earth. Believe me: a loss is felt here, a need slumbers here, unsettling everyone, moving everyone."

  57

  That was how it began, during the drive to Verdun, to one of the great cemeteries. The conversation lodged in our memories; we felt we had touched on an important issue. We then saw a great deal of one another in Berlin, socially too, and developed the theme.

  I would like to say to our credit that we initially did not think of business. Kornfeld planned as an architect and artist; his ideal had long been to create harmonious landscapes outside the workaday world. They were meant to inspire pure well-being and meditation — and perhaps also have ritual meaning — preferably both in unison. He frequently quoted a forgotten historian, von Rotteck: "A compilation ofburial customs would be the counterpart of a collection of theories of immortality."

  Richly illustrated works, from Vitruvius and Piranesi to Lenôtre and Prince Puckler, were to be found in Kornfeld's library, which led into a map room. I enjoyed being in these rooms. The work wing also included a studio and a drafting room, with an array of marble steps set into the walls. A garden led down to the Spree. In the garden, there were sculptures from the period when Kornfeld had been an active sculptor. Now he employed draftsmen, who also worked for Pietas from time to time. It was in the context of such a commission that I had made his acquaintance.

  As regards myself, I was initially moved by only a vague passion. What appealed to me was something general, which I could serve if only by contributing a single stone. With that stone, I would confirm that the Pharaoh is immortal, and everyone carries a pharaoh inside himself.

  I thought of great buildings, Kornfeld thought of forests and plains near the Polar Circles. We were united by the conviction that we were on the trail of a yearning. If a need is to be aroused, it has to exist; one cannot talk people into it. Only that which slumbers can be awakened.

  We had an idea, but, like any inventor, any author, we had to go and find a reliable partner in order to make it come true. Clearly, we first turned to Uncle Fridolin, but he flatly refused. He was a good businessman, but averse to fantasies and with no appreciation of art. Furthermore, he did not much care for the thought of eternal resting places. After all, hi
s livelihood depended on as many burials as possible, virtually in rotation. Like many conservatives, he was at the cutting edge when it came to business. Thus, he viewed cremation as a great advance, although he rejected it personally.

  58

  Sigi Jersson was one of my new friends, perhaps the only one to whom I can really apply that word. We had met in a Jewish cemetery that had been opened only recently. The headstones gave me pause to think: each was shaped like an open book with one or two names inscribed in it; underneath stood a list of the missing — not people who had fallen in battle, but people who had been deported and murdered. Sigi's father was one of them.

  We exchanged only a few sentences; but with a genuine affinity, this often suffices to begin a friendship. It can be a wink, an ironic silence that reveals a spiritual rapport. And here there was a lot that had to be veiled.

  Sigi visited me in Steglitz, and I visited him in his bungalow at Wannsee Lake, in the Western sector of the city. Bertha was not edified by this acquaintanceship, which contributed to our drifting apart. "He's not your kind — did you see the way he eats asparagus?" This hardly troubled me; after losing Jagello, I was starved for conversation with a historical and literary grounding. Sigi could oblige with both. I could tell from my very first visit to his library that he possessed an inner order. For literati, books are the costumes by which they judge one another. Hume, Machiavelli, Josephus Flavius, Ranke in long, brownish golden rows — there is a mood in which books directly radiate substance.

  In time, I needed these visits as much as an old Chinese needs opium. Exhausted, I drove from my dreary office on Potsdamer Strasse to my new friend, if only for a few minutes, and when I left, I was refreshed. Occasionally, I missed dinner and stayed past midnight. Bertha conjectured that I had strayed from the path of virtue and in a way, I had.