—without feeling anything. And then again, I thought I couldn’t bear it. The memory of the screams woke me up every night. I’d tried to talk to Leibold about getting transferred back to my old unit; I’d pointed out that my assignment to the SS was only temporary. I shouldn’t get any ideas in my head was his reply.
“Have you been back to Turachevsky’s recently?” Leibold asked. We’d avoided this subject ever since that night. “And what about your little thing with the bobbed hair? Was she an open-minded girl?” He had a cold, lascivious gleam in his eye.
My days in rue de Saussaies, my sexual gymnastics with Rieleck-Sostmann, my yearning for Chantal—I felt I was caught in a joyless triangle.
There was a sound of rushing water over my head now. Hirschbiegel was getting into his bathtub. I kept staring at the jacket on the floor. The thought that the strains of “Ma Pomme” would become audible at any moment gave me the necessary impetus. I quickly picked up my pants from the bed and started to dress.
The air was still hot, even though evening was coming on. I transformed myself into Monsieur Antoine, taking along my volume of La Fontaine, just as I’d done the first time. The book made me feel more secure. I wasted no time on the Right Bank, crossed the Pont Royal, and headed for rue Jacob. At the Café Lubinsky, a table in the shade was free, and I ordered my first café crème . I laid the book open in front of me like a man who wanted to read undisturbed. From one day to the next, the weather had turned quite warm. The air above the hot pavement was shimmering. Haze hung around the gables. The people were enjoying the heat. I heard them talking about the thunderstorms that A P R I L I N PA R I S . 59
would descend on the city during the night. I bent over to tie the laces on one of my shoes. And then I felt a shadow.
She stood over me in grave contemplation, wearing the dress with the red dots. She wasn’t staring at me; she was examining my book. A fierce monkey rode on the back of a dragon-fish in the midst of a foaming dark-green sea. For me, that copperplate engraving on the title page had always been the entrance to an enchanted place. Chantal’s fingers touched the hairs of the fish-monster’s beard.
“Only a catfish looks like this,” she said. “No other animal.”
Her voice was surprisingly deep, like a boy’s when it’s breaking.
“I’ve never seen a catfish,” I said. It was the first time I’d ever used the expression poisson-chat.
“My grandfather catches them sometimes,” Chantal replied.
“In the country.”
“You live in the country?”
She gave me a surprised look. “You know I don’t.” She sat down so abruptly that my coffee sloshed out of its cup. She re-cited, “ ‘Une grenouille vit un boeuf / Qui lui sembla de belle taille.’ ” Then she opened the book.
“The frog and the ox,” I said, nodding. “Do you like that fable?” I was searching for the story between the lines.
“It comes up a lot.”
“The frog who wants to be as big as an ox?”
“People who puff themselves up until they burst.” She called out her order to the passing waiter. “I haven’t seen you here for a long time,” she said. She squeezed her dress between her knees.
My eyes strayed over the triangle formed by her lap.
“You noticed me before?”
60 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
There was a pause. Then she said, “Most visitors to Paris wear a uniform. Not you.”
“Not me.” I waited. A puff of wind stirred the pages. The book was now open to “The Monkey and the Leopard.” The waiter put a glass of lemonade in front of Chantal. She drank in tiny sips. My eyes penetrated inside her mouth.
“What kind of work do you do?” she suddenly asked.
I bought a little time by closing the Fables and putting the volume back into my pocket. Pretending to be a bookseller would be too risky. A bookseller’s daughter would know what questions to ask. The
“Have you been back to Turachevsky’s recently?” Leibold asked. We’d avoided this subject ever since that night. “And what about your little thing with the bobbed hair? Was she an open-minded girl?” He had a cold, lascivious gleam in his eye.
My days in rue de Saussaies, my sexual gymnastics with Rieleck-Sostmann, my yearning for Chantal—I felt I was caught in a joyless triangle.
There was a sound of rushing water over my head now. Hirschbiegel was getting into his bathtub. I kept staring at the jacket on the floor. The thought that the strains of “Ma Pomme” would become audible at any moment gave me the necessary impetus. I quickly picked up my pants from the bed and started to dress.
The air was still hot, even though evening was coming on. I transformed myself into Monsieur Antoine, taking along my volume of La Fontaine, just as I’d done the first time. The book made me feel more secure. I wasted no time on the Right Bank, crossed the Pont Royal, and headed for rue Jacob. At the Café Lubinsky, a table in the shade was free, and I ordered my first café crème . I laid the book open in front of me like a man who wanted to read undisturbed. From one day to the next, the weather had turned quite warm. The air above the hot pavement was shimmering. Haze hung around the gables. The people were enjoying the heat. I heard them talking about the thunderstorms that A P R I L I N PA R I S . 59
would descend on the city during the night. I bent over to tie the laces on one of my shoes. And then I felt a shadow.
She stood over me in grave contemplation, wearing the dress with the red dots. She wasn’t staring at me; she was examining my book. A fierce monkey rode on the back of a dragon-fish in the midst of a foaming dark-green sea. For me, that copperplate engraving on the title page had always been the entrance to an enchanted place. Chantal’s fingers touched the hairs of the fish-monster’s beard.
“Only a catfish looks like this,” she said. “No other animal.”
Her voice was surprisingly deep, like a boy’s when it’s breaking.
“I’ve never seen a catfish,” I said. It was the first time I’d ever used the expression poisson-chat.
“My grandfather catches them sometimes,” Chantal replied.
“In the country.”
“You live in the country?”
She gave me a surprised look. “You know I don’t.” She sat down so abruptly that my coffee sloshed out of its cup. She re-cited, “ ‘Une grenouille vit un boeuf / Qui lui sembla de belle taille.’ ” Then she opened the book.
“The frog and the ox,” I said, nodding. “Do you like that fable?” I was searching for the story between the lines.
“It comes up a lot.”
“The frog who wants to be as big as an ox?”
“People who puff themselves up until they burst.” She called out her order to the passing waiter. “I haven’t seen you here for a long time,” she said. She squeezed her dress between her knees.
My eyes strayed over the triangle formed by her lap.
“You noticed me before?”
60 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
There was a pause. Then she said, “Most visitors to Paris wear a uniform. Not you.”
“Not me.” I waited. A puff of wind stirred the pages. The book was now open to “The Monkey and the Leopard.” The waiter put a glass of lemonade in front of Chantal. She drank in tiny sips. My eyes penetrated inside her mouth.
“What kind of work do you do?” she suddenly asked.
I bought a little time by closing the Fables and putting the volume back into my pocket. Pretending to be a bookseller would be too risky. A bookseller’s daughter would know what questions to ask. The
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