The History of History - By Ida Hattemer-Higgins Page 0,108

Greifswalderstrasse. They sat in the overgrown park, in the Communist-era amphitheater with the giant screen. It was not dark yet, but previews were already coming on. Amadeus got up right away after they sat, having said very little to Margaret since he first met her, and went to the concession kiosk. When he came back he handed her a Czech beer and put something in a gold wrapper on her lap—an ice cream bar. He smiled at her and pulled her earlobe, whistling to himself as he opened his beer. He did not ask her whether she wanted a beer or an ice cream bar, nor had he asked her what kind she would like—almond or vanilla, Czech or German. Indeed, he never asked her such things. He had no idea what she liked. But he knew what he liked, and he knew what he wanted for her, and he knew he was paying. And in point of fact, Margaret looked up at him gratefully when she was presented with these gifts. She thought he was like the tomcat that leaves dead birds on the doorstep.

She was beautiful when she was near him. When she went to meet him she wore the perfume that smelled of freesia blossoms.

Margaret found it impossible to concentrate on the film that night, as she always found it impossible to concentrate when he was there. All she knew later was that the cinematography had been brown and gold, that the dialogue was slow, and the film almost silent. This was the sort of film they always chose, he always chose.

Later they found themselves in one of the nearby beer gardens, where the honeysuckle grew up trellises. They talked for a long time about Walter Benjamin. Amadeus did most of the talking, since Margaret didn’t dare say much in German on a topic that meant so much to her. Going around in life using German, which Margaret had learned only a few years before, was like walking around in high heels—although it drove up the aesthetic rush of going out on the town, it was dreadfully uncomfortable after a while, and there were certain places you couldn’t go.

Later the conversation shifted to university gossip, and Amadeus said something Margaret didn’t like. He said that really, but for the fact that they were so stupid and he wouldn’t want them, the girls at the uni were wild about him, looked at him with doe eyes, he could have any one of the young things.

Margaret went silent. Amadeus didn’t notice. He kept talking.

“What exactly does your marriage mean to you?” Margaret finally broke out. “Anything at all? Do you hate her? Do you hate Asja?” She spoke the name to hurt him. Amadeus didn’t like Margaret to use his wife’s name. Never had he used it himself in her presence, referring to his wife only as “die Mitbewohnerin” (“the roommate”) or simply: “other people.” If it hadn’t been for a bit of detective work, looking at the last name on the mailbox at their apartment and then a series of Internet searches, Margaret might never have found out Asja’s name at all. So Amadeus winced at the question.

“My God.” He wiped his head. “How did we get on this topic?”

“You’re thinking of getting yourself a mistress at the university, aren’t you?”

“Gretchen (he called her that sometimes—always, always, Amadeus preferred the diminutive of any name), don’t be silly. You know that’s the last thing I want. Your demands are difficult enough, I’m halfway dead trying to keep up with you. Another woman would be suicide.”

“Why do you do this to me? It’s been more than two years now. I know you love me, no matter what you say.” Unexpectedly, for all her happiness, Margaret began to cry. “Why do you do this?”

“Come on, don’t cry. I do it because I can.”

The tip of Margaret’s nose turned to ice. The summer evening had grown cool, and she had only her cotton sweater. “Because you can?”

“It doesn’t hurt Asja, and it doesn’t hurt you. When you get tired of me you’ll grow up and get married yourself. I’m not doing anyone any harm. It’s just a matter of good management. Keep little wife number one happy. Keep little unofficial wife number two from getting upset. That’s all. Settle down now, unofficial wife of mine.”

“I’m going to leave you.”

At this, Amadeus was ruffled. He shrugged his shoulders, but she could tell he was hurt. “But you’ll always come back, we can’t stay