He was sick of his work, it was second rate, Feuerbach was absolutely right about that. The work was mediocre. . if only it had been bad, the media would have lapped it up. But the media. . especially the Western media!. . loved mediocrity. . the measure of mediocrity was the medium of the press of oppression. .
His work was some second persona’s occupational therapy, or the products of a neurotic who with an enormous effort transformed himself for a few minutes a day into a writer. . or transformed himself back, perhaps, it being possible that in this person’s second, already half-forgotten persona there had once been the makings of a writer. Now nothing but a sentimental hope made him cling to these makings. . some drivel about artistic gifts bore the blame for this hope, and that drivel came from his case officer. It had ultimately gotten to the point at which recalling his so-called talent cost him a nervous strain alleviable only by immediate sleep. . and each time he woke up he was relieved to find that he was still the same old person: Feuerbach’s best man. . Go ahead, pat yourself on the back! said his superior. — And then, once again, he was that guy who gadded about bored but secretly attentive, who answered to a code name. Or didn’t answer, depending, or answered to this other name which he had to use to sign things and which appeared above his published poems. . above his first poem to be published, illegally in the Western press half a year ago, a year ago or a year and a half ago, and then above the next poem too, and he’d kept this name ever since then (and ever since then a character of this name appeared regularly in his reports. .)
And often enough he didn’t even react when he heard the name that stemmed from the so-called author bios of scattered poetry publications, garlanded by completely incoherent and legendary data about a person who was a pure fiction. And he could never say offhand whether or not this data was correct. . once, he recalled, he had been turned away from one of the offices in the city because he wasn’t clear on his current data. It was one of those identical, completely anonymous offices (the door sported a private, random name, furnished, as so often, with a spillage of consonants, the more consonants, the more expensive the flat behind the door: Pr Dr Dr h.c. E. Schulze-Lehmann, or perhaps something even more original); and there was actually — he didn’t know when she’d come in — a receptionist; when asked for some year from his legend. . either a birth or a death date. . he’d replied: Ask the boss and have him check the filing card.
In the kitchens of the Scene, where people planned and debated round the clock, he was viewed as the most taciturn one, never contributing anything to the controversies. . and perhaps he was the perpetually abstracted one, whose thoughts never dwelt in the same place as his person; but this very behaviour had garnered him the reputation of the imperturbable, reliable one, always on the spot. . and sometimes in several spots at once. — He was absolutely everywhere, he always put in at least one appearance wherever people were holding readings or theatre performances, wherever they were exhibiting paintings that hadn’t been reviewed by the authorities (abstract paintings?); his name was on every list (he just had to make sure it wasn’t the name Cambert!), his face blurred in the background of every commemorative snapshot, he was the Scene’s mute but never-tiring reinforcement, and sometimes he was the Scene all by himself. He was the eternal extra, then; his abiding spellbound attention emboldened the most inexperienced writer of prose or proclamations, and almost by habit all proposals and protests were given first to him to sign (he just had to watch out that he didn’t sign as ‘Cambert’). And when somewhere or other a van filled with detainees rolled off: he was there (he just couldn’t identify himself to the police as Cambert!); and waiting for the interrogation he, the staunch silent block amid the others’ flutter, was the first to catch the eye of the officer on duty, the first to be grabbed roughly by the lapel and dragged into the office (he just had to remind them not to throw him out with the words: Don’t come back any time soon, Herr Cambert!).
The most convenient role for him to play was the taciturn type. . Feuerbach carped about it, though: really he had nothing to offer (once W. had made this very threat to the boss in A., now Feuerbach repeated the words at every opportunity), every report had his name in it, but he never took any initiative. . How was he going to find out anything more than the usual if he didn’t take charge of the conversation himself? How was he ever going to penetrate to the heart of certain intimate connections if he couldn’t even make up his mind on a little flirt with the West Berliner?
One day he had produced a profile of the person who bore his real name (a poet in the so-called unofficial literary scene, who, with others, had been the topic of conversation for nearly a year now). This job was a trial of patience; he’d had to provide a whole series of these descriptions, and after repeated, urgent requests from his superior he had completed the majority of them in the nights during and after a three-day workshop with the slogan Ecology and Perestroika, at which art was also shown and readings took place. As many participants as possible had to be recorded; identifying descriptions had to be supplied, along with brief summaries of their behaviour. On the list’s many pages, he himself occupied a place about a third of the way through:
Participant No. 29
(unquestionably the operationally known M. W.)
Gender: male; age: 44–8; height: 165–70 cm.; stature: stocky, corpulent; shape of head: round; carriage of head: generally tilted, but variable; complexion: pale (unshaven); forehead: broad, furrow over the nose; chin: receding, tendency to double chin; hair colour: dark blond, grey temples; haircut: medium length, ears covered; eye colour: grey; eyebrows: bushy, short, separate; clothing: light brown jacket, unlined (so-called parka, People’s Production), always worn open, faded blue riveted trousers (jeans, Lee brand), poor fit (too small in the waist), secured by black plastic belt, shirt (short-sleeved) with blue — green pattern; accessories: white plastic bag with the imprint RBI (Radio Berlin International), contents: 1 book (title and author not ascertained), 2 unopened packs of cigarettes (brand not ascertained).
Description in brief: No. 29 behaves as though he were not expected at the workshop. Shakes hands with approx. 10 persons. Displays little interest in the artwork on display, but when asked about it responds with exaggerated praise. Rarely takes part in discussions, rapidly switches interlocutor, exchanging trivial phrases such as: How’re you doing. Fine and you. I’m doing just fine and you. No I’m not doing bad and you. Me too. Yeah, since yesterday I’m doing fine and you. Also fine since yesterday and you. All the time his gaze remains restless, usually directed away from the interlocutor and roaming the garden. He seems interested only in the female attendees, but does not speak with them, only with the male attendees. Once he quotes a passage from Roland Barthes near a group of female attendees (incorrectly). Smokes heavily, cigarettes, Juwel brand (old), drinks beer from the bottle without always contributing to the collecting-box. Displays no initiative, gives the impression of a hanger-on.