But between ourselves: haven’t you ever imagined, for instance on a walk and when the postman has just disappeared into the entrance hall of a building, what it would be like to take a handful of white letters out of the yellow box on the yellow bicycle, or get on the bicycle yourself, ride away, and spend the day immersed in the lives and bills of other people?
These days, with the Internet, doing such a thing would be less interesting than in Ditzsche’s time. These days we all write emails. Well, here in Fürstenfelde not all of us write emails. And other people read our emails too, viruses and Americans read them, but that doesn’t bother anyone much. Back in the past only Ditzsche read other people’s letters. And the Stasi, but perhaps here it really was only Ditzsche. Although everyone knew everything about everyone else anyway, and still does.
Some day, when Ditzsche is no longer around, Fürstenfelde won’t dance so well. Imboden isn’t getting any younger either. Dietmar Dietz speaks lovingly to his chickens in Spanish sometimes. Maybe he learned to dance in Cuba, maybe he learned at the People’s University. And maybe he doesn’t dance so well as all that, but someone once said with conviction that he did, so it became the truth, how would we know? Usually it’s not so much a case of what’s really true as what people think is true.
When he was delivering letters, Ditzsche sometimes forgot himself and did a little dance. Everyone likes to see someone who may be bringing good news forget himself and do a dance. And maybe Ditzsche was dancing for joy because he already knew the good news.
Out of a pension of 534 euros a month, Dietmar Dietz spends nearly 300 euros on his chickens. When Ditzsche is no longer here, there won’t be a single pedigree chicken left in Fürstenfelde. Chickens will just be chickens. If you’ve ever seen specially beautiful chickens, if you’ve ever seen Ditzsche’s pedigree Kraienköppe chickens stalking about, you’ll know what a loss that will be.
But it’s a comfort to know there’s someone among us who understands rare creatures, or creatures hitherto entirely unknown here, whether he’s a biologist, a geneticist or a chicken-breeder. That someone, in Herr Schramm’s words, has a talent for the creation of what’s new and the preservation of the norm. Such a talent that Breakfast TV phones Ditzsche and calls him “Herr Dietz,” asking about his availability, and Herr Dietz hesitantly cracks a joke to the effect that he must look in his engagements diary. The Breakfast TV people say it would have to be a Saturday afternoon, and Ditzsche replies, “Then come to the Feast and you’ll really have something to see, not just my chickens.”
When people still went walking on a Sunday, Ditzsche would open his inner yard and let the chickens out of their enclosure. The people out walking wanted to see the chickens, and the chickens wanted to be seen; they stalked around and children clapped their hands. Ditzsche stood to one side, doing something or other, and no chicken ever left the yard. That’s all over, and the chickens didn’t stalk, Ditzsche would say, the chickens just had rather prominent chests and tall, elegant figures.
Even then, Ditzsche left his home only to go to work, to get things for his chickens, and to shake a leg dancing at Blissau’s. In spite of all his dancing partners, nothing ever came of Ditzsche’s acquaintance with women.
“Ditzsche, you’re as stiff as your chickens,” the ferryman once said, and Ditzsche replied quietly, “My chickens aren’t stiff, but you’re a layman, you wouldn’t know.”
And stiff wasn’t the right word for Ditzsche, either. Abashed was more like it. Except when he was dancing, Ditzsche looked abashed the whole time. And you can’t stand the company of someone who’s always abashed for long. As soon as the music stopped, Ditzsche looked down at the floor. Didn’t know what to do with his elbows and his shoulders, never asked a woman a question. And that’s no good, women have to be asked questions.
After that business with Durden and his act of revenge, Ditzsche lost his job and disappeared for a couple of years. Some said he was taking more dancing lessons in Cuba. Others said: you always want people to be doing something special, but on the whole people don’t do anything special. We’ve seen Ditzsche climbing scaffolding in Prenzlau.
He came back in 2003, but there’s very little to be said about that. Durden had retired, the old bigwigs wore new suits, the polka was still in fashion and was now joined in popularity by the metal band Rammstein, equally simple in principle, and they’re both all right. What didn’t function in the past still didn’t function, or functioned in a slightly different way, and functioned either better or worse, depending on your attitude to past history.
Dietmar Dietz functioned as usual. He began rearing a new breed of chickens. If he really did read our letters, people in the village may have shown him that they knew it, but he himself didn’t get to know anyone better than before.
He will open his inner courtyard for the Feast. The enclosure will be clean, the chickens will shine beautifully in the sun. Outsiders will pay them compliments as if there were no tomorrow. And in the evening Dietmar Dietz will dance, well and unabashed.
THERE’S STILL TIME TO PASS BEFORE THE FEAST, but it won’t be long now before the first light of dawn. The Adidas man has stationed himself outside the bakery earlier than usual; perhaps he thinks the Zieschkes will open sooner today. He keeps his head bent, rubs his hands either in anticipation or because of the cold. He is wearing the white tracksuit this morning. One trouser leg is hanging in tatters, as if a beast of prey had caught him there.
We’re too tired for suspicion after such a night as this. Never mind what we think of the Adidas man. All the clothes he needs are those two tracksuits, and all the nourishment he needs is orange juice and yeast pastries with vanilla filling. And those are all the words he needs to order them in the morning. Not everyone needs a history of his own.
Lada has never met the Adidas man before. Now he and silent Suzi come out into the road, both looking as if they haven’t had enough sleep. Until a moment ago they were playing games of chance on their computers to stay awake. Lada is still wearing his Shell overall, Suzi runs a comb through his hair, the dragon scales on his forehead sparkle in the light of the streetlamps. The plan is: the sooner they clear up Eddie’s place, the sooner they can start celebrating. They light cigarettes. Simultaneity, comradeship, happiness.
Yes, and there’s that character in his tracksuit outside the bakery. Lada’s mother once confessed that she was afraid of him because he really didn’t laugh, ever. Maybe Lada is thinking of that now. Thinking that a fear of his mother’s is standing there, and he should have dealt with that fear long before this; he signs to Suzi to wait.
The Adidas man rubs his hands again, even after Lada positions himself between him and the shop door. After he has said something. Has repeated it in a louder voice. Has asked something. Suzi taps Lada’s shoulder, walks his fingertips over it in an impatient gesture that says, “Let’s get going!”
Lada puts his forefinger under the Adidas man’s chin and raises it. He wants to look into his eyes. Those eyes are cornflowers. He doesn’t blink. He’s a field lying fallow. Lada’s words pass over the field like wind. The way Lada is now, Lada is an arsehole.
Silent Suzi takes his arm. Draws him away. Helps the Adidas man up. And as he does that the Adidas man, with blood on his lip, whispers something in his ear.
Lada kicks the lamppost. The lamp goes out.
Strangers seldom come to us. They seldom stay.
Strangers who spend some time with us seldom stay strange.
We seldom make friends with the strangers, even if they do spend some time with us.
We’re social. We’re anti-social. We’re open-minded. We’re suspicious. Who likes being bothered? No one.