“It’s obvious,” said Hermann in their third conversation, “that I would do well to marry. My boss has been advising me to do so for some time … I need to marry someone with a good educational background and decent manners. Unions of people with different sets of manners don’t usually work out …”
Dorothea thought of her family. She had a vision of her father reading Vorwärts in the light of their living room. That was where she had come from.
“Someone without a decent education is of so little value,” said Hermann over his mug of beer.
“Oh, if only I’d been able to study …!” answered Dorothea after a brief pause, as two round, and very genuine tears rolled down her cheeks.
He looked at her tenderly. Society has not been built perfectly, he thought, injustice is so common … This little scene erased from his mind the primordial importance of good education and made way for a soft, spongy, gluey sentimentality.
They married. Hermann was promoted. He was made an accountant. They found a small flat in Wilmersdorf and furnished and decorated it in their taste, that is, the taste in vogue. A rather bohemian little flat — they said — with a few fake prints, lurid colors (a mixture of yellow and purple), antique furniture that had just been manufactured, and a genuine Cubist painting. Once their honeymoon was over, she went to the Berlitz School to learn French. Subsequently, when she came across the occasional au revoir or à tout à l’heure in a German novel she had no need to have recourse to a dictionary.
It was immediately obvious that the marriage would last. He as much as she took to the path of routine without more ado: neither too swiftly nor slowly. They went in step. He became even more loyal, particular, and orderly, and his admiration for his boss and the shareholders increased. And from the first day Dorothea loved Hermann, not with fire, but hardly with a taste of ashes. They constituted harmony in motion, harmony in routine motion. Their life was like everybody else’s, with neither ups nor downs. They were in good health, had ten thousand marks in the bank and a great ability to wonder at the world. It’s all one needs to be happy. Perhaps they didn’t betray any of their ideas. They simply forgot them. It wasn’t a problem. Germans think freedom is like rhythmic gymnastics.
They thus reached the age of thirty-five, the tenth year in their absolutely standard marriage. One day Hermann received a message from management telling him to travel to South America to inspect the way their representatives were working there. It would be a six- to eight-month trip. It came as a big surprise, but the firm insisted.
Dorothea accompanied Hermann to Hamburg. As the liner melted into the fog, her tears dried up. The crucial aspect of that whole business was the element of surprise, the appearance of a different situation. “Tonight I will switch on the light, look at our bed, and see that Hermann isn’t there …” They separated with the greatest of trust in each other. Rather, they never even saw it as a problem. It was quite unimaginable to think that their routine might be disrupted, particularly when one considered how he held a position in such an important — and German! — button factory.
The first months of separation passed without any foreboding or manias muddying the waters. Correspondence kept coming to the small flat in Wilmersdorf, and some postcards were thought worthy of being stuck on walls. Mountains and monuments arrived, and streets and squares, geographical wonders, marble generals and sunsets — not to mention canoes, natives, crocodiles, snakes, parrots, and monkeys. The latter delighted Dorothea, because Germans are very fond of nature. The correspondence was optimistic. The business potential was remarkable. “I’d never have thought,” wrote Hermann, “that the South American button market would be so colossal.”
One day Dorothea received a telegram. She opened it thinking it would signal his return. When she’d read it, her eyes bulged out of their sockets. It said: “Hermann Weber, of the … company … has died in the shipwreck of the Araucana in the Mid-Amazon. Nothing was saved of the ship or its occupants. The shipping company gave no further details apart from the deceased’s address in Berlin that the agent possessed. I will inform you of any developments. Peters. Honorary German consul.”
It was a terrible blow. Heartbroken, Dorothea received the usual expressions of condolence. The local newspaper published a detailed obituary. “A citizen of Wilmersdorf,” wrote the paper, “has died in the Amazon. The treacherous waters of that great river swallowed up the remains of Hermann Weber, our distinguished, much admired fellow citizen. He died doing his duty. The greatness of our fatherland, the future expansion of Germany throughout the world, demand sacrifices … We offer his widow …” The committee of the national button-makers’ union paid Dorothea a moving, collective visit … The firm granted her a pension for life … When everything was in order, the period of resignation began. C’est la vie!
What had happened in South America? It was nothing out of the ordinary. A few hours after Hermann arrived in Buenos Aires, he met a very becoming young Polish Jewess, who was absolutely ripe to tackle a German who’d just come ashore from a lengthy, healthy journey by sea. It happened on a tram platform. The young lady — by the name of Ruth — gave him a long, provocatively languishing look. It was spring — that is, autumn in Europe — a gentle breeze was blowing (the Rio Plata breeze, as they call it down there), the birds were singing, the sky was blue, and the sap was rising fast and furious. Everything seemed to be an incentive. He heard a lot of Italian being spoken, and Hermann, who had so often dreamt of Italy, felt that a forgotten, demolished world was resurgent.
“Come on!” said Ruth. “Let’s go into this cinema. We can talk …”
It was two o’clock. Hermann asked: “A movie at this time of the night?”
“Cinemas here open night and day. Everybody so likes to go.”
In a word: Ruth lured and hooked him. They traveled the continent together. The Polish woman had huge commercial knowhow and pragmatic morals. Her mastery of the language was very useful to the German. She even cast her conception of love over him, one that was about being natural, free, and completely non-transcendental. Hermann’s moral stance collapsed. Its ethical core dissolved under the impact of her desirable proclivities, by her lust that was spontaneous, a simple product of her existence, a mere aspect of her everyday vitality. So Hermann felt his inner resistance melt by the day, weakened by her sensuality. Ruth could see the impact she was having, and was very happy. Unable to react, Hermann had no choice but to lay all the blame at his own door. In the end such onslaughts make one believe one has a clear idea of oneself, and this illusory clarity creates an illusion of freedom that sharpens every tendency to surrender.
When Ruth suggested he should send the telegram spinning the fiction of his death that would allow him to embark upon another life, he’d have liked someone to beat him over the head. But when she assured him everything would be fine, he laughed his first cynical laugh.