As I copied our number I noticed that it ended in 007.
“My name’s Neumann, by the way,” he said, holding out a store receipt on which he had scribbled his own number. In the same moment the phone rang. With a hasty good-bye he headed off.
Pretty much everything had gone wrong at the office. Constanze would have to stay in Berlin, at least until the day after tomorrow. She said that the latest deportations had also set off a row within the feuilleton staff itself. I had no idea what deportations she was talking about. We didn’t listen to the radio because the FM button was missing.
Constanze was still angry and claimed that those guys just hadn’t been able to deal with losing to Croatia in the World Cup soccer match. That was why they were carrying on like this.
I told her about last night. She just said, “Well then, come home.”
“Yes,” I replied. “I will, tomorrow.” I didn’t want to look like a coward. Besides, it was easier to deal with the heat here.
I tidied up. In case the police actually did show, I didn’t want them to think it made no difference if something got kicked in here or not. I was also going to tell them that our landlord had only leased the lot, since it was now the property of a Westi. As a final touch I swept the terrace.
That afternoon I spoke with some of the other neighbors as well. We agreed to leave on all the lights we could at night. We parked our cars with the headlights directed at the fences, so that we could suddenly blind these guys and maybe even get a picture of them. Our motto was: People, noise, light. We bungalow dwellers developed a kind of Wild West solidarity. No policeman ever showed his face, but we didn’t waste words talking about that.
Out of a kind of gratitude I dialed Neumann’s number. I had at times found it intoxicating to be connected by satellite with people anywhere in the world. That we were neighbors, not three hundred yards apart, made the idea seem even more fantastic. But instead of Neumann himself, I heard a woman say: “This is the voice mail of …” followed by a pause, and then out of a galactic void I heard the words: “Harald Neumann.” I felt goose bumps creep up my arms, clear to my shoulders. Of course even friends often sound distracted or depressed on their answering machines. But Neumann didn’t just sound downhearted — it was as if he were ashamed even to have a name.
A little later there was a brief thunderstorm. I saw Neumann coming out of the woods with a basket full of mushrooms. He called to me from a good distance, “Like turnips!” He probably meant that in this weather you could gather mushrooms the way you could harvest turnips, or that they were as big as turnips. He invited me to help him eat them.
In comparison with our little shack, his bungalow was a small palace, with a television and stereo, leather chairs, and two bar stools. Neumann served red wine and French bread with the mushrooms. After that we played chess and smoked a whole pack of Clubs between us. There seemed to be no connection between the Neumann here before me and the man who spoke his name for his voice mail. All the same I felt shy about asking him about his family or occupation.
Toward evening the clouds above the lake turned pink. I laid my big flashlight and Neumann’s number where they were handy. By ten o’clock the lightning was flashing with the regularity of a warning light. A cloudburst followed. By then it was clear to me that no one would be coming that night.
The next morning I packed everything up, did a last dusting, and said good-bye to my neighbors. I didn’t find Neumann at home. Presumably he was in the woods again. I don’t think people got the idea that I was a coward. They realized that Constanze was no longer here. The telephone call with our acquaintances — our landlords — proved more difficult. I was supposed to take care of the fence. There were still some posts in the shed. But the refrigerator alone had cost us a whole morning — that was quite enough.
…
In late September the cell phone rang in the middle of the night. In the first moment I thought it was the peep it makes when the battery is low. But the tootle-toot got louder each time. I got up, groped in the dark for my shoulder bag, and rummaged in it. I traced the tip of my forefinger across the keys — I needed the middle one in the second row from the top. The signal was now insufferably loud.
“Those guys are back again. They’re really raising a racket!” And then after a brief pause: “Hello! This is Neumann! What a racket! Do you hear it?”
“But I’m not there anymore,” I finally said.
“They’re really raising a racket!”
The light on Constanze’s side went on. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, shaking her head.
With my free hand I covered the mouthpiece. “A neighbor from Prieros.” I could feel myself breaking into a sweat. I had never mentioned exchanging phone numbers — we wouldn’t be going to Prieros again anyway.
“Are you alone?”
“Somebody has to hold down the fort,” Neumann cried.
“Are you alone?”
“They’re breaking down my fence, the bastards.”
“Have you called the police?”
Neumann gave a laugh, then had to cough. “That’s funny …” It sounded as if he’d been drinking. I had never sent him Constanze’s article about New York.
“What is it you want?” I asked.
“Just listen to that racket!”
I pressed the phone tight to my ear, but it made no difference.
“Now they’re at the mailbox!” he shouted. “They’ll have to sweat and strain at that. Not even two of those lunkheads can manage that. They’ve gone too far.… Enough is enough!”
“Stay where you are!” I shouted.
Constanze was standing in the door, tapping a finger at her forehead. She said something from the hallway that I didn’t understand.
“Hello?” Neumann called out.
“Yes,” I said. Or did he mean those guys at the fence. “Stay inside!” I shouted. “Don’t try to be a hero.”
“They’re gone,” he said, and laughed. “Nobody in sight, they’ve taken off, scared shitless.…” I distinctly heard Neumann take a drink and set the bottle back down. “These lunkheads,” he gasped.
“You shouldn’t be there all by yourself.”
“So how are you doing?” he interrupted me in an almost hoarse voice.
“Stay in the house,” I said. “You shouldn’t even be out at the lake, or just on weekends maybe, but not during the week.”
“When are you coming back? We still have a game we haven’t finished. Or would you like to play by mail? You want to give me your address? I’ve got some dried mushrooms, a whole sack full.”
“Herr Neumann,” I said, and didn’t know what else to say.
“The garbage can!” he suddenly bellowed. “My garbage can!”
“Forget about the garbage can,” I said. “It’s not important.” I called out, “Hello?” and “Herr Neumann” a few more times. Then there was only a dial tone, and the display read: “Call ended.”
Constanze came back into the room, lay down on her side, facing the wall and pulling the blanket up over her shoulders. I tried to explain the whole thing to her — how I’d hesitated at first, but that in the end I’d been glad I could call a neighbor for help in an emergency. Constanze didn’t stir. I said I was worried about Neumann.
“Maybe he’ll call back,” she replied. “This will be happening fairly often now. But of course you never give the number to anybody.”
I think at moments like this we’re both so disappointed with ourselves that we hate each other. I went to my study to fetch the charger for the cell phone.
“And what if he passes your number on?” Constanze turned over and propped herself up.
“Why would he do that?”
“But just imagine if he does!”