The Magician: A Novel Page 5

  “But it has caught on,” Lula said. “We are the ones who have been left behind.”

  “We will rectify that.”

  “But how?”

  “By following fashion. I have never done that before but I will do it now if you feel I should. In Lübeck, I set the fashion.”

  Thomas decided that he would go out for a walk. The spring evenings in Munich were warm. He was glad that Heinrich was still in Italy, thus leaving him free to explore the city on his own. The streets were full of strollers; there were even people sitting outside cafés. He found a place where he could sit and distract himself by looking at people as they paraded by.

  As the days passed, he found that he did not miss Lübeck. Even in high summer, there had always been an edge of coldness in the wind there. People looked away if you glanced at them. It was the custom there to be home by six in the evening and remain indoors no matter what the season. People lived as if winter were always approaching. They appeared happiest when on their way to a long, dreary church service made even more tedious by the heaving, interminable sound of Buxtehude’s works for organ. He felt disdain for the cold Protestantism of the north and the blinkered interest in trade in Lübeck. In Munich, priests were as common on the streets as policemen and could be seen strolling around as though they had no precise destination. It was a relaxed, entertaining place, he thought, and he made plans to settle in the city on his own terms once he had spoken to his mother.

  Even though he had stayed in his mother’s apartment before, he was still surprised at seeing the furniture from Lübeck, even pieces from his grandmother’s house, in the new, more confined space. His mother’s grand piano filled almost half the living room. He found the presence of tables and chairs, paintings and candelabra that had been familiar in Lübeck both disturbing and faintly comic, as none of them seemed to fit in with the rest of the decor.

  Despite the fact that she still emphasized her own foreignness and originality, treating the apartment as though it were the refuge of some famously ruined heiress, his mother was defeated. She believed, as she often let her children know, that the social success she desired in Munich had eluded her. There were parties and dinners every night to which she was not invited.

  The sparkle had left her, Thomas thought, to be replaced by melancholy and a readiness to take offense. Whereas in the old days in Lübeck she had found the society around her both lightly amusing and engrossing, she now became prone to resentments. She was indignant when the postman did not arrive on time, or when a messenger delivered a package in the afternoon rather than the morning, or when one of her friends did not see fit to include her in their party at the opera, or, ominously for Thomas, when one of her children did not behave as she wished.

  As Thomas walked around Schwabing, where his mother’s apartment was, he discovered a world that he had not taken in before. Young men, who looked like artists or writers, walked confidently in the streets, talking loudly. He wondered if this were new, or why he had not seen it on previous visits. In the cafés that had recently opened, groups were involved in deep conversation. Although they were only a few years older than he was, they suggested a different world. He noticed the odd combinations: if their clothes were worn carelessly, their haircuts could be old-fashioned. They radiated an old-world politeness as they greeted one another or when one of them was departing. But they also had a way of laughing with abandon, displaying teeth that had been shamelessly stained with tobacco. They appeared amused and then suddenly earnest. They often lounged back lazily, and then leaned forward, pointing a finger into the smoke-filled air to underline a point.

  He tried to listen to their conversation. Some of them, he learned, were journalists, others were critics or worked in the university. On the street, he saw groups of two or three carrying portfolios. They must be artists, he thought, on their way to a class or a studio or a gallery. They moved and spoke as though not only the city but the future itself would soon be fully theirs.

  After supper in that first week, he walked until he was tired, returning silently to the apartment, hoping not to wake the others. Once he made the decision each night to go home, he felt a great desolation. Sitting on his own in cafés, he was shut out from the world that was so alluring to him. He wondered if Heinrich knew any of these people. Were they to see his poems, he thought, they would not want him in their company. They looked and sounded so ironic and cosmopolitan, he was sure they would find simple love poetry worthy only of their mockery. He would have nothing to add to their conversation. He would appear too callow, too innocent, merely a schoolboy. But this did not stop him wanting desperately to be a part of these gatherings.

  At meals in his mother’s apartment, the talk focused on clothes and gentlemen. If his father were alive, he was sure that what was said at the table would be more edifying and the contributions of his sisters would be carefully monitored and controlled.

  One evening, when the talk about a new set of visitors seemed to be reaching an intense pitch, he could take no more.

  “I hope not to have to see any of these gentlemen. They sound like bank clerks.”

  His sisters were not amused by this observation. His mother stared straight ahead.

  One night, when he went up to his room, he found a letter with headed notepaper from Spinell’s on the bed informing him that he would be expected at their Munich office on Monday morning, when his duties would be outlined for him. His mother must have left it there. Since the date in question was just five days away, he determined that he would have to speak to her, he could not let any more time go by.

  The next afternoon, when his sisters had gone shopping and one of the servants had taken Viktor to the park, he heard his mother playing Chopin. Having collected the pile of papers that contained all the poems he had written and some prose pieces, he came into the room where she was and sat quietly and listened.

  When she had finished, she stood up wearily.

  “I wish we had a bigger apartment, or a nice house,” she said. “It is all so cramped here.”

  “I like Munich,” Thomas said.

  She turned back to the piano as if she had not heard him. As she was looking through sheet music, he came towards her with his poems.

  “I wrote these,” he said, “and a few were published. I want to dedicate my life to being a writer.”

  His mother flicked through the sheets of paper.

  “I have seen most of these,” she said.

  “I don’t think you have.”

  “Heinrich sent them to me.”

  “Heinrich? He never told me that.”

  “Perhaps that is just as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He did not think very highly of them.”

  “He wrote to me saying that he admired some of them.”

  “That was very sweet of him. But he wrote a very different letter to me. I have it somewhere.”

  “He gave me great encouragement.”

  “Did he?”

  “Can I see what he wrote?”

  “I don’t think that would be advisable, but you have a job now. And you start on Monday.”

  “I am a writer and I don’t want to work in an office.”

  “I can read you out a sample of Heinrich’s views if that might help to put your feet on the ground.”

  She moved away from the piano and left the room. When she returned, she had a bundle of letters in her hand. She sat on the sofa as she tried to find the ones she was looking for.

  “Here! I have both letters here. In this one, he describes you as ‘an adolescent, loving soul, led astray by loose feeling.’ And in this second letter, he refers to your verses as ‘effeminate, sentimental poeticizing.’ But I myself liked some of the poems, so perhaps this is too harsh. And he may have liked some of them too. When I read what he wrote, I really did see that some decision would have to be made about your future.”

  “I have no interest in Heinrich’s views,” Thomas said. “He is not a critic of poetry.”

  “Yes, but his views do point the way for us.”

  Thomas looked down at the carpet.

  “And so we contacted Herr Spinell,” she went on, “who was an old friend of your father’s when he ran a very successful fire insurance company in Lübeck. Now he runs a similar one that is much respected in Munich. It’s a large business and there is every chance for someone diligent to rise through the ranks there. We did not tell Herr Spinell about your record at school. He sees you as solid, as your father’s son.”

  “Heinrich has an allowance,” Thomas said. “You paid for the publishing of his first book.”

  “Heinrich has applied himself to writing. He has won much admiration.”

  “I will apply myself to writing too.”

  “I wish to discourage your urge to write. I know from the school reports that you have no talent at applying yourself to anything. Perhaps I should not have shared your brother’s opinion on your poetry with you, but I need to bring you down to earth. This job in fire insurance will steady you. Now I realize that we must go the tailor’s and get you measured for some suitable clothes, clothes that will impress Herr Spinell. We should have done that as soon as you arrived.”

  “I don’t want to work in fire insurance.”

  “I’m afraid that your guardians, who still have control, have made a firm decision. It is all my fault. You see, I was too lax. I did not know what to do when I saw the school reports so I did nothing. But then the guardians saw them and it was all taken out of my hands. I would have resisted them were it not for the poems.”

  His mother crossed the small room and sat again at the piano. He looked at her elegant neck, her narrow shoulders, her slim waist. She was only forty-three. Before this, she had always been gentle with him, too distracted by other things to notice him too much or be irritated by him. Just now, she had sounded officious, using a tone that she herself often deplored in others. She was trying to mimic his guardians or his father. It would not take much to bring her back to herself, but he did not know at that moment how he might do that. And he could not believe that Heinrich, in whom he had confided his ambitions to be a poet, had betrayed him, had written so savagely and cynically about his poems.

  As his mother returned to her Chopin, putting more and more energy into her playing, he was glad that he could not see her face. And he was even happier that his mother could not see his as he began to steel himself against her and against his brother.

  Chapter 3 Munich, 1893

  At Spinell’s, when he started, he dreaded each day. The work they gave him was deadening. They wanted all the accounts in one ledger to be transferred to another ledger so they would have a second copy that could be held in the head office.

  They left him alone, trusting him to do this work, having let him know where he could find fresh nibs for his pen, ink and blotting paper. As he worked at the high desk, some of the older men in the office greeted him when they passed. The sight of a young man from a good family learning his trade in the fire insurance business seemed to please them. One of them, Herr Huhnemann, was the friendliest.

  “Soon you will be promoted,” he said, “I can see that. You look like a most competent young man. We are lucky to have you.”

  No one ever checked how much progress he was making. He kept the two ledgers open, making sure that he appeared to be concentrating on the work. He did some transcribing, but less and less each day. If he had written poems, he might have drawn attention to himself by knitting his brows too much or singing out the rhythms under his breath, so he wrote a story. He worked calmly, the dream life he tried to summon up pleased him, and soon put him in a good humor that lasted through the evening so that his mother began to believe that he was benefiting from the discipline of office work and that he might have a serious future in fire insurance.

  Breaking the rules, defying both his employers and his guardians, gave him satisfaction. He no longer dreaded going to work. But there were nights when he could not bear it at the table, when the apartment was stuffy and the hours ahead were hard to face.

  He knew that his mother disapproved of him walking the streets of Munich and sampling the cafés on his own. If he were drinking too much, or spending time with unsuitable people, it might have made more sense.

  “But who do you see on these walks?” she asked him.

  “No one. Everyone.”

  “Heinrich always stays with us when he is here.”

  “He is the perfect son.”

  “But why do you stay out for hours?”

  He smiled.

  “For no reason.”

  Thomas felt timid and withdrawn, unable to present himself to his mother with the confidence and panache of Heinrich. At night, it came to him that he would be found out at Spinell’s soon unless he set himself to work with speed on the transcription of the ledger. But he continued to write, relishing the idea that he had plenty of paper and other supplies and, if he needed, he had all day to rewrite a scene. When the story was accepted by a magazine, he enjoyed not telling anyone. He hoped that when his story appeared in print no one might notice.

  Herr Huhnemann had a way of looking at him intently and then glancing away as if he had been caught breaking a rule. His steel-gray hair stood on his head like little spikes. His face was long and thin, his eyes a deep blue. Thomas found him unsettling, but realized that holding the man’s gaze, and then forcing Herr Huhnemann to look down, also gave him a strange sense of power. As time went by, he knew that these small encounters, the mere meeting of eyes, were an important part of Herr Huhnemann’s day.

  One morning, soon after work began, Herr Huhnemann approached his desk.

  “Everybody will be wondering how your great work is going,” he said in a low and confidential voice. “I know that the head office will be making inquiries before long so I took a look myself. And you, you little scamp, have been idling. Not only idling but worse. I found many pages in your writing underneath the main ledger. Whatever it was, it was not what the company asked you to do. If you had just been slow, then we would understand.”

  He rubbed his hands together and moved closer to Thomas.

  “Perhaps it was a mistake,” he continued, “perhaps the work has been copied into some other ledger that is not on the desk. Could that be the case? What does young Herr Mann have to say for himself?”

  “What do you intend to do?” Thomas asked him.

  Herr Huhnemann smiled.

  For a moment, Thomas thought that the man was contemplating some way of helping him, of making his indolence into a conspiracy in which they both could pleasurably share. Then he saw his colleague’s face darken and his jaw set.

  “I intend to report you, my boy,” Herr Huhnemann whispered. “What do you have to say to that?”

  Thomas put his hands behind his head and smiled.

  “Why don’t you do it now?”

  On arriving home, Thomas found Heinrich’s suitcase in the hall and Heinrich himself in the living room with his mother.

  “I have been sent home from work,” he said when his mother asked him why he was not at Spinell’s.

  “Are you ill?”

  “No, I was found out. Instead of doing my work, I have been writing stories. This is a letter I have received from Albert Langen, the editor of the magazine Simplicissimus, accepting my most recent story. I care more about his opinion than I do about the entire future of fire insurance.”

  Heinrich indicated that he wished to see the letter.

  “Albert Langen is a most respected figure,” he said when he read it. “Most young writers, and many older ones, would give a great deal to receive such a letter. But that doesn’t give you permission to walk out of work.”

  “Have you become my guardian?” Thomas asked.

  “Clearly, you need one,” his mother said. “Who gave you permission to come home from work?”

  “I am not going back there,” Thomas said. “I am determined to write more stories and a novel. If Heinrich is going to Italy, I want to go with him.”

  “What will your guardians think of this?”

  “My time under their control will soon end.”

  “And what will you do for money?”

  Thomas put his hands behind his head, as he had done with Herr Huhnemann, and smiled at his mother.

  “I will appeal to you.”

  * * *

  It took a week of sulking and cajoling and insisting that Heinrich be on his side.

  “How will I explain it to the guardians?” his mother asked. “Someone from Spinell’s might already have told them.”

  “Tell them I have consumption,” Thomas said.

  “Don’t reply to the guardians,” Heinrich added.

  “Neither of you seems to understand that if I do not report to them, they can have my allowance cut off.”

  “Illness, then,” Heinrich said. “Illness. Needs Italian air.”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t take illness lightly,” she said. “I think you should go back and apologize and learn to do your work.”

  “I won’t go back,” Thomas said.

  He knew that his mother had, in fact, already concluded that he would not return to Spinell’s. With Heinrich, he tried to work out how best to encourage her to give him an allowance. In the end, since his appeal to his mother had not succeeded, he appealed to his two sisters.

  “It’s bad for the family to have me in such a menial job.”

  “What will you do instead?” Lula asked.

  “I’ll write books, like Heinrich.”

  “No one I know reads books,” Lula said.

  “If you help me, I’ll help you when you have a problem with Mother.”

  “Will you help me too?” Carla asked.

  “I’ll help both of you.”

  They told their mother that having two brothers who were writers would assist them socially in Munich. They would be invited to more places and noticed more.

  Julia finally told him that she thought it best if he went to Italy. She had written a formal letter to the guardians to let them know that this was being done for health reasons, on the best advice. She sounded stern and in control.