The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

“Look, Zimmermann,” Silverstone complained, “I wasn’t even happy about bringing this guy here. But you said he could be trusted, so I took the risk. I thought maybe you could explain things better than I can – like you said in the first place. But I don’t have to take these insults. And when I think of the trouble he gave me coming here…”

Although Silverstone appeared to be offended by his choice of words, Frank had the impression he was simply playing some elaborate game. And when the American meekly acceded to Achim’s suggestion that he go down to the basement and give Gertrude a helping hand, he began to wonder whether this whole scene had been carefully rehearsed.

“How are Gertrude and the kids settling in?” Frank asked.

He had imagined that, once Silverstone had gone, the conversation with Achim would assume contours he could identify. But he was mistaken. His old friend shook off the question like a dead leaf clinging to his shoe. He preferred to return to less easy pastures.

“Your innocence and naivety amaze me, Frank. Do you honestly think I came down here in search of artistic freedom and all that crap? How long have you been here now? Six weeks? Eight? Two months of self-indulgent fantasy can be extremely ruinous to your health, you know. And meanwhile there’s a whole world outside falling apart at the seams. There comes a time when you have to grow up, Frank. When you need to put aside the existential poetry of Rilke or the nonsense verse of Morgenstern or whatever poet captures your attention at any given moment. And just leave the pleasures of self-absorption behind.”

“Did you know that Rilke’s first name was René?” Frank said, ignoring his friend’s diatribe. “It was Lou Salomé who gave him the name Rainer.”

“Have you even heard what I’ve been saying, Götz?” Achim gasped with exasperation. “Just quit the evasion and listen to me.”

“But it’s interesting, isn’t it?” Frank said with a smile that made plain he had heard every word – and his friend’s intended irony – despite the persistent evasion. “It’s interesting the way people like to substitute given names. It’s as if they want to blank out the attributes they don’t like in someone and assign a new identity to that person.”

“Like you, Götz.”

Frank smiled now with a hint of awkwardness.

“What’s more interesting about Lou Salomé,” Achim continued with an unaccustomed harshness in his voice, “and more germane, is that when she died a few weeks ago, they confiscated her entire library because it was tainted with ‘Jewish science’ and was full of books by Jewish authors. Did you know that?”

“Look, I’m not quite the innocent you imagine me to be, Achim. I know what these people are like.” Frank pointed to the injuries on his face. “I didn’t get this walking into a lamp post.”

And for the second time that day, Frank went into the details of his encounter with Breitner. But for Achim’s ears, the motives behind the storytelling were rather different. The story was very much a service stripe, a badge of honour to impress. And Frank did not spare his friend’s sensibilities, as he had done Patricia’s. Achim was presented with a complete tapestry of the violence committed against him.

“So that’s why Silverstone was persuaded to bring you here,” said Achim.

“I don’t follow.”

“I may only have been here a week or so, Frank, but one thing I’ve learned is that anyone Breitner takes a dislike to is a friend of Silverstone’s.”

“A dubious privilege. I wouldn’t trust him any further than I could throw him. And besides, after nicking his papers off him, I wouldn’t be so sure you’re right about his judgement of me.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong, Frank. But then you don’t know him yet.”

“That sounds ominous. You mean I’m going to get to know him better?” The words drew a smile from Achim. “But since you seem to know him so well, tell me about him. Who is he?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know him well. But I know what he stands for, and that’s probably more important these days.” He broke off for a moment to pour himself another brandy, as if this would help concentrate his mind. Frank allowed him to fill his glass, too, as he watched the tension playing on his old friend’s face.

“Some people in Berlin put me in touch with him.” His voice cracked almost imperceptibly with a hint of self-mockery as he continued painting in the background to his picture. “You know, Frank, you would hardly have recognised me these last few months in Berlin. I’ve been moving in very mixed company.”

Achim rose from his chair, and Frank’s eyes followed as he poured himself another glass and moved over to the window.

“You’re hitting it pretty hard these days, Achim. Is that down to the mixed company you keep?”

“It all goes back to an insignificant landlord of an insignificant bar somewhere in Kreuzberg. And you know, it’s the insignificance of it all that appals and haunts me most of all.”

“You’re talking in riddles, Achim.”

“You remember our bar on the Ku’damm?” said Achim.

“Of course,” Frank nodded, recalling their intoxicated evenings in the garishly decorated blues and golds of the bar room and the ladies of the night entertaining their clients on the dance floor.

“I dropped in one evening for a beer on my way home,” Achim went on. “The place was quite full, but seemed oddly quiet. The band had stopped playing. I must have been very tired, because it took some time for it to click, before I realised what was happening. There were a few brown uniforms among the clientele, but that was a sight I’d grown used to, so I paid them no special attention. I walked over to the bar. Two of them were standing there and seemed to be in conversation with the barman. It was not until I interrupted them to order a beer that I could see this was not a