Acclaim for Monika Maron

Monika Maron herself has chosen, among the painters who influenced her most… a picture by Magritte: two bare feet at the foot of a wall, transformed into a sad pair of worn out boots — formless, tattered laces, the leather dissolving into carrion. About her work she comments: ‘It’s exactly like Magritte…the feet remain, just as worn shoes. The body has gone and one stands before an empty wall.’     LE MONDE

Extraordinary writing.  PUBLISHERS’ WEEKLY

Philosophically challenging,…sometimes disorienting but never boring…admirably translated.  WOMEN’S REVIEW OF BOOKS

Daring and inventive. BELLES LETTRES

Deeply philosophical and wildly imaginative. FEMINIST BOOK FORTNIGHT

"Much to the discomfort of East German authorities, this outspoken Berlin native — whose views are as blunt as her shoulder-length hair — was not content to keep quiet on her side of the Wall. Nor was she content to keep quiet about the Wall." CHRISTIAN SCIENCE MONITOR

Maron, with her absurd, compressed reality satisfies the highest demands. Laurence Stern, Poe or Musil would have taken great pleasure in her.     DIE WELT

This Monika Maron is a noteworthy artist of the imaginary, a portrayer not of socialism but rather of life under socialist auspices. And she is an inspired satirist as well…Monika Maron impressively and overwhelmingly mixes the humorous with the frighteningly dramatic element.   FRANKFURTER ALLGEMEINE ZEITUNG

Relentlessly somber, rife with ambiguity, and with the day of the funeral used as a recurring theme, this is a bleak, biting reminder that the old order has fallen but that its long shadow remains.  KIRKUS REVIEWS

A bitter valedictory to the German Democratic Republic, the socialist state that ceased to exist the year before the novel’s publication…. NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW

Maron may have, indeed, set out to write a ‘finger-pointing’ novel. Instead she has crafted one with a particularly universal voice: In a world that has become increasingly institutionalized, the artist, as well as the creative thinker, faces enormous obstacles erected by an often philistine establishment.  ST PETERSBURG TIMES

Silent Close No.6

Novels by Monika Maron available

from Readers International:

Flight of Ashes (novel)

The Defector (novel)

Silent Close No. 6 (novel)

Silent Close No.6

A Novel by

Monika Maron

readers international

The title of this book in German is Stille Zeile Sechs, first published in 1991 by S. Fischer Verlag GmbH.

© 1991 S. Fischer Verlag GmbH, Frankfurt am Main

First published in English by Readers International Inc. USA and Readers International, London UK. Editorial inquiries to London office at 8 Strathray Gardens, London NW3 4NY England. US/Canadian inquiries to North American Book Service Department, PO Box 909 Columbia LA 71418-0909 USA.

English translation © Readers International Inc. 1993, 2018

All rights reserved

The editors wish to thank the Arts Council of Great Britain for their support, and also the Google Book Project for their co-operation.

Cover illustration: Tile Red Model by Rene Magritte.

Reproduced by courtesy of the Boymans-van Beuningen Museum, Rotterdam.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-83085

A catalog record for this book is available from the British Library.

EBOOK ISBN  9781887378246

for Jonas

Contents

Acclaim for Monika Maron

Silent Close No.6

About Monika Maron

About the Translator

About Readers International

Silent Close No.6

Beerenbaum was buried in the part of Pankow Cemetery known as the Memorial Grove, an area reserved for the ashes of important persons like Beerenbaum. Although it was cold, I decided not to take the bus, and instead to walk the one or two miles between my apartment and Beerenbaum’s future grave. I took the flowers I had bought out of the water — a small desiccated bouquet of freesia, I couldn’t find anything else — dried the stems, and rolled them up in layers of newspaper to protect them from the cold. I like freesia; I don’t know if Beerenbaum liked them. I decided to take a route that brought me within twenty yards of Beerenbaum’s house, a slight detour, but the route I had taken twice a week for the last six months.

The house in which Beerenbaum lived was located in an exclusive residential section of Pankow popularly known as the village, a name which sounds more affectionate than it was supposed to. Until the end of the ’fifties, the government lived in this semicircular area with several small streets, and paths fanned out from it behind fences and barriers protected by the army and police, until they moved outside the Berlin city limits. The only people left in this area immediately next to Niederschönhausen Palace were a few widows of former members of the government and once powerful men such as Beerenbaum. Some of the houses still had nameplates indicating their earlier, since deceased, inhabitants: the first President of the German Democratic Republic, the first Prime Minister, and the first Minister of Culture. Although it had been in good condition, the house of the first General Secretary was razed to its foundations following his death and a new, less attractive house built in its place. Of course this led to rumors. To be precise, they said so many bugs had been installed in the walls over the years that no one was able to remove them all, making the house unacceptable to new tenants. Most of the large houses in the village were refurbished as government guest houses. The smaller houses were inhabited by the caretakers whose job it was to maintain the large houses.

I began taking occasional walks in the village once it was opened to the public. The villa section was so quiet that no regulation was required to protect the permanent or changing tenants from traffic noise. But I wasn’t attracted by the quiet alone. The old and new houses, the sterile, regular front-yard flower beds and bare flagpoles radiated an irritating unreality. The few pedestrians spoke quietly. The inhabitants were invisible; seldom did you see one drive out of a garage or return home; you never saw a child playing in one of the yards. Those living there were anonymous to outsiders; the only names to be found on the houses were bronze plates with the names of the dead. The only ones who occasionally tried to strike an acquaintance with strangers were a few plump, friendly cats. Relaxed or bored, they would sit on top of the boundary walls between the fences and let themselves be petted, or would hop down to follow passersby for a while. It was as bleak as a mining town after a gold rush. Except there were no doors or shutters to clatter in the wind. Order was maintained, as if by ghosts, as if those who had left were still here.

*

As I crossed Silent Close I noticed two cars parked in front of Beerenbaum’s house — a large black vehicle with the chauffeur standing next to it smoking a cigarette and the crimson-red car belonging to Beerenbaum’s son Michael. Michael had a pale, ascetic face with grey eyes that always made me feel uneasy, eyes that always looked directly at the person he was talking to, never aslant. Every time he trained his unmoving gaze on me, I thought he was blind or had artificial eyes. I had met him at Beerenbaum’s perhaps four or five times, and about all I knew of him was that he was a senior army officer — his father called him Mischa — and that he had a taciturn son named Stefan, who looked much like him. I had never seen Michael Beerenbaum in uniform. If I had met him on the street, I would probably have taken him for a pathologist or a pastor, not a military man.

I continued walking, slowly, my head turned to the right, in the direction of Beerenbaum’s house, which was no longer his house: No. 6. I felt nothing. I thought I felt relieved at Beerenbaum’s death, that there was a simple, essential justice in him being dead and me alive, though I thought more than felt it. My hands were cold because I had forgotten my gloves, and the stems of the freesia were still moist. Perhaps he really didn’t like freesia. He had bred roses. All old men with gardens breed roses. Why, I thought, why grow flowers, and why roses?

I first made the acquaintance of the rose-breeder Beerenbaum in the café where I used to sit outside on warm days, preferably during the late afternoon when the repatriates from the offices and factories went home by bus or streetcar. The café was close to a number of stops, and the many people returning home walked right past the café terrace. I had become so familiar with some of them over the years I could recognize them from afar — by their gait or the kind of clothes they wore. Each spring I looked eagerly for changes in my secret acquaintances — women who had become pregnant, others who walked with their arm around a new man; families that had bought a dog over the winter. Some people I never saw again: they had moved or died; perhaps they were in prison.

I had also seen Beerenbaum several times without knowing who he was. I had noticed him because of his short gait — he walked from the knee, landing squarely on the soles of his feet. I have often observed this kind of walk in older men who, I assumed, had been sure of themselves during younger years and, as my mother would say, dashing — men who had been the boss of other people: head physicians or head cashiers or head engineers, head somethings, who were used to hearing themselves being addressed by title by their subordinates or families. Men who even in old age, when it is hard to walk, do not drag their feet along the pavement, but use the last bit of strength in their stiff bones to lift their feet a few inches above the ground, from their knees, before letting them fall again.

Walking with such a gait, which aroused my suppositions about his past, Beerenbaum slowly approached the café late last summer, newspaper under his arm, as I was drinking lemon tea and distractedly reading a book. He stopped in the entrance, looked around, came over to me — though there was an empty table in the right corner — and asked whether he might sit down. I had observed him other times trying to start conversations with strangers. Apparently he went to the café only to talk to strangers, and I had noticed that his interlocutors, most of whom were young, soon became listeners, following his animated words with the helpless smiles of those who have been outwitted.

I was anxious to find out how he would try to start a conversation with me, and in order to make that more difficult I read with ostentatious concentration, moving my eyes as if I were following the lines with them, occasionally turning a page without seeing more than a blur. Except for my eyes, all my senses were directed at the man sitting next to me, who kept his eyes firmly on mine so as to catch hold of them the instant they left the page.

He ordered apple pie with whipped cream; his newspaper lay on the table, unopened. The longer the silence between us continued, the more urgently I felt him asking me why I was refusing to talk, until I finally didn’t know myself why I made things so difficult for this old man, though I was in fact curious about him. I did not find him likable: the corners of his mouth were sharp and downturned, bordering his lips like commas, and his bushy eye-brows had the same distant expression they had every time I had seen him.

The fact that I did not like the man was of little importance to me. I almost always found old men disagreeable; and of those few I have found agreeable, I can remember every single one. My aversion was set off by certain optical and acoustical signals, for example the groping gait indicating former importance, a loud joviality with people in service jobs, such as saleswomen or waiters, who are thrown an embarrassing joke in a forced voice, as a dog is tossed