Walking through the waiting room, Margaret was still queasy. It was the heat of the place, she decided. It was the heat of the place that had made her sick.

Stepping out into the cold city, she breathed the p.r.i.c.king air, and her nausea abated.

Margaret did not want to think about the doctor's suggestion of a "common past." Indeed, she pushed the Taub-Taubner opposition out of her mind entirely. want to think about the doctor's suggestion of a "common past." Indeed, she pushed the Taub-Taubner opposition out of her mind entirely.

What resounded in her beseechingly, however, in the hours after she got home, was the idea that she had no right to her interest. She was a cannibal licking the bones of the past clean of flesh-she told herself this, as if it had not been the doctor's idea, but her own.

TWENTY-FOUR

The Children of Grimm The Children of Grimm

Margaret still smarted from the blow of the doctor's lurid insinuations the next day. But it cannot be said that the following catastrophe was in any way related to her grief.

She was giving a very early morning tour of the city's main attractions. Not quick to introduce himself, like a sly, lone wolf, running along behind and beside her, was a dedicated type: a young German academic. This was odd for two reasons. The first was that Germans almost never came along on the English-language tours. The second was that this German man knew a great deal more about German history than Margaret did. He was writing a dissertation on nineteenth-century Italian battle paintings: "panoramics," he told her. But walking around Berlin, he slowly exposed the many years of his youth dedicated to German military history, and this included everything to do with both the old Prussian capital and the Third Reich. He had a wide, calf-like face, listened to her with an earnest, energetic ear. He was very tall, with a p.r.o.nounced version of what some people call O O-legs, over which he wore high-waisted black jeans. A little kepi from the First World War sat on his head. "Please call me Philipp," he said to her, in excessively enunciated English.

Margaret saw quite soon that this man was one of the perennially shut-out of this world, who are so often the most knowledgeable and the most disciplined, but look unfairly ridiculous when they go out in society because they do not know anything about matters of the heart.

She moved the group down that street in central Berlin that was once called Hermann-Goring-Stra.s.se. She felt ill at ease and exposed. The visit to the doctor had left Margaret's self-esteem in ruins, and now here was this officious man-his face thrumming like a pocket calculator, checking and rechecking the accuracy of her tour.

So today Margaret did not go into any trance at all and even made an effort not to lie.

They came to the large raked-earth building site, where the new Holocaust memorial was under construction.

The monument was almost finished now, and only a few of the concrete slabs had yet to be installed, mostly down at the southern end. The rest, in their thousands, heaved up into the morning light.

Margaret frowned, looking backward into the light from the east. The monument was equal parts Black Forest and English garden maze, cast in shades of ash, slate, and metallic. The highest blocks rose up and caught the light and glowed white like chimneys. Margaret, squinting, caught sight of a little cat sitting on top of one of the concrete monoliths, crouching in wait. But she looked again and it seemed as if it were only the white morning sun cresting a slab. She moved along the flank; the group followed. They came abreast of each long aisle, trapezoids appeared, flattened, and then disappeared as the perspective changed, each long, empty aisle a reminder of emptiness to come. It made for a visual addiction, and Margaret could hardly tear her gaze away.

She directed the group to the observation platform, gave them ten minutes to themselves, and they clambered up, obedient. Margaret stayed below. She walked down the side of the memorial, glancing absently down its aisles, as in the stacks of an outsize library.

Unexpectedly, she detected movement from inside the site. Margaret looked. It was two small children. They walked hand in hand, parallel to Margaret, but far away from her along one of the distant aisles, progressing in small but determined children's steps toward the end of the site to the south, appearing and disappearing as they went behind the blocks and reemerged again, two small people, alone in a labyrinth of towering blocks-a vast warehouse of darkness and light.

In their slow progression, they were dropping behind them a stream of white-it was maybe snow, maybe Styrofoam, maybe the Moscow pollen of poplar trees-Margaret couldn't guess. In any case, the cottony white blanketed the ground behind them as they walked and marked their narrow path. The figures, so brave and so young in their earnest trajectory, were in shadow, disappearing and reappearing behind the pillars.

At first they walked slowly. Then, still hand in hand, they began to run, faster and faster. Soon they lost hold of each other's hands, and in their desperation ran increasingly apart from each other, losing each other in the maze. Margaret, trying to keep up a view, ran along the side, her shoelace untied and her wet pant cuffs flapping. Now it was the taller child coming closer to her as the smaller one got farther away. Margaret could hear-a small, frail voice. As the child neared she could see its hair-it was grey. The child was falling and stumbling now on the rough earth; the other one vanished. And then Margaret could see-almost, at least, for her view was partly obstructed by one of the stone pillars-as the larger child fell into one of the empty holes.

Margaret cut in to the memorial and ran to the empty grave.

She looked down inside it. The child was not there, and not at the next, and not in the next after that. Margaret, breathing heavily, sat down at the foot of one of the blocks beside a yawning, waiting hole.

She sat several minutes. She could not seem to collect herself.

She went back out, finally. She almost collided with the German student, Philipp. He took hold of her arm. He touched her with an awkward, formal gesture that was nevertheless far too intimate. It made Margaret queasy. She wrenched her arm away.

Gathering the customers together, she led them around the corner to the site of Hitler's bunker. She had gathered her wits somewhat, but still the Communist apartment complex in front of her in flesh form looked almost like chanterelle mushrooms.

"The first thing you'll notice here is that there's nothing to notice," Margaret began, looking down at the tarmac. "But directly under our feet, Hitler's bunker is sinking deeper into the earth."

Some people took out their digital cameras.

"Hitler moved into the bunker in the middle of March 1945 and was far from lonely here," Margaret said. She breathed hard. "The twenty-room bunker was occupied by his dog, Blondi; the puppies she gave birth to during this time; his vegetarian cook; his three female secretaries; six bodyguards; his valet; his girlfriend, Eva Braun, come up from Munich; and ultimately the Family Goebbels as well, with their six children, who were between the ages of four and twelve. It was a rowdy life, down in the bunker, in those final days.

"Where you see the orange barrier," Margaret said, turning to gesture behind her at the entrance to the parking lot, "was the center of the bunker."

But at her turn, high up behind her, in one of the windows of the chanterelle block of flats, there she was: the hawk-woman, with her heavy brow and clothes of black gabardine. She beamed down at Margaret-sunnier and brighter than ever before-a smile for professional photographers, a rapacious smile, designed to make Margaret cower. And then she was calling to Margaret, loudly and clearly-"Yoo-hoo!"

Margaret pretended not to hear.

Margaret turned back to the group before her and her mouth worked automatically. She jabbered on about Hitler's dental records. At some point she could not help herself and looked back at the hawk-woman in the window again, and she was still there, she with her gleaming water-waves of blond hair, her rich bun. Magda Goebbels was still looking down at her indeed-this woman, who was bird of prey and rich man's wife rolled into one-with the widest and most welcoming of grins.

"We simply must must meet again!" the hawk-woman called. "I won't take no for an answer!" She lifted her hands, these hands, which, white like seash.e.l.ls lobbed heavenward, caught Margaret's instant dazed admiration, and she began to wave enthusiastically with both of them. "Yoo-hoo!" she called again. "Don't you hear me?" meet again!" the hawk-woman called. "I won't take no for an answer!" She lifted her hands, these hands, which, white like seash.e.l.ls lobbed heavenward, caught Margaret's instant dazed admiration, and she began to wave enthusiastically with both of them. "Yoo-hoo!" she called again. "Don't you hear me?"

Margaret turned her back. She patched together a final few words about the bunker and asked if there were any questions. She lived to regret it. A raised hand. "What happened to the six children?"

"Which?" Margaret asked, knowing full well.

"You said there were six children in the bunker."

"That's right."

"Where did they go?"

"Well, that's a sad story, actually." Margaret looked over her shoulder at the high window again. The cold air was blowing through the lace curtains. The hawk-woman was gone.

"The children were given poison, apparently by their mother, and all of them died."

"Oh."

Now Margaret looked north and saw something only a few meters away.

The rival walking-tour company, Berlin Hikes, had a group of tourists standing not far off. Picking his way around the back of the group, peering now over this shoulder, now over that, was a tall, gangly old man. He yelled: "Ich bin der Prell! Ich war dabei!" The old bodyguard, Arthur Prell.

"Let's continue, shall we?" Margaret asked. She felt a wind pick up the back of her coat and move up her spine. And let us admit that within Margaret now, a powerful hatred was growing-a hatred for that spry old man. She despised his saucy, challenging way, his horsey face, his reeking polyester suits.

At the end of the tour, Margaret glanced up from her wallet of tour tickets and change. The German student was still standing before her. The man who said his name was Philipp had punched his chest forward, his boyish face, astonis.h.i.+ngly, on the verge of tears. He spoke in a low, intense whisper, his syllables clipped and short, straining with injured pride. "Margaret, why do you insist on continuing this charade?" Philipp breathed in and out through his nose, his mouth pinched in self-conscious valiance. He was like a toy soldier. of the tour, Margaret glanced up from her wallet of tour tickets and change. The German student was still standing before her. The man who said his name was Philipp had punched his chest forward, his boyish face, astonis.h.i.+ngly, on the verge of tears. He spoke in a low, intense whisper, his syllables clipped and short, straining with injured pride. "Margaret, why do you insist on continuing this charade?" Philipp breathed in and out through his nose, his mouth pinched in self-conscious valiance. He was like a toy soldier.

Margaret turned her head and looked at him strangely. She smiled, however, with an effort at pacification. "I don't know what charade you mean. I'm often tired after a tour. I hope you don't mind-I'll be going home now."

"Margaret. Stop. Just stop." His voice was artificially deep, and he had switched into German.

"Yes, I'll be going," Margaret replied in English.

"Margaret. I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? Everything is fine. Just go home. It's time to go home now," Margaret said, smiling broadly, although by now her heart was pounding.

"Margaret. It's possible I was wrong-attacking, the way I did." Again, he switched into German. "You were right, what you said about it afterward. I made an a.s.s of myself. It was not right to attack Amadeus."

At the sound of this word, Amadeus Amadeus, everything changed. Margaret looked at him and would have believed anything at all. Even her hardest certainty disbanded into foam. "From where-how do you know that name?" she asked. Now it was Margaret who switched into German.

"Which name?"

"Which name?" she repeated, aghast. "Amadeus!" she whispered.

"Oh, be quiet!" Philipp said. "Are you trying to humiliate me?" His voice was peevish, precisely staccato.

Margaret looked harder. It was true that he had been showing an unnatural familiarity toward her throughout the tour. Margaret looked directly into his face. Do I know this man? She looked him up and down, regarding his small, glittering eyes, his b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, his black, high-waisted jeans. Philipp remained before her with his eyes cast down, his brows drawn together, his nostrils flaring with pouting rage. Finally Margaret glanced down at his shoes, which were very stylish, of dark green alligator skin with Cuban heels. She looked at them. Her heart sank slowly. These shoes-she recognized. She had chosen them for him herself.

TWENTY-FIVE

A Lesson for Hussies Everywhere

She looked at the shoes. Her eyes made haste from the shoes, over the belt, along the chest, and back to Philipp's face. Now she saw his tight lips. This was Philipp, her Philipp. If she was not very much mistaken, this man had once loved her.

He had loved her and she had scorned him. Instead of loving him in return, she only played at a life with him, and she felt a perspiration of shame, looking at him now. She had eaten his dinners and borrowed his books, meeting Amadeus all the while. Philipp, who tucked his pajama s.h.i.+rt into his pajama pants at the same angle every night; Philipp, who every day waited to eat his morning egg until he had eaten his morning slice of black bread, because otherwise he might get a protein shock; Philipp, who as a man did everything exactly as he had been taught to do it as a boy-she had never loved him. Although she spent far more time with Philipp than she did with Amadeus up in Prenzlauer Berg, she was so entirely swept up in the chaos and power and irregularity of Amadeus that she never noticed her duplicity. Philipp was something that happened to happen to the sh.e.l.l of her, the unfortunate colonization of an underdeveloped nation.

Even now, looking at Philipp, what she remembered most was her escaping mind, how every minute of sitting near him or listening to his breath, she had dreamt of Amadeus. Even after so long, Amadeus was the siren song. A trance of memory overtook Margaret, as she hunched over her bicycle on the way home, the tall man running after her, his kepi from the First World War fallen into the road, and it was not of Philipp she dreamt, but a memory of the other man, of the delirium.

She could see the arching station of Alexanderplatz. She could see herself flying to meet Amadeus there. the arching station of Alexanderplatz. She could see herself flying to meet Amadeus there.

From the station they would go to dinner, or out to a velvet bar; the night would drip, time would slow. The first glimpses of Amadeus, walking toward her on the station platform, were as beautiful later as they were the first day. It was these meetings in public places that were somehow the core of her happiness, happiness unbearably sweet.

Amadeus was always late, and it was always clear by his wet hair and soft cheeks that he had only just showered and shaved. He wore a clean s.h.i.+rt, usually pale-light blue or peach, with an embroidered black insignia, newly ironed. Over the fresh s.h.i.+rt he would wear a dark and dusty suit. The suits were ancient and worn-in, never once washed, permeated with the scent of Gauloises Rouges. He had always thought beforehand to touch himself at the corners with the products that made such an intoxicating perfume to Margaret. He put Wella hairspray in his hair, Nivea deodorant under his arms, and some sort of aftershave on his cheeks, Margaret wasn't sure what, but she recognized it when she smelled it infrequently on other men, and she had the same feeling of weakness and submission, just as the advertis.e.m.e.nts presumably promised.

Was it the foreign smells that had made her so in love? Or was it being in love that had made her adore the scent of French smoke and German preening?

His face-drove her mad. The high forehead and skin dark and freckled, the bright, bright eyes the color of lake water, ringed with black lashes, the red-grey cheeks-his face looked like Holderlin's, but attached to the body of a man ready to die. One shoulder was higher than the other and this gave him a romantic gait; his legs were long and powerful, his chin had begun to double. The impression was of a man who had an old, sad story to tell. That was the first point. Not everyone looked to Margaret as if he represented a history of love and death. Secondly, whatever it was he represented was a cryptogram, a grotto shrine dedicated to a religion she did not understand but in which she yearned to believe. When he moved toward her in a crowd, and she saw his head disappearing and reappearing as he came closer to her, it was the ultimate kind of perception-slowed and stately and musical-as if she were the groom standing at the front of a church watching the approach of his bride, his woman of destiny, eyes filling with tears. This kind of perception happens infrequently, but if at all, then usually at the cinema. If it happens outside the cinema, then it is remembered forever. There is beauty everywhere at such times, you could cry when it comes, and the world around you resonates with one whining and perfect harmonic. Nothing can compete with so beautiful a feeling, and Margaret's addiction followed naturally.

One mild, sweet summer evening in 2000, Amadeus called Margaret and suggested that they go to the outdoor cinema in the Volkspark Friedrichshain. It was showing a Russian film. Amadeus was brusque with her. He did not mention outright that his wife was gone to visit her sister on Lake Constance, and so Margaret was uncertain. It was rare that he was willing to go to a public place with her in his own neighborhood.

"But are you sure? Can we really meet there?"

"I just told you, shnooky. I wouldn't have suggested it if we couldn't."

"But I thought-"

"Don't think."

"Aren't you worried that-"

"I'm worried about nothing." He cut her off. "There have been vacations taken by certain people. There. Does that make you happy?"

"Vacations?"

"Yes."

"Great!" Margaret said, as she understood. She began to laugh, overjoyed.

She knew how she was supposed to feel, as the other woman. She was meant to feel conniving, bitter, fiercely compet.i.tive. And sometimes, it was true, she did feel that way. But most of the time, her role as the other woman was quite different than anything she might have projected before it all began. She saw herself as completely helpless, so helpless, in fact, that her womanly status was accentuated and forced out like a pink flower blooming too early, with sadness and tragedy. She felt desperately, fatefully female, like a t.i.tian Leda raped by the swan. And sometimes she knew it. Sometimes she would suspect, in very clear terms, that Amadeus's marriage was the single most potent source of her happiness, for it was the strong arm that took all power out of her hands. This powerlessness lent her body femininity, her love fatality.

There are two kinds of pa.s.sionate love. The first is when lovers collapse into each other. Two ident.i.ties flow together. Oh, there are issues of autonomy to be resolved for a while. But later, after everything finds its balance, the slightest glance from the other is an encouragement, an enhancement of self, and both lovers become stronger than they would have been alone.

But this is not what Margaret knew. She knew the other kind.

In the second instance, one lover collapses under the other. The crusher sucks a bit of strength from every moment in power, and the crushed one becomes crazy with desire and thirst after lost ego. While this latter type is clearly a perversion and a misfortune, it is also somehow-can you understand this?-a pleasure for the one who is crushed. There is something about this crushed pa.s.sion that suspends reality, and elevates a trance in its place. It brings the crushed one into contact with a divinity-and the bliss, the Rausch Rausch, comes in awesome spikes.

The peaks of these spikes were dear to Margaret, and they were pushed even higher by other aspects of their affair. Amadeus never spent any time with Margaret that wasn't charged with the fullest secrecy and co-conspiracy. There were no sporty walks in the woods, no vacations to peaceful, pressure-releasing locales, only the thunder of city life with its heavy, woolen veil of architecture, its gin tonics and endless subway rides under the fluorescent lights. And at the beginning of the night neither of them ever knew whether they would end up in the same bed-never once-whether the game would yield happiness, and so every single evening was full of suspense-an elaborate game of chess in which his heart was his king-she was trying to knock it over, and her intelligence was her queen that she was using tactically, and p.a.w.ns they were, the gla.s.ses of wine that he bought her and watched her drink, making soft contact with her knees. And when it was her king-which was the soft access to the place between her legs-that was eventually knocked down, for that was what he wanted and the point at which he considered himself the victor, she never minded. That was the release, the mysterious prize. Could this subway ticket, bought for a couple of deutsche marks in a sleeve of inebriation, longing, and electricity, be the ticket to bliss?

While she waited for Amadeus the evening of the Russian film, she read Gogol on the platform. But even after all the years of their affair, she was only pretending to read-in part because she would not have missed those first glimpses of him for the world, and in part because her heart still beat too hard. There had been times in the past when she had deliberately made herself late in order to be sure that he, instead of she, would be the one to stand forlorn and searching on the platform, but she had found that although this was a kind of victory, she had been the one to lose. Of course it was so. When she was late, the antic.i.p.ation of meeting him was soured by worries that he would have already left, or that he would be offended by her extreme tardiness (she had to be very late in order to be later than he was), and most of all, she missed those sweet moments of joy when she first picked him out, as he neared her in the crowd. for Amadeus the evening of the Russian film, she read Gogol on the platform. But even after all the years of their affair, she was only pretending to read-in part because she would not have missed those first glimpses of him for the world, and in part because her heart still beat too hard. There had been times in the past when she had deliberately made herself late in order to be sure that he, instead of she, would be the one to stand forlorn and searching on the platform, but she had found that although this was a kind of victory, she had been the one to lose. Of course it was so. When she was late, the antic.i.p.ation of meeting him was soured by worries that he would have already left, or that he would be offended by her extreme tardiness (she had to be very late in order to be later than he was), and most of all, she missed those sweet moments of joy when she first picked him out, as he neared her in the crowd.

Amadeus was not the kind to greet her with more than a pat on the head, a tousle of the hair. He gave her a wink and put his finger under her chin, not as if he would kiss her, but to bring her chin up.

That night they took the streetcar up the hill along Greifswalderstra.s.se. They sat in the overgrown park, in the Communist-era amphitheater with the giant screen. It was not dark yet, but previews were already coming on. Amadeus got up right away after they sat, having said very little to Margaret since he first met her, and went to the concession kiosk. When he came back he handed her a Czech beer and put something in a gold wrapper on her lap-an ice cream bar. He smiled at her and pulled her earlobe, whistling to himself as he opened his beer. He did not ask her whether she wanted a beer or an ice cream bar, nor had he asked her what kind she would like-almond or vanilla, Czech or German. Indeed, he never asked her such things. He had no idea what she liked. But he knew what he liked, and he knew what he wanted for her, and he knew he was paying. And in point of fact, Margaret looked up at him gratefully when she was presented with these gifts. She thought he was like the tomcat that leaves dead birds on the doorstep.

She was beautiful when she was near him. When she went to meet him she wore the perfume that smelled of freesia blossoms.

Margaret found it impossible to concentrate on the film that night, as she always found it impossible to concentrate when he was there. All she knew later was that the cinematography had been brown and gold, that the dialogue was slow, and the film almost silent. This was the sort of film they always chose, he he always chose. always chose.

Later they found themselves in one of the nearby beer gardens, where the honeysuckle grew up trellises. They talked for a long time about Walter Benjamin. Amadeus did most of the talking, since Margaret didn't dare say much in German on a topic that meant so much to her. Going around in life using German, which Margaret had learned only a few years before, was like walking around in high heels-although it drove up the aesthetic rush of going out on the town, it was dreadfully uncomfortable after a while, and there were certain places you couldn't go.

Later the conversation s.h.i.+fted to university gossip, and Amadeus said something Margaret didn't like. He said that really, but for the fact that they were so stupid and he wouldn't want them, the girls at the uni were wild about him, looked at him with doe eyes, he could have any one of the young things.

Margaret went silent. Amadeus didn't notice. He kept talking.

"What exactly does your marriage mean to you?" Margaret finally broke out. "Anything at all? Do you hate her? Do you hate Asja?" She spoke the name to hurt him. Amadeus didn't like Margaret to use his wife's name. Never had he used it himself in her presence, referring to his wife only as "die Mitbewohnerin" ("the roommate") or simply: "other people." If it hadn't been for a bit of detective work, looking at the last name on the mailbox at their apartment and then a series of Internet searches, Margaret might never have found out Asja's name at all. So Amadeus winced at the question.

"My G.o.d." He wiped his head. "How did we get on this topic?"

"You're thinking of getting yourself a mistress at the university, aren't you?"

"Gretchen (he called her that sometimes-always, always, Amadeus preferred the diminutive of any name), don't be silly. You know that's the last thing I want. Your demands are difficult enough, I'm halfway dead trying to keep up with you. Another woman would be suicide."

"Why do you do this to me? It's been more than two years now. I know you love me, no matter what you say." Unexpectedly, for all her happiness, Margaret began to cry. "Why do you do this?"

"Come on, don't cry. I do it because I can."

The tip of Margaret's nose turned to ice. The summer evening had grown cool, and she had only her cotton sweater. "Because you can?"