Doppelgänger Read online

  They cut off Doctor Johannes Weichert’s beard in the main square. People watch and say nothing. Dr. Johannes Weichert wears a board on his back. Dr. Weichert the sandwich man. On the board it says: Ich habe von den Juden gekauft. In big black letters.

  Artur watches the woman sitting on the stone threshold of a house on the promenade with shop windows, the woman’s name is Isa­bella, he looks at her from above. He says: I’m rich but lonely. I have houses, three of them, I have land, I have money. We’re grown-­ups, there’s no sense in equivocating. We could give it a try.

  In what sense? asks Isa­bella.

  Artur slides down next to the woman. Now both are sitting on the stone threshold, gazing in front of them at the littered promenade. There’s paper, there are colored ribbons, there is confetti, there are glasses and bottles and tin cans. There are two tall fir trees decorated with paper bows, because baubles get stolen. Isa­bella and Artur are seated, leaning on a heavy wooden door. Behind the door is a long dark corridor. Behind the door it is dark. They sit leaning against the entrance in the dark. Outside. Sitting on the stone threshold, in the middle of the promenade. Their shoulders touch. Barely. Their legs are bent at the knees.

  The woman lays the palm of her hand on Artur’s knee, Artur has a bony knee. Isa­bella’s hand drops between Artur’s legs. You wear diapers, says Isa­bella. You wear diapers, she says, and stretches out her legs. Then she spreads her legs apart; she spreads her outstretched legs apart. Touch, she says.

  Artur touches. Diapered ones, says the woman. Slide your hand under.

  Under where? asks Artur.

  You have a nice hat, says Isa­bella. Slide it under the diaper.

  The night is moonless, says Artur and slides his hand under Isa­bella’s skirt, he fumbles, he rummages, he muddles. This is a strange town, whispers Isa­bella, her heart missing a beat, she sighs, ah, and breathes deeply. Isa­bella sits in her diaper, her legs apart, she sits on the stone threshold and waits. Through the diaper Artur fights his way (somehow) to Isa­bella’s skin. Isa­bella has a long neck with a tiny Adam’s apple sliding up and down as she watches what Artur is doing. Isa­bella says: I’ll take hold of you too, Mr. Artur. We’re adults, there’s no point in beating about the bush. Isa­bella adds: This town is full of boredom.

  The old lady is dry. Down there. All dry. I’m dry, says Isa­bella.

  Mr. Artur, you have a fat finger.

  Isa­bella’s hand is in Artur’s trousers. (Artur moans.) In her palm Isa­bella holds Artur’s small penis, his small, shriveled penis. The diapers are — thank god — dry. Both hers and his are clean and dry. In her closed hand Isa­bella holds Mr. Artur’s penis, she holds his penis and rubs. Up and down.

  “A”

  Abwehr

  down

  Adolf

  up

  Anschluss

  down

  Appellplatz

  up

  Arbeit macht frei

  down

  Aktion

  up

  Arier Rasse

  down

  Aktion Erntefest

  Aktion Reinhard

  Anschluss

  up

  Auf gut deutsch

  Antisemitismus

  Auschwitz

  Isa­bella’s hand hurts. Isa­bella slows down.

  A bit faster, please, a bit faster, Miss Isa­bella.

  “B”

  Blut und Boden

  down up down

  up down

  “E”

  Einsatzkommandos

  Endlösnung

  Eugenik

  Euthanasie

  “G”

  Gestapo

  down-n’-up-n’-­down-­n’-­up-­n’-­down-­n’-­up-­n’-­down

  Genozid

  “H”

  Herrenvolk

  Häftlingspersonalbogen

  “J”

  Jude

  Judenfrei

  Judengelb — yellow, yellow

  Juden raus!

  Die Juden — unser Unglück

  Judenrat

  up

  Judenrein

  up n’ down n’ up n’ down when will he come?

  “K”

  Kapo

  Kommando

  KPD — Thälmann

  Krematorium

  Kriminalpolizei

  Kristallnacht Chemnitz

  up-­and-­down

  “L”

  Lager

  Lagersystem

  Lebensraum

  Lebensunwertes Lebens

  Hitler under “H”

  we’re almost there, up n’ down n’ down n’ down n’

  “M”

  Mein Kampf

  Muselmänner

  “O”

  Ordnungspolizei

  Ostministerium — Rosenberg.

  “P”

  Pogrom

  “R”

  Rassismus

  “S”

  Sonderkommando

  “T”

  Thanatologie

  “U”

  Übermenschen

  “V”

  Vernichtung

  down n’ up n’ down n’ up n’ down

  “Z”

  Zyklon B

  Done.

  A one-­minute hand job, ten years of history, ten years of Isa­bella’s life. Isa­bella’s hand is full of Artur’s lukewarm diluted sperm.

  Isa­bella has small hands. Artur hasn’t got much sperm.

  Artur’s finger, which finger Isa­bella asks herself, the middle or the index finger, Mr. Artur has big fingers, his finger finds its way, enters, and inside it twists and turns it turns and goes a bit in and a bit out, in and out and in and out.

  You’re no longer dry, says the old man, I’ve turned you on, says Artur. Yes, says Isa­bella, I haven’t been turned on for a long time. Now I have to pee.

  And so, on the stone step they sit and gaze straight ahead with glassy eyes, with dead eyes, like fish, no one passes by, they touch like children.

  Where do you buy your hats?

  I have a rich collection of hats, says Artur. I have a distant cousin through whom I get my hats, Artur adds. He says that quietly.

  FROM POLICE DOSSIERS

  DOCUMENT: A.B./S-­P IVc 31-­10-­97

  A DEBRIEFING INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE INVESTIGATOR TITO FRANK (HENCEFORTH REFERRED TO AS “THE INVESTIGATOR”) AND THE HATTER, THOMAS WOLF (HENCEFORTH “WOLF”) ON 31 OCT. 1997

  Investigator: You are a hatter?

  Wolf: I am a creator of hats. There is a difference.

  Investigator: How long have you been working in this profession?

  Wolf: Sixty years. I inherited the store and the workshop from my father.

  Investigator: Where was your father from?

  Wolf: Lombardy.

  Investigator: You also create hats for the president. How did that happen?

  Wolf: Excuse me. I created hats for both presidents.

  Investigator: What kind of hats were those?

  Wolf: Black. The model is called President. They are always called President but they are never the same.

  Investigator: You only made hats for the presidents?

  Wolf: No. Due to market pressures I had to widen my range.

  Investigator: Who are your customers?

  Wolf: We are a successful family firm. We have many customers. Ask if the great author Krleža bought from us?

  Investigator: Forget Krleža. Who buys your hats nowadays?

  Wolf: Krleža was a special customer. He didn’t often order in person. He had the use of a car, I think it was an Opel, and his chauffeur would take the hats.
We would make the hats according to the rules of the trade, but Krleža would squash them, distort them a bit, and only then put them on his head. Today lots of different people buy our hats. Politicians and ordinary people.

  Investigator: How do politicians take to your hats?

  Wolf: Obediently. It doesn’t occur to them to knead them into shape.

  Investigator: Who else?

  Wolf: What do you mean who else?

  Investigator: Who else buys them?

  Wolf: The writer Marija Jurić Zagorka bought them. She had a large circumference: 61 cm. After the Second World War women covered their heads with scarves, they didn’t frequent our store.

  Investigator: Is it true that you created the first officers’ hats?

  Wolf: In which period are you referring to? When our business first opened, my father created hats only for women. I am the best hatter in this town. And further.

  Investigator: You also provide a dog-­training service? For police dogs?

  Wolf: In my youth, I was also a boxer. Right now I am a member of the local mountaineering club. I climb the lower heights. Mostly on Sundays.

  Investigator: Were you in the war?

  Wolf: Which war are you referring to?

  Investigator: What is your opinion of our politicians?

  Wolf: They are all bigheads. They all have circumferences bigger than 60 cm. My hats have a soul.

  Investigator: Do you create hats from your own imagination or do your customers tell you what they’re looking for?

  Wolf: Some people need advice. Presidents don’t like to change models. They stick to one style. Always the same.

  Investigator: How often does the president change his hat in a year?

  Wolf: The president isn’t a big fan of hats. He has maybe four or five hats, and those are the ones we gave him as presents. He didn’t buy new ones. Sometimes he sends his hats to be brushed. He keeps them well. Those in his entourage who take care of his wardrobe have a problem: his hats would always get destroyed during travel. That’s why we sent him a hat box. Good thing the president doesn’t travel often.

  Investigator: Does the president pay by card or with cash?

  Wolf: The president doesn’t pay. We wouldn’t allow that.

  Investigator: Who else wears your hats?

  Wolf: Members of the Senate. Mostly those of the right-­wing party. They are the majority.

  Investigator: Do you have a favorite head of state?

  Wolf: I made a Slavonian hat for Genscher.

  Investigator: You once said that big heads were cleverer than small heads.

  Wolf: There are always exceptions.

  Investigator: Does the making of women’s hats differ in any way from the making of men’s hats?

  Wolf: Women’s hats are considerably more pliable. For men’s hats you often need physical strength to work the material. Women’s hats take more time; they are not made in multiple copies.

  Investigator: What opinion do you have of the Croatian people based on their choice of hats?

  Wolf: I don’t have an opinion.

  Investigator: Do you know Artur Bondić?

  Wolf: His surname is Biondi. He is the greatest wearer of hats in this country. We are distantly related.

  Isa­bella lifts her left hand (the right hand is still in Artur’s trousers), touches his hat, takes the hat off the old man’s head, puts it on her own head, puts it back on the old man’s, on his hairless head, the old man is called Artur.

  Why? Why do you collect hats?

  This town has no class, says Artur. My grandmother was Italian. From Alessandria. Her name was Teresa, he adds.

  Once upon a time, Artur’s mother tells him, once upon a time, Serbian officers in the Austro-­Hungarian army were stationed in barracks in Lombardy. Alessandria is in Lombardy, says his mother. Serbian officers go out in Alessandria looking for women, because the town is full of pretty girls, yes. Later, the town was full of hats, says his mother. I’ll tell you a story, she says.

  Once upon a time there was a young man named Giuseppe. In the year 1857 he came to Alessandria, caught a heap of rabbits and started making hats from their fur. The business flourished. When Giuseppe died, he left behind a large hat factory. That was in 1900. His factory made 750,000 hats a year. Many people worked in his factory. Giuseppe had a son and a daughter. The son took over the factory and the daughter’s name was Teresa. Years passed by. Hat production increased immensely. The hats were exported to every corner of the world. Two million people walked the globe wearing hats from tiny Alessandria. When Fascism came, production fell and you, Artur, were small, mother tells him. When Fascism comes there are more important things to produce.

  There is a dish called Escalope Borsalino. It’s served in France. Artur has been to France, to the Loire, he visited the castles on an organized tour. That’s why he knows.

  Alessandria lies on a river. The river is called the Tanaro. It has banks covered with rushes and rushes rustle in the wind, they rustle like whispers.

  So Artur reads guidebooks and studies the small history of the Alessandria where his father was born, in the rushes.

  See, it’s like a fairy tale, Miss Isa­bella. That Alessandria.

  I adore fairy tales.

  Artur adores his hats, he doesn’t know what he’d do without them, how he’d live without them. His hats are his past. And his present. His sons no longer visit him.

  This model is called Borsalino Como.

  It’s a nice model.

  It’s made of fur felt, rabbit fur.

  It’s a hat for conclusive, sorry, exclusive occasions. It’s extremely expensive.

  How much?

  Four hundred and twenty thousand lire.

  Isa­bella quickly takes her hand out of Artur’s trousers and wipes it on her thick brown stockings. On her brown stockings opaque white smears appear. There are no chocolate balls that expensive. No, there aren’t, whispers Isa­bella. She brings her hand to her nose. Sniffs. They smell authentic, she says. Artur nevertheless brings his middle finger to his mouth. Sucks. Artur sucks his middle finger as if he has just cut it.

  From her pocket Isa­bella takes two chocolate balls. The chocolate balls are hard. Compact. You have to hold them in your palms for a long time before they become soft. It’s cold outside. Isa­bella adores chocolate balls. There are lots of different ones on offer, different makes for sale. Isa­bella is a real connoisseur. Isa­bella knows chocolate balls filled with pieces of candied orange or raspberry: orangeade and Razzmatazz balls, perfect balls, perfect for mornings that follow bad dreams. Isa­bella knows the dark, bitter balls Choc-­a-­lot and Loca Moca, she saves them for when she watches thrillers on television because they are exciting and keep her mind alert. Isa­bella eats milk chocolate balls when she feels loneliness coming on. She saves the milk chocolate balls to comfort her in different ways; mostly for small troubles, daily ones. She throws them into her mouth and rolls them left and right with her tongue, gently. Then, when they have melted to the right texture, exactly right, Isa­bella penetrates them with a sharp movement of her tongue, enters inside them, breaks ­in. With her tongue. Inside, in her chocolate balls, a different sweetness is waiting. Soft cream, thick cream, across her palate, across her mouth cavity, it spreads out like tiny kisses, like a velvet cloak. Then Isa­bella closes her eyes and smacks her lips. Her Carmelita, her Nutropolis, her Coco Motion and Butterscotch-­cha-­cha. Her music, yes, oh yes. Lindor chocolate balls, packed in boxes of 48 for 50 marks — one ball, one mark. Lindor chocolate balls are eaten deliberately. Isa­bella eats them sparingly. Ferrero Rocher come in smaller boxes of only 30 balls. Baci Perugina are crunchy inside, like the bites of her nervous lover. Most of all Isa­bella likes Swiss Teuscher balls, she knows them best, she knows them inside out, thoroughly. Marzipan, fruit, all kinds of fruit, walnuts, almonds,
hazelnuts, dark chocolate, white chocolate, milk chocolate, raisins, coffee, all kinds of joy from the imagination of Dolf Teuscher, in his village in the Swiss Alps. A hundred and one chocolate secrets hidden in the chocolate balls of Dolf Teuscher. Dolf Teuscher, the great lover. Rum balls, coconut balls, balls filled with Irish coffee and balls filled with maraschino in which floats a tiny cherry. Yes! Chocolate balls with tiny inebriated cherries, all spaced out, dark red like a drop of Isa­bella’s blood, like her clitoris in the days of her youth. My little cherry, that’s what Isa­bella calls her clitoris. Her clitoris is no longer red, it doesn’t pulsate, it’s not soaked with passion. Her clitoris is slack and pale pink. I’ve got an anaemic clitoris, says Isa­bella. Artur helps himself to a chocolate ball. Here’s an almond inside, says Isa­bella, not a cherry.

  Artur munches. The chocolate sticks to Artur’s palate. The softened chocolate, blending with Artur’s saliva, runs slowly down Artur’s front teeth. Artur smiles. He has a brown smile, a little brown smile because he is clenching his teeth, because the chocolate ball isn’t very sweet. It’s bitter, says Artur, and keeps on smiling. Artur looks foolish. It’s now four o’clock and forty-­five minutes. The dawn still hasn’t arrived. It’s cold.

  That’s a new one, says Isa­bella.

  The new chocolate was launched in Chemnitz. From 1953 to 1990, Chemnitz was called Karl-­Marx-­Stadt. The balls are wrapped in red tinfoil with a picture of Karl Marx on them. The balls carry Karl Marx’s portrait printed on them, all in chocolate, including the beard. In Chemnitz, long ago, they erected a bust of Karl Marx. The sculpture was placed in the center of town. That’s logical, it’s logical that Karl Marx’s bust be installed in the center of a former East German town previously called Karl-­Marx-­Stadt. The bust weighs 42 tons. Karl Marx wrote the Communist Manifesto.

  Isa­bella agrees: the chocolate balls with Karl Marx on them are not very tasty. The silver paper is pretty. It has a star. It can be used for wrapping up walnuts and hanging on Christmas trees. Like in her childhood, her youth. Isa­bella knows Chemnitz.