…HAMBURG…
Anselm always woke early, no matter how much he’d drunk, got up immediately, couldn’t bear the thoughts that lying awake in bed brought. Showered, dressed, some toast eaten, he wandered the house, watched television for a few minutes at a time, too early to go to work. There was always something to look at. Anselms had lived in the house since before World War One. It had been built by his great-grandfather, Gustav. Bits of family history were everywhere-paintings, photographs, books with inscriptions, letters stuck in them to mark pages, three volumes of handwritten recipes, an ivory-handled walking stick, diaries in High German, collections of invitation cards, wooden jigsaws, mechanical toys, there was no end to the Anselm relics. In the empty, cobwebbed wine cellar, he had found a single bottle stuck too deep into a rack, 1937 Lafite. He’d opened it: corked, undrinkable.
Today, he took the tape recorder to the kitchen, sat at the table. In the damp hole in Beirut, Anselm’s thoughts had often turned to his great-aunt Pauline. His first memories of her were when he was eight or nine. She was always very old in his mind, thin, wiry, always in grey, a shade of grey, high collars, strong grey hair, straight hair, severely cut. She smoked cigarillos in a holder. He had no memory of making the recordings. They had come from San Francisco, four tapes in a box with other tapes.
He pressed the Play button. Hissing, then the voice of great-aunt Pauline.
Of course this house has seem terrible arguments.
Then his young voice.
What about?
Oh, business, how to run the business. Times were difficult before the war. And about the Nazis, Hitler.
Who argued about Hitler?
Your grandfather and your great-grandfather. With Moritz.
I don’t know anything about Moritz.
There was a long silence before Pauline spoke again.
Moritz was so foolish. But he looked like an angel, lovely hair, so blond, he had the face of Count Haubold von Einsiedel, you know the portrait?
No, I don’t know it.
The von Rayski portrait? Of course you do, everyone does. I remember one particularly awful evening. We were having a sherry before dinner, we always did, I was fourteen when I was included, just a thimbleful of an old manzanilla fino. Hold it to the light, my father said. See pleasure in a glass. I did. I went to that window, it was summer. They seemed to last much longer then, summers, we had better summers. Much better, much longer.
Another silence.
When was that?
When?
The awful evening.
Oh, I suppose it would have been in ’35 or ’36. Soon after Stuart’s death. Stuart never wanted to be in commerce but he had no choice. Eldest sons were expected to go into the firm. I don’t know what he wanted to do. Except paint and ski. But his family, well, they were like ours. Two weeks in Garmisch, they thought that was quite enough relaxation for a year. Anselms had dealt with Armitages for many years, more than a hundred, I suppose. Many, many years. My father used to say we were married to the Armitages long before I married Stuart. He was at Oxford with Stuart’s father. They all did law. That was what you did. Of course, the families had almost been joined before. My aunt Cecile was engaged to an Armitage, I forget his name, Henry, yes. Henry, he was killed in the Great War.
The awful evening.
What?
The evening of the terrible argument.
What did I say about that?
Nothing.
Yes. Let’s talk about something else.
She talked about her childhood, about rowing on the Alster, birthdays, grand parties, dinners.
We always went to the New Year’s Eve ball at the Atlantic. So glamorous.Everyone was there. They had kangaroo tail soup on the menu on New Year’s Eve in 1940. That was the first time I went after Stuart’s death. Also the last year we went. I went with Frans Erdmann, he was a doctor. Much younger than I was.He died at Stalingrad.
After eight, he left for work, closed the massive front door behind him. The temple of memory, he said to himself. The only memory missing is mine.