Flights of Love Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Praise

  GIRL WITH LIZARD

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  A LITTLE FLING

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  THE OTHER MAN

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  SUGAR PEAS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  THE CIRCUMCISION

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  THE SON

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  THE WOMAN AT THE GAS STATION

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  About the Author

  ALSO BY BERNHARD SCHLINK

  Copyright Page

  International acclaim for Bernhard Schlink’s

  FLIGHTS of LOVE

  “Powerful. . . . Admirable . . . [Schlink displays] a deft handling of moral dilemmas, a tender generosity toward his characters and a sense of the past weighing heavily on the present.” —Newsday

  “Striking. . . . Like The Reader, the tales have a surface smoothness that conceals a fierce moral kick.” —New York

  “Provocative. . . . Schlink is a sophisticated and conscious artist who combines questing scepticism and romantic expectation. . . . His writing . . . is grounded in unvarnished observation and often spiced with irony and wit.” —The Times Literary Supplement

  “If there is a renaissance in the art of storytelling, this is it.” —Der Spiegel

  “[Flights of Love] will delight and surprise Schlink’s admirers while converting his critics. It has a humour, lightness of touch, beguiling candour and subtle irony. . . . Flights of Love is rich, honest and human. It is also as diverse as life itself.” —Irish Times

  “Schlink marries abstract intellect and broad emotional appeal . . . and brings us the latest news from Europe with an old-time storyteller’s ease.” —Vogue

  “Compelling, poetic writing that is also responsible and intelligent.” — The Times (London)

  “Well-crafted stories filled with existential suspense and as timeless as they are completely of the moment. . . . [They] carry the power of a force of nature.” —Saarbruecker Zeitung

  “Breathtakingly incisive. . . . As he demonstrated in his previous work, The Reader, Schlink is contemporary fiction’s most astute and sensitive observer of postwar German life.” —Bookforum

  “Schlink is a brilliant storyteller who steers events to their end with a jurist’s clarity and measured mind. These pieces are as perfect as small plays.” —Focus (Germany)

  “Perfectly crafted, intricate and haunting.” —Financial Times

  “With a beautifully concise style, Bernhard Schlink explores our myriad ideas of love without a trace of sentimentality.” —The Orlando Sentinel

  “A compelling composite picture of a nation scrutinising its history. . . . Schlink places his characters, and readers, in a moral maze. He poses questions. The answers, it seems—and this, essentially, is the ethical heart of his work—lie in the necessity to do what is right now.” — New Statesman

  “Amazingly accomplished stories [that] hold their own not only with the best being written today but with the best of the past as well. [Schlink’s] right up there with Chekhov.” —The Free Lance-Star (Fredericksburg, VA)

  “In this disquieting and mature collection of short stories, Bernard Schlink returns to the themes that made his internationally bestselling novel, The Reader, so compelling to readers and critics alike.” — Literary Review

  “A series of love stories that is anything but saccharine.” —Esquire

  “As the best of these stories show, it is confronting the legacy of Germany’s brutal past that gives Schlink’s writing its urgency and power.” —The Independent

  “Subtly nuanced, often elegiac and especially eloquent about the need for compassion and collective responsibility, the tales are perhaps most memorable for their advocacy of love as a redemptive power.” — Time Out (London)

  “Irresistible. . . . Each of the seven stories in this dazzling collection is masterfully composed and truly unforgettable. . . . Schlink is proving his place among the most important living writers of fiction.” — The Washington Post

  GIRL WITH LIZARD

  1

  IT WAS A painting of a girl with a lizard. They were looking at each other and not looking at each other, the girl gazing dreamily toward the lizard, the lizard directing its vacant, glistening eyes toward the girl. Because the girl’s thoughts were somewhere else, she was holding so still that even the lizard sat motionless on the moss-grown rock, on which the girl lay half leaning, half stretched out on her stomach. The lizard lifted its head and probed with its tongue.

  “That Jewish girl,” the boy’s mother said whenever she spoke of the girl in the painting. When his parents argued and his father got up to retreat to his study where the painting was hung, she would call after him, “Go pay your Jewish girl a visit!” Or she would ask, “Does the painting of that Jewish girl have to hang there? Does the boy have to sleep under the painting of that Jewish girl?” The painting hung above a couch where the boy napped at noontime, while his father read the paper.

  More than once he had heard his father explain to his mother that the girl was not Jewish. That the red velvet cap she wore, pressed so firmly down into her brown curls that they almost hid it, wasn’t meant to suggest her religion, wasn’t a folk costume but a matter of fashion. “It’s what girls wore back then. Besides, it’s the Jewish men who wear caps, not the women.”

  The girl wore a dark red skirt, and over her bright yellow blouse was a dark yellow vest, a kind of bodice loosely laced with ribbons at the back. The rock on which the girl rested her chin and plump childish arms hid much of her clothes and body. She might have been eight years old. The face was a child’s face. But the eyes, the full lips, and the hair, which curled against the brow and fell to cover her back and shoulders, were not those of a child but of a woman. The shadow that her hair cast over her cheek and temple was a secret, and the darkness of the puffed sleeve into which the bare upper arm vanished, a temptation. Behind the rock and a sliver of beach, the sea stretched away to the horizon and surged into the foreground on rolling breakers; sunlight piercing the dark clouds left its luster on a patch of glistening sea and the girl’s face and arms. Nature breathed passion.

  Or was this ironic? The passion, the temptation, the secret, and the woman in the child?
Was it the ambiguity in the painting that not only fascinated the boy, but also confused him? He was often confused. He was confused when his parents argued, when his mother asked her sarcastic questions and when his father smoked a cigar and read his paper, trying to look relaxed and superior, although the air in his study was so charged that the boy scarcely dared move or even breathe. And his mother’s mocking words about the Jewish girl were confusing. The boy had no idea what a Jewish girl was.

  2

  FROM ONE DAY to the next, his mother stopped talking about the Jewish girl and his father put an end to the obligatory naps in the study. For a while the boy had to nap in the same room and same bed where he slept at night. Then there were no more naps at all. He was glad. He was nine and had been made to nap at noontime longer than any of his classmates or playmates.

  But he missed the girl with the lizard. He would steal into his father’s study to have a look at the painting and talk with the girl for a moment. He grew fast that year; at first his eyes were level with the gold frame, then with the rock, and later with the girl’s eyes.

  He was a strong boy, sturdily built, with large-boned limbs. As he shot up, there was nothing touching about his awkwardness; instead it was somehow threatening. His schoolmates were afraid of him, even when he was on their side in games, arguments, and fights. He was an outsider. He knew that himself, although he did not know that it was his appearance, his height, broad shoulders, and strength, that made him one. He thought it was the world inside him, with which he coexisted and in which he lived. None of his schoolmates shared it with him. But, then, he did not invite any of them in, either. Had he been a delicate child, he might have found playmates, soul mates, among other delicate children. But they especially were intimidated by him.

  His inner world was populated not only with the figures from his reading or from pictures and films, but also with people from the outside world, though in ever-changing disguises. He could tell when there was a discrepancy between what seemed to be going on in the external world and whatever lay behind it. That his piano teacher was holding something back, that the friendliness of the beloved family doctor was not genuine, that a neighbor boy with whom he played was hiding something— he felt it long before the disclosure of the boy’s petty thefts, of the doctor’s fondness for little boys, or of the piano teacher’s illness. To be sure, he was no more acute than others, or quicker to intuit exactly what it was that was not evident. Nor did he investigate it. He preferred making things up, and his inventions were always more colorful and exciting than reality.

  The distance between his inner and outer world corresponded to the distance that the boy noticed between his family and other people. Certainly, his father, a judge of the municipal court, lived life to the full. The boy was aware that his father enjoyed the importance and visibility of his position, liked joining the regular table reserved for prominent citizens in the local restaurant, liked playing a role in local politics and being elected to the presbytery of his congregation. His parents took part in the town’s social life. They attended the carnival ball and the summer gala, were invited out, and asked guests to dine at their home. The boy’s birthdays were celebrated in proper style, with five guests at his fifth birthday, six at his sixth, and so forth. Indeed, everything was done in proper style, which meant with the obligatory formality and distance of the 1950s. It was not this formality or distance that the boy perceived as the distance between his family and other people, but something else. It had to do with the way his parents themselves seemed to be holding back, hiding something. They were on their guard. If someone told a joke they did not immediately burst out laughing, but waited until others laughed. At a concert or a play they applauded only after others applauded first. In conversations with guests they kept their own opinion to themselves until others had expressed the same thing and they could then second it. If sometimes his father could not avoid taking a position or expressing an opinion, the strain of it showed.

  Or was his father merely being tactful, trying not to interfere or seem obtrusive? The boy asked himself that question as he grew older and began more consciously to observe his parents’ caution. He also asked himself why it was that his parents insisted on their own space. He was not allowed to enter his parents’ bedroom, had not been even as a small child. Granted, they did not lock their door. But the prohibition was absolutely clear, and their authority remained unchallenged—that is, until the boy was thirteen and, one day when his parents were out, he opened the door and saw two separate beds, two night stands, two chairs, one wooden and one metal wardrobe. Were his parents trying to hide the fact that they did not share a bed? Did they want to inculcate in him the meaning of privacy and a respect for it? After all, they never entered his room, either, without first knocking and waiting for him to invite them in.

  3

  THE BOY WAS not forbidden to enter his father’s study— even though it contained a mystery, the painting of the girl with the lizard.

  But when he was in the eighth grade, a teacher assigned as homework the description of a picture. The choice of pictures was left to the students. “Do I have to bring the picture I describe with me?” one student asked. The teacher waved the question aside. “Your description should be so good that just by reading it we can see the picture.” It was obvious to the boy that he would describe the painting of the girl with the lizard. He was looking forward to it, to examining the painting in detail, to translating the painting into words and sentences, to reading his description of the painting to his teacher and classmates. He was also looking forward to sitting in his father’s study. It looked out on a narrow courtyard that muted the daylight and sounds from the street. Its walls were lined with bookcases, and the spicy, acrid odor of cigar smoke hung in the air.

  His father hadn’t come home for lunch, his mother had left for town immediately afterward. So the boy asked no one for permission, but sat down in his father’s study, looked, and wrote. “The painting shows the sea, in front of it a beach, in front of that a rock or a dune, and on it a girl and a lizard.” No, the teacher had said the description of a painting moves from the foreground to the middle distance to the background. “In the foreground of the painting are a girl and a lizard on a rock or a dune, in the middle distance is a beach, and from the middle distance to the background is the sea.” Is the sea? Rolls the sea? But the sea didn’t roll from the middle distance to the background, it rolled from the background toward the middle distance. Besides, middle distance sounded ugly, and foreground and background didn’t sound much better. And the girl—was her being in the foreground everything there was to say about her?

  The boy started over. “The painting shows a girl. She is looking at a lizard.” But that still wasn’t everything there was to say about the girl. The boy went on. “The girl has a pale face and pale arms, brown hair, and is dressed in a bright-colored top and a dark skirt.” That didn’t satisfy him either. He gave it another try. “In this painting a girl is looking at a lizard sunning itself.” Was that true? Was the girl looking at the lizard? Wasn’t she looking past it, through it, instead? The boy hesitated. But suddenly it made no difference. Because the next sentence followed from the first. “The girl is very beautiful.” That sentence was true, and with it the description likewise began to ring true.

  “The painting shows a girl looking at a lizard sunning itself. The girl is very beautiful. She has a delicate face with a smooth brow, straight nose, and a dimple in her upper lip. She has brown eyes and brown curly hair. The painting is really only of the girl’s head. All the rest, comprising the lizard, the rock or dune, the beach, and the sea, is not so important.”

  The boy was satisfied. Now all he had to do was to place everything in the foreground, middle distance, and background. He was proud of “comprising.” It sounded elegant and adult. He was proud of the girl’s beauty.

  When he heard his father closing the front door, he stayed seated. He heard him put down his briefcase, remove
and hang up his coat, look first in the kitchen and living room, and then knock on his bedroom door.

  “I’m in here,” he called, squaring the scribbled pages on top of his notebook and laying his fountain pen alongside. That was how his father kept files, papers, and pens on the desk. When the door opened he immediately started to explain. “I’m sitting here because we’ve been assigned the description of a picture, and I’m describing this painting here.”

  It took his father a moment to reply. “What painting? What’re you doing?”

  The boy explained again. From the way his father was standing there, scowling as he looked at him and the painting, he knew that he had done something wrong. “Since you weren’t here, I thought . . .”

  “You thought—” his father said in a choked voice, and the boy thought the voice threatened to become a yell and flinched. But his father did not yell. He shook his head and sat down on the swivel chair between the desk and a table that he used for stacking files and on the other side of which the boy was sitting. The painting hung beside the desk, behind his father. The boy hadn’t dared sit at the desk. “Would you like to read for me what you’ve written?”

  The boy read it aloud, proud and anxious at the same time.

  “It’s very well written, my boy. I could see every detail of the painting. But . . . ,” he hesitated, “it’s not for other people. You should describe a different picture for them.”

  The boy was so happy that his father hadn’t yelled at him, but had instead spoken to him in confidence and with affection, that he was willing to do anything. But he did not understand. “Why isn’t the painting something for other people?”

  “Don’t you keep things just to yourself sometimes, too? Do you want us or your friends to be part of everything you do? If only because people are envious, it’s best not to show them your treasures. Either it makes them sad because they don’t have them, or they turn greedy and want to take them away from you.”

  “Is this painting a treasure?”

  “You know that yourself. You just described it beautifully, the way only a beautiful treasure is described.”

  “I mean is it so valuable that it would make people envious?”