They Divided the Sky: A Novel by Christa Wolf

5.

Christa Wolf 19 5. Manfred knew exactly: there is a kind of efficiency that leaves the efficient person cold. Only now that he couldn’t stay cold any longer, he wondered what was actually wrong with him. When did it all start, this indifference I felt toward everything? he asked himself. Why did no one tell me? Why did I have to wait for this girl to come along and ask, is it hard to become like you? There was a new intensity to the way he now dipped his synthetic brushes into different-coloured liquids whose composition he constantly changed, subjecting them to the most complex tests, and then selecting the most beautiful and most resistant dyes for the next, even harder, test. His work was nearing its end. Just a short time earlier he hadn’t been able to imagine what would come next. What should he wish for when he reached this point? What new goal could he set himself? Now, all of a sudden, one plan followed closely upon the next. He saw factory halls, smelly steamy places that were beautiful in his imagination because they were implementing his method for dyeing fibers. He saw himself in a white lab coat inspecting the vats, checking the samples, correcting the composition of the dyes. He was valued because he had the knowledge and wasn’t arrogant. Yes, all of a sudden he saw modesty, a quality he had long thought stupid, as desirable. That’s when he got her letter: I’m going to become a teacher. Why do that? he thought. Now? And without asking me? Will that mean exercise books and pupils to tutor and complaining parents when I come home from work, and behavioural problems to discuss at night? He felt a twinge of jealousy: she won’t be living for me alone. She won’t see it through to the end, he thought. Sensitive as she is! She’ll get some experience, and then she’ll have had enough. And that’s what he wrote her. She was already forcing him to make compromises. His irritation made him somewhat short-sighted. He had to make sure she would stay close by. And so he dryly they divided the sky 20 reported Rita’s existence to his mother and saw to it that she got his room. He’d moved into the attic room long ago. His mother fiercely resisted taking in the girl who was stealing her son. He knew in advance what she would say, and uncurious about her weepy face, he watched her coldly until she was finished. “I have my reasons,” he said. “Maybe she can stand it here with us for a while.” “The way you talk!” she objected. Then she quickly lowered her eyes under his gaze. She was used to him being closed and resistant, inflexible in regard to everything that was important to him. She was thankful for the small mercy that for some time—ever since he had stopped caring about her and her husband—the hate-filled outbursts between father and son had ended. On a cool April Sunday, when she moved in, Manfred showed his future wife his parents’ home. “The coffin of my life. Divided into living coffin, dining coffin, sleeping coffin, cooking coffin.” “Why?” Rita asked. She was a little intimidated by this elegant side street, the older villa, the dark, heavy rooms. “Because nothing to do with life has ever happened here,” he said. “As long as I can remember. Nothing.” “But your room is bright,” Rita consoled herself. She had to take care that her decision didn’t fall apart here, shattered against these indifferent old pieces of furniture. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll show you where we’ll actually be living.” They stood at the door of his attic room, and Manfred watched her from the corner of his eye to see if she would notice what this untidy place meant for him. “Ah,” she said, and let her eyes roam slowly: the writing desk under the small window, the couch, the shelving with the rows of untidy books, the few bright-coloured prints on the walls, some chemistry equipment in the corners. She never asked questions, and now too Christa Wolf 21 she looked at him calmly, maybe a little too intensely, and said, “I suppose I will always be responsible for the flowers...