Riding the Iron Rooster

I developed a horror-interest in the meat section, where stall upon stall was laden with cuts of meat—gleaming red flesh that had been trimmed with great care: legs, shoulders, feet, rumps and elbows, a whole rack of tongues, a case of hearts, a brisket with a paper cap, pigs' heads wearing ruffled collars. Most of the meat was decorated in this way—a sort of dramatic presentation, so that the last thing you thought of was slaughter or butchery.

There were more browsers than shoppers, which was the weirdest thing of all—people gaping at food, and salivating and moving on ("Look at those fish cheeks, Wolfgang!"), and the effect of this scrutiny and obvious hunger was of the food being used to tempt and titillate, and so it all seemed to me—and the meat especially—the most modern kind of pornography.

"Good, no?" Helmut said. "If you see that, you understand Berlin."

We were leaving the "Ke De We" when we saw a stop-press edition of a German paper saying that American planes had bombed Libya. This was in retaliation for the bombing, supposedly by Libyan terrorists, of a dance hall here in Berlin. The news had traveled fast. Already, young Germans had started to gather near the Europa Center for a demonstration, and police vans—about thirty of them—were parked just off the Kurfürstendamm. Policemen were unloading steel barricades and stacking them by the roadside.

Helmut said, "We have only recently discovered how different we are from the Americans."

He spoke with slight bitterness. I decided not to remind him of Germany's uniquely horrible history.

"I think we bombed Libya because we have been dying to bomb someone in the Middle East ever since the hostage crisis," I said. "Iran humiliated us more than any other country has done in recent years. We still haven't gotten over it. I don't think the average American makes much distinction between Iranians and Libyans. They're seen as dangerous and worthless fanatics, so why should we waste our time being subtle with them?"

'That's the way Americans think about us," Helmut said.

"Not really."

If he mentions the war, I thought, I'm going to say You started it. But he didn't. He said he found Berlin very strange and provincial; it was mostly old people and had high unemployment. He said he couldn't wait to go back to Düsseldorf.

I spent the rest of the day shopping for provisions. I bought mint tea, sherry, chocolates and antibiotics. Tomorrow we would be in Warsaw, where such things might not be available.

The demonstration began in the early evening when about eight thousand youths chanting anti-American slogans marched towards the American cultural center called Amerikahaus, behind the Kurfürstendamm. The rumor was that they planned to set it on fire. But the police, with riot shields and tear gas, massed in front of it and behind the high steel barricades. The demonstration became unruly and turned into something approaching a riot. Rioters threw stones and broke the windows of American cars, and chased tourists and anyone who looked like an American.

I missed the riot. I was at the Deutsche Oper on Bismarckstrasse seeing Don Giovanni. I had gone on the spur of the moment when, back at the hotel, I heard the members of the group arguing about the bombing of Libya, and Kicker saying: "Them fucken Arabs have been asking for that." Do I want to listen to this? I asked myself. Mozart seemed preferable.

I went alone and found it pleasant to have an empty seat next to me, an entire armrest to lean on, and to enjoy this excellent production. But after the intermission the seat was taken by a young woman, and several times in the darkness, while Don Giovanni was gasconading or Dona Anna was singing, this woman was staring at my head.

"Do I know you?" she asked, when the opera ended.

I said no.

"I have this feeling that I do. What is it?"

I sensed what it was, but I didn't say anything. Until then I had been proud of the fact that no one on the tour had the slightest idea that I was a writer—and of travel books about train trips, too. I thought it would inhibit them or else, and just as bad, provoke them to importune me ("Boy, have I got a story for you"). Some of the members of the group I had told I was in publishing, and others I had told I was a teacher. I hardly ever entered a conversation. I listened, I smiled, I made notes. When Kicker was being outrageous I blinked and shuffled away. I was the man who got up from lunch before it was over and people started talking about themselves. I was the man who was constantly drifting away—the man with no last name. I was the man with the book that you didn't want to interrupt. I was the quiet, dim, dull fellow in the old mackintosh, standing and whistling tunelessly on the platform. I agreed with everything you said. You hardly knew me—in fact, it was only when you saw me on the train that you remembered I was on the trip, and even then I was unobtrusive and faintly barmy looking, just harmlessly scribbling.