Weimar

Wolf felt like the 23rd child in soccer who always has to be the referee because he’s clumsy, until he’s no longer allowed to be that either because he’s too impartial. But what should he have said? That it was no longer necessary to distinguish Robert from Martin Walser? Or would it have been enough to have no problem with “Zigeunerschnitzel”? And sooner or later with “Negerkuss” as well? These were not formalities but a way of life that required respect, Wolf had said. 

Now he stood on the street, in the middle of November, in a darkness barely distinguishable from the darkness of the day, and felt like the child he had been almost seven decades ago. As if that weren’t humiliating enough, on his way home he also ran into Weber from the institute. However, he seemed genuinely pleased about the encounter and even invited him: the monthly transcultural music evening would be hosted by Georgian students today, who would combine it with a dinner, and he, Wolf, had so often spoken of the good food in Tbilisi. 

The retired music professor thought of khinkali and Andria Balanchivadze; besides, the evening could hardly get any worse. On the way, he alluded to the Walser debate, to which Weber replied: “Those who only understand something about music understand nothing about music either.” This significantly improved Wolf’s mood, and when he entered the usually sparse institute room, which the Georgians had transformed into a banquet hall with candles, fabrics, and enchanting porcelain, the smile came naturally.

Outside the windows, Wolf sensed the peasants who had already observed Madame Bovary, but here it was warm and in the background Rashid Behbudov sang “Ayrilik.” He sat down on a chair at the edge of the table, and a moment later a young man settled beside him, introducing himself as Eldar and telling him the story of the large soup tureen in the center of the table.