Free The Tower: A Novel by Uwe Tellkamp Page A

efficiently! They can keep their gongs, for God’s sake. That’s just a sedative to stick on your chest … If we butter up the directors and the consultants now and then, the rest’ll sort itself out – that’s the way they think!’
    ‘Not so loud, Richard.’ Weniger had become serious and was looking round nervously. When he caught sight of Christian, his expression brightened. ‘Well done, that sounded just like a concert. How long have you been playing?’
    ‘For …’ Christian screwed up his eyes as he thought. ‘… for about eight years.’ He felt embarrassed because it wasn’t just his father and the two doctors who were looking at him but all those waiting in the queue, in front and behind.
    ‘Do you want to take it up professionally? As a cellist?’
    ‘No. Graduate from high school.’
    ‘Ah.’ Weniger nodded. ‘Then you can follow in your father’s footsteps?’
    ‘I’d like to study medicine, yes.’
    ‘A good decision.’ Weniger pursed his lips and nodded vigorously. ‘And, if I may ask: your grades?’ Before Christian could answer, he made a dismissive gesture. ‘If I had my way – good grades in themselves don’t make a doctor. If I think of some of the young ladies who come to us … Nothing but “A”s for their studies, but no feel for it, fingers like thumbs to put it crudely, and they keel over at the first post m—’
    ‘Oh,my grades are quite good. Apart from maths …’
    ‘Oh yes, the medic’s old problem. My God, in maths your father and I were a real pair of duffers. Don’t you worry about that. There is less mathematics in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy … Hmm, it’s all very well for me to talk. Just do your best. But how are things otherwise … a girlfriend?’
    Christian, who by now had a plate and cutlery, carefully helped himself to some rice and cleared his throat in embarrassment. ‘Hmm, no, not yet.’
    ‘Well, that’ll come, you’ll see. And don’t worry about those little pimples on your face, they’ll go of their own accord, and a girl who sees nothing but that’s not worth bothering with, young man.’
    ‘How’s your lad?’ Clarens asked the medical director from gynaecology. Christian had gone bright red.
    ‘Matthias? He’s doing his military service at the moment, signals. Spends all day running round the countryside laying telephone lines. But he’s no idea yet what he wants to do afterwards. “Don’t panic, Dad …” is all I get from him whenever I have the temerity to ask a question or drop a hint. At one point he wanted to be a stage technician, then a radio presenter, then a forester … Gesine and I were thinking that was something definite, forester, when he applied for a place at the forestry school in Tharandt last year; but then he withdrew his application. What will be next – who can say? All he knows is what he doesn’t want to do: study medicine. “I don’t want to be rummaging round in the holy of holies like you, Dad,” the brat says that to my face and smirks.’
    The laughter was something that Christian found irritating.
    ‘Come on, Manfred, you’ll need to tuck in after that. Take one of these splendid stuffed peppers …’ Clarens looked at Weniger over the top of his glasses. ‘Oh, I was going to ask you – you know the boss of that car repair shop in Striesen, Mätzold or whatever he’s called …’
    ‘Pätzold. Yes, what about him?’
    ‘Youperformed the abortion on his daughter last year, didn’t you …?’ Clarens leant over to Weniger and murmured something. What Christian could hear sounded like ‘cavity seal’ and ‘carcass’ but he couldn’t imagine what a dead body could have to do with a Moskvitch.
    ‘… a Friday car, I can tell you. It’s already starting to rust through at the front, where the passenger puts their feet. I told my wife: “Once it goes through you’re really going to have to run fast” … and the brakes, soft as butter. I’d like