Billy Wilder on Assignment by Noah Isenberg (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

couplets. Ruthless dictatorship of judgment is what I am pushing for. You should no longer be mentally constrained to acknowledge the undeniable virtues of a friend whose very approach from a distance turns your stomach. Think of your health! Back to the good, irrefutable, utterly fresh swear words our people so richly have at their command. Out with the word that’s on the tip of your tongue. Anything but objectivity!

Berliner Börsen Courier, May 20, 1927

When It’s Eighty-four Degrees

The thermometer has hit eighty-four degrees. Not because anyone has been holding a match under the mercury bulb, but in an altogether natural way, as some long-awaited high or low pressure system has invaded us. Yesterday people were boasting that even the most extreme desert temperatures would be a pleasure compared to this cold, damp, unsettled weather. Now they have the pleasure. So much for that. Ice water on your head, ice water into your stomach. A bit of a headache and stomachache. Where do you hole up on this uselessly free afternoon? An attack of tropical madness. Let’s go all out. People head off to the five o’clock tea dance.

And—this is no mirage, but the reality of Berlin—others who’ve been driven mad by the heat are already here. Easily a few dozen, male and female. Sitting in front of their iced sodas feeling boiling hot. They let the summer come at them and valiantly do their duty. The saxophone attacks the opening jazz number. Everyone’s in place to dance the Black Bottom. When it’s eighty-four degrees. With admirable energy, though not exactly setting speed records, the couples shimmy their way through the long oval. Subdued applause. The second round. Every now and then a leg refuses to engage in this activity, which is properly performed in the winter. The smarter dancers are glued to their spots, with just a hint of swinging. Today there are none of the usual handshakes from the lady, only a parting smile. She slings a silk scarf over her forehead, takes a swig from the yellow straw; the next dance.

At the window the oppressive heat grows unbearable. And by God, the dancers seem to feel better. Perhaps it is not at all that preposterous to drive out the devil’s heat with the Black Bottom. They jump in, eyes closed.

“The man at the drums slipped up on his instrument.” The woman with the bright-green silk scarf, whom I’ve asked to dance and is now fluttering marvelously in front of me, ignores my cultivated sense of hearing. Her withering glance tells me that one doesn’t dishonor the Black Bottom by speaking. Of course. But, needing to come out with something again, I add to my words of wisdom: “Every dilettante has a go at the drum. It actually takes some training. I myself …” Then an unexpected burst of light startles me. Embarrassing mistake. That wasn’t a blunder on the part of the drummer, but instead a gently rising rumble of thunder—here comes another flash of lightning—a real thunderstorm. My Little Miss Silk also realizes what’s going on, to her horror, suddenly flutters closer, turns downright approachable. The bluish-black sky appears menacing through the windows. The blazing light bulbs do nothing to offset the looming threat. The thunder keeps getting more fearsome, the bolts of lightning eerier. The band competes heroically with the sounds of nature, but it can’t stop the Black Bottom from degenerating into a frantic slide.

I lead my crumpled Little Miss Silk to her seat. She stares at the storm in silence. In order not to disturb her with loud parting words, I occupy the chair next to her. Endless minutes of nothing but thunder and lightning. I place my unsightly pocket watch on the table and examine the second hand. “Sound travels at the speed of 1,125 feet per second. The storm can’t be far off.” All of a sudden, Little Miss Silk’s face contorts with fear but still bears the look of a sweet young girl. “By the way, my Fräulein, we are on the second floor, that is, on the top floor of this building.” Don’t look, don’t move, I order myself. “Since this building hasn’t been around for long, it may not have a lightning rod yet.”

Enough. The last clap of thunder isn’t even needed. With a final scream she jumps up, tries to cling to my arm. I throw my rain poncho over her and convey Elli to safety, as a savior deserving of her gratitude, in a nearby bar on the ground floor.

Please, please, another storm tomorrow.

Berliner Börsen Courier, June 1, 1927

Day of Destiny

Under today’s date, across the page, the space reserved for comments in my pocket calendar says: Day of destiny. Underlined twice. An unusual choice of vocabulary for a notepad. Apart from that, the entire page has only names and numbers. Yesterday there were reminders to pay my bills, and for Pentecost, a list of train connections and hotels. And then this solemn note. And yet this is undeniably my own entry; even the double emphasis was in my handwriting. I start to recall.

It happened about three weeks ago. After a long time I was able to take a relaxing afternoon stroll once again, with window-shopping on Tauentzienstrasse. Suddenly, at Wittenbergplatz, shouts and laughter from a surging crowd of people. Leader or victim, in the center with wild gestures, is a pale youth, his bloodless lips spread wide for a scream, barely aware of the disparaging heckling, as he hurls out his indictment of “this era, which has grown heartless.” Very softly, audible only to those standing closest to him, he ends up with: “But the fourth of June will be the day of destiny for all.” How so? He can’t, and won’t, say. Still, as if sensing the dreadfulness to come, a shudder runs over his body as he names the date.

Then he begins the second part of his tirade. The policeman on the corner stares indifferently at the speaker, whose words are