Five little memories of my dearest friend.
1 He liked animals. Cats in particular. After all, he helped Esther transport three of them right across Mitteleuropa, from Hungary to Berlin. But animals in general, really. I re-read an email he sent me at the time when he and Esther were giving up their little ‘dacha’ outside Berlin. He wrote: ‘I really enjoy the walks around here and expanding with Esther’s help my very limited knowledge of flora and fauna. And it’s been a great pleasure to watch things change over the seasons. Lots of fauna, for sure, from shiny beetles to exotically coloured lizards to, um, snakes (Esther doesn’t care for them so much), moles, racoons, deer and wild pigs (I’ve seen all the rest, but only heard the pigs and walked rapidly in another direction). And the birdies! Migrating swans and geese (and the geese in the farmyard across the track, waiting patiently and trustingly for Christmas) herons, trumpeting cranes, not forgetting the storks, orioles and numerous kinds of birds of prey, oh and not forgetting either the noisy frogs. Further to animals: Did you ever have anything to do with Karin Duve? [novelist] She lives in this hamlet, we nod as she rides by on her white horse, she also has a donkey, which she saved from being turned into salami. I’ve never actually had donkey salami, tho you can buy here and there. Horse salami a few times and I’ve got a goat sausage in the fridge at the moment.’
2. He liked raspberries. He was a small-time gambler. I have a vivid memory to prove it, which must date from November 1994 because that is when the National Lottery was launched. Poor as church mice, as ever, we were walking down a London street (but which and why?) and he told me he had bought one of these new lottery tickets. And we went and checked in a newsagent and he had won. Beginner’s luck, huh? Ten whole pounds. So we came out with this substantial sum and there was a greengrocers next door. He stopped, and took a punnet of raspberries from the stall outside. Said it seemed like the best way to spend his winnings. Raspberries in November? Must have been imports. But I expect there was some change and I expect we spent it on beer.
3. He liked shaving. I think. At least, it seemed to be a very important ritual, often postponed until surprisingly late in the day. He told me that even if he’d been out late or had a hangover, he would always get up by a quarter to eight. Otherwise he would be a waster. He was firm about this, and I have adopted it as a rule myself. But then there seemed to be a big gap before the shaving, in which he would work; and we would often talk on the phone during this period, which is how I know about it. Many of these talks were about books, especially when Martin was reshaping Verso’s German translation programme, quietly and persistently; I was the inhouse editor, and most of the time he would be suggesting ways I might persuade the editorial board that this was an important and commercially viable book to translate – he had already convinced me, at least about the ‘important’ bit, as he always did. I am assembling a list of Verso books owed to Martin; the first I recall is Fritz Kramer’s The Red Fez. But eventually Martin would tell me he had to go and shave. This would be around noon. If I asked him why he bothered so late in the day he would say: oh, I might go for a walk.
4. He liked clothes. A difficult interest to indulge as a freelance translator, let alone a freelance literary translator, and today it would be quite impossible. But he found ways . . . For example, he introduced me to the Paul Smith sale shop in Avery Row. Though even that was often out of our range. I have long lost track of the fashion in this matter, but he also introduced me to the idea of doing up the top button on a shirt. Martin always offered the world a bella figura, and not just with his natural good looks. Now, he certainly never judged people by what they wore . . . but it was a factor to be taken into consideration. As with everything else, I took his firm but gentle judgements very seriously. When I stayed with him not long after he moved to Berlin (I think the only time we spent some days together under the same roof), I wore (and I hadn’t much choice at the time) the best, most expensive and oldest pair of ankle boots that I possessed. Dark brown leather. And as I was putting them on, one chilly morning in his flat, among lots of still-unpacked boxes, he said they were great boots. They are now about 25 years old and I keep them for special occasions. (I should add that, on the other hand/same feet, he hated my accompanying socks. ‘Oh no!’, he said. I have kept the socks but have never worn them since.
5. He liked films. Oh, he did! And he was, I think, one of only two people, whose judgements on a film I have always trusted, and been grateful for trusting. His knowledge of cinema was boundless, as we all know. As much as of books, or music, really. I only disagreed with him once, on the brown-boot Berlin trip, when we went to see Le silence de Lorna directed by the Ardenne Brothers. It was the first of their films I had seen. I disliked it. Martin liked it very much. We argued, something we hardly ever did – or rather I ranted and Martin calmly, gently, firmly, defended it: then we forgot it with half a chicken and a fair bit of beer each in a café whose name I wish I could remember. I have been wondering since then whether I shouldn’t perhaps see Le silence de Lorna again. A year or two ago, I saw Olivier Assayas’s film Après mai (‘Something in the Air’ in English) and liked it very much. So much so that I had to know Martin’s opinion, especially because it was about the far left in France in the early ‘70s. And because politics, of course, was what we shared most, perhaps where we were closest. So, this kept troubling me. I feared that in fact Martin might hate it. I tried to rehearse all his objections, see if I could answer them. A soundtrack featuring Kevin Ayers, Nick Drake, the Incredible String Band (twice!); for starters. Hmm. And then, after I came back from his funeral in Berlin I spent some time rereading his old emails. And in one dated 26.6.13, there it was, short and sweet, I’d forgotten. I quote: ‘I enjoyed Après mai, which seemed to find some of the London critics in grumpily reactionary mood’. I think he meant silly Peter Bradshaw. So now I am sure. Good. Go buy the DVD, it’s a gem!
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