Six
The war is over, it is solemnly proclaimed:
the present combats, of which tragedy speaks,
become the past not to be recalled.
—Paul Ricouer,
Memory, History, Forgetting
p. 454
The Border Situation
27 April 2009, 4:58 p.m.
48° 33' 13.38" N, 7° 52' 8.25" E
Maybe I’m being too sensitive—the silence in this minivan is getting oppressive. So what if Bruno and Lambert act all smug when I say something they think is stupid? There are things I want to talk about—things that are worth talking about. For example, here we are heading toward the Rhine river—and that means France. Strasbourg, France.
I’ve gotta admit, I’m kind of excited about driving across a national boundary in contemporary Europe, now that it’s unified. I’ve never done it before, and I’m very curious as to what happens at the actual border. And I’m also curious as to what Bruno and Lambert think. What’s their take on the unification of Europe? Whatever it is, it’s got to be fascinating. So I swallow my pride and tell the two monks what I’m thinking. I explain what I know about the border situation, and why I think it’s interesting.
“I’ll bet,” I say, “that we won’t even have to stop when we cross the Rhine. Free-flowing traffic, that’s my prediction.”
Nobody says anything. Well, I’m not going to give up. I’m going to start a conversation.
“So how does that compare,” I say, “to your experience? You know, the borders of 1076?”
“We don’t worry ourselves about borders,” comes a voice from the wayback seat. “My husband is the King of the Romans.”
It’s Bertha. This is the first time she has spoken directly to me since we left Speyer.
“Right,” I say, jumping on the chance. “Of course. He definitely is. But still, aren’t there some—”
“My Enrico is also the King of Germania, the King of Burgundia, and the King of Italia.”
Enrico? Who’s Enrico? Oh, she means Henry!
“And when we get to Canossa, the holy papa will consecrate my Enrico as the emperor of everything.”
“Really?” I say, “I... I’m not so sure that’s on the agenda.” In the rear-view mirror, I catch a glimpse of her scowling face, so I figure I’d better change the subject, quick. “But aren’t there, you know, a lot of princes, dukes, counts, whatever, with their own territories, their own armies...?”
“My son Conrado is the Duca of Bassa Lotaringia,” says Bertha. There’s something final in her tone, as if Conrad being a duca is all I need to know on the subject of German principalities.
“That’s great,” I say, nodding my head. “You... uh... you must be proud of him....”
What the hell is Conrad doing? I look around the minivan, as best I can, in the mirror. The Duca of whatever-it-is had better still be in his kindersitz!
“She means Lower Lotharingia,” says Bruno, “That’s basically what you’d call the Low Countries. That would be…”
“I know what they are,” I say. “Belgium, Netherlands, Luxembourg. Benelux.”
“Very good!” says Lambert, his voice dripping with superiority, “Except that most of Luxembourg is part of Upper Lotharingia.”
Okay, I give up. We’re going to stop in Strasbourg and I’m going to get a hotel room. I’m going to get a good night’s sleep before I try talking to these people again. How long has it been since I slept? I mean real sleep—not counting those semi-hallucinatory hours aboard the jumbo jet, you know, half-dreaming yet excruciatingly aware of the passage of time?
And definitely not counting that passed-out flight from Manchester to Hamburg. When I said earlier that “I slept like a baby,” I was putting a positive spin on that one. The fact is, I drooled all over the woman in the next seat. I was appropriately mortified and apologetic when they were finally able to wake me up. I had to fill out some form with the airline—you know, she could send them her dry-cleaning bill, and they could charge me. Some deal like that.
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