His Territory was Europe

His territory was Europe. Many assumed he was lucky, but it was work. The salesman spoke only English. He usually traveled town to town by train, and stayed in mid-level hotels filled with other businessmen. The salesman knew all the tricks of the trade, how to pass quickly through security in airports around the world, how to get into the best executive clubs at airports and hotels, how to upgrade, earn points and discounts, how to elude paying for meals, and what receipts to show accounting on return.

On this trip to Germany, he checked into the Frankfurt airport hotel, which was filled with traveling salesmen. He looked around the lounge and saw versions of salesmen, young and old, staring into flat beer at the end of another sweaty day. They moved silently room-to-room, expressionless, broad-faced smiles kept in reserve, saved for the customers. The hotel was a place of off-stage dimness where the businessmen practiced pitches, vigorous handshakes, and friendly backslaps.

The sales game was alchemy, turning customers into buyers. Sometimes the salesman was the information gatherer, and would start with, “I’m doing some research and wonder if you might have a moment to spare for me.” Or, “I’m trying to understand your industry and have a couple basic questions.” No matter what the response the research led to an observation, then to a product. Other times he came as a prophet of the future. “A paradigm shift,” a “new world” was coming. He had seen the future and it involves merchandise. Talking about the future was a particularly good tactic in Germany.

When the salesman arrived from the states flying east he always felt strange the first few days. Walking on the streets past small shops he would think about how without commerce it would all tumble down. It wasn’t governments that held the world together—it was voracious self-interest.

He took the midday train to Berlin from Frankfurt. Berlin always unnerved him–it felt undone and leaden. He walked quickly by disinterested security agents at the train station, looking as if they guarded the entrance to a third world country, not modern Germany. The salesman had carefully planned his trip like a three-act play. He scheduled a dinner meeting with a long-time customer as an opening act to resist the temptation of hard sleep waiting in the hotel room. Next, the salesman always set a pivotal meeting in the middle of his trips, a sure thing which would serve as a second act climax. Finally, he would design some sort of extravagance at the end for his denouement, an escape.

The cab driver took him to the Hilton near Checkpoint Charlie, what the driver called “the Stasi hotel”. The salesman laughed. At the front desk, he was miffed because the hotel reservation was for only two, instead of three days. After the manager became involved, the salesman was upgraded for his trouble as an executive club member. A “Junior, Junior Suite,” the way in Germany some introduce themselves with titles such as “Professor, Doctor”, and “Doctor, Doctor”.

In the room upstairs he pushed back the heavy curtains to find an 18^th century dome on the square spreading out into the distance. He unpacked his single carry-on suitcase with the coat folded carefully inside out, as his tailor had showed him. Then the salesman slipped on his casual clothes and shoes, and headed outside for a walk to the Tiergarten, the large garden in the city center.

He went up to the tourist area, past the Starbucks, through Brandenburg Gate, on the sidewalk, stopping at the Soviet War memorial. The salesman was fascinated with this challenging grey structure dominated by WWII soviet tanks on columns, and an ominous soldier in a long winter coat hovering above appearing to say, “Don’t try us again.” Nations don’t mean anything anymore.

The salesman stopped later at a historical marker on the street across from the park, near the Berlin Philharmonic. He looked at the old photographs and read bits of the English text: “former office,” “hundreds of women,” “forced sterilization.” Black and white photographs on a street that was now full color.

Down the street, 2711 columns, uneven grey tombstones, form the Memorial for Murdered Jews. The salesman walked deep into the immense structure until he disappeared between the seven foot columns, up over his head. He stopped breathless and looked around, realizing that he had lost his way. He heard others moving through the monument. Two small children played hide and seek. Further away someone wept. The salesman walked towards the sound, but the crying faded. He exited the monument out onto a sidewalk clearing where tourists gathered. A bent over woman sold charred currywurst from a cart.

The salesman dined with Thomas that night at an Italian restaurant on the corner near the Hilton. The client, dressed in designer jeans and a scarf, greeted him warmly. They avoided talking business as they shared a bottle of Chianti. The salesman knew that people love to talk about themselves, so peppered Thomas with questions. Partway through a story about his family history in Berlin, Thomas stopped and asked the salesman, “Where is your family originally from?”

“Europe.”

“Your last name, was it changed?”