Collected Stories (45 page)

‘ “And then this other piece of news! This clearly fabricated news! These Paris streets, for instance, they suddenly branch off, don’t they? They’re turbulent, aren’t they? Things are not always as they should be, how could they be, after all? Sometimes there’s an accident, people gather together from the side streets with that urban stride that hardly touches the pavement; they are all filled with curiosity, but also with fear of disappointment; they breathe fast and stretch out their little heads. But when they touch one another they bow low and apologize: ‘I’m awfully sorry – I didn’t mean it – there’s such a crowd; forgive me, I beg you – it was most clumsy of me, I admit. My name is – my name’s Jerome Faroche, I’m a grocer in the rue de Cabotin – allow me to invite you to lunch tomorrow – my wife would also be delighted.’

‘ “So they go on talking while the street lies numb and the smoke from the chimneys falls between the houses. That’s how it is. But it might happen that two carriages stop on a crowded boulevard of a distinguished neighborhood. Serious-looking menservants open the doors. Eight elegant Siberian wolfhounds come prancing out and jump barking across the boulevard. And it’s said that they are young Parisian dandies in disguise.”

‘His eyes were almost shut. When I fell silent, he stuck both hands in his mouth and tore at his lower jaw. His clothes were covered with dirt. Perhaps he had been thrown out of some tavern and hadn’t yet realized it.

‘Perhaps it was that short quiet lull between night and day when our heads loll back unexpectedly, when everything stands still without our knowing it, since we are not looking at it, and then disappears; we remain alone, our bodies bent, then look around but no longer see anything, nor even feel
any resistance in the air yet inwardly we cling to the memory that at a certain distance from us stand houses with roofs and with fortunately angular chimneys down which the darkness flows through garrets into various rooms. And it is fortunate that tomorrow will be a day on which, unlikely as it may seem, one will be able to see everything.

‘Now the drunk jerked up his eyebrows so that a brightness appeared between them and his eyes, and he explained in fits and starts: “It’s like this, you see – I’m sleepy, you see, so that’s why I’m going to sleep. – You see, I’ve a brother-in-law on the Wenzelsplatz – that’s where I’m going, for I live there, for that’s where I have my bed – so I’ll be off –. But I don’t know his name, you see, or where he lives – seems I’ve forgotten – but never mind, for I don’t even know if I have a brother-in-law at all. – But I’ll be off now, you see –. Do you think I’ll find him?”

‘To which, without thinking, I said: “That’s certain. But you’re coming from abroad and your servants don’t happen to be with you. Allow me to show you the way.”

‘He didn’t answer. So I offered him my arm, to give him some support.’

For some time already I had been trying to cheer myself up. I rubbed my body and said to myself: ‘It’s time you spoke. You’re becoming embarrassed. Do you feel oppressed? Just wait! You know these situations. Think it over at your leisure. Even the landscape will wait.

‘It’s the same as it was at the party last week. Someone is reading aloud from a manuscript. At his request I myself have copied one page. When I see my handwriting among the pages written by him, I take fright. It’s without any stability. People are bending over it from three sides of the table. In tears, I swear it’s not my handwriting.’

‘But what is the connection with today? It’s entirely up to you to start a sensible conversation. Everything’s peaceful.
Just make an effort, my friend! – You surely can find an objection. – You can say: “I’m sleepy. I’ve a headache. Goodbye.” Quick then, quick! Make yourself conspicuous! – What’s that? Again obstacles and more obstacles? What does it remind you of? – I remember a high plateau which rose against the wide sky as a shield to the earth. I saw it from a mountain and prepared myself to wander through it. I began to sing.’

My lips were dry and disobedient as I said: ‘Ought it not to be possible to live differently?’

‘No,’ he said, questioning, smiling.

‘But why do you pray in church every evening?’ I asked then, while everything between him and me, which until then I had been holding together as though in my sleep, collapsed.

‘Oh, why should we talk about it? People who live alone have no responsibility in the evenings. One fears a number of things – that one’s body could vanish, that human beings may really be what they appear to be at twilight, that one might not be allowed to walk without a stick, that it might be a good idea to go to church and pray at the top of one’s voice in order to be looked at and acquire a body.’

Because he talked like that and then fell silent, I pulled my red handkerchief out of my pocket, bent my head, and wept.

He stood up, kissed me, and said: ‘What are you crying for? You’re tall, I like that; you have long hands which all but obey your will; why aren’t you happy about it? Always wear dark cuffs, that’s my advice. – No – I flatter you and yet you cry? I think you cope quite sensibly with the difficulty of living.’

‘We build useless war machines, towers, walls, curtains of silk, and we could marvel at all this a great deal if we had the time. We tremble in the balance, we don’t fall, we flutter, even though we may be uglier than bats. And on a beautiful day hardly anyone can prevent us from saying: “Oh God, today is a beautiful day,” for we are already established on this earth and live by virtue of an agreement.

‘For we are like tree trunks in the snow. They lie there
apparently flat on the ground and it looks as though one could push them away with a slight kick. But no, one can’t, for they are firmly stuck to the ground. So you see even this is only apparent.’

The following thought prevented me from sobbing: ‘It is night and no one will reproach me tomorrow for what I might say now, for it could have been said in my sleep.’

Then I said: ‘Yes, that’s it, but what were we talking about? We can’t have been talking about the light in the sky because we are standing in the darkness of a hallway. No – we could have talked about it, nevertheless, for are we not free to say what we like in conversation? After all, we’re not aiming at any definite purpose or at the truth, but simply at making jokes and having a good time. Even so, couldn’t you tell me the story of the woman in the garden once more? How admirable, how clever this woman is! We must follow her example. How fond I am of her! So it’s a good thing I met you and waylaid you as I did. It has given me great pleasure to talk to you. I’ve learned several things that, perhaps intentionally, were hitherto unknown to me. – I’m grateful.’

He looked pleased. And although contact with a human body is always repugnant to me, I couldn’t help embracing him.

Then we stepped out of the hallway under the sky. My friend blew away a few bruised little clouds, allowing the uninterrupted surface of the stars to emerge. He walked with difficulty.

And now everything was seized by speed and fell into the distance. The water of the river was dragged toward a precipice, tried to resist, whirled about a little at the crumbling edge, but then crashed in foaming smoke.

The fat man could not go on talking, he was forced to turn and disappear in the loud roar of the waterfall.

I, who had experienced so many pleasant diversions, stood on the bank and watched. ‘What are our lungs supposed to do?’ I shouted. Shouted: ‘If they breathe fast they suffocate themselves from inner poisons; if they breathe slowly they suffocate from unbreathable air, from outraged things. But if they try to search for their own rhythm they perish from the mere search.’

Meanwhile the banks of the river stretched beyond all bounds, and yet with the palm of my hand I touched the metal of a signpost which gleamed minutely in the far distance. This I really couldn’t quite understand. After all I was small, almost smaller than usual, and a bush of white hips shaking itself very fast towered over me. This I saw, for a moment ago it had been close to me.

Nevertheless I was mistaken, for my arms were as huge as the clouds of a steady country rain, save that they were more hasty. I don’t know why they were trying to crush my poor head. It was no larger than an ant’s egg, but slightly damaged, and as a result no longer quite round. I made some beseeching, twisting movements with it, for the expression of my eyes could not have noticed, they were so small.

But my legs, my impossible legs lay over the wooded mountains and gave shade to the village-studded valleys. They grew and grew! They already reached into the space that no longer owned any landscape, for some time their length had gone beyond my field of vision.

But no, it isn’t like that – after all, I’m small, small for the time being – I’m rolling – I’m rolling – I’m an avalanche in the mountains! Please, passers-by, be so kind as to tell me how tall I am – just measure these arms, these legs.

‘Let me think,’ said my acquaintance, who had accompanied me from the party and was walking quietly beside me on a path up the Laurenziberg. ‘Just stand still a moment so that I can get it clear. – I have something to settle, you know.
It’s all such a strain – the night is radiant, though rather cold, but this discontented wind, it sometimes even seems to change the position of those acacias.’

The moon made the gardener’s house cast a shadow over the slightly humped path on which lay scanty patches of snow. When I saw the bench that stood beside the door, I pointed at it with a raised finger, and as I was not brave and expected reproaches I laid my left hand on my chest.

He sat down wearily, disregarding his beautiful clothes, and astonished me by pressing his elbows against his hips and laying his forehead on the tips of his overstretched fingers.

‘Yes, now I want to say this. You know, I live a regular life. No fault can be found with it, everything I do is considered correct and generally approved. Misfortune, as it is known in the society I frequent, has not spared me, as my surroundings and I have realized with satisfaction, and even the general good fortune has not failed me and I myself have been able to talk about it in a small circle of friends. True, until now I had never been really in love. I regretted it occasionally, but used the phrase when I needed it. And now I must confess: Yes, I am in love and quite beside myself with excitement. I am an ardent lover, just what the girls dream of. But ought I not to have considered that just this former lack of mine gave an exceptional and gay, an especially gay, twist to my circumstances?’

‘Calm yourself,’ I said without interest, thinking only of myself. ‘Your loved one is beautiful, as I couldn’t help hearing.’

‘Yes, she is beautiful. While sitting next to her, all I could think was: What an adventure – am I not daring! – there I go embarking on a sea voyage – drinking wine by the gallon. But when she laughs she doesn’t show her teeth as one would expect; instead, all one sees is the dark, narrow, curved opening of the mouth. Now this looks sly and senile, even though she throws back her head while laughing.’

‘I can’t deny that,’ I said, sighing. ‘I’ve probably seen it,
too, for it must be conspicuous. But it’s not only that. It’s the beauty of girls altogether. Often when I see dresses with manifold pleats, frills, and flounces smoothly clinging to beautiful bodies, it occurs to me that they will not remain like this for long, that they will get creases that cannot be ironed out, dust will gather in the trimmings too thick to be removed, and that no one will make herself so miserable and ridiculous as every day to put on the same precious dress in the morning and take it off at night. And yet I see girls who are beautiful enough, displaying all kinds of attractive muscles and little bones and smooth skin and masses of fine hair, and who appear every day in the same natural fancy dress, always laying the same face in the same palm and letting it be reflected in the mirror. Only sometimes at night, on returning late from a party, this face stares out at them from the mirror worn out, swollen, already seen by too many people, hardly worth wearing anymore.’

‘I’ve asked you several times on our walk whether you found my girl beautiful, but you always turned away without answering. Tell me, are you up to some mischief? Why don’t you comfort me?’

I dug my feet into the shadow and said kindly: ‘You don’t need to be comforted. After all, you’re being loved.’ To avoid catching cold I held over my mouth a handkerchief with a design of blue grapes.

Now he turned toward me and leaned his fat face against the low back of the bench: ‘Actually I’ve still time, you know. I can still end this budding love affair at once, either by committing some misdeed, by unfaithfulness, or by going off to some distant land. For I’ve grave doubts about whether I should let myself in for all this excitement. Nothing is certain, no one can tell the direction or the duration for sure. If I go into a tavern with the intention of getting drunk, I know I’ll be drunk that evening. But in this case! In a week’s time we’re planning to go on an excursion with some friends. Imagine the storm this will create in the heart for the next fortnight! Last night’s kisses make me sleepy and prepare
the way for savage dreams. I fight this by going for a walk at night, with the result that I’m in a permanent state of turmoil, my face goes hot and cold as though blown about by the wind, I have to keep fingering a pink ribbon in my pocket all the time, I’m filled with the gravest apprehensions about myself which I cannot follow up, and I can even stand your company, sir, whereas normally I would never spend so much time talking to you.’

I was feeling very cold and the sky was already turning a whitish color. ‘I’m afraid no misdeed, no unfaithfulness or departure to some distant land will be of any avail. You’ll have to kill yourself,’ I said, adding a smile.

Opposite us on the other side of the avenue stood two bushes and down below these bushes was the town. There were still a few lights on.

‘All right,’ he cried, and hit the bench with his little tight fist which, however, he left lying there. ‘But you go on living. You don’t kill yourself. No one loves you. You don’t achieve anything. You can’t cope with the next moment. Yet you dare to talk to me like that, you brute. You’re incapable of loving, only fear excites you. Just take a look at my chest.’