The Attic (11 page)

“
What do you mean
‘
metaphorically
’
?
”

“
That
’
s easy: conditionally. The sun
—
”

“
We should deal with freckles. Sunspots. That
’
s what you want to say.
”

“
Bravo, Lute-meister. Precisely. As pure as the sun. When you draw close to her, when you cast a shadow over her: freckles. That
’
s Eurydice, the ideal. Can you accept that, ideal Lute-meister?
”

“
I don
’
t know, Igor. I just don
’
t know. Didn
’
t I tell you that even the sun
—
?
”

“
And you? And you . . . ? So are
you
without freckles? Aren
’
t you
—
?
”

“
You fool! This isn
’
t about me. I
’
m the least important person on the planet. Maybe that
’
s precisely the one good thing about me. That I am searching for the ideal, Eurydice. As my opposite. Do you get it?
As my opposite
. . . That
’
s why it
’
s hard for me, Igor. But I shall not kill myself. But
I can kill myself
when I want to.
That
’
s
what you don
’
t want to understand.
”

“
So what are you going to do? You can
’
t live like this.
”

“
I
’
m heading off to the Island . . . Do you remember that island I always used to tell you about in moments of eclipse, moments of crisis?
”

“
And?
”

“
And, and, and . . . ? That
’
s where I
’
ll think everything through. To kill myself or
—
”

“
—
to compromise with the ideal, with Eurydice.
”

“
—
or not to kill myself . . . Right. That
’
s the same thing as compromise.
”

I
’
ve struck a deal with a farmer to tend his cows on the island for the winter. This island is called Isle. Every Saturday (save when it
’
s very stormy), the farmer will bring me enough food for a whole week.

Water is my only problem. I have to get used to unsalted food. I am gradually getting accustomed to it.
Cum grano salis
.

I live in a stone hut about five hundred yards inland. (This is the same hut I slept in five or six summers ago when I vacationed here.)

February 22

These cows are not much trouble. From time to time I unleash Argus so that he can drive them southward. To the west there is a gigantic gorge, with lush greenery along its rim, but the earth around it crumbles and slides in easily. I was told to be careful there, because two years ago a milch cow plunged down the cliff.

February 23

The island is much bigger than I had thought. At first this discovery depressed me. But now I am playing Robinson Crusoe.

And laughing.

February 24

Robinson regrets not having brought along a handbook of medicinal herbs. The callouses from the big oars
—
with which the cows are ferried over, one by one
—
remind him of the existence of another world.

Robinson pounds his forehead. He shakes out the powder from the folds of his tobacco pouch onto his blisters.

February 25

I am lying on the low, hard bed, covered with a sheepskin coat. The flames from the fireplace illuminate the eyes of my half-German shepherd napping at my feet. Outside a storm is raging. I hear the wind driving the waves against the rock face.

February 28

I have not caught anything to eat. I roamed to the south, but I did not discover any tracks in the sand.

I will have to set out fishhooks.

Beginning of March

I waited in ambush with my rifle cocked and ready. Actually this was only a game
—
I would never shoot birds. Much less an eagle. I was just looking through the sights. It flew out from a sheer cliff and started soaring in a great arc. At first I could still see a snake clamped in its claws. Then the eagle changed into a black dot.

Into a star.

Saturday, March 8

Today I made it down to the southernmost point of the island.

After having passed through the thick underbrush, I emerged onto a rugged, bare patch of sharp, fissured karst.

In the pitted surface I discovered deposits of sea salt. I have a hard time believing that the waves reached all the way to these heights!

I surmounted the crest with the ease of someone who had spent his entire life on rocky terrain. But I did bruise the bottom of my foot a bit when I leapt from a bluff down onto the sand of the beach. Then I continued my march southward on a little tongue of land running along the base of the cliff. At first Argus ran in front of me, but later he was dragging himself along in the footprints of his master, his tongue hanging out like a mangy bitch
’
s.

In the company of the first star of the evening I reached the southern extremity of the island. I gazed at the star, prepared to christen it
“
Narcissus,
”
when it suddenly faded out.

A lighthouse! A lighthouse!

Saturday (continued)

I lay exhausted on the beach and wept. Argus was whining and wheezing over me. Then he started to bark. From above, from the lighthouse, he was answered by the hoarse barking of a small dog.

On our way back the sumptuous moonlight lit up my path.

Sunday morning

When I am familiar with the entire island, every stone, every leaf
—
what will become of me then?

Sunday evening

One cannot live from the past
.

Nor from the present . . .

—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
.

—
—
—
—
—
—
—
—
.

I shall leap from the hillside . . . There, where the earth crumbles and slides!

Osip told me this morning that the most beautiful thing in the world is to give gifts with no thought of gain for oneself.

But I
’
ve started at the end. Here
’
s the way it was. (Immediately following my return.)

I met Osip in the crowd of people outside the cinema. He was waiting for Marija. I knew he was waiting for Marija because he was impatiently looking over his shoulder and smoking nervously.

“
Marija doesn
’
t want to wear the fur coat,
”
he said as soon as we had shaken hands.
“
Can you imagine?
”

“
What fur coat? I
’
ve never seen her with a fur.
”

“
Didn
’
t I tell you? I bought her a fur for her birthday.
”

“
Oh, boy . . . Where did you get that kind of money?
”

He just smirked and then pulled me aside.

“
Do you want to give Eurydice a fur coat for her birthday, too?
”

“
Don
’
t you know?
”
I asked.
“
I
’
m not with Eurydice anymore . . .But, how is it that you
’
re giving away furs like they
’
re going out of style?
”

“
Why should I tell you, when you have no one to give one to? That
’
s a shame. They make beautiful gifts.
”

Then he went ahead and told me how he does it. (I think I
’
m the only person on earth in whom Osip really confides. He believes that we
’
re very similar, except that I haven
’
t yet revealed my true nature to him.)

And this is how he does it. He goes into a department store at a time when the crowds are at their biggest (usually right before holidays) and asks to see the fur coat that he likes the best. At least this is how he bought the coat for Marija. The salesman fills out his invoice and sets about packing up the coat. That
’
s when Osip inquires, with pronounced politeness,
“
And where is the cashier, please?
”
“
Over there. Straight ahead and then left.
”
Then Osip, apparently distracted and surprised, says:
“
Oh, right. Thanks very much.
”
He heads for the cash register. After that, unnoticed by anyone, he pulls from his pocket a small stamp bearing the inscription PAID. He tears off the part that stays with the cashier, returns to the counter, hands over the receipt, takes the fur, bows politely, and . . .

“
I would perish from fright,
”
I remarked.

“
It
’
s quite simple,
”
said Osip, flattered.

“
What do you mean, simple! If it is, then why don
’
t you buy yourself a suit that way, instead of freezing to death in that topcoat and rags?
”

“
Look, here
’
s the deal. There
’
s a difference. Your way would be pure theft and nothing else. Do you understand? Pure theft. My hands would tremble, or I would get sick and throw up . . .
”

“
And your way?
”

“
Well, my way achieves a certain balance of power, if I may say so. One party is robbed, while another party is gratified. The only important thing is that the accounts balance. That an equilibrium is established. You see, the salesperson won
’
t be punished, because it will be determined that my stamp, although a dead ringer for theirs (I make them with just as much minute detail as a delicate, tiny engraving) is actually only handmade, and consequently counterfeit . . . And Marija gets the fur coat. She
’
ll feel that she is adored, that she is esteemed . . .
”

“
And how do you profit from all this? If I may use the word
‘
profit
’
?
”

“
Of course you may,
”
replied Osip.
“
I am the last creature on earth who would do something without benefit to himself . . . I get a great deal out of this. Above all: smugness. I think it
’
s obvious what I mean. I am quite pleased with myself if my voice doesn
’
t tremble at the moment I order the fur coat. Second: the experience. Don
’
t lose sight of that, my friend, the
experience
, the adventure. And
—
of course
—
the pleasure of seeing Marija happy: she believes in me. Appreciates me.
”

“
And is that all?
”

“
What else could you want?
”
he replied, almost offended.
“
Besides, this makes it easy for me to endure all the misfortunes in my personal life. I know that I
can
get dressed up whenever I want to, but I walk around in rags. Do you get it? I don
’
t want to, but I can. Thus I have proof of the fact that I am respectable
—
and powerful!
”

“
But,
”
it occurred to me,
“
why doesn
’
t Marija want to wear the fur coat? Did she get wind of some of this?
”

“
I told her about it.
”

“
You ruined everything by telling her,
”
I pointed out.
“
Don
’
t you realize? She could even file charges against you.
”

“
That
’
s why I told her about it. So that she would be in a position to accuse me. Maybe she
’
s speaking to a cop at this very moment. I gave her a few days
’
time to mull it over. What I
’
m interested in is a completely independent decision on her part.
”

“
Even so, I don
’
t think you should have told her how you came by that fur coat. You could have made something up. For instance . . .
”

“
I know,
”
said Osip, as crestfallen as a child.
“
I don
’
t know how to tell a lie. See
—
I
’
m incapable of lying when I love someone. I was almost weeping when I urged her not to ask me where I got the fur coat, because I just can
’
t lie, but she was obstinate. Finally I admitted everything to her. But earlier I had resolved to punish her. I would saddle her conscience with both the coat and me.
”

“
Isn
’
t that cruel?
”
I asked.

“
So anyway
—
how are you amusing yourself these days?
”
asked Osip.

“
I am writing
The Attic
,
”
I said.

We were walking toward the fortress along the edge of the Danube because Osip had resigned himself to the fact that Marija wasn
’
t going to show up for their date.

“
That
’
s bound to be some kind of neo-realism,
”
he said.
“
Dirty, slobbery children, and laundry strung up in the narrow gaps between the buildings of some suburb, and dockside dives, shit-faced railroad switchmen, hookers . . .
”

“
There
’
s some of that in it,
”
I responded.
“
After all, the title itself suggests as much. But it remains a horribly self-centered book . . . Do you want to hear more? I have a few notes with me. (You know, I don
’
t like to leave my papers at the mercy of the rats back in the attic) . . . Billy is too stupid for anything other than
‘
Let me tell you a story!
’
But I
’
ve always valued your opinion . . .
”

“
Actually, how is Billy? I haven
’
t heard anything about him in ages.
”

“
I threw him out,
”
I said.
“
With great difficulty
.
”

“
But there was no point in doing that,
”
he replied.
“
He broke up with Marija, eh?
”

“
Who knows with him? . . . But let
’
s pop into this place here, so I can read to you from my notes. If that
’
s okay with you.
”

We sat down in a corner, next to the stove. Then I recalled that I had sat at this same table several years before with Marijana. It had been winter. I remember that well. About four in the afternoon. There wasn
’
t a single person in the pub. Marijana
’
s eyes were misting over. We were drinking cognac. And sneaking kisses.

“
Osip, do you remember Marijana? The one with long blonde hair?
”

“
Yes,
”
said Osip.
“
I think I remember her. It seems to me that you introduced us one time . . . Why do you ask?
”

“
We drank gin at this table one winter. She was wearing a black knit sweater with a collar of white silk.
”

“
I don
’
t get it,
”
declared Osip.
“
Is this a segue into your reading?
”

“
No. It
’
s just . . . A memory.
”

“
Let me hear these jottings of yours already. I liked what you read aloud to me last time at your place in the attic. But . . . I
’
m intrigued to see how you
’
ll bring all that business in the attic to its conclusion. Especially what you
’
ll do with Eurydice . . . And with Billy Wiseass. (I
’
m willing to swear that
’
s Igor!)
”

We finished our cognac, and I started reading to him:

“
Go on,
”
commanded Osip.
“
I like the beginning.
”

“
I think you
’
ve already heard this part,
”
I said.
“
I
’
d be better off reading you something from
‘
Walpurgis Night
’
. . .
”

“
No, please don
’
t. That bit is repulsive. Don
’
t you find it truly revolting?
”

“
That
’
s why I want to read it to you. To see just how repugnant it is. I need a sounding board. Understand? For me there is at the moment no place more revolting than the Bay of Dolphins. I
’
m sick of magnolias and lutes and farces . . .
”

“
That,
”
continued Osip,
“
is because you
’
re going from one extreme to the other.
Isn
’
t life somewhere in between?
Incidentally, perhaps I
’
m wrong here. I
’
m judging on the basis of those fragments that you read to me last time at your place in the attic. I liked them all at that moment, but
—
still
—
doesn
’
t real life,
realitas
, lie somewhere between your attic and your Walpurgis Night?!
”
That evening, after I had parted ways with Osip, I took a stroll through the outlying districts of the city to breathe in a little authentic atmosphere. Along the way I thought about Osip
’
s words. Isn
’
t my novel
The Attic
really just a framework? A framework for what?

Afterward I returned to the attic. I lit a candle and began writing. I was convinced that I wouldn
’
t show this passage to Osip. I wouldn
’
t want him to notice how uncertain I was, how hesitant.

This is what I wrote below the earlier note, which ran:

Beneath that I had recorded the following a few evenings ago when it became obvious that Eurydice would not be coming back:

And then: