by Max Frisch
HOMO FABER
MAX FRISCH, the son of an architect, was born in Zurich in 1911. In 1933 he was forced by economic circumstances to abandon the study of German literature at Zurich Literature and became a journalist. Renewing his education, he became a trained architect in 1943, but before this he had written his first published work, Leaves from a Knapsack (1942), while doing service with the Swiss Frontier Guard. In 1952 Frisch spent a year in the United States and Mexico on a grant from the Rockefeller Foundation. In 1958 he became the first foreigner to be awarded the Büchner Prize of the German Academy for Language and Poetry. Max Frisch died in 1991.
MICHAEL BULLOCK was born in London in 1918. After a distinguished career as a freelance writer and translator in the UK he was invited to join the Department of Creative Writing at the University of British Columbia, from which he retired in 1983 as Professor Emeritus. He has translated some 200 books and plays from German and French. In 1966 he won the Schlegel-Tieck German Translation Prize and in 1979 the Canadian Governor General’s French Translation Award. He is the author of some fifty volumes of poetry and fiction and two plays. His work has been translated into numerous European and Oriental languages.
Homo Faber
A Report by Max Frisch
Translated from the German by MICHAEL BULLOCK
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Original German edition first published 1957
English translation by Michael Bullock first published in Great Britain by Abelard-Schuman 1959
This edition published by Eyre Methuen 1974
Published in Penguin Books 1974
Published in Penguin Classics 2006
1
Copyright © Suhrkamp Verlag, 1957
This translation copyright © Michael Bullock, 1959
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-14-194434-0
Contents
First Stop
Second Stop
First Stop
We were leaving from La Guardia Airport, New York, three hours late because of snow storms. Our plane, as usual on this route, was a Super Constellation. Since it was night, I immediately prepared to go to sleep. We spent another forty minutes waiting on the runway with snow in front of the searchlights, powdery snow whirling over the runway, and what made me tense and anxious, so that I couldn’t get off to sleep straight away, was not the newspaper brought around by our air hostess, FIRST PICTURES OF WORLD’S GREATEST AIR CRASH IN NEVADA, a piece of news I had already seen at midday, but simply and solely the vibration in this stationary plane with its engines running – and also the young German next to me, who immediately caught my attention, I don’t know why, he caught my attention the moment he took off his overcoat, when he sat down and pulled at his trouser creases, when he did nothing at all, but simply waited for the take-off like the rest of us, merely sat in his seat, a fair-haired fellow with pink skin who at once introduced himself, before we had even fastened our safety belts. I didn’t catch his name, the engines were roaring, being revved up one after the other…
I was dead tired.
Ivy had talked away at me for three hours while we waited for the overdue plane, although she knew I was dead set against marrying.
I was glad to be alone.
At last we started.
I had never taken off in such a snow storm before: no sooner was our undercarriage off the white runway than there was nothing more to be seen of the yellow ground lights, not a glimmer, and a little later there was not a glimmer of Manhattan, it was snowing so hard. I could see only the flashing green light on our wing, which was swaying violently and occasionally jerked up and down; for seconds at a time even this flashing green light vanished in the mist and I felt like a blind man.
Permission to smoke.
He came from Düsseldorf, my neighbour, and he wasn’t as young as all that, in his early thirties, younger than I at any rate; he was going to Guatemala; on business as he immediately told me…
The wind was buffeting the plane pretty hard.
He offered me cigarettes, my neighbour, but I took one of my own, although I had no wish to smoke, and thanked him; then I picked up the paper again; there was no desire on my part to get better acquainted. Perhaps it was rude of me. I had a hard week behind me, not a day without a conference, I wanted to rest. People are tiring. Later on, I took my papers out of my briefcase in order to work; unfortunately hot soup came along just then, and after this there was no stopping the German. (He spotted me as Swiss the moment I replied in German to his halting English.) He discussed the weather or more exactly radar, which he knew very little about. Then, as is customary since the Second World War, he began to talk about European brotherhood. I didn’t say much. When we had drunk our soup I looked out of the window, although there was nothing to be seen but the flashing green light on our wet wing, the usual shower of sparks and the red glow in the engine cowl. We were still rising.
Later I slept.
The gusts of wind fell off.
I don’t know why he got on my nerves, there was something familiar about his face, a very German face. I thought about it with my eyes closed, but in vain. I tried to forget his pink face, which I succeeded in doing, and slept for about six hours, worn out as I was. But no sooner was I awake than he began to get on my nerves again.
He was already eating his breakfast.
I pretended to be still asleep.
As I could see out of my right eye, we were somewhere over the Mississippi, flying at a great height and absolutely smoothly, our propellers flashing in the morning sun; the usual window-panes, you see them and at the same time look through them; the wings also glistening, rigid in empty space, no swaying now, we were poised motionless in a cloudless sky, a flight like hundreds of others; the engines running smoothly.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
I returned his greeting.
‘Did you sleep well?’ he inquired.
We could make out the tributaries of the Mississippi, though only through mist, like trickles of molten brass or bronze. It was still early in the morning, I knew this part of the run, I shut my eyes with the intention of going to sleep again.
He was reading a paperback.
It was no use shutting my eyes, I was awake an
d there was nothing I could do about it; I kept thinking about my neighbour. I could see him, so to speak, with my eyes shut. I ordered breakfast…. This was his first visit to the States, as I had supposed, but his opinion of the country was already cut and dried; on the whole, he found the Americans lacking in culture, but there were certain things of which he could not help approving, for instance the friendly attitude of most Americans towards Germany.
I didn’t contradict.
No German wanted rearmament, but the Russians were forcing it on America, it was tragic, as a Swiss (a Switzer, he called it) I couldn’t judge these things because I’d never been in the Caucasus, he had been in the Caucasus, he knew Ivan and you could only teach him with weapons. He knew Ivan! He repeated this several times. You could only teach him with weapons, he said. Nothing else made any impression on Ivan…
I peeled my apple.
To distinguish between the master races and inferior races, as Hitler did, was nonsense of course; but Asiatics were always Asiatics…
I ate my apple.
I took my electric shaver out of my briefcase in order to shave or rather to be alone for a quarter of an hour; I don’t like Germans, although my friend Joachim was also a German…. In the washroom I wondered whether I should move to another seat. I just didn’t feel like getting better acquainted with this gentleman, and it would be at least another four hours before we reached Mexico City, where my neighbour had to change planes. I had made up my mind to sit somewhere else; there were a number of places free. When I came back into the cabin, shaved, so that I felt freer, more confident – I can’t bear being unshaven – he had just taken the liberty of picking up my papers from the floor in case somebody trod on them. He handed them to me, politeness personified. I thanked him as I stowed the papers away in my briefcase, rather too cordially, it seems, since he immediately took advantage of my thanks to ask more questions.
Did I work for UNESCO?
I felt my stomach – as I often did recently. There was no real pain, I was simply aware of having a stomach, a stupid feeling. Perhaps that was why I was so disagreeable. I sat down in my old seat and in order not to be disagreeable, told him I was concerned in TECHNICAL AID TO UNDERDEVELOPED COUNTRIES; I can talk about this while thinking of something entirely different. I don’t know what I was thinking about. He seemed to be impressed by UNESCO, as he was by anything international, he stopped treating me as a ‘Switzer’ and listened as though I were an authority, with positive reverence, interested to the point of subservience, which didn’t prevent him from getting on my nerves.
I was glad when we landed.
Just as we left the plane and parted in front of the customs shed I realized what it was that had struck me earlier; his face, though plump and pink as Joachim’s never was, none the less reminded me of Joachim…
Then I forgot it.
That was in Houston, Texas.
After the customs, after the usual palaver about my camera, which has been half way round the world with me, I went into the bar for a drink, but noticed that my Düsseldorfer was already sitting in the bar and actually keeping a stool free – presumably for me! – and went straight down into the washroom, where, having nothing else to do, I washed my hands.
We were stopping twenty minutes.
As I first washed and then dried my hands, I saw my face in the mirror, as white as wax with patches of grey and yellow and purple veins, a horrible sight, like the face of a corpse. I assumed it was due to the neon light and dried my hands, which were also yellowish-purple; then came the usual announcement over the loudspeaker, which was transmitted to every part of the building, consequently also to the basement. ATTENTION PLEASE, ATTENTION PLEASE. I didn’t know what was happening. My hands were sweating; although it was positively cold in this washroom, it was hot outside. All I knew was that when I came to a fat coloured woman was bending over me, a cleaner whom I hadn’t noticed before; she was only a few inches away, I could see her enormous mouth with the black lips and her pink gums; I heard the echoing loudspeaker while I was still on my hands and knees.
THE PLANE IS READY FOR DEPARTURE.
And again:
THE PLANE IS READY FOR DEPARTURE.
I was used to this public address system.
ALL PASSENGERS FOR MEXICO – GUATEMALA – PANAMA, in between engines roaring, KINDLY REQUESTED, engines roaring, GATE NUMBER FIVE, THANK YOU.
I stood up.
The coloured woman was still kneeling.
I swore never to smoke again and tried to hold my face under the tap, but couldn’t because of the basin. It was a sweating attack, that was all, a sweating attack accompanied by dizziness.
ATTENTION PLEASE.
I felt better at once.
PASSENGER FABER, PASSENGER FABER.
That was I.
PLEASE CALL AT THE INFORMATION DESK.
I heard the message, I dipped my face in the basin, I hoped they would fly on without me, the water was very little colder than my sweat, I couldn’t understand why the coloured woman suddenly burst out laughing – it made her breasts shake like jelly; that was how she had to laugh with her enormous mouth, her frizzy hair, her white and black eyes, a close-up from Africa. Then it came again: THE PLANE IS READY FOR DEPARTURE. I dried my face with a handkerchief, while the coloured woman brushed my trousers. I even combed my hair merely to waste time, announcement after announcement came over the loudspeaker, arrivals, departures, then once again:
PASSENGER FABER, PASSENGER FABER…
She refused to accept money, it was a pleasure for her that I was still alive, that the Lord had heard her prayer. I just put the bank note down beside her, but she followed me out on to the stairs where, as a Negro, she wasn’t allowed to go, and forced the note into my hand.
The bar was empty.
I slipped on to a stool, lit a cigarette, watched the barman drop the usual olive into the cold glass and then pour the liquid on to it with the usual movement, holding the strainer in front of the silver cocktail shaker with his thumb, so that no ice should drop into the glass, and I put my bank note down; outside, a Super-Constellation rolled past and out on to the runway for the take-off. Without me! I was drinking my dry martini when the loudspeaker began to rumble again. ATTENTION PLEASE. For a while there was nothing to be heard, the engines of the departing Super-Constellation were roaring just outside before it rose into the air and flew off over our heads. Then again:
PASSENGER FABER, PASSENGER FABER…
Nobody could know this referred to me, and I told myself they couldn’t wait much longer. I went up on to the observation roof to see our plane. It was standing there looking as though it was ready to take off: the Shell tankers had gone, but the propellers weren’t turning. I drew a deep breath as I saw our passengers streaming across the empty airfield to go aboard, my Düsseldorfer near the front. I waited for the propellers to start turning, the loudspeaker echoed and crackled here too.
PLEASE GO TO THE INFORMATION DESK.
But it wasn’t for me.
MISS SHERBON, MR AND MRS ROSENTHAL…
I waited and waited, the four crosses of the propellers remained absolutely still. I couldn’t stand this feeling of being waited for, and went down into the basement again, where I hid behind the bolted door of a toilet. Then it came again:
PASSENGER FABER, PASSENGER FABER.
It was a woman’s voice. And I was sweating again and had to sit down to save myself from feeling giddy. My feet were visible.
THIS IS OUR LAST CALL.
Again: THIS IS OUR LAST CALL.
I don’t really know why I was hiding. I was ashamed of myself; I’m not generally the last. I stayed in my hiding place at least ten minutes after the loudspeaker had given me up. I simply didn’t feel like flying any farther. I waited behind the bolted door until I heard the thunder of an engine taking off, a Super-Constellation. I know the sound! Then I rubbed my face, so that my pallor shouldn’t attract attention, and left the toilet like any or
dinary person. I whistled to myself, I stood in the hall and bought some newspaper or other, I had no idea what to do in this Houston, Texas. It was strange: suddenly everything was happening without me. I listened every time the loudspeaker boomed – then, for the sake of something to do, I walked over to the Western Union counter to send a cable about my luggage, which was flying on to Mexico without me, then a cable to Caracas saying that the assembly of the turbines should be postponed twenty-four hours, then a cable to New York. I was just putting my ballpoint pen back in my pocket, when our air hostess, the usual list in her other hand, took me by the elbow.
‘There you are!’
I was speechless.
‘We’re late, Mr Faber, we’re late.’
I followed her holding my superfluous cables, with all sorts of excuses that were of no interest, out to our Super-Constellation; I walked like a man being led out of jail into the court room – my eyes on the floor or on the gangway, which was detached and wheeled away the moment I was inside the cabin.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry.’
The passengers, their safety belts already fastened, turned to look at me without a word, and my Düsseldorfer, whom I had forgotten, immediately gave me back my window seat. He was very concerned as to what had happened. I told him my watch had stopped and took it off my wrist.
Take-off normal.
The next thing my neighbour told me was interesting – I found him altogether more congenial now that my stomach was no longer troubling me. He admitted that the German cigar was not yet among the world’s best, the first essential for a good cigar, he said, was good tobacco.
He unfolded a map.
The plantation his firm hoped to develop lay, it seemed, at the end of the world, territory of Guatemala, to be reached from Flores only on horseback, whereas from Palenque (territory of Mexico) you could get to it by jeep without trouble; even a Nash, he asserted, had been driven through this jungle.
He himself was flying there for the first time.
Population: Indians.
