The Dedalus Book of Austrian Fantasy;1890-2000

by Mike Mitchell

  Once it rained in the evening. Heavy storm clouds had appeared, licking at the sun. They ate up the light and set off a whirlwind which sucked the curtain out of the room. The rings jangled on the rail. There was a sudden cloud-burst and in a few seconds the curtain was dripping wet, making a puddle below the window. Then the wind died away. It stroked its chin contentedly and uncovered the setting sun, which took an embarrassed peek into the room, then disappeared behind the turquoise hills without having dried the puddle of rain. The chest of drawers swayed anxiously in the damp atmosphere. The little girl took care not to move. The cats took big jumps so as not to get their paws wet.

  The next day the house owner came with the new tenant. She came into the room and switched off the light. She gave the damp patch on the parquet floor an irritated glance.

  ‘You’ll like the room,’ she said. The new tenant did not dare contradict her.

  ‘Yesterday’s storm must have blown the window open, but of course that can’t happen if you close it properly.’

  The new tenant nodded agreement.

  ‘Right then, I’ll leave you in your new room, my dear. I think it’ll be best if you pay the rent on the last day of the month, in advance.’ With a businesslike turn of the body, she left the room. The new tenant looked round, uncertain what to do next. She sat down on the velvet couch and the springs squeaked indignantly at the weight.

  No, she did not feel at home here, the furniture was so dark and heavy, stolid, full of memories. The wallpaper with the cats struck her as too busy, the picture with the affected-looking girl as kitschy. This was no place for her, everything was already filled with others, even the air coming in through the open window was part of another, indefinable feeling that had completely permeated the room.

  She stood up and went to the window. Drawing the damp curtain aside, she leant over the window-ledge and looked out. Opposite loomed the menacing, windowless façade of a warehouse. Above it stretched a freshly washed sky, while below was the loud and aggressive uproar of the morning traffic. When she looked out of the window she could imagine feeling at home here. When, however, she pulled her head back inside and the curtain fell over the opening, dimming the activity outside, she was once more gripped with unease and felt unhappy and lonely.

  She wished she was back home with her family, the woods and water. What substitute was the asphalt of the streets for the smooth expanse of lake, the buildings for the boundlessness of the landscape. How could the room give her the freedom she had dreamt of, at home, shut up with her brothers and sisters in a small room that had just enough space for them to sleep in. All the dreams that had sent her off to the city had been different. They had tasted of freedom, freedom on her lips, in her eyes, in her ears. She had laughed, and cried too, in her dreams, according to how she felt, but never in her imaginings had she been disheartened, apprehensive, void of all hope. This was not the place of her dreams. Her work was neither interesting nor well paid. The people she worked with were ugly, twisted in their faces and in their behaviour. And she was to live in this room, alone and lonely, an intruder among the memories of others who had lived here before her. There was no one here she could love. Who would even think of being loved by her? The smiling man she had seen at the station, perhaps, the man with the beautiful woman on his arm? He hadn’t been smiling at her, of course, but at his companion.

  Sadly she got up and went to fetch some water from the corridor. It smelt musty out there.

  She spent the whole evening staring out of the open window. The air was stuffy and close again, and she lay down on the couch, exhausted. Whether it was the moon that disturbed her, or perhaps the soft footsteps she thought she could hear, whether it was the destruction of her fantasies by banal reality, whatever it was, she could not sleep and felt shattered as she left the room with her short, weary steps the next morning.

  That evening she stood outside the door to her room for a few minutes before putting the key in the lock. She thought she could hear noises, wood being dragged over the parquet floor and the curtain rings jangling on the rail. But there was no one in the room, nothing was changed, everything looked the way it had been when she went out in the morning. Exhausted, she dropped onto the bed and fell asleep without getting undressed. Some time after midnight she woke up, convinced she was not alone in the room. She heard the rustle of some stiff material and the sound of an elastic object bouncing several times. She lay stretched out on the bed, not daring to move. Whoever it was, she didn’t want them to realise she was awake. She was sweating and her clothes stuck to her limbs. In her fear, she tried to hold her breath, but it meant that each breath she took sounded loud and wheezing so that she started to sob from fear of the unknown.

  When, at last, day broke, the light of the distant sun showed her that she was alone in the room, that no one was threatening her.

  She got up and, teeth chattering, went to fetch a basin of water from the corridor to wash herself. She sat down at the round inlaid table and tried, in vain, to collect her thoughts. Finally she went to work.

  That evening she was sure she had drawn the curtain back in the morning, although now it was covering almost the whole of the window. Furiously she pushed it aside and looked down at the tired, wilting lilac. Not even that was green in this city. She did not switch off the light, out of fear of whatever might be waiting for her in the dark. The bulb gave out its weak, sickly light, which stopped the darkness from attaching its suckers everywhere. And yet, scarcely had she reached the boundary between waking and dreaming, than she realised the light could not prevent the others from taking up their places. Although there was no one to be seen, she could hear the soft steps of the paws, the rustling of the dress and the bouncing of the ball. From the lilac bush came the multiple song of the cats who had gathered outside the house.

  She slipped out of bed and her movements did not expunge those of the others, who were now brazenly taking over the room, even in her presence. With short, stiff steps, she went over to the window to look at the lilac bush. The cats were sitting there, congregated in harmony. Cautiously she sat on the window-ledge and swung her legs over. The cats turned their heads and watched her unconcernedly. Their green and yellow eyes were wide open, but they showed no sign of interest.

  There was no affection here. Was freedom possible at all under these circumstances? And what should that freedom be like? She had had a dream, a dream of success, happiness and love she had called freedom. Now she no longer knew whether that really could be freedom. It was probably something quite different, something she had not understood. Perhaps it was simply the opportunity to make every decision, never mind what the consequences would be. Here and now. Not to go back into the room but to push herself off from the window, float down to the lilac bush and do the same as the cats, who were singing to the moon. The lying moon.

  The bare wood of the chest of drawers shone black in the light from the weak bulb. The night threw cats off the wall. They scattered with yowls of protest and leapt out of the window. The girl in the frilly dress ran after the ball with its coloured stripes which had slipped out of her hands. With a sigh, she returned to her place behind the chest of drawers. No one had come to see her.

  The night rain had soaked the curtain, making a long puddle underneath. The next day the house owner came with the new tenant. She came into the room and switched off the light. She gave the damp patch on the parquet floor an irritated glance.

  ‘You’ll like the room,’ she promised. The new tenant did not dare contradict her.

  Extracts from

  Novak: A Grotesque

  Günther Kaip

  It gave Novak a great sense of satisfaction whenever he came across his name in the newspaper during his daily hour in the coffee house.

  ‘Aha,’ he would think, ‘I’m not alone, there’s two of us,’ and his mood would undergo a dramatic improvement. Taking heart, he would order his next coffee and resolve to remain a Novak.

  ‘I am Nov
ak,’ he said to the waiter, who bent down and regarded him with amazement. ‘Don’t hold it against me. And no recrimination, I won’t have it,’ he added, when he noticed the waiter grimace in disgust and throw up. That attracted the attention of all the customers, of course, and they immediately got up and fled from the coffee house.

  The only one to remain seated was a young woman with butterflies soaring up from her blond hair.

  Novak nodded to her and stood up, pushing aside the waiter, who was writhing in guilt on the floor, racked by uncontrollable sobbing. Novak was a regular, after all. For years his newspaper rustling and thoughtful look had contributed to the stability of the coffee house, giving him the right to preferential treatment. But Novak had no intention of insisting on that now. He freed himself from the waiter’s hands, which were clamped round his ankles.

  ‘Outrageous,’ hissed Novak, sensing the hot breath of a revolutionary attitude. It stiffened his neck muscles, straightened his posture, and with a spring in his step he walked over the the young woman’s table. His heart turned a somersault as he looked into the green shimmer of her eyes.

  ‘I love you, miss,’ he said in the excited tones of a revolutionary, for love is revolution, Novak realised. ‘I have always loved you.’

  The young woman shook her head and looked down at her lap in which a man’s head was rolling to and fro.

  ‘He stepped on a butterfly,’ she whispered. ‘Help me, if you really love me,’ she said, pointing to a cushion beside her.

  She grasped Novak’s hands. In that moment he loved her even more, picked up the cushion and pressed it as firmly as he could down onto her lap.

  ‘He hasn’t even combed his hair,’ Novak panted. He increased the pressure, feeling himself a man.

  ‘This doesn’t happen every day,’ he muttered, ignoring the wheezes coming from head. Novak started to sweat, drops were running down his forehead and falling straight into the hands of the young woman, who had formed them into a cup.

  It lasted five minutes and Novak only released the cushion when silence reigned and the man’s limbs had stopped twitching.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the young woman, standing up. She looked sadly at the lifeless body under the table. She was trembling all over and put her hand on the place on her chest where her heart was beating.

  ‘Now she means me,’ thought Novak, and moved one step closer.

  ‘We’ll see each other tomorrow. Be on time,’ said the young woman as she passed between the rows of tables on her way to the door, which Novak, a gentleman of the old school, held open for her.

  Proudly he walked back to his table and opened a newspaper. On the second page he came across a Novak who had escaped after a bank robbery.

  ‘Aha! That’s a good sign,’ he cried, looking absent-mindedly at the waiter, who had crawled on all fours to the kitchen and was lying there, motionless.

  Novak leapt up, danced round the tables, through the coffee house out into the street and then – two hours had passed – around his wife, who watched her husband with a shake of the head but a smile on her face.

  ‘Magnificent,’ she said and put on her coat to go out. She stood in the open doorway looking in astonishment at Novak, who was running across the ceiling, clapping his hands and giving her encouraging winks.

  Nothing could stop him now. He tried his hand at somersaults, attempted elaborate pirouettes, keeping his balance securely, jumped from the wardrobe to the glass-fronted cabinet, slid across the walls and finished off with a spin.

  ‘Magnificent,’ she murmured, unsure whether, under the circumstances, she should go out. But the thought that she could bring him back a present commensurate with the event sent her tripping down the stairs.

  Novak leant against the wall, panting. He thought of the young woman and realised he had not asked her name.

  ‘That was a mistake, unforgivable,’ he muttered and went to look in the mirror.

  ‘But I know you,’ Novak said to his mirror image, which had its eyes closed. ‘You’re refusing to look at me,’ he shouted and prepared to attack.

  Suddenly his mirror image wobbled and toppled into his arms without warning. It was heavy, infinitely heavy, and Novak simply dropped it on the floor, where it shattered.

  With difficulty he made it to the living room. Once more the sweat was dripping from his forehead, but there was no young woman here to catch the drops. Novak lay down on the floor and cried.

  In his mind’s eye he saw the young woman and his colleagues at work. They were whispering and giving him pitiful looks.

  ‘And everything started so well,’ thought Novak. ‘It’s just not fair.’

  He stretched out his hands towards the young woman, but all he grasped was the empty air. When he opened his eyes, he gave a start. The room was crowded with people. They stepped aside, making a corridor along which his wife came towards Novak. She was laughing and waving a bunch of flowers in her left hand.

  ‘For you, darling. Just for you,’ said his wife, then turned to the young woman, threw her arms round her and kissed her.

  Novak tried to sit up while the couple separated and turned towards him. The young woman ran her fingers through his hair and whispered, ‘You’re tired … go to sleep … remember our rendezvous.’

  ‘Of course. You’re quite right,’ he meant to reply, but his eyes fell shut and he sank into the young woman’s soft voice.

  *

  The passageway was dark and damp. The floor consisted of bare earth. There was a musty smell. Novak felt his way forward by the light of his torch, cursing himself for promising his wife he’d tidy up their cellar. Cobwebs clung to his face. The ground sloped slightly downward.

  Pipes as thick as his arm ran along the walls, dripping. The bricks were covered in mould.

  Novak reached the end of the passage and opened the door to their cellar space. It took minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He went in.

  He remembered the room as smaller, not so rocky and cavernous, not so neat and tidy. Along the rear wall was a tarpaulin covering objects lying under it. Novak could hear his own breathing change to a high-pitched whistling.

  ‘This is not normal,’ he said out loud and ducked beneath the echo of his voice coming at him from all sides.

  Cautiously he went over to the tarpaulin and tore it aside. Underneath Novak had expected spiders and other insect life, perhaps a dead rat.

  But lying there, packed close together, were rigid bodies, the bodies of schoolmates, colleagues and acquaintances whom he had forgotten because they were not important to him.

  They turned their eyes towards him, dead and empty eyes. They ground their teeth and stuck out their tongues. Novak panicked and ran into the cellar walls from which lumps of plaster fell off. Their eyes boring into his back, he desperately tried to find the way out.

  ‘But they’re dead. Dead and buried long ago,’ he said, trying to raise his spirits as he tripped over objects on the floor.

  When he looked at the bodies again he noticed a change in their gestures and expressions. They were grinning and beckoning him over. A few even stood up, but collapsed as soon as they were upright and crumbled into piles of dust.

  Novak took a step towards them, a stick in his hands, ready to hit out, but dropped it at once, pulled trumpets and drums out of his head and put on a deafening concert. The floor swayed, the wine bottles in the rack clinked, the cellar door tugged at its hinges, the torch went on and off, fell out of his hand and smashed to pieces against one of the walls.

  Then, when Novak was sure his voice could not be heard above the tumult, he started to scream and jumped into one of the piles of sand, thrusting the stick into it. He spread the dust into every corner of the cellar and covered himself in it. He rolled on the floor, kicking his legs in the air, stood up, knocked over some stacked-up planks, smashed bottles of wine and only stopped when the swirling dust had settled.

  Novak spread out the tarpaulin and covered the whole of the cellar
floor with it.

  ‘The shroud,’ he said, picked up his torch, which was undamaged, immediately found the way out, locked the door and followed the beam of light, which was hurrying on ahead. The ground sloped slightly upward. There was a musty smell.

  In the courtyard Novak brushed the dust off his shirt and trousers, threw the key into the bin and went to the stairs, where he met the caretaker, who gave him a friendly hello. Novak did not notice her, but went on up the stairs, trusting that his apartment lay within reach.

  *

  The lamps over the bar were switched on when Novak ordered his fifth whisky. He was the only customer in the place and kept nodding to the barman’s stories, saying yes, hm, or ’s that so?

  Novak had had too much to drink and found it difficult to keep his balance. In addition, he was desperately trying to find a story that had once happened to him. To loosen up his memory, he rotated his head, stretched his back up straight until the vertebra cracked and swung his arms round in the air.

  He wanted something he could use to counter the barman, anecdotes from his life, but nothing occurred to Novak that would have been worth mentioning, whilst the barman talked and talked, piled story upon story, watching Novak’s contortions with a smile. He was just lowering his voice and rolling his eyes when Novak broke off his exercises, leant over the bar and shouted:

  ‘This lust for stories, at best it’s two or three things that have happened to a person, if at all!’

  The barman looked up in surprise and fell silent at the sight of Novak clenching his hands into fists.

  ‘Those are just standard samples of experience, not stories. That’s enough!’

  Novak’s voice ended in a squawk. He downed his whisky in one gulp, banged the glass on the bar and slipped off his stool.

  He intended to leave the place as quickly as possible, but when he heard steps and the crash of the toilet door shutting, he turned round and went back. The barman had disappeared. From the toilet came the dull thud of some object and shrill laughter.