by Tim Parks
Es wird regnen, Hermann announced. Rain. He clicked his tongue gaily. Regen macht Spaß, nicht wahr? Is there a Herr Schleiermacher? Cleaver suddenly asked. Hermann turned. He looked puzzled. They were straining upwards round a tight bend between pines and boulders. The harness creaked. I never saw Herr Schleiermacher, Cleaver reformulated. Armin’s father. A slow smile spread across Hermann’s narrow pink face. My brother, he said slowly. He is weg. Wie sagt man? Away this week. He is ein Jäger, you know. Caccia. He is weg. The man gestured vaguely toward the mountains to the north. Mit seinem Hund. The dog. Er schießt. He shoots. Pam, pam! Die Rehe. Die Hasen. Rabbits. Cleaver picked up the doll and threw it into a corner of the cart. You are ridiculous, he told himself.
Even before they emerged from the gorge, the horse was climbing into thick cloud. You have Streichhölzer, Hermann asked. Feuer? Cleaver patted his jacket. The cardboard boxes will be getting soggy, he thought. The air is so wet. Then the dog was barking, the Trennerhof dog; they were out on the plateau. You could feel the space open out, though the cloud was dense. At intervals Cleaver noticed tall poles that must mark the track when the snow came. The farmhouse appeared as a grey silhouette in damp white air, strangely insubstantial, dirty smoke spilling from the chimney. Hermann raised a hand. A spectral figure was standing by one of the outbuildings, but Cleaver couldn’t have said who it was. The house was already fading. We must hurry, Hermann laughed. Schnell, wir müssen uns beeilen. They rattled into a luminous mist. Crossing the high pasture, Cleaver experienced a sense of dislocation. It was a different world. The cart gathered speed, travelling downwards now. Heavy, cold drops were clattering on the boxes.
Along the track, the fallen rocks had been removed. Slithering and bumping, closely hemmed in on either side, the cart reached the small clearing in front of the house. The rain was falling steadily. How quiet the air is, Cleaver thought, but for the patter of the rain. Hermann had donned a cape. He began to work with great speed. The back flap of the cart slammed down. A box was in his arms. Cleaver forced open the door. He has Olga in one hand. The rosary swung and dripped on its two nails. A smell of old churches, Cleaver thought, looking into the dark room. Ten in the morning and it’s dark. He set down the doll and turned for a box. Schnell! Hermann shouted. He began to laugh. We take down a … einen Sarg, he shouted, and bring up the shopping … The water was running off his waterproof as he lifted the boxes off the back of the cart and passed them to Cleaver. The Haflinger shivered and neighed. Sarg? Cleaver wondered. Like an idiot he had packed his cape in a bag somewhere. A box of tinned fruit fell apart in his arms. A can bounced on his foot.
The dark room was getting cluttered now. Cleaver tried to shift things to make space. Another box came apart on the stone floor. Packets of biscuits. Toilet rolls. His clothes were in a new suitcase. You imagined some sort of contemplative life, in a remote habitation, but not the practical details of arrival, the man you were paying singing loudly, as if the rain were a pleasure. The table was creaking with packages now. They were done. Hermann rocked it fiercely with one hand and shook his head: Gefährlich. He began moving the heavier things to the floor. A thunderclap rumbled among the stone peaks. The rain came heavier.
Fröhlichkeit! Hermann yelled. Satisfied the table was safe, he sat hard on a chair and pulled a flask from his pocket, stretched out his long legs. There is no sofa, no armchair. Cleaver looked about him and found some grey glasses on a shelf. Hermann shook his head. He gulped and offered. The two men’s eyes met in the half-light. What is it he has understood about me? Cleaver wondered, taking the flask. I understood nothing about the Schleiermacher ménage. Whatever it was, the drink was fierce. My father, his elder son had written, always imagined that women were in love with him. The heat burned down into his stomach.
What am I drinking? he asked. Gebirgsgeist! Herman announced. He seemed unaccountably pleased with himself. Ge-what? Cleaver enquired. The horseman repeated slowly Ge-birgs-geist. Then in his clownish English: Ghost of mountain. Spirit, Cleaver corrected. You’d say Spirit of the Mountains. He took another swig. To the mountains, he toasted, to home. Hermann reached for his flask. Ja, Ja! Die Heimat! It seemed he couldn’t speak without shouting. He drank deeply, then burst out laughing. Unsere Heimat ist in Gefahr! Danger! Cleaver raised an eyebrow. What was this about? Die Walschen! Hermann shouted. Italiener, Scheiße! He is playing the ghost of the old occupant, Cleaver realised. The ghost of the mountains. Was that what Sarg meant? They had taken down the dead Nazi. Now we play his ghost. Heil Hitler, he said coolly. Hermann became almost hysterical. He had to put his wrist in his mouth.
Then it seemed Hermann wanted him to go straight back to Trennerhof for some reason. Vertrag, the cart driver said. Unterschrift. He made a gesture with his hand. Cleaver didn’t understand. His clothes were damp and uncomfortable. The place smelt musty. Picking his way through the boxes, he lifted an old storm lamp from its nail by the door. On the timber panelling of the wall a framed black-and-white photo showed a line of young men in uniform. Polizeiregiment, Bozen, 1945. How do you light these things? Öl, Hermann told him. There were dusty bottles on a long rough shelf with rags or corks in the necks. Outside the rain was easing. The Haflinger neighed. Hermann unstopped the bottles and sniffed them, making clownish wrinkles with his nose. Öl, he repeated. He showed Cleaver how to fill the lamp, adjust the wick, light it. Cleaver watched his rough, practical fingers, his steady eye. What am I doing here? he wondered. As the yellow light came up, the space grew darker. Films never really got that effect. Cleaver carried the lamp between kitchen table and old stove, through a low doorway with a step down into the main room. It’s been tidied, he noticed. There was a fresh pile of logs by the fireplace. Easy, he thought.
They took the cart back to Trennerhof. Cleaver had understood now that he must sign a contract. Despite the lack of all public utilities and the extreme remoteness of the place, these people wanted to be in order with the taxman. They wanted things to be clear. There was a decoration, he noticed now as the wheels began to turn, of gnarled white branches under the eaves of the house. They had been nailed there, intertwining along the wall like old antlers or bones. Everybody in Luttach knows you are here, Hermann explained. This is not Italy. Though it was to the Italian government that taxes must be paid. You can get milk, Hermann added. Cleaver gauged that the two houses must be a little less than a mile apart.
Surprisingly, at Trennerhof, the room he was led into was full of radios. Old radios, on shelves round the wall. Some of them looked like museum pieces. Cleaver took off his hat. There was even an army field transmitter, from the last war presumably. Coming in from the wet, he couldn’t work out whether he was in a bar or a kitchen. There was a counter with a beer-pull to the left and against the far wall a huge stove, perhaps six-feet high, with a bench around the bottom, a fixed ladder and a wooden platform on top, a bed perhaps. In the middle of the room the long stone-topped table seemed to be where the family ate. The place smelt of smoke and soup. Frau Stolberg leaned forward to shake his hand, stiffly. The glittering eyes are a firewall, he decided. She doesn’t want to be contaminated. Freut mich, Frau Stolberg said. She was wearing black.
Cleaver found himself sitting down at the long table with a piece of paper in front of him. He heard a muttering. The ancient creature was in an armchair by the fire, fingers fidgeting on her lap. I don’t understand, he said. The paper was a photocopy with various gaps filled in, in a neat hand. Hermann came to sit beside him. He pointed a dirty finger at the key conditions. He has blond hair on his knuckles. Frau Stolberg stood on the opposite side of the table, her arms folded. The high cheekbones are expressionless. It was strange that they hadn’t offered him anything to drink. He felt uncomfortable in his damp trousers. I must slim. You pay one month now. And two months’ Kaution. Deposit, Cleaver guessed. Then you pay first day of the month.
Just as Cleaver was counting out the bills, a door opened and the town woman appeared. She wore a pale blue coat. Frau Stolberg sp
oke sharply to her. The woman said something to Hermann. Cleaver lifted his head. Hermann was embarrassed. She is pretty, Cleaver noticed. Late thirties, but well kept, in a relaxed kind of way. Yellow blonde. My father, his elder son had written, claimed he could size up a woman and his chances of scoring in something less than a millisecond. That must be another anecdote Amanda had fed him, though Cleaver would never have said such a thing in her presence. Suddenly, the three of them were arguing. The town woman raised her voice. These are recriminations, Cleaver realised. There was a large crucifix, he saw now, in the corner above the old lady’s head, exactly like the one in Unterfurnerhof. Two dry corncobs hung from either side, as if dangling from Christ’s nailed hands. Hermann was shaking his head. When they spoke in their dialect, Cleaver couldn’t recognise a single word. Everything fused into an obstinate mass of sound. Frau Stolberg’s voice was extremely sharp. She must be in her seventies. Pushing her hair from her face, the town woman suddenly looked like a girl. She is defying authority, Cleaver thought. She is the daughter. Hermann was mediating, retreating.
You will remain in Rosenkranzhof? the young woman turned on Cleaver. Her English wasn’t perfect, but perfectly clear. Why? she asked. Why are you wanting to remain there? It is horrible.
Taken aback, Cleaver sighed the deep sigh he had made famous in so many interviews. She is more alluring when she is angry, he thought. Just when a woman’s behaviour should have warned him off, his elder son had written, or perhaps especially then, since his real aim wasn’t pleasure but conquest, my father would lay on the charm.
You cannot remain the winter in Rosenkranzhof, the town-dressed woman insisted. She was aggressive. It is horrible!
Perhaps, Cleaver told her quietly, if we meet from time to time, I will try to explain why I want to live there and you can tell me why it upsets you so much.
The effect of this exchange on Frau Stolberg was immediate. She addressed acid words to Hermann. She was angry. Does she understand English? Cleaver wondered. It seemed unlikely. Frau Stolberg thrust the money into her apron pocket. Or was she afraid of things being said that she didn’t understand? She didn’t like his tone of voice. Unterschrift, Hermann reminded him. His fingernail scratched the spot. Hier, Unterschrift. Your name.
We will not be meeting again, the younger woman said. Fortunately. She walked across the room toward the fireplace, speaking in German now: Großmutter, she whispered, Oma. Frau Stolberg is seething, Cleaver noticed. The crucifix seemed to have been carved from a gnarled root. It was curious the business with the corncobs, hanging there like the two thieves. By the fire, the ancient woman raised her glazed eyes. Can she see or not? The old lips quivered in a web of wrinkles. Hesitantly, she opened her arms for an embrace. Cleaver saw a string of red beads twisted round mottled fingers. Rosenkranz. He looked down at the contract. Frau Stolberg was glaring. Harry Cleaver, he signed.
Milch, Hermann said the moment they were outside. He set off towards one of the outbuildings. The cloud was lifting, but everything is wet. Cleaver saw the woman’s blue suitcase on the back of the cart. Then the dog was at their feet. Why all the radios? he asked. I mean, there’s no electricity to run them, is there? The animal tried to thrust its snout into his crotch. Down! The radios? That is Jürgen, Hermann said. But he was preoccupied. The argument with the town-dressed woman has upset him. He pushed open a splintered wooden door that had strips of thick black plastic nailed all around. Inside the smell was fierce. Cleaver had to pause on the threshold. Käse! Hermann announced. Cheese, please! He had found his smile again.
The man Cleaver had seen at the funeral detached himself from basins and taps on the far wall and came bustling to meet them. He was taller than Cleaver remembered, but awkwardly hunched, wiping wet hands on a black rubber apron, a small round leather cap on his thick, dirty hair. Jo, jo! The handshake was vigorous. He smiled idiotically. The eyebrows were fat dark caterpillars only a millimetre apart, the cheeks pitted, coarse and unshaven. Freut mich, Cleaver remembered. There was a constant gurgling noise in the room. There must be running water. Recht gutes Deutsch! Hermann began his routine again. He clapped the new tenant on the back. Jürgen was still smiling blankly. Through the pungent tang of the cheese, Cleaver definitely caught a whiff of alcohol. The man’s eyes are red. Ich will die Milch nehmen, he said. Deutsch, Deutsch, Deutsch! Hermann applauded. Any good director would have cut a while back, Cleaver thought.
Against the wall, two metal urns stood in a tank of dark water; it must be filling from beneath and draining through an overflow. Stream water presumably. Jürgen took down a battered can hanging from a makeshift wire handle and plunged it into an urn. His movements seemed unnecessarily vigorous. Hermann was making some kind of appeal now, speaking earnestly. His voice is less jovial in his own language. Both men were wearing exactly the same kind of rough, dark blue shirt, as if it were some sort of uniform. Why on earth did I sign as Harry? Cleaver wondered. He was tired of it all. But milk is important. He has packed five boxes of cereal. Having filled the can, Jürgen bustled over to the opposite wall where bowls were resting on stone shelves. In all my father’s chaotic life, Cleaver’s elder son had written, the one absolutely indispensable ritual, aside from the newspapers – and probably in Pavlovian connection with those newspapers – was his morning bowl of cereal. Serious cereal for serial and ceremonial evacuation, he would say when we had guests. The nice thing about our frequent guests was that my parents argued less, though you had to put up with all my father’s ancient witticisms. Käse, Hermann said again. Cleaver found himself holding a plain white plate on which a gritty, grey-green mass had been squashed under a plastic wrap. Danke schön, he said. Jürgen was still smiling. It was a face from which reflection seemed entirely absent. The radios could remain a mystery, Cleaver decided.
Outside, the young woman had already climbed up on the cart ready to go. Goodbye, she shouted in English. She seemed friendly now. She has cheered up. Good luck! Hermann offered Cleaver his hand. Cleaver gave him an envelope with the money they had agreed. Danke schön! The horseman was his jolly self. When you have need of help, come to Onkel Hermann’s Stable, in Luttach! He climbed on the cart. He is driving the woman straight back down, Cleaver realised. A cousin presumably. She came for her father’s funeral, now she is going back home to Bruneck or Brixen. Carrying the open tin can with its creamy milk, the plate with the cheese, he set off in his damp clothes to walk down to Rosenkranzhof.
It isn’t easy for a fat fifty-five-year-old to walk almost a mile along a steep track holding a can brimming with milk in one hand, a great lump of grey cheese glued to a dinner plate in the other. Am I elated or terrified? Cleaver wondered. He was really alone now. He was above the noise line at last. Or would the important step be not even to investigate one’s own feelings, not to notice them, just live the moment? To his left, the rugged crags of the Speikboden towered into a white mist. Ahead the Ahrn valley dropped and wound far away through a northern panorama of cloud and stone and dark pine woods. It’s not true that you have no sense of spirituality, Cleaver objected. He spoke out loud. It’s not true you can’t see beyond the lens of a camera. Damn! There was a sudden barking at his heels. Just as the track dived into the gorge, the Trennerhof dog caught up with him. Startled, Cleaver lost a splash of milk. Damn and damn! At once the animal was licking the dirt. Shoo! Go home. Haus. Heimat! The creature barked excitedly. Fuck off! A fat old dog, Cleaver thought, with a grizzly snout and rheumy eyes. When he made as if to kick, the creature yelped and cowered, but did not turn back.
