A Book of Memories

by Peter Nadas

  It was during that fraction of a second, while longing for that evanescent fragrance, that I made up my mind: I can't stay with her, I must run away from Helene.

  It was ten long years of my life which I had rejected and wished to forget that stared back at me from the salutation; Helene may have expropriated them, but they couldn't have been hers, I couldn't let her have them; thinking of this just then could not have been an accident, for I knew that the police had detailed and creditable data about my ten-year association with secret anarchist societies; if, therefore, I did not act with animal cunning, I'd have to pay for those ten years, and my attempts at finding refuge from the subversive, even murderous activities of those years in Helene's arms would have been in vain.

  Death spoke to me from that letter, death multiplying itself and still unique, death lurking at every turn, in every corner, death desired and death dreaded, the death of that one special sweet-smelling woman, rising from the bloody corpse of my now publicly rejected and abandoned friend; but every other murder and death also called out from that letter: my mother's unspeakably slow and painful wasting away at my father's side, and Father's own ignominious death under the wheels of a speeding train between Görlitz and Lebau, at Signal Station 7, and the mutilated body of the girl he had violated, that hideous lye-soaked sack oozing sweat, piss, shit, and snot; all deaths of the body, and yet Helene's letter was in fact sending blissful waves toward me, the prospects of a wonderful life: "That achingly beautiful morning," she wrote, "when we had to part, has become a morning of consummation whose fruit I now carry under my heart"; we had to move up the date of our wedding, she said, and therefore I should hurry back to her without fail, and that was her parents' wish as well; this was followed only by her initial, the first letter of her Christian name.

  If fate chose to stage a scene such as this, having me read this letter while a detective investigating a murder keeps his moist eyes on me, then everything but everything is but an illusion and a bunch of lies—so thought one half of my split self, while the other half of course couldn't help being dizzy with joy, thrilled at the mere thought of life's relentless continuation, and the more it felt that this, too, was but an illusion, a deception, a false hope, the more it let itself go in absurd jubilation.

  She wanted to give a son to this body oozing with corruption, the body that hoped to find its freedom in blissfully dreaded death.

  What monstrous demons can crawl out of one's thoughts.

  I began to laugh, a loud, harsh, boisterous laugh; I was laughing so hard I had to hold on to the back of the armchair to keep myself from falling over.

  I don't know at what point I slipped the letter back into the envelope, but I can still see my trembling hand fumbling with the paper.

  First there was a little tussle between my hand, the letter, and the envelope, and it was after that hard-won victory that I had to grab the back of the chair to stop myself from bolting out the door, and perhaps it was the uncontrollable trembling that made me explode in laughter.

  I was laughing insanely, I could say, but the sound of my laughter betrayed the fact that by laughing I was trying to drive myself insane.

  From then on I was carried along by the demon of my own sound.

  Nearly a decade later, in a huge tome by Baron Jakob Johann Uexküll, I came across this illuminating and endearing statement: "When a dog runs, it is the animal that moves its legs, but when a hedgehog runs, it is the legs that move the animal."

  This subtle distinction helped me understand that it was a primitive animal's instinct to escape that had appeared in my laughter; it wasn't I who sought refuge in that loud laugh but the laugh that saved me from my plight.

  At the moment of its explosion the laughter revealed my utter desperation, but in the very next moment it tripped over itself and changed direction, route, and above all intended meaning, so that it could pretend that it wasn't even a hearty laugh but a titter, and not even that, only the inane display of overwhelming joy, though nothing like total abandon even then, for the incongruity of the situation inhibited this sort of tittering; my ears registered every shift, modulation, and distortion as if I were hearing it with the inspector's ears; and then it was the joy of life, cleansed of everything and bathed in bliss, that was laughing along with me, until I managed to be moved by my own performance to the point of tears, which in turn made the sound tremulous and faltering, and I felt moved even more, until I finally regained control and, haltingly, could say something.

  "Do forgive me," I stammered while wiping my eyes, and my demon, so very sure of itself, still holding my voice captive, clinging to it, guiding it, graciously allowed me to sound sincere, as if to claim that lies and deceptions could very nicely turn into truths, there was nothing to be ashamed of! they became more convincingly real this way, more authentic than purportedly simple and immaculate truths; anyway, we can never gauge the moral worth of our actions so it's useless to fret and agonize over them, we might as well push ahead, especially since my demon used my fiancée's very intimate letter to refute, and refute triumphantly and unequivocally, any suspicion about my own involvement in this affair: "Do forgive me," I repeated, "this outburst was totally inappropriate, I am deeply embarrassed; yet if I say that I must nevertheless decline responsibility for it—for without being requested to do so, I would not have dreamed of perusing such a letter in front of a stranger—then I am in effect begging the forgiveness of my dead friend lying in the next room"; I said all this in my demon's cool, measured, dignified voice, though also affecting the nonchalance of a man of the world; "However," I continued, "I would be as loath to offend you as I would my poor unfortunate friend; I can assure you, therefore, that the content of the letter is strictly private, and with an eye to dispelling any lingering doubt that it might have something to do with today's tragic occurrence, I am willing to dispense with proprieties and reveal, ah, hell and damnation, what could possibly keep me from saying it—what I received was very happy news, the kind of news one should be only too glad to share with anyone."

  I took a deep breath and even, I remember, lowered my head, and the voice inside me turned gloomy, or unpleasant somehow, perhaps too bashful, as soon as I uttered those words.

  I remained silent for so long that after a while I knew I had to lift my head.

  And it was as if a rainbow-colored, shiny soap bubble had burst in the air.

  His eyes were shining at me from behind the distorting curve of a teardrop, but as we looked long into each other's eyes, I had the impression that for the first time his face was showing genuine astonishment, even shock.

  "On the contrary," he replied very quietly, and I watched with enormous satisfaction as his apoplectic complexion turned several shades darker, though clearly anger and not shame made him blush; "On the contrary," he repeated almost too cordially, "it is I who must apologize, if only because your comment is well taken; my request was needlessly intrusive, I clearly overstepped my authority; and if I reiterate—your evident and quite understandable wariness compels me to reiterate—that we are assuming nothing and accusing no one, the case may not be closed, of course, but we do have the culprit in our hands, if I stress all this once again, I really mean to apologize, above all for creating a false impression, and at the same time I beg you to consider my intrusion as excessive caution, which in such circumstances is almost inevitable, or, if you like, as the blunt, unseemly curiosity of a seasoned professional, think of it what you will, but I beg of you, do not think ill of me, and since what is done is done, allow me to be the first to express my warmest good wishes, and please remember, the man offering his most sincere congratulations is one who is daily confronted with the seamy side of life and very rarely has a chance to share in the happy events of life, especially those connected to nature."

  The deep flush vanished from his face, he smiled kindly, even ruefully; instead of bowing we merely inclined our heads, and all this time and even afterward he did not move from his place but remain
ed standing by the terrace door, his arms folded over his chest and, in a shaft of slanting winter light, casting his shadow over me.

  "May I ask you one more thing?" he said after a moment's hesitation.

  "I am at your service."

  "I am a rather heavy smoker, and unfortunately I left my cigars in the car. May I help myself to one of yours?"

  This sort of behavior—apologizing for an inappropriate, unwarranted, and obtrusive act, and then committing just such an act, and to exploit a tense situation flaunting one's hold over another—reminded me of someone or something, though I couldn't at that moment tell who or what, but the familiar, almost physical disgust I felt led me to believe that this man was of very lowly origin.

  "Please do, by all means," I answered graciously, and now I was the one who did not make a move; I did not wish to open the cigar box for him, and I did not offer him a seat either.

  There was someone who could make me just as helpless, and whom I hated just as much.

  However, the inspector did not let himself be bothered; he strolled in a leisurely way over to the table behind me and took a cigar out of the box Gyllenborg had given me a few days earlier; and now this hit me so hard I didn't have the strength to turn around; I knew what he was up to: in the deceased's room an identical lacquered box lay on the table; so this was the missing link he was looking for.

  It got so quiet I could hear him slip off the cigar band; and then, just as slowly, he walked back and stood before me.

  "Would you happen to have a knife?" he asked with a friendly smile, and I simply pointed at my desk.

  Ceremoniously he lit the cigar, and I had the impression he'd never smoked one before; he praised its aroma and smacked his lips; then he blew out the smoke silently, and I had to stand there and look at him.

  But I felt that try hard as I might, I couldn't watch him finish that cigar.

  "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

  "Oh no," he said, cocking his head amiably, "I've taken up too much of your time already, and in any case we shall meet again tomorrow, shan't we?"

  "If you feel that another meeting is absolutely necessary, I'd be glad to give you my card," I said. "By tomorrow evening I should be in Berlin."

  He took the cigar out of his mouth, nodded assentingly, and blew out the smoke along with the words: "I'd be much obliged."

  He placed my card carefully in his billfold, and there was nothing left for us to do but bow politely to each other; without a word, puffing on the cigar, he walked out of my room.

  Drained and exhausted, I was left to myself, and like an ice floe cracked in two on the dark waters of a turbulent river, like two light spots in the night, the two halves of my self were drifting farther and farther apart; while one was singing a selfish little victory march, the other hummed a dirge of utter defeat, while one searched through its memories, wondering why this disagreeable character, whom he may have resembled, looked so familiar, and fretted over not finding the key to the puzzle, the other pondered the chances of escape, imagining in every detail the arrival in Berlin's Anhalter Terminal, the attempt to melt into the crowd and, having eluded possible pursuers, immediately getting on the train to Italy; I also have to say here that all the time a third self was present, who in a way held the other two together, showing me an image that also sprang from the suddenly opened storehouse of my memories but seemed completely unrelated to anything, an image from a childhood garden on a hot late-summer afternoon when, wandering among the trees, I noticed a green lizard drowning in the stone bowl of a little fountain; it could keep only the tip of its tiny head and its open mouth out of the water, its hollow ears and open eyes were below the surface; it couldn't move up or down, forward or backward, though its outspread little legs were treading wildly; this was my first, perhaps my oldest memory of the world; it was a dry summer, and I knew the lizard must have climbed into the fountain bowl for a drink and then slipped into the water; stunned, rooted to the spot, I stared and stared at it, and I was no eyewitness but God Himself, for it was up to me whether this creature would live or die, and the mere possibility of having to make that decision so horrified me, I thought I might as well let it drown; but then, placing both hands under its body, I fished it out of the water, and shuddering with disgust at the touch or at the finality of my act, I flung it on the grass, where it stayed motionless, though it was breathing, its heart beating through its whole beautiful body; and this image, the shimmering emerald-green grass and the motionless lizard, didn't just cross my mind but was there before me, sharp and vivid, in all its color, light, and supple form, as if I were seeing it for the first time; I was standing in that garden of yore and not in this room.

  I was that green lizard for whom this sudden gift of life, this reprieve, this near-death, the renewed beating of its heart, breathing the air again, was as much a mystery as was the drowning—perhaps an even greater, more profound mystery.

  And I also wasn't aware that for some time I had been sitting, my head submerged in that image; I was sitting somewhere, no longer standing, and tears were trickling through my fingers, pressed against my face.

  My sobs sounded like the crying of that little boy, it was as if he were looking, alarmed and with tearless eyes, at everything that happened to him later and had but a single, foolishly repeated question: Why, why, who wanted this, who made it happen this way, why?

  As if already then he was repeating this eternally inane question to himself, and even today that was all he could do.

  It wasn't the beloved friend I mourned, not Gyllenborg, not the handsome, cheerful young man whom even in his death I admired and envied, for however his life may have ended, he had managed to tell us more in a single, outrageously beautiful photograph than I ever could in my frantic, agonizing, pathetic struggle to string some words together, yes, I did envy him! for needless to say, in those two months spent in a riot of sensuality I had not been able to put down a single passable sentence of my planned narrative, while he, forever suffering from rashes of mysterious origin, always feverish on account of a diseased lung, could create, and with the nonchalance of a condemned man and the incredibly simple elegance granted him by death's proximity, could toy with all those weighty questions I could only brood on in my dilettantish artificially whipped-up zeal; yes, I admired and envied him, because with fatal constancy he achieved and completed what his body had prepared for him; he did not confuse his ideas with the objects of his curiosity and attraction but on the contrary fused them together so well that his ideas barely showed through, while I only indulged in reveries and thinking because I was hoping to escape and to save myself with ideas forced out of my own words—perhaps this is what separates art from dilettantism: the object of observation is not to be confused with the means of treating it as a subject!—Gyllenborg never made that mistake, so in him, and by him, something was brought to completion, there was no need for me to feel sorry for him, and I wasn't mourning Hans either, not his innocent youthful vigor, now in the hands of fate; yet what heavenly pleasure it was with all the tenderness of my frailty to love his fiery red hair, the soft smoothness of his milk-white skin, his freckles, which at places swelled into birthmarks I could feel with my fingers, the silky richness of his pubic hair, and the hot spurting milk of his warm groin; no, I wasn't mourning my betrayed, forfeited pleasures, not that body which I made my own and understood so well down to the depths of its pores—oh, it's not a mere body that will slowly waste away within the walls of a cold jail cell!—and I wasn't mourning my own base treachery, or my mother, whom I missed so terribly in these moments that I dared not think about her, and through my mother I wasn't mourning Helene, whom I was now sure to abandon, and in my child yet to be born, whom I'd never see, I wasn't mourning myself, or my lost fatherhood, or the ultimately guiltless father in myself, and I wasn't mourning my father, or the little girl he so viciously murdered, whose dead body I had to look at, along with our maid Hilde, as part of the elaborately cruel process of
identification that also took place on a dreadful, sunlit morning such as this one, the same Hilde who a few months later, in an effort to get even with her cruel fate, made herself my first woman and who since has died, no, I wasn't mourning any of these people, and I wasn't mourning myself either.

  While my eyes showed me the rescued lizard, my brain was working like a needlessly overheated engine driven by a steam of emotions, with its gears, belts, pistons, and levers dredging up from the depth of the soul everything that was similar to the image in the eyes, everything that could hurt as only a deep childhood hurt can; it wasn't exhaustion that made me cry, and not the impending danger, but the sense of helplessness I felt in the face of so much human filth.

  And at that moment I already knew who it was that looked back at me so familiarly in the figure of the inspector, and I also knew that with my loud, racking sobs I was mourning my one and only dead, my only love, the only person untouched by this filth; it was she I was mourning, it was she I was coughing up, the one woman I cannot talk about.

  I felt hot, was soaked with tears, shivered in the misery of my cold body, my limbs seemed to be melting away, and then, without knowing why, I had to look up.

  Who possesses the divine ability to distinguish the separate times within a single second; yet in who, if not in us humans, do these divine distinctions of time, reduced to the thinness of a hair, weave their gossamer thread?