In a Dark Wood

by Marcel Moring

  To be a forest, no: a tree in a forest, protected by many, in the middle of many, and to protect with the many the other trees in the forest…

  Who in his life had he seen fall? Not the mediocre, not the inconspicuous, tepid middle classes who led their ordinary lives, with their ordinary little sufferings and their ordinary deaths. They too had their tragedy, but it was the tragedy that one expects in life. But the others, the lonely and the deviant, on top of the normal dose of bitterness, they had also felt the tide of history. Yes, as he had. He might have wrestled with the flow like Jacob with the angel, but what good had it done him? An empty heart, a full wallet that brought him no happiness, a life like an obligation, not to himself, but to those who were no longer there when he himself had to begin and to those he had brought into this life.

  ‘Bird…Raven!’ Noah called hoarsely. ‘I haven’t lived!’

  The creature looked at the pond and pretended not to have heard.

  ‘I have given a very lengthy imitation of life,’ he said, still hoarsely. ‘I have been a camouflage artist, an expert in disguise, a joke whose punchline no one has seen.’

  And yet, he thought, almost at the same moment, this had, in spite of everything, been his life and this spot, curse it as he might, had been his spot. The rising and falling fields around the hamlet of Balloo, where the grain and the maize stood high. The sun that shone on the undulating gold velvet fields, the tall straight oaks along the road, the branches that looked like old, weather-beaten bronze, the scruffy wooded banks between the fields…And beyond it the heath, a vague strip of purple, and above it the infinitely high void of the sky, and in all of that the hazy, off-white patch of a flock of sheep. He thought of the oak in the garden behind his converted schoolhouse and he remembered at least three or four moments, they were all running into each other now, when he had stood, lain, sat beneath the shelter of the vast crown of leaves, once even leant his back against the trunk and wept softly, no, not for himself, for his Chaja, whom he had asked if there had never been a love in her life (‘Child, is there no one you love?’) and when she had answered that there was someone she loved, but no one who loved her…he had had to turn away, he had stared out through the window, hands in his pockets, and had finally gone outside through the open sliding doors, had more or less dropped against the trunk of the tree, head on the cracked bark, and had wept, shoulders shaking but tears choked back, for his daughter’s loneliness. That tree, that too was his life. And the black state forests, where it was silent and smelled darkly of earth when it rained, where he, again with hands in his pockets, had walked around, suddenly assailed by the inexorable thought that he was in flight, the barking of Alsatians, Rottweilers, Dobermanns, God knows what, in the distance, and he, half-running half-hobbling, because by now far too old and too stout for a successful escape, in the dripping rain-shadow of the conifers, the deep scent of humus and resin, a Teutonic vision, the dogs nearby, their panting audible now, had run off the path to the right, panicking now and still just thinking: ‘This isn’t real, this isn’t real!’ between the trunks, their bare, scaly branches, across a springy bed of bronze needles, bent deep down, further into the darkness of the dense wood, darker, darker…who rides so late through night and wind…until he finally collapsed with a face covered with scratches and grazes, panting, slavering, his breathing a juddering plunge, face buried in the layer of needles, where it was almost entirely black, hands beside his head, mouth open and in his mouth fallen needles, there, yes, he lay sobbing, for how long? long, long, many minutes, to feel the guilt: I abandoned myself and merely acted out what they really lived…A misplaced sense of guilt, because he had imitated the dream that he had not dreamed until a later phase of his life, not every night, not even every week, but certainly once a month, a dream, no, a nightmare, which always ended the same way: him bolt upright in bed, roaring in confusion, with no idea of here and where and when, time or place. And yet: guilt too. Not him. Her. Him unworthy. Not her.

  He lowered his head and stared for a long time at the object on his leg. Then he gripped his stick, pushed himself up, as he took the gun in his hand, and walked to the edge of the pond. He looked around, listened and then slung the weapon, a little black boomerang, into the water.

  There was a short, deep splash, the reflection of the surface exploded into a fountain of droplets and a succession of big concentric circles rippled to the shores. It quickly grew still again, the water settled and everything was as it was before. Jacob Noah shrugged his shoulders and cast an ironic glance at the water, the little island with the little tree in the middle, the grassy shores with overhanging grass and moss.

  ‘I’d expected more,’ he said when he got back to his bench and looked crookedly at the raven that looked just as crookedly back. ‘A dramatic act, after all. It didn’t have to be a white arm, raven, coming out of the water to catch my weapon. I’m not King Arthur, after all. But “splash” is a bit paltry.’

  The bird croaked hoarsely.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Noah. ‘I know.’

  He sat down, fished out his watch and set it on his leg, on the spot where his gun had been. He tapped his pockets, felt the rectangle of his passport, remembered something strange and then found his tin of cigars.

  For a little while he sat smoking and staring straight ahead, calm and still, and then, his head enveloped in blue-white clouds, he bent forward, flipped open the lid of the watch and stared into its depths.

  It wasn’t long before he had found what he was looking for. The sky over the square was starting to turn the intense royal blue of the fading night. From beneath the canvas of the beer tent there glowed a soft yellowish light that spread from the opening and scattered onto the pavement. Inside, one long table was occupied by leather-clad beer bellies who dangled in their chairs or lay slumped forward on the tabletop, between half-full plastic glasses, ashtrays and puddles of beer. At the bar, at the end of the tent, stood Chaja with two men whom Jacob Noah recognised as Albert Manuhuttu and Marcus Kolpa. They were just turning towards the entrance to greet Gallus, the photographer, as he walked in.

  At the long table someone looked up, he shouted something, there was laughter. Albert Gallus walked on without looking and when he had reached Marcus and Chaja and the other Albert he shook hands comprehensively. Glasses were brought and clinked. Behind the bar a delicate Moluccan girl with long black hair started packing away unused plastic glasses in boxes. A young man with an Afro was emptying the fridge. Marcus threw his arm around the photographer’s shoulder and leaned slightly towards him. He said something, listened and nodded. Then he slapped Gallus on the back and smiled.

  Among the faces of the three men Chaja’s was empty and still. She had set down her glass and stood with her hands folded in her lap listening to the conversation the others were having.

  ‘Always is now,’ muttered Jacob Noah. ‘Now is always.’

  He bent lower over the watch the better to see the faces of his daughter and Marcus Kolpa.

  At the side of the beer tent a couple stood up, whom he recognised as Van Gelder from the newspaper and an unfamiliar woman. They walked towards the opening of the tent with the stiff, uncertain gait of people who have drunk too much, but were pushed back by a group of young men in black jackets and blue jeans, apparently singing loudly. They stamped in on heavy army boots and immediately started dragging tables round. Even before they sat down they were calling for beer. Van Gelder and his companion stood in the path between the tables, apparently unsure where to go. Albert Manuhuttu walked towards the disorderly table. Something was said. Albert shook his head. A thump landed on the tabletop, someone stood up, a chair fell backwards. Albert pointed to his watch, to the beer pump, and shrugged. For a moment nothing happened. The newcomers looked at Albert, he looked back. Then one of the men stood up. He took a step in Albert’s direction and went and stood right in front of him. There was a moment of motionlessness in which not only the two men looked frozen, but also the rest o
f the tent. Then the man in the black leather jacket suddenly gripped Albert by the collar. He brought his big red head close to the other man’s and bellowed in his face.

  In the distance, further back in the tent, Jacob Noah saw Marcus Kolpa and Gallus the photographer moving. The photographer headed in Albert’s direction, Marcus pushed Chaja behind the tap and followed his friend. Marcus was already starting to speak when they were a few metres away from the two men. The one who was still clutching Albert’s collar listened to him irritably. He turned his head slightly to the side, called over his shoulder something that provoked hilarity, and then threw Albert away as if suddenly realising that his hands were full. On the other side of the tent, at the long table with the bikers, a few men rose from their chairs. They hitched up their trousers by the belt and walked calmly to the spot where the commotion was.

  Albert, Marcus and the photographer were pushed aside by the black jackets and in the space produced the two groups lined up opposite one another. The distance between them was no more than two metres, but looked much greater and was strangely empty. Nothing was said, but in both groups there was movement, a slow taking up of positions, as molecules in a cloud of gas swirl round until they have reached a state of equilibrium.

  Marcus, Albert and Gallus withdrew behind the bar, where Chaja, the girl with the long dark hair and the young man with the round black hairstyle were taking refuge. Chaja said something to Marcus, who raised his hand and shook his head.

  The men in the black jackets and the bikers moved slowly. In their periphery circled Van Gelder and the unfamiliar woman. They were trying to get close to the exit, but it was blocked, so they slowly drifted towards the side of the tent, where they stopped behind a table.

  An ashtray sailed from the group of newcomers. Cigarette butts fell from the air, ash swirled above their heads, the ashtray glittered in the light and spun like a discus.

  After that everything was unclear. Chairs were grabbed and came splintering down on heads and backs, tables fell over, bits of shattered furniture were picked up from the floor and raised as weapons. A huge man with a bull’s neck grabbed another man and threw him away as if he was throwing a bag into a bin lorry. The other one landed on a table, which collapsed and exploded in a cloud of bits of wood. Van Gelder and the woman ran to the bar. Blood and spit spattered around the group of fighters. Someone fell to his knees, sat on the ground, bent forward and took the kicks in his side as if it was only proper. The fighters were occupying more and more space. Tables shifted, or were thrown away, chairs sailed through the air. Albert Manuhuttu, Gallus, Marcus, Chaja and Van Gelder and his companion moved as close as possible to the rear canvas of the tent. In the group of fighters someone headbutted someone else. He pulled back his head in a mist of blood. Someone opened his mouth and screamed. A fat man in military boots lay motionless on the ground. A foot stamped on him, the one whose foot it was tripped and got kicked in the back. A head emerged from the fighting ball and was pulled back in by an arm around the throat. Two men held a third one tight while another battered his fist into the belly of the prisoner. A piece of wood spun through the air and landed just in front of the bar. Marcus gripped Chaja’s shoulder and pressed her down, under the counter. Then he did the same with the two other women. He leaned briefly towards Albert, who shook his head, and then to the photographer. They looked at each other for a moment. Then the photographer crept on his knees to the back of the tent, lifted it and disappeared.

  The mêlée rolled like a ball of waving limbs towards the bar, throwing aside tables and chairs on the way. A body collapsed on itself, straightened, smashed into a tent pole, stayed there for a moment, almost as if it was fixed there, and then slowly slumped down. Two men stood strangling one another, red-faced, legs apart, staggering. A fist appeared from nowhere and landed on a half-open mouth, which spat out a few teeth and a stream of blood. Someone tried to creep to the exit and was pulled back by one leg.

  A silhouette appeared in the dark rectangle of the tent doorway. It stood taut and upright and dark and stared indifferently at the fighting clump. Behind the figure another silhouette appeared, smaller and shyer. They stood between the open tent flaps and watched the wrestling for a moment. Then the first figure raised its right hand.

  Jacob Noah opened his mouth and bent if possible even lower over his watch.

  The figure in the tent opening was dressed entirely in black, in a cheap suit with what had once been a white shirt, but which now hung like a chaotically smeared rag beneath his jacket. His shoes were muddy and his hair stood up wildly. He looked like a wild man who had been found after years in a deep, dark wood and hurriedly pulled into a suit.

  But in spite of his dishevelled exterior, the apparition made an impression on the fighters: he had still not raised his hand and had only opened his mouth to say one word, when all the movement quietened down and a great repose settled in the tent.

  He lowered his head, folded his hands in front of his lap and seemed to be speaking slowly. Slightly awkwardly, the figure behind him imitated his movements.

  The quarrelling men stared frozen at the dark strip of a man and no one seemed to feel the need to say or do anything.

  What is this, thought Jacob Noah. A deus ex machina? A prophet of doom preaching to the populace? Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in a twentieth-century incarnation?

  He shook his head and fastened his eyes on the tiny picture in his watch.

  The man in black spread his arms and raised his head. He stood there for a moment, like a misplaced Christ-figure, and then dropped dramatically to his knees. The figure behind him looked around uncertainly. For a moment it looked as if he was about to follow his predecessor, but he decided to stay where he was after all. He lowered his head and held his hands folded in front of his chest.

  Someone stepped forward, but was restrained by the hand that another man laid on his shoulder.

  Jacob Noah shook his head. This can’t be happening, he thought. This only happens in pious films.

  The rolled-up flaps of the tent entrance started flickering in a bluish light and it wasn’t long before the tableau vivant sprang into motion. The fighters moved to the back and the knight errant and his nervous squire were swallowed up by a dark cloud of men in blue overalls and boots. Two men at the rear of their formation stepped out to the sides and formed a double row that completely screened off the entrance.

  The enchantment that had held everyone in its grip for a moment was immediately broken. Even the usual defiance that normally precedes a confrontation with the riot squad was absent. The blue formation had no sooner taken up position than the first pieces of flotsam went flying through the air, immediately followed by trestles, whole tabletops and ashtrays. The double row didn’t budge, but shrank together behind shields.

  Behind the bar, certain that no one was paying them any attention now, Albert Manuhuttu and Marcus led their little group outside under the canvas of the tent.

  On the other side of the canvas the whole square lay in the pale light of early morning. The photographer was standing there, Noah saw. Marcus walked up to him and slapped him on the shoulder.

  The little group of escapees stood together somewhat untidily, as if waiting for a sign, someone to give them a direction. Then Albert Manuhuttu shook Marcus and the photographer by the hand, the girl with the long dark hair and Chaja hugged each other, something else was said, hands were waved, and then the photographer, Marcus and Chaja crossed the square towards the canal. Albert and his staff circled the tent and joined the two uniformed policemen who stood at the entrance following the battle inside.

  Jacob Noah looked up and blinked. He shook his head, looked at the raven that still sat on its low branch and said: ‘And can you tell me now why she isn’t going home? What is it with young people today? They manage to get out of a huge free-for-all and rather than sitting trembling together or going home at lightning speed, they go off in search of fresh entertainment.’

  The bi
rd stuck its beak into its feathers and smoothed something.

  Noah sighed.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to let her go. All of them. I have to let them all go. I’ve sheltered them and protected them like a mother hen, but it can’t go on. I can’t protect them to prevent something that happened forty years ago.’

  He straightened and stared into the mirroring water of the pond, in which dark clouds now slowly changed their shape.

  ‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve done it.’

  He ran his hand over his chin and stared at his two-tone shoes. He snapped the watch shut, picked up his stick and leaned on it.

  ‘Why,’ he growled, ‘have I never managed to think something before I said it? Why do the words flow from my mouth and it’s only when they fall at my feet that I understand what I feel, or think, or don’t think exactly but deep down…Why is it as if I live after the event, as if I only know that I’ve been part of something when it’s over?’

  He turned round with a jerk.

  ‘Give me a clue, Schwarzvogel!’

  He looked up at the branch with the raven and breathed heavily, as if he was trying to quell a great fury.

  ‘Schwarz! Jewbird! Or are you going to claim you aren’t?’

  He raised his stick menacingly in the direction of the tree where the raven sat.

  ‘Speak!’ he cried.

  A dull clap rang out, the branch swept, the whole front of the tree seemed to move.

  ‘Mr Noah…’

  Gasped the Jew of Assen.

  He struggled to his feet and beat the dust off his suit, put on his greasy hat, straightened the pedlar’s suit on his back and smiled like all the Jews who had ever lived here and in turn smiled in the expectation that this must be enough.