An Offering for the Dead

by Hans Erich Nossack

  And that was good. For a fly would have probably been unendurable. Imagine that the persons with whom you always lived together and most closely have suddenly left you.

  And now you are standing in what used to be the household kitchen. And all the indifferent objects that were heedlessly employed day in, day out, and that were so modest as not to intrude, even though they were somehow necessary — should not they too have shared our destiny? A lid no longer quite fits a pot because it is twisted, or the front of a spoon is worn smooth from so much stirring. But we no longer notice such things, we are used to them; after all, these minor defects developed through our living together — yes, and all these objects are still here, and you do not know why. A fly only has to buzz, and you are done for.

  Eventually, I did go to the front of the house after all, looking for the dining room. It was next to the front door. The table was set for twelve people, I instantly counted. It looked very festive: the white tablecloth, the settings, crystal decanters of wine, and silver candelabras. There may have been flowers too, I cannot picture it otherwise. I gazed at everything, I even touched a few objects. I believe that I actually shifted and rearranged one thing or another. To test it, I sat down at the table. There was a seat at the narrow end, opposite the open glass doors, which led to a terrace. Another setting was at my right. No one came to serve me, no invisible hands placed food in front of me. Nor, incidentally, did I expect it. Then I stood up again and gingerly pushed the chair back to the table. A painting hanging on the wall had caught my eye. A bleak landscape with water. Or, more precisely: no landscape, but something that had been or was yet to become a landscape. The colors reminded me of the pearls. That is very bizarre. The person who had painted the picture and those who had hung it in their room in order to view it constantly must have known a great deal more than their daily existence seemed to prove. Where was the defect?

  The next room had books, two walls full. These people must have been well-read. A small piano stood there, it was open, and a score was on the music desk. Why should I describe all this? It was like everywhere else, a bit more tasteful perhaps; but that was not it. Something was missing; above all, it was not what I was looking for. But just what was I looking for? I wandered, through the streets of the city and through these rooms. What had prompted me to return to the city in the first place? I certainly could not assume that it still existed. And I had even less reason to think that it would release me again, and that I would now be standing in the rain on this high, treeless plateau, amid nameless, exhausted sleepers — whom one, likewise nameless, does not dare call human beings — in order to talk about it. For none of this happened to supply me with an interesting story to tell. But somebody has to speak about it. It could be that something unexpectedly pops up among the words, something that should not be forgotten; and once it is articulated, it begins to live. Sometimes it seems to me — but perhaps I am wrong, and it need not be taken all too seriously — that I returned to the city because of those colors. I mean the colors of the pearls and of the painting.

  I stood at the mirror for a long time. Or did I sit in front of it? Here, my story gets confused because I was very tired. Ask me if you want any details. Being a man, I do not notice everything. It may be that I overlook precisely the most important things.

  The mirror was like a narrow gate, I could have passed through it comfortably.

  Yes, it was a woman's room. One must bear in mind that the rooms and the objects no longer gave off any kind of smell. That was why I did not perceive it right away. But all sorts of objects that should have made me aware of it must have been lying about. Gloves or stockings or a handkerchief. I now remember that some face powder was strewn on the glass shelf of one of the small cabinets next to the mirror. I traced a sinuous line in the powder with my finger, but since it looked like an S, I quickly blew it away; otherwise, some unknown person whose name happened to start with that letter might think that somebody was calling him and trying to cast a spell on him. I should probably have looked for a comb; there must have been one lying there. But who thinks of such a thing? I could then say whether the woman who lived in that room was young or old, blonde or dark. Yet if I think about it: why should, of all things, a woman's combed-out hair have preserved its color and character? It would have probably looked like a cold spider web. But those are secrets that I do not have to know.

  I believe that she was blond. I am thinking of the small, delicate canary feather that was inserted as a bookmark into a notebook. The notebook was lying on her small vanity table. It was so close to the outer edge that it was bound to fall any moment. Opening the page that was marked by the feather, I read:

  What I so often fear in deepest sleep

  Is that we might throw caution to the winds,

  Oh, pleasure sweet, that lures and tortures me;

  To die too soon, most terrible of thoughts.

  It could come in the midst of conversation

  Or outdoors, in the street: we could collapse

  If suddenly we met each other....

  Is that not strange? I do not mean that people wrote such verses and printed and read them. That too is strange, but I have already talked about it. I mean that to judge by these verses, the woman would have had to be dark. But perhaps that is only a male conjecture, and if another woman heard those verses, she would secretly make fun of them.

  I stood at her mirror and peered into it. There, I saw everything that was behind me and everything that surrounded me. But before me there was nothing, and I too was not in there. A human being would have cried out in shock: I am lost.

  I am thinking of a small lake high in the mountains over the border of existence, where things have always been the way they now are everywhere. The gentle deer avoided drinking from the lake, and the paths of the hunters did not lead there. The encircling peaks that were supposed to guard it acted as if it were not there and they gazed outward. Even their shadows paled and leaned away from the shores of the lake; for a different darkness flowed from its depth, striking everything dumb. In the valley, people said that the angels were afraid to fly across this lake because their reflections would be lost in it. And that once a star, weary of being only a star, had plunged from heaven to earth and sunk into the lake. That is a fairy tale. Such eyes existed too.

  Do you think I am dead? Oh well, that is a stupid question. And if you to whom I am speaking are a friend, then it is also a superfluous question. For it then makes little difference whether we are alive or dead; all that is important is that we speak with one another. But if you are a woman, then I can feel your hair at any time or graze your breasts with astonished fingers, and it will be obvious that I am alive. They used to tell us that the dead sometimes return, but they always knew that they had died, and they did not try to deceive anyone. On the contrary: they instantly warned us not to touch them, and, with a quiet gesture, they asked us to forgive the intrusion caused by their unseemly coming. They came only because they had missed something or because they were unable to part with a habit. Ah, it reminds me of the old pharmacist who had previously lived in my home. The room where I now had my bed used to be his dining room. He would come every night and go over to his sideboard to pour himself a jigger of his home-made schnapps. He made sure not to disturb me by, say, bumping into the rearranged furniture. But no matter how quiet he was and no matter how considerate, he could not prevent the floorboards from creaking slightly, and so I did notice him all the same. Later on, he gave up coming; apparently, it was no longer necessary.

  But as regards myself: If I was dead, why was I alone in the city? Where were the other countless dead who had died with me? Not to mention those who had died at some earlier point? What a teeming! No, I could not be dead. For only a living person could be as lonesome as I was. Earlier, I had had far more reason to ask myself whether I was really alive when I compared myself with others. Or when I read in a book that a healthy man had to live such and such a life style. Often I was di
sconcerted by the people in the street. They scrutinized me differently from the way they sized up any other passerby.

  If it was a man, they would check to see whether they could compete with him. And if it was a woman or a girl, to see whether she was lovable. Or merely to avoid running into the person coming towards them. But when I walked by, it was different. They stopped short as if I had not been there a moment earlier and had stepped out of a cloud right in front of them. And once I was past, then I had instantly vanished as far as they were concerned, and they believed they had been mistaken and gave it no further thought. It was very unpleasant for me to startle them; that was why I preferred crossing the street, if I could do so in time. But I could not always avoid meeting them. Even when I was with good friends and left them, I would reproach myself for abandoning them — indeed, already reproach myself on the stairs right after the front door locked behind me. They may still be sitting together and thinking: Why, he was just sitting with us. Why did he not leave us anything? It is as if he had not been here. Or vice versa — and this is even more serious — they feel as if they themselves had suddenly died and were already forgotten by me. Nor would it have helped any if I had returned and told them quite heartily that they were wrong and that I was more earnestly trying to see things from their side than they from mine. They would only have gaped at me in astonishment and doubted my sanity.

  At that time, in front of the mirror, I did not doubt for an instant that I was alive. It was not I that was dead; it could only be that the mirror had died. I also examined it to find out. I wanted to push it away from the wall to check behind it, but I was unable to do so.

  The other possibility did not occur to me — I mean that my image could have perished. And how could I have thought of it? We cannot imagine any person without his reflection, and it is questionable whether a living creature without a reflection can even be described as human. If, for example, the sky cannot be reflected in my eyes, is it then still the sky? But if not, then what is it? Perhaps something similar, but in no case that which used to be called the sky. I also believe that I occasionally noticed that whenever a flower is admired for its beauty, it really blossoms, becoming even more beautiful, until we ourselves blush, and there is no saying which of the two has been gifted. People used to think that they knew this very precisely; and now?

  I had also not noticed back then that I had likewise lost my name. After all, I had no opportunity to determine this. There was no one to call me or address me, and I for my part never addressed myself by the name that others used when they wanted something from me. And I had even less reason for knowing that I owed my life purely to the fact that I had been connected so loosely with my name and my image that they could not pull me along when they perished. It was simply like a banknote that slips from your pocket unnoticed, that is all. The wind wafts it away; someone may find it and know what to do with it; or it may fall into a puddle and dissolve.

  I was not so much terrified by all this as astonished. Eventually, I grew tired of thinking and I got into the bed. Yes, there was a bed in the room. I simply uncovered it, pushing aside the nightshirt underneath the blanket, and I lay down just as I was, soaked with rain and splattered with mud.

  I fell asleep instantly and dreamed....

  The window curtain bellied into the room with a soft breath. A bumblebee buzzed into the room, flew against the wall several times, and then found its way out again. In the garden, two children were playing under the window. One of them shouted: We have to go home. From the street came the steps of passersby and disjointed sounds of their conversation. A bit further off, a trolley jingled, and the conductor blew the departure whistle. Then the street grew noisier and noisier. Cars roared by, howled warnings at the street corners.

  Somewhere freight trains rolled across a bridge. In the harbor, a steamer putting out to sea emitted three dull moans, and a tugboat responded, shrill and agitated. Eventually, the noise became so loud that one could no longer hear it all.

  It was a late afternoon towards the end of June. It must have been a fairly warm day, but the room was now on the shady side. The green reflection of a sunny lawn clung to the ceiling. Somewhere, the lindens were blossoming; the sweet fragrance threatened to give me a headache. Three yellow roses stood on a small, round mahogany table. I picked up the vase to smell the roses, but then replaced it, unsatisfied. As I did so, two petals dropped off from a rose and then lay on the shiny table top like ships on a windless sea. I tried not to make a sound. Irresolute, I paced up and down the carpet, listening for life in the house. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, and I recoiled. Then someone emerged from the kitchen (I could tell by the kitchen noises reaching my ear), walked through the hall, and opened the front door. Some words were exchanged, then another door was opened, a loud tangle of voices emerged, and then the house was quiet again. The person who had opened the front door returned to the kitchen. I had been afraid that he would knock on my door or even come in; but he did not do so. After a while, I pulled myself together, left the room, and stole along the hall runner to the front of the house. The hall smelled of frying. Actually, I was planning to leave the house unnoticed; but I inadvertently clutched the knob of the door to the room from which the voices were coming. The knob was pleasantly cool, it dispelled all my qualms. I opened the door and stepped inside.

  All eyes turned towards me. The conversation faltered for an endless second. Then I was loudly greeted. They had been expecting me, which did not surprise me in the least. I am recounting a dream, mind you. One of the people promptly caught my eye. He called to me: "A distinguished gentleman is always the last to come." It was his intonation that made me prick up my ears. You must pay very close attention to him, I told myself, otherwise he will notice something. As I soon found out, he was considered my friend. He kept addressing me as "My friend." It was very irksome having such a watchdog next to me.

  And it was he who made me aware of the lady of the house. It was not his words but his observant eyes that made me realize there was something special about her. You see, I was not the host. Coming towards me, she said . . . No, I do not think she said it; she shook my hand, and I knew that she wanted to say: "I was starting to think you would not come." This was not meant as a reproach, but it instantly made me very sad because I could not help her. I smiled embarrassedly in her direction. I avoided speaking to her and looking at her. Nor are such things necessary if one wishes to get to know a person. On the contrary, they are often merely distracting.

  It is foolish of me to talk about it. But I assume you would like to know who she was and what she looked like and what sort of dress she was wearing. I would tell you if I could; I would certainly not keep it to myself Nor would I be doing her an injustice by talking about her to a friend or another woman. And why should I not have had something to do with a woman back then? Besides, one can know a man properly only by knowing how he feels about women. Without them, he is not quite tangible, and he fades away like a word that is shouted into emptiness. In short, it was, of course, the woman in whose bed I was sleeping, but there is not much more I can say about her. She was there and was present. And I was most likely dreaming and was not present. Yes, that was probably how it was. Perhaps I will succeed nevertheless in describing some small gesture to recognize her by.

  When I say I was dreaming, I am not making a value judgment. People always used to warn us about dreams. They claimed: Dreams are but shadows, and only reality has substance. As if a dream that we dream has no reality. Indeed, the opposite could have been easily proved in their language. For when I awake in the morning and, because of my nightly experience, I am a different person than on the previous evening (indeed, I behave differently than I would like to; I drop an agreed-on plan or make objections, thereby inducing the people who deal with me to change their attitude towards me and behave differently), how can a dream that has such effects have no reality? How much did people even know about this reality anyway? One afternoon, when I was w
orking in a bank, a clerk next to me abruptly sighed: "Ah, and this morning I was in such a good mood." Yet, demonstrably, nothing unpleasant had happened to him that day — at least, nothing that he himself or we others could view as a reason for his mood swing. Had there been a shift in the air pressure? The people would have preferred that explanation, but they knew quite well that it explained nothing. They were afraid of something they could not account for, and they tried to cover up this insecurity with loud proverbs. It would have been better if they had not felt so secure.

  All I am saying is that for the reality of that woman, it makes no difference whether I was dreaming or waking. Incidentally, I was not married to her.

  I have probably neglected to mention that there could not have been anything striking about my clothes. They were exactly what was expected of me, and I paid them no further heed. People spoke to me, and I said yes or no, as they wished, I nodded, smiled, or listened with an earnest face. It was not the least bit difficult. For instance, one of them took me into a corner and talked away at me. He proposed some joint business venture or something of the kind. I replied: Yes, that is something we can talk about, or: Let me sleep on it. And he left me contentedly.

  We were all young or, more precisely, none of us was old. Ridiculous as it sounds: it was as if we were children pretending to be grownups. We would have been more genuine had we played with dolls somewhere or played hide-and-seek, or spun tops in the street. Instead, we had gotten it into our heads to play adults, and we took the roles very seriously. To appear believable, we exaggerated what looked typical in adult behavior: say, the bows, the conduct at meals, the idioms, and what not. We had even adopted some bizarre crotchets that had struck us in an uncle or an aunt. I sense that we even played at love, because we felt it was required. Naturally, I cannot claim this with any certainty, but I suspect that a few of them thought they loved each other and probably embraced and slept together at night, because they knew that that was what grownups did. It must have been a very dangerous game; because, by playing at things for which they lacked the maturity — even though, perhaps much to their own amazement, they found the necessary skill within themselves — they stunted their own growth. In fact, people generally talked too much about love, and since they therefore made it too easy for themselves, few of them really achieved it; which always provoked great sighs.