An Offering for the Dead

by Hans Erich Nossack

  "They must have been corpses," I replied.

  He heaved a sigh of satisfaction. "Yes, that is my opinion too. But why were they frightened, those stupid creatures? It used to be the other way around: the living were scared of the dead. But these people seemed to be shouting: Help! Here comes a living person! And why was no one guarding them? We were always told that there was a vicious dog and a ferryman. What terrible lies they always told us, even about such things, yet it would not have been necessary. But no matter, we cannot get a woman from there. And if they were really dead, what am I to do with a dead woman?" He spit again. Whatever had become of his good manners.

  I got to my feet. He too instantly leaped up. "Where are you going?" he cried. I am not saying that he clung to me, but he practically did.

  "Stay seated here and watch me," I calmed him down. "I am only going over there. The wall looks steeper and drier there. Perhaps the clay is exactly right for shaping a woman out of it."

  "For me?"

  "Yes, for you." Then I walked around the pond and tested the other wall to see whether the mass could be kneaded. It went fairly well, and I got to work on the spot. I wanted to mold the woman out of the wall. But I was soon so deeply immersed that I would have forgotten all about my friend if he had not drawn my attention by calling to me. "Well, how is it going?" he shouted from behind me. "Will it work?" But I did not reply. I was perspiring from the strain. I wanted to do as good a job as possible.

  Actually, he talked the whole time. And no sooner were the first outlines of a Woman visible in the wall than he began to criticize me. "Do hot make her too big," he admonished me. "Otherwise, she Will thrash us soundly. Do not make her legs too short, I cannot stand short legs. Is she going to be blonde or dark? No matter; in any event, go all the way, you might as well make her young and pretty. What should we do with an ugly woman? We have enough of them as it is. Hey, look, her breasts have to be further up." But I ignored him and did what I could.

  Then words of appreciation also came from his lips.

  "Damn it, you do have the knack. Something is coming of it. She is damn attractive. Do you have some model in mind? Forget it, I do not want to know."

  But I stuck to my purpose. I kept molding the woman indefatigably.

  All at once, he stood at my side. I was so startled that I nearly botched up my work. There was something nasty in his voice. "Tell me, my friend, for whom are you making her?" "For you," I answered.

  "So, for me? Ah, how selfless!" he jeered. "And what do you intend to do? Have you saved something better for yourself? You do not mean to tell me that you are going to leave me this woman and go empty-handed yourself?"

  I thought it best to let him speak his piece without my replying. "I have been watching you, my friend," he went on in the same tone. "How you felt her up! Were you thinking of me? Do you believe that this creature will ever forget how you molded her breasts and thighs? Oh, you people! At times, you cannot even count up to three, but you succeed in something like this, of all things. It comes so easily to you people. You know very well that she will run after you like a puppy. These creatures cannot get away from their creator."

  "That is not true," I cried out, becoming indignant myself. "On the contrary, they hate him because he did not make them perfect and he knows their flaws."

  "But it sounds good: I am making this for you," he kept talking, unfazed. "Thanks, but no thanks! Being dependent on your generosity in this respect does not appeal to me." Turning his back on me, he walked to the other side of the pond. He was truly like an obstinate child.

  The woman was completed. That is, she still had to be separated from the wall, to which she was attached through her spine. But that would have been easy to do. Before going about it, I wanted to check my work once again from a distance. That was why I followed my friend.

  "Do be reasonable," I told him. "She is not even alive." That placated him a bit. "Yes, it is ridiculous fighting over a lump of clay," he conceded. "Du you think that she will come alive?"

  "It is not impossible. We have to wait and see." The two of us sat down in our old places and looked over at the woman. He kept talking uninterruptedly. I did not care to tell him that it would be better to wait in silence. He would again have suspected something to his detriment.

  First he resumed praising the woman, and in rather uncouth words at that. He wanted to hide the fact that he was beginning to like her. Then he racked his brain trying to figure out what to dress her in. "With our rags perhaps?" This brought him back to our appearance. "We are nothing to write home about. I would not be surprised if she rejected both of us. On the contrary, my compliments! What could such ragamuffins offer her." Eventually, he suggested that we should let her choose, and that the rejected one should give his word of honor that he would disappear forever. "He can join the dead. It may not be so bad there, and they are not so far away. As regards me, you know that I always keep my word. Not out of noble-mindedness — this would not get us very far. But for reasons of common sense. After what has happened, it makes no sense fighting over a woman. So, how about it? Why are you reddening?"

  I had not been listening, I had been gazing silently at the figure the whole time. It was only this last question that caught my attention. You see, while he was talking, it had looked to me as if the woman were beginning to come alive. Soon I believed I noticed a twitching in her legs, as if she were trying to lift her foot from the ground. Then again, it was as if her chest and belly were rising and she were breathing. One need only have called her by a name, and she would have started walking towards us.

  Above all, however, she seemed to be turning rosy. I rubbed my eyes, and to make sure I was not mistaken, I glanced behind me and above me to see whether the fog had retreated and whether the sun was coming through. But we were surrounded by the same colorless monotony as before.

  Thus when I heard the question, "Why are you reddening?" I knew that the rosy glow was emanating from the woman. "Keep quiet and look!" I hissed at my friend.

  He looked too; but, unexpectedly, he began laughing cruelly. It was like a murder. The glow instantly vanished.

  "You did not make her a navel," he shouted, leaping up. And before I could stop him, he ran over to her.

  "How can she have a navel if she was not born of a mother," I called out, chasing after him. But he was faster, and it was already too late. I was only halfway there, then the horrible thing happened.

  He stood facing her, stretching out his forefinger to drill a navel into her belly. "Run away!" I shouted, but he was no longer listening. The woman took a step towards him. It looked as if he were pulling her towards him on his forefinger. Then she leaned over him very gradually and with soft movements, first out of tenderness and then as if she were unconscious. The last thing I saw of my friend was the way his hands braced against her, trying to fend her off But her body fell on top of him, pulling along the entire wall, from which it was not yet detached.

  Thus, he was buried.

  I did not yet see that the collapse of the wall had created a way out, which would lead to the people, among whom I am now standing. I could not see it because my eyes were confused. I can therefore report no details. Perhaps it is very shameful and ought to remain concealed, so that I need not blush about it in a lonely hour and my weakness need not arouse my false anger.

  It may be that I threw myself into the pit and grubbed about in the soft earth in order to dig out my friend. It may be that tears of fright dripped from my closed eyes. And that this ground, on which, standing erect, I was used to measuring my size, yielded beneath me inexorably. Yes, I must have fallen into timelessness. As if the strings on which a puppet moved had all ripped. Nothing was left and there was nothing solid for me to grab hold of. I searched for something familiar that I could join, while simultaneously hoping I would not find it. In the twinkling of an eye, I had definitively sunk away from my past. All the houses, the cities, the countries that I had ever experienced were blasted to not
hingness by the whirlwind of my plunge. The earth was merely a nebula through which I fell. I sank more swiftly. The millennia whirled past me like shreds of clouds. Faster and faster. I wanted to scream, yes. I was filled to bursting with a scream. But there was no air for me to utter the scream. I would probably have burst with pain if I had not been finally caught by a gentle unconsciousness that released me from the pain. All I could say was: "I am lost."

  But it may also be that I only said this to that woman in whose room I was, who gazed at me from the mirror, and in whose eyes I had to experience all this. I would then have almost been forced to keep talking in an old-fashioned style, the way storytellers used to talk. "And he knelt down before her and buried his countenance in her lap. But she ..." She must have done what any woman would do if something like that happened to her. Such sentences arouse the delight of young people, because they believe that this is what life is all about, and they hope that they too will someday act like that.

  Surely I did not kneel down. Yet something similar to what the storytellers mean to say must have occurred. However, be that as it may, a man in shock does not act according to the customs of his time.

  At this point, I might pause in my account in order to collect my thoughts, and a few minutes of silence would ensue. My friend (naturally, I mean the one who is gazing at the great nebula of Orion and who was at first very reluctant to listen to me); this — friend would sit down somewhat differently and clear his throat.

  "This is a love story," he would say. And since I have probably forgotten all about him during my story, I would not be able to respond instantly to this sudden cry from the darkness. That is why he would repeat: "It is quite simply a love story. And indeed, why not."

  "Why a love story?" I would then naturally pull myself together. "Because it happens to include a woman? Or why else?"

  "Because you anxiously avoid describing her."

  "I cannot describe her. I have explained that often enough." "You cannot, that is precisely it. Yet she exists."

  "You have to express yourself more clearly."

  "You do not have to feel offended."

  "I am not offended, but I do not understand you."

  "The matter is quite simple," my friend would then try to explain to me. "I too once overly prided myself on the statement: I have experienced nothing but myself. In other words: All things and events have no validity whatsoever for me, I am interested only in their effect on me. One day, we are taught that this is a highly unjust outlook, and that other things also have a life of their own, which eludes our perception. The result, of course, is a shock. One is driven from one's fancied center. One no longer dares to say: This is such and such. One grows taciturn. One can only marvel and look. And you yourself know that looking is a suffering, or, for all I care, an experience."

  "But why a love story?" I ask in amazement.

  "What else should I call it?"

  "You could just as well say that I was talking about a woman if I tried to describe a landscape. There are hills and gentle dales in both, and forests, for example, are called the hair of mountains."

  "It depends on what prompted it," my friend would continue. "With me, it was not, as you may think, Orion or a nebula; it was a very plain birch that stood in the meadow. How shall I explain it to you? This is precisely the point at which, fortunately, explanations stop. I had the feeling she was watching me. She was thinking something. She may even have been singing. Except that I have no ear for it. Granted, even now, I say: This is a birch. Some kind of word is necessary as a token of exchange. But it is different from before. Perhaps it could also be called a love story in my case. But with you, a woman is the cause, and, after all, we are accustomed to this label."

  However, this would not satisfy me. I would object: "Just look around. Look at how thoroughly the world has been destroyed and how wretchedly we live. And you maintain that I am telling you a love story?"

  "It depends on the shock," he would reply. "Everyone suffers whatever a thing suffers. The waves continue and are hurled back. We know that from physics. However, I see that I really should not have interrupted you. Please go on. Tell me what happened with your mother; for that is the issue most likely. When did you go to her?"

  "Right now."

  "What do you mean, right now? I thought you were now with that woman?"

  "Yes, that is so."

  "Well?"

  "I do not understand your question?"

  "I asked: When did you go to your mother?"

  "Now and then."

  "Listen. I realize you cannot tell me everything. Nor is it necessary. Still you cannot tell me that in the situation in which the two of you are, you can go to your mother now and then."

  "Why not?"

  "You cannot simply say to her: Wait a moment. I will be right back. I only have to settle the matter with my mother."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I doubt whether any woman would agree to that."

  "But this woman says: Go ahead."

  "Ah?"

  "For perhaps she sets some store by it herself "

  "Ah?"

  "And perhaps it is not possible without her."

  "Ah?"

  "And perhaps it is not a love story after all," I would, in conclusion, not be able to refrain from retorting to those three incredible "Ah"s. For he may have a better inkling of a birch than I, and in regard to the constellations, he probably knows many things that are unfamiliar to me. But as far as the love story goes, it would probably be better if I asked not him, but the woman I mentioned at the beginning of this account — I mean the woman on the edge of whose bed I would be sitting in order to tell her this. I admit it is hard to sort all this out. I by no means succeed in doing it myself. It makes very little difference whether I sit on the edge of the bed or sleep in the bed, and, being so close to her, I would not be a mystery for any woman. So is it not more or less all the same from where the smile comes that is mirrored in my words for the first time?

  All these things shun the harsh words that hostilely separate them. Their ultimate nakedness is shielded from exposure by the tender glow of a pearl that envelops them. But the all-colored ocean mutely surges all around.

  Yes, at some point in eternity, I went to my mother. My brother, as he was ordered to do, set out with me. We traveled for a very long time. We sailed across the ocean. We kept heading in the direction that used to be known as north. But it did not turn cold, as we had always heard. It only became stiller and lonelier.

  Eventually, we landed in a gentle bay. It was evening, no wind was blowing. "We have to get out here," said my brother, "it is the last place." We went ashore. The place consisted of eight or ten cabins made of solid tree trunks and with shutters on the small windows, which were all closed. Not a soul was living there. Perhaps fishermen came in other seasons or travelers heading for the interior, or such people as my brother and I.

  "We have to spend the night here," said my brother. We walked all the way to the last cabin; removing the key from under the stone threshold, he unlocked the door. "Tomorrow morning, you have to continue in that direction. You cannot get lost. I have to turn back. I can accompany you only this far. But we will spend this night together."

  I heard what he said. I tried to look in the direction in which he pointed, but it had already grown too dark. I could barely glimpse a range of hills in the distance. Beyond them there was a very faint strip of blue light. Nothing more. There were no stars in the sky. I listened. It was so quiet that one could have felt the beating of an owl's wings as noise. But there was nothing to hear.

  "Why are you not coming?" my brother called from inside the cabin, and I followed him. He had meanwhile lit a kerosene lamp, which hung over a table in the corner. The ceiling of the room was very low, one could fear banging one's head against the beam. Shelves were attached all around, with tin boxes and bottles arranged on them very neatly. Naturally, there was also a stove. Otherwise, there were few furnishings: aside
from the table and the benches along the wall, two large crates and a small closet. And then two beds, in bunk form, as is normal in such cabins.

  "I want to fix us some pancakes," said my brother. "We are hungry from the long voyage." He started a fire in the stove. Flour turned up, also a pot containing eggs, and a bottle of oil. My brother duly stirred it all together. I was surprised.

  "You must have been here before?" I asked.

  "Certainly," he answered, pouring the batter into the pan that had been hanging on the wall next to the stove. I asked no further questions. "You will find knives and forks in the table drawer. Set the table while I fry," he instructed me. "Also, get the two old tin cups from the shelf. Wipe them with your handkerchief. will boil some tea. Perhaps there is some rum here. The bottle is over there. Smell it to make sure it is not kerosene. Yes, it is rum. It will do us good."

  He put the pan with the pancakes on the table after spreading an old newspaper underneath. "We do not have to bother with plates. We can eat straight from the pan. That will give us less to clean up."

  "Women probably do not come here?" I asked.

  "No, I do not think so," he replied. "By the way, the flour has grown a bit moldy. It is not my fault."

  "It tastes wonderful," I praised him, and he seemed glad. We ate it all up. By now, the water was already boiling; he brewed the tea, and poured it into the tin cups. He added a solid shot of rum. It made us cozily warm. But we did not talk much.

  "There is also a can of tobacco and an old pipe if you want to smoke. In the meantime, I will make the beds," he said.

  Opening the crates, he pulled out woolen blankets. I walked around the room, smoking. A few yellowed pictures from magazines hung on the walls. A sailboat; a woman in a dress with a plunging neckline; a city with gigantic buildings and a tremendous suspension bridge. There was also a photograph of two children hanging there; they were wearing dresses with lace panties peeping out underneath. I inspected everything.