CoDex 1962

by Sjón

Marie-Sophie nailed him with her eyes:

  — Yes, you should be ashamed of yourself. Apologise and then beat it to bed …

  The boy scratched his fiery red thatch, untied his apron and moved hesitantly to the door.

  — I’m sorry, Fräulein, Frau …

  He yawned unconvincingly, shrugged his shoulders, examined his toes, turned up his nose, did his best to look chastened and directed his words at the girl and the cook in turn.

  — Don’t know what got into me, no sleep, yes, just …

  Marie-Sophie signalled to him to scram but now it was as if he were rooted to the spot: of course, he was waiting for her to uncover the tray, but she wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. She turned to the cook, who had stopped kneading and was now herself again: an overweight woman with a headache. Their eyes met and Marie-Sophie said what she had been meaning not to say ever since she set foot in the kitchen:

  — I’ll finish the baking with you, shall I?

  The cook shook her head.

  — No, dearie, I couldn’t let you do that; you haven’t had a Sunday off in ever such a long time, my goodness me, no.

  She handed the dough to the girl and trotted over to the pan cupboard from which she extracted a bottle of cooking rum and a cup without a handle. The boy was still standing by the door, staring rigidly at the cook. The grin spread over his face as she filled the cup.

  Marie-Sophie laid the dough on the table: what an idiot the boy was, why didn’t he get lost?

  She looked askance at him but her only answer was the grin now splitting his face in two, accompanied by a twitching of his shoulder towards the larder door.

  The cook raised the cup and hissed at the boy as she sipped the rum:

  — See what you’ve done to me!

  And then Marie-Sophie understood what was rooting the boy to the spot; she heard what he had heard: from inside the larder came a muttering. She hushed the cook and the good woman crossed herself. Marie-Sophie crept to the larder door and put her ear to it: there was no mistaking the sound: someone was moving around among the jars of pickled gherkins, the wursts and wine – a thief? A pregnant woman with an insatiable lust for pickled gherkins? A sausage snatcher, or a dipso who had lingered too long in Paradise and been unable to make his escape when the cook turned up to work that morning? She tiptoed to the table and picked up a rolling pin.

  — Sweet Jesus!

  The cook was near to tears over what the Lord had given her to bear that morning. Marie-Sophie put a finger to her lips, handed the boy a meat tenderiser and directed him to the kitchen door: he was to watch the exit, she would open the larder and brain the thief, and if he tried to escape through the yard door the cook would be in his path and that was one female there was no getting round.

  Marie-Sophie counted up to three in her head, took a tighter grip on the rolling pin, flung open the door and burst out laughing: a gaunt figure in a tattered rag of a coat, with a poor apology for shoes on his feet, was sprawled the length of the larder floor. Of course it wasn’t the man’s vagabond appearance that made the girl laugh but the fact that in his fall he had pulled down a string of sausages, which now encircled his head like a crown, while on his left breast a gherkin perched in place of a medal.

  He was holding a hatbox. He was my father.’

  4

  ‘Head hanging, Marie-Sophie shuffled her feet on the plump angel that was woven into the carpet of the guesthouse office.

  — When something like this happens, no one can have a day off, not you, not me, you must understand that?

  The owner was sitting behind her in a red leather-upholstered chair, mopping the sweat from his brow with a white handkerchief.

  — I’m far from happy about this, but we owe these people money. They brought the man here last night and we were forced to take him in.

  Marie-Sophie bit her lip: the owner and the Inhaberin, his wife, had stormed into the kitchen just as she was about to wet herself with laughter over the scarecrow in the larder. And now she felt as if she had actually done so.

  — I know no more about him than you do and we don’t want to know anything, remember that.

  Naturally they had gone crazy when they saw the chaos in the larder, at least that’s what Marie-Sophie had thought. The owner had dealt the boy’s cheek three cuffs from his store of blows, then shooed him out into the backyard, while the Inhaberin steered the weeping cook out into the passage and poured the rest of the cooking rum down her throat, and Marie-Sophie was ordered to tidy up the kitchen and then report to the office where “they would have a word with her”.

  After this they had stripped the thief of his regalia – the sausage crown and gherkin of honour – and between them lugged him upstairs to one of the rooms.

  Marie-Sophie had done as she was told and now the owner was, as it were, “having a word”.

  — If anything should happen – I don’t know what – we’re completely blameless, or you are anyway, I’ll see to that.

  The girl said nothing.

  — We take care of our people, you know that. And that’s why we want you to look after him.

  The owner glanced around nervously.

  — Can I offer you a barley sugar?

  Marie-Sophie sighed heavily: what was she doing here? What was the man asking of her? To look after this sausage emperor or gherkin general or whoever it was that they’d found in the kitchen? She knew nothing about nursing: he could hardly be very important if they wanted her to do it. And what was this about “if anything should happen”?

  — Or maybe you don’t have a sweet tooth? Good for you.

  The owner had risen to his feet and was pacing up and down the office, stopping short every time somebody walked past reception. He rattled on about sugar consumption and tooth-care and praised the girl to the skies for her abstinence in the sweet department.

  Marie-Sophie didn’t know what to do. Every time she meant to put her foot down and tell him that unfortunately she couldn’t take this on, it was her day off, and anyway she was bound to kill the man instead of curing him, her attention was distracted by some aspect of the room’s furnishings: the curtains of wine-red velvet, the gilded desk or the risqué painting over the bookcase. These reminders of the building’s former role somehow hampered her in finding words for her thoughts.

  She no longer knew how to say the vital “no”.

  A movement at the office door sent the owner flying into his chair; he wiped his handkerchief quickly over his bald pate and almost shouted:

  — Then I think we – I’ve covered the main points of the matter.

  The Inhaberin swept into the room, slamming the door behind her.

  — Well, I never! I didn’t know we were going to broadcast it all over town that we’re hiding a fugitive.

  The owner waved the flag of truce in his wife’s face.

  — You were ever such a long time, dearest …

  The Inhaberin stuck her nose in the air.

  — Huh, as if you had the faintest idea how long it takes to undress a full-grown man.

  Her husband converted defence into attack.

  — On the Western Front we had to—

  She turned to the girl.

  — Well, dear, he needs a bath …

  The thief, who Marie-Sophie now gathered was not a thief at all but a desperate fugitive, was awaiting his nurse in room twenty-three on the first floor of the guesthouse.

  He was sitting stark naked in a hip bath beneath the window. The curtains were drawn and in the gloom the girl made out the most pathetic figure she had ever laid eyes on: his head lolled on his breast, his arms hung lifeless to the floor and his legs knocked together at knees as swollen as bruised pomegranates.

  — So, what do you think of the creature?

  The Inhaberin pushed Marie-Sophie before her into the room and shut the door behind them.

  — It wasn’t easy to get him out of those rags, I can tell you: his drawers and socks were grafted on to h
im like a second skin.

  Marie-Sophie tried not to look at the pathetic creature in the tub: red flecks covered his back and arms, his belly was distended like that of a baby. He was shivering. The girl put her hands over her mouth: what on earth was the woman thinking of? Letting him sit bare-arsed like that in the empty bath? She grabbed the cover off the bed and wrapped it around his nakedness – that way less of him was visible too.

  — He’s all yours, then. The boy’ll bring the water. He’ll put it by the door and knock – he has no business coming in here.

  The Inhaberin clapped her hands together and turned on her heel.

  Marie-Sophie nodded and wrapped the bedcover more tightly round the poor invalid: God, he was so thin that the shoulder-blades and vertebrae jutted out of his back like wings, like the teeth of a saw. She looked at the Inhaberin, shaking her head helplessly: what were they thinking of to place this corpse in her care?

  The Inhaberin pretended not to understand the girl’s expression.

  — When you’re finished, move him in there …

  She pointed to a light spot, no bigger than the pupil of an eye, on the wallpaper above the bed.

  — In the priest’s hole?

  — I’ve put clean sheets on the bed and everything should be there. But if you need anything, ring the bell.

  Opening the door, the Inhaberin peered out into the passage, then pulled it to again when she heard someone on the stairs.

  From the passage came a monotonous stream of senile complaint: Herr Tomas Hasearsch bade the Almighty Lord to take him away from this miserable place where God-fearing souls were cheated of their gingerbread men on their day of rest. They listened to him struggling with the lock of his room; after an eternity a door was heard opening and closing.

  But now it seemed the Inhaberin was no longer in a hurry to leave.

  — I bet the old sod’s laying an ambush for me. He can sense what’s going on; after all, he grew up in this house. Do you think he shut the door properly behind him?

  The invalid sneezed.

  Marie-Sophie hugged him tighter and looked daggers at the Inhaberin: if the woman was trying by her indifference to demonstrate that she knew nothing about caring for invalids, the message had been received loud and clear.

  The Inhaberin screwed up her eyes. She surveyed the pair under the window for a long moment, then snorted:

  — You’re young; you think you know it all, but I’d keep an eye on him if I were you. He’s not as pathetic as he looks: I thought I’d never wrestle that scruffy box out of his grasp.

  She gestured with her left foot to the hatbox, which lay on the floor along with the rest of the invalid’s worldly goods: the ragged clothes and a suitcase that plainly didn’t have room for much.

  With that the Inhaberin swept out, slamming the door behind her.

  The girl Marie-Sophie stayed behind: in room twenty-three. On the first floor of the Vrieslander guesthouse. In the small town of Kükenstadt. At the mouth of the Elbe. In Lower Saxony. Alone with a half-naked man. An hour ago she had been ready to brain him with a rolling pin; now she was expected to nurse him. War raged in the world.

  Marie-Sophie rolled up her shirtsleeves, dipped her elbow in the water and poured it into the tub.

  — Right, dear, on with the washing.

  The invalid flinched: the boy had brought the water in two buckets and was dying to get into the room: a tremendous stench rose from the tub as the soap began to work on the dirt that covered the man’s skin like a parasitic fungus: she’d told the boy that the Inhaberin had forbidden it; this was no amusement show: the red flecks seemed sore, she stroked them gently with her fingertips: then the idiot boy had said he wanted to see them: she carefully soaped the swollen armpits: See what?

  — There, do you think you can stand up?

  Marie-Sophie clasped the invalid under the arms and raised him to his feet to make it easier for her to wash his chest and stomach: The kittens, of course!

  — See, you can do it.

  The invalid stood upright in the tub, his arms dangling limply at his sides: she hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry: there were small scars on his chest as if someone had stubbed out a burning finger there: did the boy really think she was drowning kittens in the best room of the guesthouse?

  — I suppose we’ll have to clean you there too!

  Marie-Sophie quickly dabbed soap on the man’s privates: Yes, if they were to be dispatched to heaven the boy thought it only natural that it should be done in decent surroundings: she looked away and blushed: In soapy water?

  — My God! Where have you been?

  She snatched back her hands: Yes, the boy imagined it would be quicker that way: the invalid’s back was so burned with faeces and urine that festering wounds emerged from under the filth: the Inhaberin had told the boy and he wanted to see how it was done: she bit her lip and continued to run the bar of soap down the man’s thighs: Did she put the kittens in a sack or did she hold them under water with her bare hands?

  — There, nearly done.

  The invalid whimpered when the girl touched a badly healed sore on one shin: she had told the boy he was an idiot: the man’s insteps were bruised and chilblained with cold: the boy had lost his temper at that: she reached out, grabbed the bucket of water, stood on tiptoe and rinsed the soap off him: then she had added that he was a darling idiot: the invalid gasped as the lukewarm water sluiced over his body: this had mollified the boy: she helped him out of the tub and dried him: and the boy had said, with an enigmatic look on his face, that she could expect a little something from him later: the invalid buckled at the knees, she wrapped the bedcover around him again and led him into the priest’s hole: she had thanked the boy and gone back into the room with the buckets of water as she had to wash the invalid.

  Despite its small size, the priest’s hole was the most luxurious room in the guesthouse. On the wall facing the bed there was a cunningly contrived trompe l’oeil window with a regal frame and curtains of the richest velvet. An Armenian rug, an Indonesian frankincense burner, carved bedroom furniture from China, hand-painted porcelain decorated with Japanese geishas, a dancing Shiva from India and a laughing brass Buddha from Siam were such a fair testament to turn-of-the-century taste that Marie-Sophie thought she had developed tunnel vision when she helped the invalid into the opulence: this embarras de richesse was to be their setting for the next few days.

  She laid the invalid in the emperor-size bed, put a nappy on him, drew the bloomer-pink eiderdown over him and arranged the embroidered silk pillows under his head.

  Lying there in that enormous bed the invalid, who had looked frail enough before, now reminded Marie-Sophie of a piece of flotsam on a storm-tossed sea.

  He was ridiculous.

  She burst into tears.’

  5

  ‘Marie-Sophie sat on a chair by the stranger’s bed: she had rearranged his luggage countless times by the wardrobe: nothing could be touched until he regained consciousness and told her what was to be hung on hangers, what should be arranged on the chest of drawers or desk and where he wanted his shaving things; in his case or by the wash basin? Some gentlemen were so particular about their things; the cook had told her that shortly after the guesthouse opened an Icelander had stayed there, who never unpacked his trunk. One morning when she brought in his breakfast and straightened the bedclothes, she had spied him rummaging around in his trunk like a pig in a rubbish heap, muttering to himself something that sounded like “findin’, findin’”. Strange man, she’d thought; is he forever reminding himself of everything he does? She pictured him going for a walk in a forest, arms outstretched, grinding out words at every step like a mill: “Out for a walk, out for a walk!”

  The girl laughed out loud at this thought and the comatose sleeper turned over in bed. She clamped her hands over her mouth and felt the blood rushing to her cheeks.

  Here I sit laughing like a goose. What will the poor man think if he’s woken by the sound o
f giggling and the first thing he sees is me, scarlet in the face and shaking with suppressed laughter?

  She swallowed her laughter and adopted a serious expression, but then she remembered the cook’s story of the muttering Icelander – “Out for a walk, out for a walk!” – and couldn’t contain her mirth. The cook had eavesdropped at the Icelander’s door to hear whether he said: “Eat, eat!” when he enjoyed his breakfast, but no, he recited a peculiar grace that seemed to have no end because in between chewing his sausage and swilling his beer he had continually apostrophised the Lord: “Gott, Gott!” At that the cook had run squealing downstairs to the others and could hardly stammer out the words to tell them about the phenomenon in room twenty-three. The following day all the guesthouse staff, including old Tomas, eavesdropped on the Icelander and had a good laugh at the man’s piety.

  Ach, those foreigners can be a caution! I can just picture his face when he opened the door and found the passage full of people either howling or crying with laughter. “Guten Tak,” he said, after studying this parcel of fools for a long moment. “Guten Tak!” And at that even the Inhaberin couldn’t hold back a smile.

  Tee, hee, “findin’, findin’, Gott, Gott”, – if only all the guests were like that Icelander.’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha!’

  ‘Later this man became a famous author.’

  ‘No, stop it at once, you’re killing me!’

  ‘Eat, eat!’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha!’

  ‘Marie-Sophie shook with silent fits of laughter, she ached all over, there was a shrill whistling in her ears, but gradually the spasms became fewer and further between and she felt the memory being shaken out of her like a fever. She dried the tears from her eyes: she was standing by the fake window.

  Have I lost my marbles or something? I’ve staggered over here in a fit of cramps without even noticing, bent double and crying at the reflection of my own face. What on earth’s the matter with me? I’ve always been a dreadful giggler – and they trust someone like me with an invalid!

  The girl exclaimed aloud at her reflection in the glass, gave a quick sniff and spun round. The invalid had lifted his shaven head from the pillow. She gasped; he examined her out of black eyes. They were brilliant with fever and seemed huge in his hollow face, enquiring: why were you laughing? She retreated from his regard and groped in the neck of her dress for an excuse.