by Sjón
— Once we had – here at the guesthouse, which is where you are by the way, at Gasthof Vrieslander, that’s to say – we had a guest, I know I mustn’t laugh at guests, the Inhaberin forbids it, but anyway he was from Iceland and there was a misunderstanding, like all jokes, you know, they laughed and laughed – Oh Lord, how are you supposed to understand when I don’t understand what I’m on about myself? – but they almost died of laughter out there in the passage, because, so, because he said “eat, eat”, that’s why I was laughing.
But she couldn’t come up with an answer.
Marie-Sophie closed her eyes in the hope that the invalid would copy her, just as long ago she used to lull her brother to sleep, but when she opened them again he had screwed up his own and enlarged the question: Am I in hell? She pressed herself against the window until the frame creaked and stared dumbly back: yes, he was in hell and she was the fool who was supposed to look after him. Was there something he’d like? Was he thirsty? Would he like a drink of vinegar? Hungry? She could ring down for some pepper mash, a stinging-nettle salad or pickled gravel. Was he hot, perhaps? She would place glowing coals at his feet. Cold? No problem, there was plenty of ice in the kitchen.
God, what on earth have I got myself mixed up in? What did they want to bring the man here for? This is no job for an out-and-out birdbrain like me!
The girl watched anxiously as the invalid ran his eyes over her body from top to toe: she was a puppet on a string; he was a puppeteer, taking her apart limb by limb in search of a flaw in the handiwork, a crack in the varnish. Were her legs well enough turned? Did he need to whittle a smidgen more from her waist? Could her elbows be better planed? And what about her cheeks, perhaps the red was a touch too hectic?
She felt inadequate.
What’s going through his mind? He’s behaving as if he owned me. He was better when he was dozing.
Marie-Sophie’s body parts hovered in mid-air above the bedstead, rotating before the invalid’s eyes, while her head loitered alone and uneasy by the window. It seemed to her that he paid particular attention to her hands: why was that?
She noticed that her right hand was clenched in a fist while the left was floating right under his nose, so she hurriedly clenched that as well to hide her nails, which were bitten to the quick. He gave a low whimper; the lines of pain around his mouth deepened and his eyes grew still larger. She started.
Oh, he’s frightened!
Hastily she opened her fists, clasped her fingers over the eiderdown and tried to smile reassuringly: it’s all right, it’s only me, Marie-Sophie, silly Marie-Sophie, it’s all right! But before she could say a word the invalid had closed his eyes again, let his head sink back on the pillow, turned to face the wall and sighed.
— Ugly, I know.
— No, it’s not that.
Marie-Sophie came to herself again where she stood by the bed, helplessly wringing her hands: now she’d hurt his feelings. What could she do? What should she say?
— You’re not ugly!
She shouted at the poor man. He gasped, screwed his eyes even tighter shut and didn’t answer: his shaven head twitched on the pillow, the eiderdown trembled and after a few panting breaths the invalid sank into a silent stupor.
* * *
THE CHILD AND THE DWARF
Once upon a time a child was travelling on a tram with its mother when a dwarf got on board and took a seat near them, attracting the child’s fascinated interest. It pointed at the dwarf and said, loud enough for him and the other passengers in the carriage to hear: Mummy, look how small that man is! Why’s that man so small? Mummy, that man’s smaller than me! He is a man, isn’t he, Mummy, isn’t he? Mummy, he’s so small, and so on. The dwarf looked around tolerantly because children will be children, and the passengers looked tolerantly back for the same reason. And since mothers will be mothers, the mother bent over her child and whispered in its ear: Shh! You mustn’t say that, we don’t say things like that, perhaps he doesn’t like being that small, no, just as you would feel if you had a big pimple on your nose, I’m sure he doesn’t want people talking about it, so let’s be nice to him and stop talking about how small he is.
The child shut up at these words, the dwarf stretched in his seat, straightening his coat on his shoulders, and the passengers nodded to the mother in recognition of her timely and successful intervention.
When the child and its mother had finished their journey, the child had yanked the bell-pull and the driver had opened the doors with a loud hiss, the child stopped by the dwarf on its way out and said in a loud voice: I think you’re big!’
* * *
‘Hee, hee!’
‘The silence thundered in the girl’s ears: a nice situation she was in! She drifted around the room, stopping by the bed every now and then and slapping her thigh in disgust.
That’s torn it, now you’ve gone and insulted a helpless man! What next?
Marie-Sophie was relieved that the invalid was asleep, or dozing, or at any rate that he was lying with his eyes closed: after her uncouth behaviour she felt she didn’t have any right to look into those big black eyes of his; that they were all he had left, the only part of him that was still alive, and a stupid girl like her should have the wit to leave them alone.
She pretended to make herself busy, drawing back the curtains and shaking them, then closing them again and shaking them some more. She arranged his belongings yet again, propping up the suitcase with the hatbox in front of it, then laying the case on its side with the box on top of it – from his luggage she couldn’t really see that there was anything that remarkable about the man. What kind of VIP was it whose only luggage was a grubby case and a hatbox? Admittedly it was odd that a man should be lugging around a box that was clearly designed for a woman’s hat – but hadn’t she herself arrived in Kükenstadt with all her worldly goods in her father’s hunting bag? And she hadn’t thought there was anything odd about that. Anyway, what had given her the idea that the invalid was remarkable? Oh, it was the way he had looked at her and taken her apart. Her soul blushed at the mere thought of it. And it was something the Inhaberin had said to her; yes, it was that he was important – she hadn’t said remarkable – and that they would come and have a word with her. The men who had brought him? But the Inhaberin had refused to say any more. Apparently it would be better for her not to know too much; her role was to keep him alive during the days he stayed with them. Days? The matter was settled!
Marie-Sophie smoothed the towel and examined herself in the mirror, tilting her head on one side and putting a hand to her cheek, smiling.
— Yes, Karl dear. You won’t get to see this maiden today – she’s looking after an important invalid…’
‘What nonsense is this about your father being important? Was he any more remarkable than other fathers?’
‘Shh, all will be revealed—’
‘I hope so, or I’ll begin to suspect you of exaggerating.’
‘All in good time, I mustn’t lose the thread, don’t interrupt…’
‘I’ll interrupt when I want explanations or have a comment to make. I’m your best critic, as you’re well aware.’
‘Marie-Sophie was about to sit down by the invalid’s bed when she heard someone entering room twenty-three.
She crept to the door and listened to find out who it was: the owner, and he wasn’t alone. She opened the door a crack and peered out.
— There you are!
The owner looked apologetically at the two men who were standing on either side of him, while they looked enquiringly at the girl.
— I can never remember where the entrance is to this – this den of iniquity …
Marie-Sophie had seen the two men before; they generally came in the evenings and drank coffee in the dining room. The owner used to join them and they would talk in low voices, sometimes till dawn or until he got drunk and the Inhaberin bore him off to bed.
— Would you mind having a word with these gentlemen, Maj
a dear?
Marie-Sophie raised her brows. Well, I never: Maja dear! The owner wasn’t in the habit of calling her Maja, no one called her Maja, nor did she want them to. But it was clear he was all of a jitter so she’d better do as he asked.
The owner introduced the girl to the two men and explained that they wanted to ask her some questions about the visitor. She needn’t be afraid; they had brought the man here. One of them asked her whether the man had said or done anything she thought they ought to know about.
Marie-Sophie thought hard but couldn’t remember a thing. It seemed to her only natural that the man should mutter in his sleep, and it was none of their business that he had dismantled her.
No, nothing had happened that was worth repeating.
Then they said they had heard voices when they came into the room, how did she account for that?
The girl blushed to her toes: oh no, did they have to ask her about that? Now she would have to tell them that she had been talking to herself, how embarrassing. The two men pressed her for an answer and she confessed to chattering to herself, adding that she didn’t have much else to do, left alone with a mute like that. Might she perhaps be allowed to pop up to her room for a book? She was afraid that otherwise the loneliness would drive her round the bend.
No, out of the question; the two men said that waking or sleeping she must keep an eye on the man. Reading books would only distract her attention from the finer points of his behaviour.
Sleeping? The gentlemen weren’t asking much. Marie-Sophie had the impression that they hadn’t a clue what they were asking her to do, or what they expected the invalid to get up to. Anyway, as if someone in as much pain as he was would have any tricks up his sleeve.
She asked if there was anything in particular they wanted her to watch out for? What if he used sign language? Should she perhaps peer under the bedclothes every now and then and try to read his hands? And what was to be done when she had to spend a penny – she was only human, after all – what if something interesting happened then?
Marie-Sophie pictured the invalid running round the priest’s hole with his finger in the air, following the skirting board, moving up the walls and ceiling, and muttering to himself reams of incomprehensible mumbo-jumbo.
The two men listened patiently to the girl’s ramblings, and in response to her last point asked the owner to see to it that she was given a chamber-pot for her use.
With that they took their leave of her, and the owner threw up his hands and followed them out like an obedient dog.
Marie-Sophie slammed the door of the secret compartment and plumped down at the dressing table: this got better and better! As if it wasn’t bad enough that she had to change the nappy of this stranger who lay there in bed as lively as a washed-up jellyfish, now she had to do her business in front of him as well!
The girl glanced round for some place where she could use the potty in private: leaning against the wall was a handsomely carved wooden screen.
She stood up, unfolded the screen and propped it against the bedstead with the decorated side facing the wall; it depicted Japanese women bathing in a pool, spied upon by greybeards.
— Better not give him any ideas, seeing as they believe him capable of anything …
If Marie-Sophie stood on tiptoe she could see the invalid over the top; squatting, she could see him through the joins, so there was no longer any danger of his leaping out of bed, talking some outlandish gobbledegook and behaving in an otherwise sensational manner without her witnessing the whole thing.’
6
‘When seized with impatience, women – fictional constructs of the female variety, that is – often stalk over to the nearest window and stare out. Usually it’s the kitchen window, demonstrating that they are oppressed housewives, or alternatively the drawing-room window, indicating that the woman is a prisoner in a smart mansion in the best part of town.
As the woman examines the familiar view – dreary grey apartment blocks in the former case, the bright lights of the city in the latter – the thoughts that pass through her head are initially incoherent, aimless and connected primarily to what keeps them immured within the four walls of home. But as the interior monologue progresses, her thoughts become clearer. The woman manages to put two and two together, for instance placing an equals sign between what she wears and her husband’s penis, which she is required to admire at night with adjectives from his own mouth.’
‘Rubbish!’
‘In the end, the awareness of her miserable lot condenses in her consciousness, like the menstrual blood in her lap, until it bursts out in a primal scream: I want to be free! I want to know my body and own it myself. I want to live for myself and nobody else. I want the freedom to …
Yes, a series of visions follows in the wake of her declaration of independence, based on the noun “will”, the verb “to want”. The woman pictures herself in situations that are in reality symbols of her desire for freedom and consequently as varied as the women themselves. The woman’s level of education and self-realisation are also bound to influence this dream vision, this Holy Grail that she will dedicate her life to seeking from now on.
FREEDOM!
Isn’t it interesting how oppressed minorities invariably conclude their intellectual analysis of their situation with this same cry: freedom?’
‘No! Get on with the story.’
‘May I remind you that you are not sufficiently well versed in the history of narrative to start getting uppity. The fact that I’m introducing you to the basics of feminist thinking on narrative at this point is not irrelevant; I’m doing it so you’ll understand the singularity of my mother Marie-Sophie’s position in literature. She lived before the age of feminism and this will influence her behaviour in the story that is to follow.’
‘If you ever get round to it.’
‘I’ve sometimes wondered whether the naivety of those who go forth into the world to regain their freedom – note that I say regain, thus assuming that mankind is born free – is a consequence of that primal scream passing through their minds, hearts and right down to their colons, purging them of all impurities, all corruption. And whether the strength of these sword-girt fools lies not least in the fact that they will chop down their oppressor before he can choke to death on his last gale of laughter. Because what could be funnier than a fool fighting for her life?’
‘An intelligent person letting a fool bore her to death!’
‘Anyway, it was only after my attention was drawn to the detail about women and windows that I caught myself walking over to the nearest window when I was feeling churned up inside, and all I could think of was the analogy in those feminist books – because I, of course, am neither a fictional construct nor a woman…’
‘Or so you think!’
* * *
‘Marie-Sophie stood by the fake window in the priest’s hole, prattling away to the invalid. He was asleep but she had decided to act as if he were awake. She didn’t know whether he was aware of her presence: if he sensed her there it would surely be more entertaining for him if she showed some sign of life, behaved less like a female mourner at his deathbed and more like a dizzy girl who plucked amusing facts from existence – perhaps then he would want to live?
She pretended to look out of the window: the canvas, which was strung across as a fake backdrop to the glass, depicted a faded Paris street scene. The painter had managed to cram in everything that a straitened cleric in a small north German town would imagine as la vie Parisienne. There was the Seine, the coquettish demoiselles, the lanterns in the trees, libertines with unshaven chins, doves canoodling under the tables of pavement cafés, dandies with moustache and vanity cane, illuminated signs inviting people to come and peep under the skirts of the neighbour’s daughter, the Eiffel Tower looming tall and erect in the distance. But Marie-Sophie had no interest in this impoverished dream: she looked through the painting, across the room on the other side of the wall and out through a gap between th
e curtains …
— What can you see?
Marie-Sophie spun round. No, the invalid hadn’t spoken; she had been thinking aloud. But what could she see? She might as well tell him; although he was asleep she could speak for them both. What else did she have to do? So she leaned against the window and pretended to look out:
— You’re in the town of Kükenstadt, which is situated on the banks of a large river and has a wharf for the barges that transport cargo down to the big port. Not many travellers pass through the town, most continue straight down the autobahn to the city, yet in spite of this you can always meet a handful of strangers in the square. As a rule these are tourists, that breed that wanders the world with the sole purpose of comparing it to life at home.
If they come here at all it’s to see the altarpiece in the modest church by the square. This piece, which is the size of a man’s hand, shows the Passion of Christ, and in addition to being one of the smallest of its kind in the world, according to the three lines devoted to the town in the tourists’ travel-bibles, the painter’s perspective is considered somewhat out of the ordinary as well, for the cross is viewed from the back and the only glimpse of Christ himself is of elbows and knees. The fact that the artist, whose identity no two people can agree on, didn’t widen the cross by the trifling amount necessary to hide the Saviour completely – thereby sparing himself the persistent slander that he couldn’t paint people – is precisely what makes our altarpiece such an ideal subject for controversy.
After the tourists have stood a good while before the altar, bickering over the merits of this palm-size icon, in muted tones of course, they emerge into the open air and shake off the solemnity that reigns even in the little church here in Kükenstadt, by poking gentle fun at that matchless work of art, the chick, which greets them in the square: naturally it is not the custom where they live to waste expensive stone on sculpting such humble little creatures.
