by Sjón
More often than not, the tourists find the chick so hilarious that all the joking gives them a thirst and they appear, breathless with laughter, in the dining room downstairs. There they drain their beer, wink at one another and shake their heads in delighted wonder at having finally found people even odder in their habits than those who await them at home. But will you hark at me, prattling on about visitors? You’re one yourself and it would make more sense for me to tell you about all the other stuff. Would you like that?
Deciding that the invalid wanted to hear more, Marie-Sophie went on:
— It’s Sunday and the sun is shining, small clouds are floating on the horizon, the breeze is stirring the flag over the town hall: a yellow pennant bearing a red two-headed bird, a chick that has been lent an imperial cast, while in its claws – they are called claws, aren’t they, on chicks? – it holds an onion flower and a spray of hops. Those versed in heraldry know how to interpret this.
Anyway, men and women are promenading around the square with children in prams or milling around their legs, then there are those who are on the lookout for someone to take future Sunday promenades with, and finally those who have promenaded through so many Sundays that now they are content to sit about on benches all day.
As you can hear, this is a terribly ordinary square in a little town near the North Sea, a pocket version of the squares you find further south on the Continent – not that I’m suggesting it’s a direct copy of those …
— No, only an idiot would go to the trouble of planning a town square …
Marie-Sophie imagined the invalid’s voice as deep and strong, rather than wounded and weak like its owner.
— … they come into being of their own accord. Roads meet, houses come face to face with other houses, and one day when people step out of their front doors they find themselves standing in a square …
— Yes, and you must have seen for yourself that our square is just as you described; something that came into being without anyone’s attention or interference. Oh, what am I saying? What can you have seen? You only got here last night, under cover of darkness.
Now it’s day and the sunlight flashes off the golden boot over the cobbler’s, the golden pretzel over the baker’s and the gilded cutlet over the butcher’s. I’ve always found this last one rather ridiculous, but the butcher clearly got swept along with the rest when those pots of gold paint turned up at the grocer’s …
— So people gild their existence here?
— Yes, it became an obsession; the grocer’s, for example, is more like a temple than a corner shop. The owner got saddled with the leftover paint and used it up by decorating the shop inside and out, and I gather that his home is equally dazzling. By the way, the story is that the owner was sent off on the train with all the rest, and the man who took over the shop and flat was the son of the town’s Party chairman – but not many people shop there any more, though almost everything under the sun can be found in the countless boxes and shelves that line the walls. For one thing, the old owner knew exactly where to lay his hand on everything – every snip, every nub was in its place in an equivalent box or jar in his head – and, for another, no request ever caught him out. “Butterfly wings…” He would mutter the brand-name several times under his breath before abruptly falling silent, and then it was as if you could hear a compartment opening under his skull-cap; and in the twinkling of an eye he would have swarmed like a monkey up the ladder that slid along a rail round the shop and somewhere up by the ceiling he would open a tiny cupboard, then hurtle back down to the floor, where he would lay the object on the counter and begin slowly and meticulously to wrap it up. Ordinarily you never saw him move faster than a snail on its way across an infinite lawn, but it was as if the flurry and pounce in search of the required item were motivated by a terrible fear that he would fail to find the blackbird’s eyes, child’s rattle from Prague, or whatever it was the customer wanted, before the cupboard door slammed shut again – for the last time – in some recess of his mind and with that all these priceless objects would be lost in oblivion.
— Which is where he took them when he was put on the train …
— Ye-es …
Marie-Sophie sighed and fiddled with her nose as if waiting for the invalid to continue. They both remained silent for a while, then he mumbled and she jumped, remembering that she was his voice too.
— So today there’s no one left in Kükenstadt selling spare parts for Creation?
— No, the son of the Party chairman can’t for the life of him remember where a single item is kept in the shop; he’s insensitive to the smaller things in life – he worked in tank manufacturing before …
The figure in the bed groaned. The girl bit her lip: goodness, how boring she could be. Before she knew it she had begun harping on about the miserable side of life. She had meant to amuse the invalid with funny stories about Kükenstadt, but now here she was, standing over him, complaining that life in the town had taken a turn for the worse since war broke out.
She sat on the side of the bed, smoothing the eiderdown over her afflicted roommate: her patient, yes, she permitted herself to call him that, though she had no claim on him and would much rather be somewhere else: at the café between the barber’s and the bakery – Café Berserk – which, in spite of its splendid name, was more commonly known as “the Barbary”. Her boyfriend, Karl Maus, was probably sitting there at this very moment, looking sulky after the servant boy had brought him the message that she, his girlfriend, would not be able to meet him today. And of course it wouldn’t help that he’d had to pay the cost of a beer for the bad news: “People should understand that there’s a price list,” as the boy used to say. Which meant he had been rewarded twice for his pains, because she herself had paid him with a kiss on the cheek. That boy would make something of himself one day, though he was still a bit gormless, so spotty, scruffy and randy, but with the exception of himself God alone knew how rich he was in the equivalent of glasses of beer. On high days and holidays he ran errands for every Tom, Dick and Harry in town; no matter what the job, the price was fixed: everyone paid the same – except her.
Karl had once lost his temper when he saw her kiss the boy for ironing the kitchen linen. It was Christmas and she had wanted to get off early so she could go out on the town with her Karl: they were going to buy each other presents.
“How can you kiss that little twerp?” he’d asked as they sat on a bench in the zoo – so called by the town council because a handful of farm animals from the neighbouring countryside languished there in pens, allowing small children to feed them stinging nettles and gravel. She had answered Karl that no doubt she would one day employ caresses to cajole him into doing the household chores, if this war ever ended and if they, well, if they …
— Then I kissed his scarlet face in front of the children skating on the duck pond, and since then he hasn’t said another word about my dealings with the boy.
Marie-Sophie gazed bleakly at a shaft of sunlight that was piercing the peephole in the priest’s hole and flickering on the invalid’s eyes. He grimaced and tried in vain to shift away from the light. She stood up, went over to the hole and peered out through it while loosening the white ribbon that confined her hair in a ponytail: the brightness stung her gloom-accustomed eye, the pupil contracted in her blue iris and a tear sprang out of the corner. She dried her cheek with the ribbon, then plugged the hole with it and turned away.
— But the war goes on. Karl and I still sit in the park on my days off, though one night long ago all the animals were stolen, and eaten, of course; now there are no beasts left except the crows quarrelling in the trees, and us, and it doesn’t occur to anyone to call it a zoo…’
‘Now she’s going on about sad things again…’
‘It’s the times.’
‘Hold me.’
‘All right…’
‘The world went black before Marie-Sophie’s eyes: her account of the zoo’s fate had made her s
o unhappy that a lump the size of a twelve-week-old foetus formed in her throat and seemed about to choke her. The pain spread through every nerve, her senses grew raw; the dim lamp on the chest of drawers cast an unbearable glare about the little compartment; the smell of carbolic soap from the invalid hit her like a gust of wind.’
‘All because of a few animals?’
‘No, the animals’ disappearance from the park had made my mother realise that she’d been ignoring the war raging in the outside world; by concentrating on her daily chores and following the same routine on her days off she had managed to keep the world as it was. And because everyone she knew did the same, it wasn’t until she described the atmosphere in the town to my father that she realised the war was more than merely news of heroic victories in the lands of inferior races who had been impertinent to her countrymen; it had also had a deleterious effect on life in Kükenstadt.’
‘You mean that people don’t understand their destinies until they can talk about them or picture them?’
‘Yes, even Adam and Eve were content for the first few years after they were expelled from Paradise – they didn’t realise what their punishment was for the theft of the apple. It took young Cain to open their eyes to the fact that the human race had been deprived of its immortality.
And this uncomfortable fact gave rise to a new word: death.’
‘Marie-Sophie was roused from her gloom by a tap on the door.
Outside stood the cook wearing a secretive expression and holding a tray of steaming food.
— Well then, here I am …
She winked at Marie-Sophie and pushed the tray at her, but when the girl went to relieve her of it, the cook tightened her hold and jutted her chin.
— Aren’t you going to invite me in?
Marie-Sophie squeezed quickly out of the room and shut the door behind her. The cook recoiled, goggling.
— Well, I never!
She thrust out her bosom and snorted.
— I was ordered by the proprietors of this guesthouse to take a meal to our new guest and now you’re denying me entry. When I’m ordered to deliver something, in this instance hot food, soup, bread and boiled cabbage with slices of sausage, it is my custom to place the tray on the table and ask the person concerned, in the civil tone that is second nature to me after my long experience of serving and catering, whether he or she requires anything else, after which I leave, and that and no more was my intention on the present occasion.
She let go of the tray with one hand, rolled her eyes heavenwards, slapped her brow and cried:
— What have I done to deserve this?
Marie-Sophie sprang into action, grabbing the tray before the food slid off: she had to butter the cook up or the woman would go straight down to see the owner and pour out her life-story to him, though he was sick and tired of this tale, which invariably began with the words: “I hadn’t turned three when I baked my first loaf, up till then I had only been entrusted with the kneading…” And ended on these: “… and when I was sacked from Bayreuth for sleeping with the Icelandic tenor Gardar Hólm – did I say sleep? No, they said that (Siegfried himself had got involved by then), which was a pack of lies – I swore I’d never let anyone walk all over me again, no, and certainly not a mere slip of a girl who wasn’t even born when I was working for the Wagner family and the finest voices of the century used to sing the praises of my cooking. No, I shouldn’t have to put up with this, not at the Gasthof Vrieslander, which is the lowest-class establishment I’ve ever worked for, and you know it!” After the cook’s grand finale the owner usually lost his temper and vented his fury on some poor scapegoat with a tirade of abuse.
Marie-Sophie was afraid he would order her to go and shovel coke and entrust the cook, or goodness knows who else, with the task of nursing the invalid, which was unthinkable.
— Oh, it’s all so strange …
The girl set down the tray, then put an arm round the cook’s shoulders and made her sit down on the bed in room twenty-three.
— It’s strange for all of us; I don’t know what to make of it myself. Sitting there all day long, keeping watch over something that’s nothing and yet so dreadfully mysterious …
The cook gave her an understanding look and patted her thigh.
— We were just discussing in the kitchen whether you were up to the job, and opinions were divided. Of course, we’re not sure what it is that you’ve been entrusted with, but the waiter thinks it’s hardly decent to make you do it – you’re so young and so, you know, alone with a strange man, eh?
The cook shot a glance at Marie-Sophie’s ample bosom.
— Is there anything in what he says? I mean, that room you’re in, you know what I …
Marie-Sophie flushed dark red: how dare the cook imagine that she was servicing the invalid. Not only had the woman seen him with her own eyes in the kitchen that morning, and you would have to be physically and mentally deranged to mistake the puny wreck that had toppled headlong out of the larder door for some lust-crazed Don Juan – but she should know that Marie-Sophie was a respectable girl.
— You’re blushing! You’re not answering. It’s all right, you can rest assured that we’re not going to rush out and spread it around town. They made us promise not to mention it to a soul that he’s here, and we’re on no account to let the other guests sense that there’s a commotion in the house. Well, I did tell old Tomas, but he’s one of us after all, and no one listens to his nonsense …
Marie-Sophie didn’t reply. What were the owner and Inhaberin thinking of? The cook and the geriatric next door had the biggest mouths in Kükenstadt; no human frailty lay outside their scope and they were as happy to spread scandal about the magistrate’s financial embarrassment as the vicar’s wife’s constipation. Tomas looked on gossip as his duty because he was writing a history of Kükenstadt, while the cook was on a vain crusade to uphold moral standards in the town.
But now it was guaranteed that everyone, whether they cared to or not, would hear about the lewd goings-on in the priest’s hole at Gasthof Vrieslander.
— Anyway, I haven’t got time for this …
The cook pretended to be on the point of leaving but didn’t budge an inch, in the hope that the awkward silence would reward her with news. After they had sat without speaking for a while, the cook got up from the bed.
— The boy’ll come and fetch the tray later – I’ve got to pop into town – don’t hesitate to report the man if he tries it on …
She patted Marie-Sophie on the cheek.
— You let me know if there’s a problem. We’re right behind you. You do think it’ll be all right, don’t you?
Then off she went without waiting for a reply.’
7
‘Marie-Sophie was feeling dull in the head from the monotony of the day and from being entrusted with something – she didn’t know exactly what, but it was clearly of great importance and only she could do it, namely to sit shut up in a darkened room on a sunny Sunday with a sleeping stranger.
She picked at her food and sipped the blackberry juice; she was famished but didn’t like to shovel her meal down in front of the skeleton in the bed. The invalid wouldn’t touch his food; he hadn’t even reacted when she brought in the steaming tray and tried unsuccessfully to wake him by waving the appetising sausage under his nose.
— What kind of man who’s desperately in need of a square meal would turn his nose up at a fat pork sausage?
The girl stole a quick glance at the invalid; from under the eiderdown came a series of loud rumblings. She shook her head in bewilderment.
— And then his guts yowl like thirteen thousand wild cats in a trap.
What could she do to restore his appetite? Perhaps he’d prefer to eat alone. That was common among eccentrics, and as far as she could tell he was not quite like other people. Perhaps that was why she was looking after him; perhaps that was what made him special. Yes, she was nursing him for the two men who apparently thought t
he world of eccentrics and laid a heavy burden upon themselves, or rather upon others, so that a rare shoot should be allowed to thrive instead of withering and dying at the hands of wicked men. And the reason she had to observe and memorise whatever he might say was naturally because rare shoots grow up to bear wondrous blooms and strange fruit.
It was lucky for the owner, the two men, the invalid and Marie-Sophie that she had a green thumb like her grandmother and so knew a thing or two about gardening.
— I don’t suppose there’s much difference between you and a Jerusalem artichoke when it comes to perking things up.
Marie-Sophie hurriedly propped the invalid up in bed and piled the cushions behind his back. She laid the meal tray on his lap and placed the knife and fork in his limp hands.
— The trick is simply to water the plant, then leave it alone, because no flower will deign to grow while it’s being gawped at. So I’m going to sit on the chair over here by the door, turn my back to you and see whether you’ll eat then.
She drew the chair from the desk and sat down.
— And in the meantime I’ll tell you a story about an eccentric old woman, not just because I think you’ll enjoying hearing about people like yourself, but because I haven’t heard it for ages and I think it’s such a good one.
The story tells of an old crone who lived in the forest where my great-grandfather was a warden; like you she preferred not to eat in front of others.
What do you think?
The invalid’s guts rumbled in reply.
* * *
THE OLD WOMAN AND THE KAISER
Once there was an old woman who lived alone in a cottage in the middle of a forest. She was a recluse and had no dealings with the inhabitants of the surrounding villages and farms except on Saturdays when she went to the market with mushrooms, roots, salves and other concoctions which she brewed from the herbs in the forest.
