“It’s nonsense! Not us, not them. It’s all nonsense, pal.”
I climbed up onto the toilet, grabbed hold of the top of the partition, pulled myself up carefully till my chin was over the top, and what did I see? Someone was standing at the toilet, but alone. His mask was pulled away from his face onto the top of his head, so from above all I could see was the mask. All the more so because he was stooping over and rocking, with one hand on his fly, looking downward, and muttering downward so it seemed:
“Socialism, capitalism, none of it’s worth a damn thing. You’re the power. The world stands on you. Though what are you? Well, what are you? You sit there inside our pants. Nice cozy place. A refuge, you might say. Many a time people would hide there themselves if they could. And there’s plenty to hide from, that’s the truth. Relax now, otherwise I won’t be able to piss.”
Pardon me, but it’s just us men talking. I’d never say that in front of a woman. I wanted to see his face but he never once looked up. Actually he seemed to lean over even further. True, I wouldn’t have recognized his face either. I didn’t even know where we were, where we were playing, who for, who all those people were, they were all wearing masks. On top of that, they’d brought us there under a tarpaulin and forbidden us to look out.
My hands started to hurt from holding on to the top of the partition, and my arms were getting tired. I let myself down, as carefully as before, first onto the toilet, then from there I stepped down quiet as anything to the floor. I wondered if I should flush the toilet, let him know someone was in the next stall. But my curiosity held me back. You know how hard it is to know even about yourself, what you’d do in a situation like that. I decided I’d just give a cough. So I coughed, but it didn’t have any effect. He even kind of raised his voice a little:
“You sure have a nice life. Your only worry is which pants leg to be in. And even when you get old and decrepit, no one’s going to throw you out. We should all be so lucky – I won’t say who the luck should come from. Me, you know, I can’t even be sure of tomorrow. I can’t be sure of anyone’s words. Everyone’s wearing a mask, how can you tell whose words are whose. Which ones mean one thing or another. Which ones are good wishes and which ones are judging you. You have to beware of every mask. What, are you looking at something? The future maybe? You don’t have eyes. You’d like to see me? It’s not worth the trouble. I’m standing at the toilet and because of you I can’t take a piss. Let me tell you, people have to do too much thinking. You don’t know everything, if only you did. There are times a person doesn’t feel like living. But what do you care about that. You only have one thing on your mind. Though supposedly it’s actually my mind. But truth be told, what does it mean to say ‘mine’? Eh? That it’s in my head? That doesn’t prove it’s mine. I mean, I’ve got you in my pants, but are you mine? I’ve never felt that way. More like I’m yours. I’m attached to you so there’s someone to carry you, move you here and there, take you out, hold you up, put you back and so on. Maybe it’d be better if we were separate. What do you think? If we were only occasionally together. Maybe if that were the case I’d want something more. Because being a man from morning till night isn’t as enjoyable as you think. Maybe for you. But what do you know. You squirt your load and you’re happy, whereas me, I have to do everything else, it all comes down to me. Not to mention that I have other responsibilities. Conferences, meetings, consultations, councils. Going from one to another, all day long, sometimes even into the night. To the point that I even forget you’re there, that’s what my life is like. A walking contradiction, you might say. Do you know what a walking contradiction is? The idea that you and I are one. That’s a load of baloney. If the new and better world is supposed to be that way too, I’m out of there. Or maybe I’m already long gone from it, what do you think? So what if I’m pissing? That’s no proof of existence. And as you see, without your say-so I can’t even do that. Just relax. Oh, you … I know what you’re after. I even understand you. But get real. With a mask? Do you know who might be behind the mask? You don’t. And neither do I. Do without for now. We’ll have to get through this ball somehow or other.”
In the end I flushed and left the stall. He came out right after me, but his mask was already on.
9
Did you just arrive in this world? Because everything surprises you. Yes it does. I’m not pinning anything on you. I’m just listening to what you say. I can even see that your hands are surprised by the beans. You could never shave with a straight razor. A straight razor needs a cool hand, one that’s indifferent to whatever’s going on inside you. Or someone would say something you weren’t expecting, and you’d cut yourself right away. You ever shaved with a straight razor? Never? You probably use an electric razor. You don’t shave at all? How is that possible? See, now it’s my turn to be surprised. But that’s something a person can still be surprised at. You don’t have any stubble, it’s true. I can see your face is smooth. Unless these days there’s some other way of dealing with beards. In that case you probably don’t even know what a straight razor is. I have one here, in the drawer. Somewhere I have a brush as well, and shaving cream, and aftershave lotion. I could give you a shave. It doesn’t matter that you don’t grow a beard, you’d still see how nice it is to shave with a straight razor. You can only learn that when it’s your own face. You’re scared? Of what? I don’t understand.
No, I don’t shave with a straight razor anymore. I couldn’t do it, not with these hands. But I did for many years, before I got the rheumatism. It’s really not that hard. I taught myself. When I was little I always used to watch my father shaving, and my grandfather, and Uncle Jan. Uncle Jan was always the most careful. He’d always shave twice. He’d shave, then soap up again and shave a second time. He used to say he had an angular face, and so to make sure he got all the hollows and bumps properly, he’d shave two times. His hands shook by that time, but he always used a straight razor. He’d sometimes cut himself, the blood would run down his face, especially under his Adam’s apple, but he’d always do it twice. And he shaved every morning. But when he decided to hang himself the next day, he shaved the previous evening. I remember like it was yesterday. No one thought twice about it, though he never shaved in the evening. That time too he cut himself and he had to stop the blood with alum.
It wasn’t because the razor was blunt, he sharpened it before every shave. First on a whetstone, then on a strop. After he sharpened it he’d check the blade. If it wasn’t good enough, he’d sharpen it some more. Do you know the best way to check if a razor’s sharp enough? You pull a hair out of your head, hold it between two fingers like this, and split it with the razor blade.
Hang on, I’ll get the razor and show you. It’s a good one, Swedish steel. The best ones were always Swedish. I brought it back from abroad. I keep it as a reminder that I used to shave with a straight razor, that my hands were that good. From time to time I take it out and run it over the strop, so it’s sharp. You need to choose the right razor for your face, that way you get the best shave. A hard beard likes soft steel, and vice versa. Plus, you need to know your own face. That way you don’t cut yourself. And the best way to get to know your face is by shaving with a straight razor. You’re never closer to your own face than when you shave that way. Believe me. With an electric razor you’re shaving, but you’re thinking about something else. You can’t do that with a straight razor. Even if you cut yourself and bleed, you know it’s your own face. You feel it more than when you just see it in the mirror.
Look here. I pull a hair from my head. Then I hold it up in the air, best of all against the light, and I draw the razor across it. Not quickly. Gently. If it’s too quick even a blunt razor will tug the hair away. But it won’t cut it. That was always how people checked. Now pull a hair out of your own head. We’ll try it with one of yours, you’ll see. What, you don’t want to give up a hair? It’s just one hair. Think how many come out when you brush your hair in the morning. How many fall out when you
wash it. One hair won’t even hurt. If you’ll let me, I’ll pull one out. You’re even afraid of me pulling a single hair from your head? I don’t get it at all. You don’t trust me? Yet you came to get beans from me!
Me, I started shaving when I was still at school. Once in a while. My chin was only just starting to get covered with fluff. But since the older boys were already shaving, us younger kids wanted to be the same as them. We shaved each other with a razor we borrowed from the custodian. At a price, you understand. Every Saturday we had to sweep out his yard and the sidewalk in front of his house, and clear the snow in winter. I only bought my own razor when I went to work on a building site. When I was working on the electrification of the villages I still used to borrow one from the guys I roomed with. I was saving up for a saxophone, I didn’t want to spend money on a razor.
As it happened, there was this blacksmith in the next village that made razors out of tank bearings. You can’t imagine what those razors were like. The only thing that might have come close were the Swedish steel ones, and even that I’m not so sure of. In the fields there were still all these smashed-up tanks from the war, he’d remove the bearings and make razors out of them. They were a bit unwieldy, true, the handles were awkward to hold, they were thick, made of elm wood or acacia, but the blade took your beard off all by itself. I bought two, I used one of them and kept the other in reserve, then later I gave it as a gift to the warehouse keeper who taught me the saxophone. He wouldn’t take any money for the lessons, like I said, so I thought I’d at least give him a razor. He tried to give it back when I stopped going to him.
No, from that time on, even when I needed some item from the warehouse I’d ask one of the other electricians to go get it for me. I don’t remember how long that went on. Then one day I was passing the warehouse, he must have seen me through the window and he started knocking on the pane, but I pretended not to hear. I thought to myself, he probably wants to tell me again how bad the band is. A week before it had been Women’s Day. There was a celebration, and we performed in the musical part of the evening. He came, I saw him there, he sat right in the back. There were speeches, flowers and chocolates and stockings for the women. Construction was still going on, the plans were way behind, but they always had various celebrations in the course of the year. Though Women’s Day was the most enjoyable.
I’d already passed the warehouse, but he called after me. He was standing in the doorway shouting:
“Are you pretending not to hear? And you say you want to be a saxophone player! Come back here!”
I turned around and went up to him.
“What do you want?”
“I’ll buy that saxophone back from you.”
“What saxophone?” I didn’t follow, I didn’t have any saxophone. He hadn’t told me to save up, so I didn’t. The one I played on in the band belonged to the company. And his, the one he taught me on in the evenings, was with him.
“The one that used to be mine,” he says.
“It’s still yours,” I say. “And you still have it.”
“I have it, but it’s yours,” he says.
“What do you mean, mine?” I still didn’t know what he was talking about.
“It’s yours. I gave it to you. I meant to tell you a long time ago, but I never got around to it. Now I’d like to buy it back from you. Take this as a down payment.” He stuck a wad of banknotes in my palm. I pulled my hand away but he caught hold of it, pushed the money into it and closed my fingers over it. “Here.”
Let me tell you, it was like the will went out of my hand, the blood went out of it. I stood there not knowing what to do, what to say. One banknote fell out, he leaned down and picked it up.
“Don’t lose this. Count it, make sure it’s all there. There ought to be …”
I didn’t even hear how much. I could only feel my heart pounding. There was a tightness in my throat.
“I’ll pay the rest bit by bit. Every month on pay day. Don’t worry, you’ll get it all down to the last penny. The amount it’s worth. I don’t expect any concessions. I’m not trying to pull one over on you. I never cheated anyone in my life. The amount it’s worth. And it’s worth quite a bundle. Every month on pay day. If you don’t believe me, make sure you’re standing behind me every month in the line for the cashier. I’ll give it to you right away, the moment I get my wages. Every month. I can’t give a lot each time, I don’t earn that much, as you know, I need to be able to live. But each month. They won’t close the site down, a job like this’ll take a long while yet, I’ll have time to pay off the whole thing. Even if they finish earlier, the warehouse will still be here. They can’t get by without a warehouse. They promised they’d let me keep my job till I retire. But even if I don’t finish paying it by then, don’t worry about that either. I’ve thought it all through. You can write me to say where you are and I’ll send you the money, every month. I’ll even pay for a money transfer, so you’re not out. I thought about taking a loan from payroll, but I’d prefer monthly payments, if that’s OK with you. I don’t like paying off one debt by taking on another. Then you have two debts to fret about. And there’s nothing worse than getting tied up in debts. Life’s a debt as it is, even if you don’t owe anything to anyone and you haven’t borrowed anything from anybody.”
It goes without saying that I didn’t take his money. How could I have? He was going to buy his own saxophone back from me? He died about a year and a half after that. Construction was still going on. Someone went to get something from the warehouse, he wrote them a chit and all he needed to do was sign it, when his head tipped forward. And that was that. But he didn’t drop the pencil, can you imagine. As if he’d meant to sign off on his own death, one death, check.
A signature is an important thing, let me tell you. Especially when you sign off on your own death. Why shouldn’t a person sign for his own death? You sign for all kinds of trivial things all your life. Whether you need to or not. Most of the time it’s not even needed. Imagine counting up all the times someone’s signed their name in the course of their life. As if they kept having to vouch for the fact that it really is them, not someone else in their place. As if there even could be anyone taking your place, say, or mine. So why shouldn’t he have signed off on his own death? It was his, after all. If you ask me, death shouldn’t have stopped his hand. Death itself should have needed him to sign.
You say that people are born without signing to say they want to be born. That’s understandable. There are very few people who’d want it, if it depended on their signature. Death is a different matter entirely. You should at least be free in the face of death. In any case, what difference would it have made to wait a short moment. What was a moment like that for death. You’re talking as if I were only referring to appearances. Let me tell you that even if that were so, appearances shouldn’t be scorned. When the truth turns against us, thank goodness there are still appearances. There are times when after a whole life, appearances are the only record of a person’s life.
For that year and a half I took lessons from him. It was as if one day we were practicing together, then the next day he died. I tried much harder than before. Almost every day, if only they didn’t keep us back at the site, right after work I’d quickly wash, change, eat something or not, and go to him. He’d always be waiting for me, sometimes dozing with his head resting on the desk. But the moment I walked in he’d start up.
“Oh, it’s you. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come today, and every day counts.”
He took a piece of chalk and drew a circle on the floor that I had to stand inside when I played. He made another one for himself, at a suitable distance, in which he sat on a chair.
“I measured it out, this is the best distance for sound quality. I’ll be able to hear you best from here. This warehouse is no concert hall. Or club. I get consignments of piping, sheet metal, wiring, tires, all kinds of stuff. Every time the sound changes.”
He brought more sheet music thi
s time. And he made me a stand for the music. When I arrived the stand would already be waiting in my circle with the music lying open on it.
“Let’s begin with what you have in front of you there,” he would say, to stop me from changing the order of the sheets. Then he’d put his chair in his circle, and have me take my place in mine. “Stand up straight though. Not like in that band of yours, where you all slouch.”
He always had to run down the band. I guessed it must be his new way of weaning me off them. He did it kind of casually, in a mild way, because he’d stopped telling me to quit the band.
Often my legs would be shaking under me, after all I’d been working on my feet all day long on the site, but he never let me sit down even for a minute. There was another chair in the warehouse, when he was writing out a chit he’d offer you a seat. But whenever I came for my lesson, the other chair would always be put aside at the far end of the warehouse.
“You need to be on your feet,” he’d repeat. “When you’re standing your diaphragm works better, you take more air into your lungs. Breathing is really important with the saxophone. You, your breathing is too shallow, and so you’re not blowing the instrument properly. Plus, a saxophonist has to have strong legs, a strong back, the whole spine has to be strong, then it’s easier to play. When you end up having to play all night because the party’s still going on, you won’t have to say your legs hurt.”
And let me tell you, my legs never feel tired. Sometimes here I have to walk and walk. Especially now, in the off-season. Like I said, during the day I’m obliged to make three rounds of all the cabins on both sides of the lake. And at least one in the night. When I walk around I know I’m really keeping a good eye on the place.
Excuse me, I have to get a drink of water, my throat’s dry. When you shell beans there’s always dust, that’s why. Would you like a drink too? It’s good water, from my well. No, it was here already. I just had it deepened and cleaned out. I had a pump put in, and they piped it up to my place. See, all I need to do is turn on the tap. Perhaps you’ll try some after all? Here, you’re welcome. It’s good, right? Spring water. They tapped into a spring. Let me tell you, nothing quenches your thirst like this stuff. Even when I’m drinking coffee or tea, I have to have a glass of water to go with it.
A Treatise on Shelling Beans Page 22
