Best European Fiction 2010

by Aleksandar Hemon

  I made the most of our physical proximity to get a better look at the author’s face. I no longer wanted to take it in its entirety, as I’d been doing before, but in its details. And my eyes, making all sorts of excursions over the landscape in question (so to speak)—so much so that I could no longer think of its bumps and hollows as anything other than hills or basins—ended up focusing on that vein jutting out at his temple. A venous confluence, let’s say, rather than a simple vein, formed there like a ‘y’ or a fork—the definite outline of a bifurcation.

  Without the thought of the encroaching vegetation ever really leaving me, I lingered on the glyph drawn there and wondered almost compulsively what its possible meanings could be. It was as if there might be something encrypted there that could lead me to a better understanding of the situation he and I were in and the danger to which I had, despite myself, been exposed. For all my efforts, however, I found nothing there that could open my eyes to what might be awaiting me, nor what part Murakami was playing in all of this.

  However: there really was something remarkable about that venous crossroads on the author’s temple. Although incapable of telling me anything about the vegetal invasion I feared would occur at any moment, it could, if you think about it, stand as a good representation of the act of narration itself, which is, after all, nothing if not a process constantly beset by bifurcations, by possible choices (choices concerning the possible actions of one’s characters, but also choices between available words, from which—mentally crossing out the various alternatives—one finally seizes one’s preference). This is all the more true if one writes in a linear fashion, as Haruki had told me he did.

  The stamp engraved on his temple was a symbol. Despite himself, our author bore a simple tattoo representing his occupation, as if his body itself had come to manifest, even in the layout of its vascular system, the act with which he was constantly confronted. He was marked: the pattern of those surfacing veins showed that his fate had long since been decided (given that it was Murakami Haruki, this only half surprised me).

  It seemed that I could hear a knocking against the glass now. The supple leaves, assisted by a breath of wind, unfurling them in fits and starts, brushed the windowpane. It was as if they were cajoling it with insincere caresses; as if they were petting it. This stroking motion, which the window might even have been enjoying, nonetheless indicated the precise threat weighing on the glass: that of the inevitable crack, which the leaves themselves wouldn’t make, of course, but which the branches would take care of the instant the order was given.

  Yes, the gentle tremor of the soft green tissue against the glass was in fact a shudder of pleasure, a shudder running through those leafy veins at the thought of the imminent destruction. Their limbs licked the glass surface like tongues—hundreds, thousands of little mocking tongues. Had my breakfast companion really not noticed their murmuring? What part was he playing in this story, exactly? The muscular leaves stuck their papillae against the picture windows and increased the rhythm of their lingual caresses, throwing me into a panic. I felt now that these were no longer the simple intimidation tactics they’d begun with, but something like the beginning of a vicious cycle: the frenzy with which the leaves were lapping at the windows of the room, their insatiable little thuds, were only the first taste of the coming upsurge—which, once begun, would be unstoppable. No longer content to simply occupy my thoughts, in which the insidious things had long since taken over the room, the branches were at last marshalling themselves to physically invade the enclosed space in which Murakami and I were sitting. Tiring of their playful, irritating game, wasn’t it obvious that they were about to start boring into the picture windows until their determination got the better of the poor sheets of glass? Soon these would be riddled with holes, through which the unscrupulous branches would then undermine the windows entirely, sending huge fragments crashing to the floor, with the consequences I’ve already mentioned.

  I decided to risk everything, to stand up just like that, right in the middle of what one could no longer really call a conversation—to leave this situation, this meeting, which I myself had sought out, to leave it unfinished so as to escape the imminent disaster—either with him, if he wanted to fall in behind me, or else far, far away from him, if it turned out he was a party to what was being planned, and had been trying all along to keep me from escaping the trap that was already closing in on me. And yet, it was getting harder to deny that this was indeed his intention. Because at almost the same moment I was going to make my exit, hoping to escape the disaster whose terrible reality loomed larger and larger the longer I waited, at the very moment when I was, regrettably, about to leave my companion in the lurch, since apparently he thought it best to ignore the enemy, Murakami caught hold of me by the arm. He held on so tightly that I could feel the knitting of the wool I was wearing leave its imprint in my skin. Christine Montalbetti, he said to me, articulating slowly, forcing me to stay in the room despite the considerable risk we were both running. He seemed willing to take all the time in the world to say what he had to say to me, as though it wasn’t urgent that we get up together and flee, as though it wasn’t urgent that he perhaps show me the best way to escape through the corridors of the hotel—not the ones I knew, more or less, from having already taken them, but others, for staff only, by which we might have more chance of escaping. Christine Montalbetti, he said to me again, calmly, but without gentleness, no, without any apparent desire to reassure me about what was happening, maybe I was wrong about it all, not knowing the rules that governed these places, maybe I’d been panicked into inventing a fiction that bore no relation whatsoever to the actual situation. I knew this much: I couldn’t move. And then I began to feel terrified, not only of being prevented from leaving the room by his vice-like grip, but also—if not more so—of yielding before his authority, of remaining paralyzed, motionless, incapable of making even the slightest response to the dangerous circumstances I’d found myself in, as inert as when, in a dream, confronted with danger, our bodies suddenly freeze, mesmerized, having forgotten to look for a way out. Unsteadily, I faced his dark, smooth, glazed face, in which it seemed to me that I should have been able to see my reflection. Believe me, I almost did: I almost saw my own silhouette reflected in his face, a figure stopped in its tracks like a runaway from Pompeii caught in mid-motion by lava. And I devoted what remained of my reason to wondering whether I could find a protector in him, whether I should give myself up to his firm gesture and rely on him to take care of things; he who had decided to speak to me, to treat me in this authoritarian manner, perhaps about to advise me as to how I could escape, by his side, from the agony which lay in wait; or else, if he was actually an accomplice to the plant invasion, maybe even its mastermind, wondering whether he would keep me here by force, prevent me from leaving the table so that all his terrible plans would be carried out as anticipated.

  Christine Montalbetti, he said to me a third and last time, in a voice that suddenly seemed gentler, though still tinged with the same determination it had demonstrated in his two previous apostrophes, you know that we have never, never ever, had breakfast together.

  What do you expect me to say to that?

  TRANSLATED FROM FRENCH BY URSULA MEANY SCOTT

  [HUNGARY]

  GEORGE KONRÁD

  Jeremiah’s Terrible Tale

  In the ninety-ninth year of his life, approaching his one hundredth birthday, Jeremiah Kadron returned, after a long journey, to his native Budapest, to his own house on Leander Street, where he had been brought as a two-week-old straight from the maternity ward, and which remained his permanent residence, excepting his trips around the world, some of which were brief, others quite lengthy.

  After he unpacked his few belongings in his room, he cast a terrified glance at the more or less ordered contents of his smoothly rolling desk drawers, and quickly pushing them back, stepped out on the pillared terrace. His eyes passed over the hillside, the city, the wind-ruffled
green of the lake, and then he planted himself in his old wicker chair.

  He saw a carriage of gleaming light descend from the sky and come to a halt between a walnut and a sour cherry tree. It was waiting for him. In case he changed his mind about this place, he could get on and go somewhere else. But Jeremiah, from his terrace chair, waved it away; the carriage took off empty.

  Save for these interruptions, he lived in this house under the supervision of various transitory women, and lived rather well. First his mother and then his wives had ruled over him, to the extent that they could, and finally his daughter.

  This last guardianship was probably the most peaceful; still, he felt an urge to travel around the world one last time. And were he to find a good place, he might just settle down. Jeremiah didn’t feel like dying at home, and didn’t want to upset his daughter. Let her get used to his being away; let Papa’s death be nothing more than a news item. The practical details of the funeral would be arranged by others, elsewhere.

  But now a message arrived, driving Jeremiah away from his home in Buda with irresistible force. According to this message—which Jeremiah had simply felt, somehow—the wagoner-angel was on his way again. Jeremiah would simply have to step down into the conveyance from his terrace stairs, and that chariot of light would start moving under him and whisk him away to a place whence there was no return.

  Let the angel come, then, if he was coming for him. Jeremiah would clear out ahead of time; their rendezvous hadn’t been prearranged. He knew how things worked in this world; celestial bureaucracy couldn’t be all that different. When they don’t find him at home, they’ll forget about him, and stop keeping track of his whereabouts.

  He left, and then waited here and there for death to come, but it didn’t. The place where Jeremiah stayed longest was Safed, city of holy and mad sages, where in the afternoon he would sit for hours in the chair once occupied by the great, spiritually enlightened Rabbi Ariel, who in his time had sat in the chair of the equally great Rabbi Luria, and who happened to be Jeremiah’s grandfather. At three o’clock in the afternoon, a shaft of light flooded in through the synagogue window, a light so intense that it practically pinned Jeremiah’s head to the back of the chair, right to the hole made once by a bullet: he couldn’t have pulled his head away if he wanted to. It was as though that powerful beam had burned its way through his eyes; he felt the warmth of it in his groin, the same warmth women praying to be fertile must also feel when sitting in that chair. The light and the tingling that accompanied it took hold of Jeremiah, moving upward through his body for minutes on end, renewing the old man.

  He thanked the Heavenly Father that he could once again huddle in this miracle-working chair, and early in the morning he said an ancient prayer. He didn’t have to read it, he knew it by heart: “I praise thee oh God, blessed be Thy name, Thy greatness is unknowable; each generation conveys to the next the awesomeness of Thy power. Eternal Father, patient and of abundant mercy, I put all my hope in Thee. O, hear my prayer, lend me Thy ear. I rejoice in Thy word as one who has received a great prize. Look, my legs stand straight. The Everlasting God supports those who are about to fall and straightens those bent with age or care. Thou art Mighty, o Lord, who frees the captives, makes the wind blow and the rain fall, nourishes the living with His grace, and preserves the faith even of those who sleep eternally inside the earth. Sound the great shofar to our liberation, lift the banner to gather Thy exiles from the four corners of the world. Rule over us with mercy and compassion. Thine gift to us is knowledge. Thou teachest man to use his reason. From Thee we receive our ideas and observations. Blessed be the Everlasting God, whose gift to us is understanding. Forgive us when we trespass, punish us within reason when we sin, and when we act wickedly, consider our miserable state, and free us quickly, for Thou art a strong redeemer. Evildoers and false accusers should vanish like a fleeting moment. Extend your mercy to the just, to the few who are truly learned, and to strangers with genuine faith. Make our own lot resemble theirs. And return to Thy city Jerusalem with mercy, and dwell there, as Thou hast promised. Rebuild it in our own day into an eternal edifice, and place in it the throne of David. If only Thou wouldst become fond of Thy people!”

  Jeremiah murmured this morning prayer to himself in Hebrew, then voicelessly added commentaries to each sentence in his own way, not holding back the scandalous conclusions of some of these interpretations even from the One about whom he said: “Holy, Holy, Holy is the Eternal God!”

  Jeremiah walked over to the Messiah’s Stairs. Those arriving from infinity as well as those proceeding toward it must climb these steps, all three hundred and sixty of them, between walls and fences that press in close on both sides. There isn’t much room on the narrow staircase, so the messiah will have to make it up all by himself. The long climb will certainly exhaust him.

  This is why Lina sits waiting for the messiah on a stone bench in her garden, near a low stone parapet. She won’t put a pillow on the bench, only a thin blanket. If the messiah is willing to endure such hardships, then she, Lina, should suffer a little too. Thus she waits for the mighty king, the christ of the Lord, with cakes and fruit on the two hundred and ninety-ninth step.

  By the time the anointed made it up here, he would have to be tired and thirsty, and surely in need of some food. Besides, from this point on, not only would he have to climb the rest of the stairs, he’d also have to hold his own up there in the little square, where holy men were always walking up and down as though immersed in a dream, though in reality with eyes sharp and focused.

  Reaching the holy men, the messiah would try to blend in and modestly follow them to the well. But they would recognize him, gather around, and keep him under close scrutiny. Though suspicious, they wouldn’t want to question him openly; they would prefer to catch him unawares, figure out his secrets, wait for him to reveal all.

  Lina had come to Safed from Oradea via Auschwitz. She and the messiah had very similar tastes in food. Whenever he passed through town, the messiah found it most stimulating to stop for some of Lina’s cooking. He ate in the garden where children from the local kindergarten splashed around in a small wading pool. And in the afternoon, sitting in an old, red armchair, Jeremiah read under a bower of vine and figs.

  Once here, the Chosen, who was expected to perform great deeds, would nod off after lunch. The woman rented one of her rooms to Jeremiah, and when it grew dark, she offered him some of the food she had prepared for the messiah.

  It never occurred to her that the messiah might arrive at night, in the dark. He would have to arrive when it’s light, when everyone is in the main square, when old people and youngsters stream out of the yeshivoth and fill the square under the afternoon sun. After eating the messiah’s meal, Jeremiah withdrew, and from the large terrace next to his room, he looked out at the Sea of Galilee. This would be a suitable burial place. He had here what he had at home: a room, a terrace, and water.

  The landlady was curious and a little crazy; but she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She put his food in front of him, hung his ironed shirt in the cupboard, and asked if he’d like a cup of coffee.

  The following morning, when his body was taking in its desired dose of the sun’s rays, Jeremiah too waited a while for the Chosen One who hadn’t yet appeared, the one anointed by an angel, the one who would trek up that very narrow, endless-seeming stairway, feeling increasingly weary and disheartened, but would still be anxious to reach the marketplace of the holy ones.

  The messiah hadn’t come yet; the old woman sat on a stone bench and looked down at the burial ground of the tzadikim and, still lower, at the lake, which lies well below sea level. There, on that water, the messiah’s famous predecessor had once walked. What would that fellow’s successor have to do? Not a thing, maybe, thought the old woman. We’ll see. In the meantime, she told herself, go and greet the long-awaited one; let the old man have some food. Imagine, I’m past seventy, and that’s already too much for me; he’ll be a hundred this year, and for
him it’s still not enough.

  “Come, come, Mr. Kadron,” said Lina to Jeremiah, who just then appeared in a rocky alleyway—the Jeremiah who on his mother’s side came from a long line of rabbis, and was the grandson of the famed Rabbi Ariel, spiritual leader of the Old Buda community, the strange man who at the age of fifteen had become head of his congregation, and at twenty-five looked into a well and decided that he must leave on pilgrimage to Jerusalem the very next day, and did indeed set out in the morning with his faithful assistant.

  Ariel entertained crowds in the market squares along the way with tales and jokes. He parodied gendarmes, the town magistrate, a Turkish pasha, a general, a scholar. He could mimic anyone who passed by, and would say incredibly daring things in his screeching voice.

  Of course, Ariel got into trouble for all his mimicking and screeching. He was caught and dragged by armed men in front of a stern group of officials, whose leader shouted him down and wouldn’t give in to the temptation of laughing at his captive’s jokes. But Ariel did receive permission to play something on his violin for the gentlemen, and with that he was able to appease them and continue his journey to Jerusalem.

  He pushed on unrelentingly to the holy city—he believed, after all, that if he didn’t set eyes on Jerusalem, his arm might as well wither away. He traveled through the Balkans, made dangerous by the Napoleonic Wars and the turmoil of the disintegrating Ottoman Empire. He kept himself afloat by playing the violin and performing card tricks, which also made life easier for his sidekick, Mendel, who never failed to belch with relish after consuming the large pieces of roast meat placed before him.