To Greet the Sun

by Claus von Bohlen

  Chapter 29

  A MONTH after the interview, I was swimming almost as far as I used to before the accident. And yet, strangely, the further I was able to swim, the less enthusiasm I felt. Day by day, the pleasure seemed to seep out of an activity I had always enjoyed so much. And so, in an attempt to recapture that pleasure, I challenged myself to swim further than I had ever swum before, even in the days when I was fully healthy.

  It was a sultry afternoon. I had already swum that morning and I had spent most of the day sitting in my library. I was struggling to concentrate on any of the books in front of me. It was Valdemar’s day off so I could not go outside to give him instructions. Anna-Maria was out shopping. I was at home by myself. There was a fat fly buzzing against the window; it eluded me every time I attempted to swat it. The warm, humid weather made my knee hurt. I was frustrated and bored, so I decided to take a second swim.

  I changed in my bedroom, put on my bathing robe and crossed the cobbled street to Sambaqui’s small beach. I hung my robe over the slanted trunk of the solitary palm tree and leant my walking stick against it. I paused for a moment to observe the walking stick that the hospital had returned to me via Linda Pereira. What if that fateful day hadn’t been humid, if my athritic knee hadn’t ached, if I had left the stick at home? What if I had told Pietro that I still had that piece of amber in a little box? Would things have turned out differently? But it is easy to get lost in a world of ‘ifs’.

  I waded out into the water of the bay. It had rained during the night and the water was a little turbid. In the distance a bank of cloud was amassing. It would probably rain again during the night.

  I began to swim south, towards Florianópolis. The water was warm and there was no swell. I swam for ten, for fifteen, for twenty minutes. Usually, after twenty minutes, I feel at peace. My mind is emptied of thoughts. The regularity of my breathing encourages a meditative calm. But not this time. The truth is, I feel guilty about what happened at the interview.

  I read in the newspaper that the interview was screened as part of Raposo’s show. In fact, the newspaper said some very unflattering things about me. That is upsetting, but more upsetting is my sense that I have failed Pietro. I never intended to deceive him about the amber, but it is too late to explain that now.

  The thoughts keep intruding. Maybe I am not pushing myself hard enough? I start to strike out more vigorously. Usually I breathe every other stroke. Now I decide to challenge myself, or possibly to punish myself. I breathe every third stroke. It is years since I have swum like this. But it feels good. There is no discomfort in my hip. When I look to the coast on my left, I am astonished by the speed of my progress.

  I push myself harder still. This is not how people my age are supposed to swim; this is not the tentative breaststroke that resembles the stately progress of a U-boat with its periscope raised. No, I am swimming like a young man, like a racer. As a boy I was able to swim comfortably only breathing every fifth stroke. I try it now. After a minute or two my lungs crave oxygen; I want to gasp while my head is still underwater. But I wait for the fifth stroke until I allow myself a breath. It is like a slow, controlled asphyxiation. But there is also a feeling of pleasure beginning to flood through my limbs. The feeling reminds me of the morphine in the hospital. I force myself to maintain this rhythm and I lose all sense of time. When I take a breath on the left I cast a quick glance towards the coast. The waterfront bars and restaurants are switching their lights on one by one.

  My calf suddenly cramps up – a tight tugging pain. I turn onto my back and try to extend my toes. I lean forward to touch them with my fingers but when I do my body sinks. The cramp passes. I float on my back, resting. After the intensity of my exertions, my mind also feels like it is floating. The sky above me is already dark. I realise that the storm clouds have rolled in fast. Tonight there was no twilight. I turn onto my front and swivel until I am pointing back the way I came, towards Sambaqui. I take a few tentative strokes but they are sufficient to cause a warning twinge in my calf. I realise that for now my leg is useless. It will take me a very long time to swim back using just my arms, and I do not wish to get caught in a storm. Safer to wade back in towards the beach and then walk along the coastal road.

  The water in the bay is shallow a long way out and I only need to take a few strokes before I am able to touch the bottom. I make my way towards the lights whose reflection is now dancing off the dark water. I am tired, my calf is sensitive and my knee is sore. Ironically, it is only my hip that causes me no trouble at all.

  By the time I finally make it onto the beach, it has started to spit with rain. I climb up the low sea wall that separates the sand from the raised road. Again I feel a warning twinge. I begin to hobble tentatively along the road. I wish I had something else to wear. The rain intensifies and for the first time I feel the cold. I try to stay warm by walking faster, but the uneven road surface is painful on my bare feet. I see the headlights of a car in the distance. It gets closer and I wave but the car doesn’t stop. Its tires hiss on the wet tarmac as it ghosts past me.

  Sambaqui is three kilometers away. I am astonished at how, once again, the past appears to be repeating itself. Just one month ago, I was struggling back across the windswept beach of Joaquina on my crutches. Now I am hobbling through the dark and the rain in nothing but my swimming trunks. Am I incapable of learning from my mistakes? Does this only happen to me, or do patterns repeat themselves in everyone’s lives? The absurdity of it forces me to smile. I try to relax the smile but my muscles are so cold that nothing happens – they are frozen in that position. I am wearing a fixed grimace and there is nothing I can do about it.

  In the middle distance there is a building with two flaming torches in front of it. It must be one of the new waterside discotheques; the inhabitants of Sambaqui are constantly inviting me to sign a petition to have them closed down on grounds of noise pollution. Since I never hear them at night I cannot, in good faith, append my signature to the list. As I approach the discotheque, I read a sign informing me of a party in honour of the Praia Mole surf competition. The name of the discotheque is picked out in bright lights on top of the building – ‘Inferno’.

  To the left of the road is a narrow strip of grass, a few trees and a low wall that drops down to the beach. Between the trees there are a number of benches designed so that you can choose to sit either facing inland or out to sea. On the right of the road is the discotheque. It appears to be a popular place: the queue to get in is at least a hundred metres long. The girls are dressed for the most part in small, clingy dresses; they try to protect their hair from getting wet by sheltering behind towering boyfriends whose muscles bulge through tight t-shirts. The air is sickly with cheap cologne. Really, this place has been well named. As I walk past the queue I feel their stares, and I hear the sound of ill-suppressed giggles in my wake. Under my breath I whisper: ‘Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’ intrate!’

  I am cold and tired and decide to take a rest on one of the benches on the other side of the street. Maybe I can ask the managers of the discotheque to call me a taxi? Anna-Maria should be home; she will be able to let me in and pay for the taxi. But will the taxi driver trust me? I can see that the burly doormen are already eyeing me suspiciously. They are standing either side of the flaming torches by the entrance, controlling the entry of the patrons. Both doormen are bald and their wet scalps glisten beneath the flickering light. The smaller of the two is speaking into a telephone. He glances at me from time to time. The way he looks at me does not embolden me to request his assistance. I suspect he thinks I am an exhibitionist intent on exposing myself.

  I sit on the bench and start to rub my shivering wet limbs. When I look up I see that a third doorman has joined the other two. Now all three of them are looking at me. Behind them, the discotheque is made entirely of glass. I can see right in, like a fish bowl. For the most part I only see people’s backs – they are pressed up against the glass. However, further back there is a raise
d platform. A spotlight is trained on the platform. The individual standing on the platform, bent over his musical equipment, is wearing a red pompom hat. The red pompom hat is familiar but I cannot remember where I have seen it before.

  As I stare at the glass wall, I become aware that people inside are turning around to stare out. They appear to be staring at me. Then I notice that red and blue flashing lights are being reflected in the glass. Looking away from the glass, I see that a police car has pulled over to the side of the road just a few metres from where I am sitting. There is no siren but the headlights are pointing directly at me and I am forced to shade my eyes from their glare. Then the headlights are switched off and two police officers step out of the vehicle. Both are holding torches. The red and blue lights on top of the vehicle are still flashing; their reflection dances on the wet tarmac.

  The officers look perplexed.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asks the first.

  ‘You can’t stay here. It’s indecent,’ adds the second.

  I try to reply but my face is so cold that the muscles refuse to form the words. I try to warm them by tensing my cheeks but the effect is not what I had intended.

  ‘He’s drunk,’ says the first officer.

  ‘Or crazy,’ adds the second.

  I want to tell them that I live in Sambaqui, that I am just trying to get home, but when I try to speak the sound is incoherent.

  ‘We’d better take him to the hospital,’ says the first officer. ‘He might have escaped.’

  Both officers take a step towards me and place a hand under my armpits.

  ‘At least he doesn’t appear to have pissed himself yet,’ says the second. ‘Please don’t piss yourself,’ he says to me. ‘We’ve got another eight hours of this.’

  I try to explain but the sounds are still incoherent. The officers ignore me and their strong arms jerk me off the bench. I want to resist but my limbs are too weak. But at that moment I catch sight of the figure in the pompom hat running out of the building. He rushes past the three burly doormen and removes the pompom hat as he runs. Now even I think I may be going crazy.

  ‘Seu Otto!’ shouts Pietro. For it is Pietro.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ he shouts at the officers. They turn towards him, astonished. ‘Don’t you know who this is? This is Otto Eisinger, the hero of Sambaqui, the man who was in the news for fighting the gunmen who held up the store!’

  Both officers look at me again, then they look at each other.

  ‘We had a picture of him in the station,’ says the first officer. ‘The commissioner put it there. But isn’t he a Nazi?’

  ‘No, he’s not a Nazi. That was a mistake,’ says Pietro.

  ‘Huh,’ says the first officer. ‘Well, he doesn’t look very dangerous now. But what is he doing here half-naked?’

  ‘Got cramp,’ I whisper under my breath, just as I had done when I walked past the queue to the discotheque. ‘Walking home. Cold.’ Pietro and the two officers incline their heads towards me. I whisper again. This time they appear to understand.

  ‘Seu Otto,’ says Pietro, ‘is Anna-Maria at home?’

  I nod.

  ‘Then will you let the officers drive you home? Or would you like me to drive you? I have to work but if you would prefer me to drive you then I will.’

  ‘Officers are fine,’ I whisper. I am very grateful to Pietro for his help, but I already feel guilty enough without imposing upon him any further.

  Pietro speaks briefly to the officers, then he supports me gently as I hobble towards the police car.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be alright? I won’t let you go by yourself unless you are absolutely sure.’

  ‘Absolutely sure,’ I whisper.

  Pietro helps me onto the back seat. ‘Seu Otto, maybe this is not the right time, but I have been meaning to apologise for everything that happened with the interview and with Dr. Raposo. I forced you into a horrible situation, and I did it for selfish reasons. I’m sorry.’

  When I hear Pietro’s apology, all the difficult emotions melt away. I am touched by his words. After all, it is really me who should be apologising to him. I would like to embrace him but I am already on the back seat, strapped in by a seatbelt. So I take his hand in mine and squeeze it. Perhaps it is a relief that I am unable to speak. There are so many things I would like to say, but I would not know how to say them.

  ‘Seu Otto, I was wondering,’ says Pietro, ‘next weekend I am driving up to Blumenau with Anna-Maria. We’re going to meet with Jorge – my grandfather Horst’s best friend – and then we’re going to visit Horst’s grave in the cemetery in Pomerode. I know it doesn’t sound like fun, but if you would like to join us, I would be very happy if you came. Just think about it.’

  ‘I would love to come,’ I whisper. And I squeeze Pietro’s hand again.

  *

  The officers put the heating on full in the car. Nevertheless, I am still shivering when we pull up in front of my house. The front door opens and Anna-Maria rushes out with a blanket. She drapes it around my shoulders and shepherds me indoors. Apparently Pietro had already phoned to let her know that I was on my way. She wants to help me up the stairs but I send her back down to offer the officers some coffee.

  I open the door to my bathroom and see that my bath is already run. I test the temperature. A normal bath would be too hot for my cold limbs but this is perfect. I lower myself in and think to myself that Anna-Maria is truly a remarkable woman. Then I lean back and listen as the drumming of the rain on the roof becomes fainter and fainter and then stops altogether.

  It takes half an hour until I am fully warm again. I get out of the bath and dry myself. I intend to retire to bed as soon as I have eaten. It seems pointless to dress in my usual clothes. Instead, I put on my pyjamas and wrap myself in the matching dressing gown with the sumptuous green piping. I slip my feet into the sheepskin pantoffeln which Anna-Maria gave me for Christmas. She will be happy to see me wearing them.

  I enter the kitchen where Anna-Maria is preparing my dinner. I expect her to respond with surprise to my unusual dress but she appears not to notice. Or, if she does notice, she disguises it well. I also half-expect her to launch into a speech about my evening’s misadventure, but even that is not forthcoming.

  ‘Seu Otto, would you like to eat right away?’ she asks.

  ‘Not right away, thank you Anna-Maria. I was wondering, perhaps you will join me for a drink in the garden? It has stopped raining and I would enjoy the company.’

  Anna-Maria looks at me with some surprise. In all the years that she has worked for me, I have never invited her to join me for an evening drink. I have always considered it a bad precedent. But tonight things seem different. I would like a drink, and I would like company.

  ‘I feel that tonight is a special night,’ I say.

  ‘Well, if you insist,’ she says, a little sceptically. ‘But I have not put the tray out.’ At 7 o’clock, Anna-Maria usually puts my scotch on a tray with a bottle of soda water and a small ice-bucket.

  ‘Please, I will arrange the drinks,’ I say. I think back to our lunch at Bar do Arante, when Pietro drove us to look at houses in Pantano do Sul. We were served caiprinihas which Anna-Maria declined. I remember her requesting a gin and tonic, upon my insistence.

  ‘A gin and tonic for you, yes?’

  Anna-Maria’s eyes open wide. It is a pleasant feeling to have surprised her with my knowledge of what she likes.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she says.

  I fill the ice bucket then repair to the library to fix the drinks there. I switch on the record player which hasn’t been used for years, then I put on one of Tom Jobim’s records. I open the double doors that lead across the patio and into the garden. Now that the storm has passed, the night is sultry once more.

  Anna-Maria and I sip our drinks in companionable silence. Occasionally a drop of water falls from the vine that casts its pleasant shadow over the patio by day. The drop lands with a little splash. One by one the
insects of the night add their song to Jobim’s plaintive bossa nova.

  ‘Seu Otto,’ Anna-Maria begins tentatively. I fear that she is going to interrogate me about my evening’s swim and my return in the police car.

  ‘Seu Otto, I think I can smell the honeysuckle.’

  The honeysuckle has been growing vigorously since I bought the house. It has even put out abundant flowers, but they all appear to be scentless. I sniff the air and it seems that Anna-Maria may be right, there is a faint honeyed fragrance.

  We lever ourselves out of our chairs and approach the lawn.

  ‘The grass is still wet. Your chinelas will soak up the moisture,’ saya Anna-Maria.

  Of course she is right, but I do not wish to get my shoes. I remove the sheepskin pantoffeln and step barefoot onto the lawn. The grass is cold and soft and springy beneath my naked feet. The little shoots tickle my toes. It is a pleasant sensation. I make up my mind to walk barefoot on my lawn more often. I may cut a ridiculous figure, but does that matter?

  We cross the lawn to the corner where the honeysuckle grows. The smell is stronger here. I take one of the fine white flowers and hold it close to my nose. The smell transports me back to a sunny afternoon in our Heim in Bochum. There had been honeysuckle climbing up the window frame; the scent used to waft into the small wooden hut on hot summer afternoons. I close my eyes.

  ‘Seu Otto, are you alright?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am just enjoying the smell.’

  ‘It is a wonderful smell,’ says Anna-Maria. ‘It reminds me of when I was a young girl, back in Blumenau. We had honeysuckle in our garden. It seems such a long time ago.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘sometimes childhood can seem so long ago. At other times it seems so recent.’

  ‘I was very pretty when I was a little girl. Everyone used to say so. That seems a very long time ago.’

  I can just make out the last chords of Jobim’s Desafinado: No peito dos desafinados também bate um coração. I close my eyes again and concentrate on the feeling that is rising in my chest. It is quiet like the music, but when I concentrate on it I feel it grow. I don’t remember when I last felt like this. Perhaps when I last smelled honeysuckle.