An Offering for the Dead (11 page)

"But why a love story?" I ask in amazement.

"What else should I call it?"

"You could just as well say that I was talking about a woman if I tried to describe a landscape. There are hills and gentle dales in both, and forests, for example, are called the hair of mountains."

"It depends on what prompted it," my friend would continue. "With me, it was not, as you may think, Orion or a nebula; it was a very plain birch that stood in the meadow. How shall I explain it to you? This is precisely the point at which, fortunately, explanations stop. I had the feeling she was watching me. She was thinking something. She may even have been singing. Except that I have no ear for it. Granted, even now, I say: This is a birch. Some kind of word is necessary as a token of exchange. But it is different from before. Perhaps it could also be called a love story in my case. But with you, a woman is the cause, and, after all, we are accustomed to this label."

However, this would not satisfy me. I would object: "Just look around. Look at how thoroughly the world has been destroyed and how wretchedly we live. And you maintain that I am telling you a love story?"

"It depends on the shock," he would reply. "Everyone suffers whatever a thing suffers. The waves continue and are
hurled back. We know that from physics. However, I see that
I really should not have interrupted you. Please go on. Tell me what happened with your mother; for that is the issue most likely. When did you go to her?"

"Right now."

"What do you mean, right now? I thought you were now with that woman?"

"Yes, that is so."

"Well?"

"I do not understand your question?"

"I asked: When did you go to your mother?"

"Now and then."

"Listen. I realize you cannot tell me everything. Nor is it necessary. Still you cannot tell me that in the situation in which the two of you are, you can go to your mother now and then."

"Why not?"

"You cannot simply say to her: Wait a moment. I will be right back. I only have to settle the matter with my mother."

"Why not?"

"Because I doubt whether any woman would agree to that."

"But this woman says: Go ahead."

"Ah?"

"For perhaps she sets some store by it herself "

"Ah?"

"And perhaps it is not possible without her."

"Ah?"

"And perhaps it is not a love story after all," I would, in conclusion, not be able to refrain from retorting to those three incredible "Ah"s. For he may have a better inkling of a birch than I, and in regard to the constellations, he probably knows many things that are unfamiliar to me. But as far as the love story goes, it would probably be better if I asked not him, but the woman I mentioned at the beginning of this account — I mean the woman on the edge of whose bed I would be sitting in order to tell her this. I admit it is hard to sort all this out. I by no means succeed in doing it myself. It makes very little difference whether I sit on the edge of the bed or sleep in the bed, and, being so close to her, I would not be a mystery for any woman. So is it not more or less all the same from where the smile comes that is mirrored in my words for the first time?

All these things shun the harsh words that hostilely separate them. Their ultimate nakedness is shielded from exposure by the tender glow of a pearl that envelops them. But the all-colored ocean mutely surges all around.

Yes, at some point in eternity, I went to my mother. My brother, as he was ordered to do, set out with me. We traveled for a very long time. We sailed across the ocean. We kept heading in the direction that used to be known as north. But it did not turn cold, as we had always heard. It only became stiller and lonelier.

Eventually, we landed in a gentle bay. It was evening, no wind was blowing. "We have to get out here," said my brother, "it is the last place." We went ashore. The place consisted of eight or ten cabins made of solid tree trunks and with shutters on the small windows, which were all closed. Not a soul was living there. Perhaps fishermen came in other seasons or travelers heading for the interior, or such people as my brother and I.

"We have to spend the night here," said my brother. We walked all the way to the last cabin; removing the key from under the stone threshold, he unlocked the door. "Tomorrow morning, you have to continue in that direction. You cannot get lost. I have to turn back. I can accompany you only this far. But we will spend this night together."

I heard what he said. I tried to look in the direction in which he pointed, but it had already grown too dark. I could barely glimpse a range of hills in the distance. Beyond them there was a very faint strip of blue light. Nothing more. There were no stars in the sky. I listened. It was so quiet that one could have felt the beating of an owl's wings as noise. But there was nothing to hear.

"Why are you not coming?" my brother called from inside the cabin, and I followed him. He had meanwhile lit a kerosene lamp, which hung over a table in the corner. The ceiling of the room was very low, one could fear banging one's head against the beam. Shelves were attached all around, with tin boxes and bottles arranged on them very neatly. Naturally, there was also a stove. Otherwise, there were few furnishings: aside from the table and the benches along the wall, two large crates and a small closet. And then two beds, in bunk form, as is normal in such cabins.

"I want to fix us some pancakes," said my brother. "We are hungry from the long voyage." He started a fire in the stove. Flour turned up, also a pot containing eggs, and a bottle of oil. My brother duly stirred it all together. I was surprised.

"You must have been here before?" I asked.

"Certainly," he answered, pouring the batter into the pan that had been hanging on the wall next to the stove. I asked no further questions. "You will find knives and forks in the table drawer. Set the table while I fry," he instructed me. "Also, get the two old tin cups from the shelf. Wipe them with your handkerchief. will boil some tea. Perhaps there is some rum here. The bottle is over there. Smell it to make sure it is not kerosene. Yes, it is rum. It will do us good."

He put the pan with the pancakes on the table after spreading an old newspaper underneath. "We do not have to bother with plates. We can eat straight from the pan. That will give us less to clean up."

"Women probably do not come here?" I asked.

"No, I do not think so," he replied. "By the way, the flour has grown a bit moldy. It is not my fault."

"It tastes wonderful," I praised him, and he seemed glad. We ate it all up. By now, the water was already boiling; he brewed the tea, and poured it into the tin cups. He added a solid shot of rum. It made us cozily warm. But we did not talk much.

"There is also a can of tobacco and an old pipe if you want to smoke. In the meantime, I will make the beds," he said.

Opening the crates, he pulled out woolen blankets. I walked around the room, smoking. A few yellowed pictures from magazines hung on the walls. A sailboat; a woman in a dress with a plunging neckline; a city with gigantic buildings and a tremendous suspension bridge. There was also a photograph of two children hanging there; they were wearing dresses with lace panties peeping out underneath. I inspected everything.

"Did you moor the boat tight?" I asked again.

"No one will steal it," he replied. I do not believe that he meant to be sarcastic, but I stopped asking, since I realized he would not be answering the questions that I actually wanted to ask.

"There, now it will be soft enough," he said at last. "This is your bed," he added, pointing to the lower one. But I wanted to let him have it and sleep in the upper bunk myself. We argued about it for a while. "Why make a fuss?" he said. "Think of that stupid old saying: Is it not customary to leave the softer bed to the older brother?" So I gave in. I lay down, and after blowing out the lamp, he climbed into the top bed.

But I was unable to fall asleep. The kettle kept humming for a while on the stove; then it gave up. A log collapsed. Then the cabin became utterly silent. I could not hear my brother breathing overhead. It was as if he were no longer there. But I held my tongue.

Suddenly, there was a cry in the emptiness outside, and a yearning answer from afar.

I jumped up. "What is that?" I asked.

"Those are birds. They cry out so as not to lose one another in the darkness," my brother explained. The cries left me very sad.

"It is very lonely here," I then said.

"Yes, it is."

"And bleak. I saw it before."

"Not much grows here. Only moss. Sometimes it blossoms, that looks quite nice."

After a while, he asked: "Why are you sitting up?"

Mustering my courage, I asked him: "Could we not sleep in one bed this last night?"

"If you prefer that, then I will come," he said. He climbed down from his bed and crept under the cover with me. We had little room, but it was better like this.

"Tell me, brother," I began after a time, "why do they not send you to our mother? But if you find the question unpleasant, then forget it," I added, since he did not answer right away.

"I do not find it unpleasant," he said. "but I have to think about it, so that I will not talk nonsense. That must be it, yes: I am too impatient."

"Do you not regret it?"

"Why should I regret it? I have been granted something else. And since you are going to her, everything is in order. One is enough."

"Do you know her?"

"No, I have never seen her. You need not be afraid."

"But you know about her," I inquired further.

"I know that she exists."

"Have you heard that from the others?"

"I just know it. I have always known it even though I did not care to admit it."

"Then tell me."

He lapsed into another silence. Then he said: "If we were not lying here as snug as twins in the womb, I would not talk about it. I do not like talking about it. You know, brother, I saw the women get pregnant and have babies. But they were reluctant to give birth. We always have to bear the burden, they scolded, and after giving birth, they would quickly dress up and go dancing. They also made it clear to the children whom they had to raise. They went so far as to demand gratitude from the children for having given birth to them. This annoyed me, and I became a nasty scoffer. It pained me because of the children, but I would have done better to hold my tongue. Naturally, they threw me out, that was their prerogative. I jeered at them and lived for myself. I lived poorly; indeed, I had to tighten my belt; and I was also surrounded by dubious people. But I was defiant, and it did me no harm. Then came Christmas. Have you ever seen what Christmas meant
to them? I scoffed at that too, for I saw that they were fooling themselves. They exchanged visits, went to church, celebrated, and thought: Now we are good people! But the next day, the fight began all over again. Nevertheless, it was unjust of me to jeer; for they made an effort. And it was none of my business anyway; I did not sufficiently respect their property. So at Christmas, the woman in whose home I had been raised sent me a message. Be in church this afternoon, she notified me, so that you can be with your brothers and sisters. Good, I thought, she wants a reconciliation, and you must not be a spoilsport. So I went there. I sat in the pew with them. I saw them folding their hands. I heard the fine voices of my brothers and sisters, I heard them growing merry with the carols they were singing. The carols were good. As is customary with them, there was a tree with burning candles. And I thought: This is quite a good way of celebrating. There is nothing one could object to here. And it made me cheerful too. When it was over, we left the church and stood in the square outside it. My brothers and sisters stood on one side and I stood on the other side. A fierce east wind blasted between us. Christmas, you ought to know, comes in the middle of winter. Then the woman in whose home I had been raised said to my brothers and sisters: Shake his hand! They shook my hand and said: Goodbye! Then the woman also shook my hand and slipped something into it. Then she went home with my brothers and sisters to celebrate, and I was alone again."

"Was there no father there?" I interrupted.

"No," he replied. "The father never went to church. That is not my concern, he would say. When they came home, he would ask: Well, how was it? It was very beautiful, they would say. And? he asked further. Nothing, they shrugged their shoulders. And he fell silent. He was a man of few words. But why are you interrupting me? I stepped under a lantern and looked at what she had pressed into my hand. It was a five-mark piece. I threw it on the ground. I tell you, brother, it was a very cold winter, and the ground was frozen hard. I also took the word 'mother' and threw it down and trampled it, so that it crashed about and shattered forever. Just look at how my legs are twitching. It is not good to talk about it. It angers me even now. Yes, that must be it: I am too young to be kind. Such boys also have to exist. But now, let us sleep."

I wanted to ask him something else, but I refrained. Perhaps there will be time tomorrow morning, I thought.

When I awoke, my brother was already up. He admonished me to hurry. I was to drink my tea, which he had brewed for me. While I did so, he put the blankets back in the crates.

Then we left the cabin. He locked the door and placed the key under the threshold. I felt chilly. It was before daybreak. The cabins and hills stood hard and plain in the crystal-clear morning air. It was always like that before daybreak on this shore; I did not know this at the time. I gazed in the direction of my road and instantly saw that it was my road. Then I turned back to my brother.