An Offering for the Dead (5 page)

If only I knew what has saved these people. If I could only fathom chance. Could these people be words that I once uttered heedlessly and that have become flesh? Professor So-and-so, a well-known zoologist, stated that there was nothing extraordinary about the possibility that, under certain conditions — in this case, obviously in Arctic regions — familiar animals could develop to unusual sizes. The two birds, he said, undoubtedly belonged to the class of seagulls. An expedition was already being fitted out to explore their breeding grounds and everything else. A report would be issued shortly.

Incidentally, he went on, there was no cause for anxiety. So much for the newspapers. The man who kept addressing me as "My Friend" had not yet joined the conversation: he seemed entirely absorbed in pouring salt on a red-wine stain in the white tablecloth. But now he suddenly began: "What do we care about the blabber in the newspapers, since we are fortunate enough to have someone here who knows more about it. Let us ask him. Maybe he will do us the favor of replying." He looked at me, and all other eyes likewise turned towards me.

I could feel myself blanch. I did not dare stir. I did not even dare to think; for I felt as if he could read my mind and was therefore scoffing at me. He was far more intelligent than I am; I had often admired his mind and been ashamed of my own ignorance. Yet I felt odd about him; he never really said anything that struck me as new. In general, he only said things that I felt had already occurred to me, except that I did not voice them or that I was not endowed with the ability to voice them. Upon hearing them from him, I grabbed my head and thought: Yes, of course, that is it. At the same time, I had a sense of regret that these ideas had been uttered, and the spoken thoughts detached themselves from me and became alien to me and hostile.

Thus, when he addressed me now, his words were like my own thought, which I had not permitted to be uttered. I suddenly realized that I must know more about the afternoon event than the others. But was it not too early to talk about it? Was not this "friend" of mine trying to pull an unripe fruit from the branch?

For I swear to you, my true friend, you who are listening to this, or I swear to you, the woman so patiently lying next
to me in bed, that I did not know it at the time. In any case, did not know it enough to have words for it. And what do I really know about it now? Not much more than the external facts, and I even saw very little of them; there were things I did not understand and much that I have forgotten.

And what if I
had
known it? How should I have behaved? If, for instance, one happens to know that a good friend's favorite child is to die within a week, and the father now comes and makes plans for his child's future and would like to discuss them with somebody, what should one say to him? For example: Save your energy, it is useless? Or one has learned — and one is the only one — that the Deluge will burst in tomorrow. There is absolutely no salvation, except for one person, and that one person is oneself. Oh, what a burden for that person to live from today until tomorrow! If he endures this, he is truly afflicted. If he were to tell people, then assuming that they believed it, which is not probable — the sole consequence would be that the Deluge would already begin today. So one has to keep silent, although that is the hardest thing to do.

Let us not forget that I am recounting a dream; for during the time that we could have been sitting at the table, I was entirely somewhere else. I was standing on the threshold of my room. Thus, contrary to my original goal, I had not left the city to pursue the birds; instead, I had turned back halfway. I had reached the edge of the city, where sporadic houses drip into the surrounding heath. There, I felt as if I had missed something, and I had to go home. When I opened the door to my room ...

It was under the roof; I did not like to have people weighing down the ceiling overhead, thereby forcing me to help bear them. was a longish room, not very high. From the windows, one could see beyond the edge of the city into infinity. There was also a small room in which I slept and washed. How many lives I lived in that room! They are not to be counted. And what long distances I wandered, through the window and back again. And even if I was fainthearted at times and thought: Now I am tired, I cannot go on, I was never actually alone up there for even an instant. Someone always showed up at the right time. There was a coming and going. Many people came from far away, where they were now living after turning their backs on this existence. But they did not look as if they had traveled a long distance. They were not exhausted, they simply walked in through the door as if they had been waiting there, and now here they were. Several merely went through and did not see me or did not wish to see me. I did not dare address them, for I sensed that they did not wish to be disturbed. Others halted and looked at me, then they too went on. I had to ponder their gazes for a long time. But some remained, sat down with me, and we talked all night long. They did not want to instruct me; on the contrary, they wanted to find out something from me. Incidentally, we did not just discuss serious matters; there were times when we made fun of everybody. I brewed coffee on an alcohol burner, and we sometimes drank one bottle of wine too many. But whenever we had a very important conversation, then it might happen that other visitors joined in, as if they had been in the staircase, merely waiting for the right word to be spoken. There must have been quite a number of visitors. It was like a cornfield that stretches all the way to the horizon and even beyond the borders; the individual stalks could be seen only in front, and the whole field swayed gently to and fro. I believe they came not for my sake, but to listen to the first visitor. They stood around him, as I have said, not always quite distinctly visible. One only knew that they were there. They themselves never spoke, they merely listened. But with what childlike attention they listened, virtually as if for them everything hung on that. And some of the sentences made them blush for joy; the entire room was then bathed in a rosy shimmer. They nodded at one another as if to say: Look, that is the way it is, and a rustling passed through the field. There were some who had as yet left no trace in any heart, because they had not yet managed to commit themselves to existence. For the time being, they were still waiting and listening and hoping.

Most of my visitors, incidentally, were men; but naturally, women came too. I was afraid of some of them; for nothing was to their liking, and I felt utterly worthless. They derisively nitpicked everything, and I was a wayward child. They behaved very violently; belligerently pushing out their chests, they looked down their noses at me. Why, they seemed to be one head taller than I was. I do not wish to denigrate them; they were probably right in some way — otherwise, they would not have come to visit; but they expected something of me that they felt I ought to do, and I was glad when they were gone. Another type was at least equally unpleasant. They softly shuffled in; I believe they wore slippers instead of shoes. Their faces were somewhat bloated; they had bags under their eyes and slack chins; their flesh was pale and spongy; their movements were weary and their voices soporific. Actually, they only sighed. It was hard to get rid of them once they settled down in the room. But the one I hated most was a little old woman; sometimes, she drove me out of the room, and I preferred walking the streets at
night. Upon returning home at dawn, I first peered through the door crack to see if she was still there. She always spoke to me from below; there was a kink in her neck like in a snake's, and her head tilted slightly to one side. This was meant to look friendly, and indeed, according to their external meaning, her words were very friendly and concerned. But there was nothing more venomous.

All the other women, nicer and younger ones, were likewise very earnest. I do not mean that frivolous and coquettish creatures should have come. But why not some who were quite simply cheerful? They also spoke a lot less than the men; hence, it is not fair to call women chatterboxes. One should not listen too closely to the superficial sounds; the blabbering conceals taciturnity. They stood at the table, feeling an object, smoothing out the tablecloth. Then they said: "Well?" And when I asked them to have a seat, they sat down and waited. When I looked up, some were sitting quite unexpectedly at the desk near me. Ah, how long and patiently! And they did not bother me, although their eyes were glued to me. Now and then, a few smiled at me; but there were also times when I had to put down the pen and go over to such a woman, because the one sitting there gazed at me so forlornly that I grew quite helpless. At such moments, it would have been better if one of us had wept for the other. But we men do not allow ourselves to cry and have therefore quite forgotten how to do it. Indeed, we are so afraid of tears that we resort to the most absurd devices to prevent them in women too. That was why the female visitors never wept, although they may have often felt like it, and it would have been beneficial for both sides. So I could think of nothing else than to stroke the sad woman's hair and ask her to spend the night with me. Then we embraced; not out of love, but because we did not know what to do. However, this seldom happened. When I awoke in the morning, they had long since left me without waking me up. But the imprint of their sorrow remained next to me in the pillows, and the smell of those women clung to me so strongly that I was certain the people in the street or on the train that I rode to the city must have noticed it.

Once there was a very young girl present, she could have been barely fourteen years old. Although it must have been winter, she was wearing a kind of shirt of very fine material, which reached down to her bare feet. She warmed her hands at the stove; the heat radiating from the stove door shone right through them. The line of the back of her neck and the tiny hairs also shone. My heart quivered with tenderness. I do not know what she was after. I did not dare to ask; for she would certainly have been frightened. Besides, it was enough that she was warming herself.

Incidentally, it now occurs to me that the male visitors and the women never arrived together or at the same time. While the two sexes usually strive to get as close to each other as possible, trying to abolish the difference, these people showed no such yearning; they kept apart, as if knowing nothing about each other. Indeed, it was as if they lived in completely different worlds.

I am struck by a terrifying thought. What if my name and my image were still alive somewhere? And my name were speaking to another name at this very moment, and I did not know what? Who says that my name perished? Or else it sits on the edge of a woman's bed, and she is deceived by it? Or is a woman not deceived by such a thing?

How shall I check it? This thought, that there can exist such a world of names, and that it may be more powerful, and that I may be utterly superfluous here, is so terrifying that I dare not speak any further.

But no! I experienced it myself.

When I now entered the room, my father was sitting on the sofa. His head had sunk down to his chest so that his beard pushed up along his chin. The corners of his large, kind mouth drooped wearily on both sides. His lips were arched like the wings of a gull. His hair also stuck out, disheveled. Even now, in his sleep, anxious thoughts moved to and fro along their trodden paths on his high forehead.

I heaved a deep sigh of love and gratitude when I saw him. I closed the door as softly as possible, but it awoke him all the same. He must have been immeasurably exhausted. His eyebrows and the shadows under his eyes formed black rings like the frames of glasses. But his eyes themselves shone like dark, mild suns.

Whenever I met him or he visited me, I always pondered what good things I could do for him, even at the cost of my own life; for I believed that he was not sufficiently respected, indeed, that he was pushed around a bit as if he were in the way; nor did he grant himself what was right. Yet I could never hit on anything that would suffice for this purpose, and so I felt guilty towards him. It was the same now, and I believe he noticed it precisely. He beckoned at me to sit down with him, and he asked: "Do you want to save the diaries?"

Only now did I see that he had read parts of them. He was allowed to do so; for it seems to me as if I wrote them for him. For whom else? And he had fallen asleep while reading.

"No," I answered, "we have to take our chances."

And he nodded at me amiably. Nevertheless, I was slightly embarrassed about the diaries. "Come here," he said. "Perhaps we will not meet again that soon. Who can tell what is going to happen. I cannot judge it so exactly. Besides, none of this depends on me, you ought to know." And I realized that he meant that it depended on me. This was his way of suggesting something to me. He fearfully avoided anything that sounded like a demand. "In any case, let us sit together once again. Perhaps the others will also come if it is necessary."

Ah, I do not wish to say anything more about it. I will later on. Or else not. For what words should I use to describe that afternoon and our sitting together? You must bear in mind that he was my real father. Not the one who has the name of "father" in the lawbooks, because he performed the job of procreating me with a woman (I will have to speak about him too some day); but that is an entirely different matter. No, I was lucky enough to find my real father.

One day on the street. A wagon with heavy brown horses was standing at the curbstone. Thick white tufts of hair fell over their hooves. A man was talking to them and feeding them crusts of old black bread. Then I heard his voice. And I was amazed that not everyone heard it, since he was speaking so distinctly, and it could not be misunderstood. And now I knew that this was my father.