An Offering for the Dead (8 page)

We often sat up all through the night; I spent most of my time with him. In this way, I casually learned things about him that he would never have admitted if asked directly. If, for example, I had asked him why he acted so nervous, he would have laughed and replied: "Quite simply out of fear! I once met a man in the street, he was so unthinkably ragged and seedy that you simply could not pass him by. Yet his eyes were as soft as a roe's. I happened to have some money in my pocket, so I gave him a little. I also bought him some bread and asked him what his name was and where he lived, so that I could bring him clothing the next day. He named an old-age home in a poor section of town. When I went there, no one had ever heard of him. The administrator said I had probably come upon a tramp and had been hoodwinked. Now that is not so bad. But what I got to see in that home practically knocked me for a loop. Lots of old men who could have been my great-grandfathers were sitting around, waiting for their food. They clutched sticky bowls in their hands in order to receive it, and their conversation went: 'Is there going to be cabbage today or fish soup?' And what a stench and filth, they are not to be described. I was close to vomiting. When they
received their soup, greedily making sure that the senile neighbor did not get more, they quickly toddled off into a dark corner to spoon it up. The spittle flowed from their mouths and the snot from their noses. Can one not get disgusted at nature for being constituted in this way? Since then I have been quite simply fearful that some day all people might become like those old men, that they will only lurk for their bad lunch and otherwise stink and be gobbled up by vermin. And perhaps I am to be part of that."

However, I believe that he was just talking, and that this was not the real reason. He had already tried several professions, never enduring any for more than three months. He also kept moving from town to town. At first, when he arrived somewhere, he would say: I have finally found the right thing. And he promptly attempted to convert others to his new position. But all at once, he disappeared; for a long time, no one knew where he was living or if he was even alive, until they finally heard from him. He was an orphan, his parents had died when he was still in the cradle. Some relatives or other must have raised him. I presume that these relatives were to blame. Naturally, it ill befits me to rebuke them; for as a boy, he must have been difficult to understand. But something must have happened at some point. Perhaps at a meal, when they asked him, while chewing: How much longer? And why? And when finally? For I noticed that he was particularly disgusted by people who were having lunch and sating themselves. But I never dared to touch on this issue.

He claimed that I was exactly like him. This was not quite true. However, he
was
my younger brother, there can be no doubt. Sometimes, at the crack of dawn, it would happen that he would go over to the window and gaze out into the uncertain. Then he abruptly spun around, his eyes glowing with faith and pleasure: "Come, let us die together." I admit that he nearly talked me into it. He was like a lover. As I have already mentioned: he had no mother, and that explains a great deal.

However, the bandage he now wore on his head looked good on him; it gave his face a manly touch; why, he looked like a warrior.

He yanked open the door for the other visitor, whom he was accompanying, and, with an angular bow, he ushered him in. He winked at me roguishly, like a grandson behind his grandfather's back.

If I still knew the names of those men, my description of them would not have to be so long-winded. But in this way, I can talk about them with the terms "father," "brother," "teacher," and "old boy," and that may suffice. I also have to mention that it was not I who had chosen them as relatives and models; it was they who selected me to carry out a mission on which they had set their hearts. Almost against my will; for I often yearned to live like other people — that is: without a mission or a mandator. I would then sigh: Why me? Just as they had chosen me, they could easily reject me at any time, if I did not work out to their satisfaction. And then I would have been doomed, since there was no road back to other lives once this road was taken. And resistance was useless.

However, I have no appropriate designation for this last visitor. Earlier, he must have had a very special name, which made it unnecessary to add any essential epithet. I never dared to address him first, even mentally, with either a request or a complaint, much less with refractory words. It was a question of respect. Knowing that he existed sufficed.

So how shall I designate him now? The judge? He was cer
tainly a strict and unique judge. He stood upright in nothingness like the law itself. As it was later revealed: once, in a highly critical moment, he had pronounced a verdict that set a universal standard and perhaps saved the world. However, the designation "judge" is too narrow for him. "Judge" conjures up a defendant and the insurmountable barrier separating the two. But the man I am speaking of was probably very far away; yet it was not impossible going to him and reaching him, though it may sound presumptuous to say so. For the difficult position of judge that was assigned to him had not killed his humanity, but merely concealed it. As for me, I always called him the "forebear," and this designation is probably the one that best suits his character. Only one should not think of this label as something senile (in fact, my father was older and, above all, looked older); it should merely clarify his rank and the degree of respect that we felt towards him.

Everyone turned in his direction when he entered the room. My father, despite his years, nimbly leaped up from the couch and strode towards him. The fat man likewise tried to get to his feet, but, sighing, gave it up and only held his torso solemnly erect until the forebear had settled down. Naturally, my father had reserved the place of honor for him, on the couch, but he refused it and sat down on the most uncomfortable chair, which was at the table. Moreover, the plaited straw of this chair was tattered. My father had to reoccupy his place on the couch. This was quite unpleasant for him, for he did not dare lean back, he simply sat half on the edge. I myself remained standing the whole time, as was proper. My brother also remained standing; he leaned against the wall next to the couch.

They kept silent for quite a while. The fat man had leaned back in his armchair again, letting out an occasional wheeze.

I was already wondering if they expected me to break the silence. But how could I dare? The forebear, incidentally, had never visited me before; what would have prompted him to do so anyway? However, I had already seen him from afar and I knew that it was he, and that he had to make the decision about me.

At last, my father took the floor: "We have gotten together here in order to ask you to allow him to go to his mother," he said to the forebear, softly and gently.

Previously, I had never once thought about my mother or even remotely dreamt that she was the issue. But no sooner had my father mentioned her than I felt as if I had never desired anything else.

The forebear's face remained motionless. No one could tell whether he had even heard the request. His features were chiseled in stone. His forehead and his cheekbones stuck out sharply. His temples were hollow, and his cheeks sucked in as if from a wasting grief. His mouth was like a line, his lips pressed tightly together; his words were well guarded.

The fat man nervously ran his hand through his sparse hair and cleared his throat. But instead of him, my teacher virtually buttonholed the forebear in an unexpectedly sharp tone.

"I am prepared to act as her defense attorney. I wanted to do so long ago, but I was told it was too early. Very well, it is not my place to judge it. But now it is time to release her from the prison of a murderous name. The verdict may once have been justified — who would dare to doubt it. Her deed aroused such great repulsion and made everyone so profoundly aware of the danger to which the world would be exposed if this woman were still to be given a free hand, that strict laws were necessary to find the beginning of a new road
and prevent any relapse. For we were probably by no means certain of our strength and success; otherwise the judgment would not have had to be so harsh. But this verdict was one-sided, like all verdicts. The road that it indicated has been taken, and the result is such that one is now tempted to approve of her deed."

The fat man thoughtfully swayed his head, and my father whispered soothingly: "Not that! Not that!"

Annoyed at the interruption, my teacher continued: "If not that, then nevertheless, none of us now has the right to pass such a judgment as was pronounced back then. This woman was excluded from the life in which she wanted, in her way, to assure herself a share. People did not wish to become guilty like her; they wanted to master their destinies. The attempt was to their credit, but it failed, and we now realize that it was doomed, since people went about it with only half their hearts. Destiny was not mastered, it was fearfully locked out. And man, not destiny, was the prisoner of his fear. The unconsumed grew outside the pale of the laws, inside of which people vegetated dishonestly, without warmth or beauty. But the Void attracts Being, and the world of appearances is on the verge of collapse."

The fat man nodded, and my father repeated the words: "Without warmth or beauty."

My teacher concluded with these words: "Sons must again be born of mothers, not of slave women. We, guilty of the failed attempt, do not have the right to forgive this woman. For we ourselves are in need of forgiveness. It is our duty to rescind the verdict that was issued under different circumstances. Let us stop evading destiny."

The forebear still sat there, inert. Only a very feeble twitching of his neck muscles revealed life and participation. It was as if words were attempting to rise from him and were being repressed. His eyes could not be seen, they lay deep in their sockets, concealed under the gray shrubbery of the brows. He seemed to be rigidly staring into space, perusing a text that remained invisible to us.

Now the others likewise spoke about my mother. The fat man, for example, talked fondly about her for a long time, not without accompanying his words with generous sweeps of his hands, as if trying to disperse all qualms. He also laughed in his friendly way; but I believe that, at bottom, he was deeply touched and could barely hold back his tears. His cheerfulness arched across a great sorrow; that was why we felt so comfortable with him, as if listening to some splendid music. The sound of his voice melted even the stone features of the forebear's face, and the creases grew softer, like mountain valleys in spring light. But I may simply have imagined that. "Why bother talking and deliberating so much," said the fat man. "We have done enough arguing, with ourselves and with the world. It would be nice to relax for once." He nearly choked and had to cough. His face turned crimson from the strain. Or was he only pretending he had to cough? I did not dare slap him on the back.

Everyone waited until his coughing fit was over and he breathlessly apologized with a gesture. Then I heard my father say in his shyly suppliant voice: "She is not a bad person, the poor thing. She will be delighted."

Now the forebear finally turned his face towards me. It is not really possible to talk about it and probably not permitted. I noticed that my brother was so agitated that he switched from one foot to the other. In so doing, he banged
his head or his shoulder on a small picture hanging on the wall. It seemed to me as if, all that time, it had been rocking to and fro on its nail with a shuffling noise. I cannot say how long it took. I was nothing but the transparent thought of something greater.

"Why is he trembling?" those eyes inquired, imprisoning me in their scrutiny. I did not know that I was meant.

"It is not fear," answered my teacher next to me, and only now did I again stand solidly in the room. "It is the shaking of the leaves at the end of the day. It is the uncertainty of a person who does not know his mother."

I glanced, frightened, at my younger brother; for I feared that he would be insulted by that word. But he gave me a friendly smile.

"Why this fear?" said the fat man. "It is cheerful timidity." "And love," my father softly added.

"What about the grief?" asked my forebear. "It will cause a great deal of grief. But by then, we will no longer be here." "We have preserved the grief sacredly within us; for human beings did not want grief and they acknowledged only the common plight, which adulterates all genuine things," my teacher replied. "Let us restore grief to them. Then our mission will be accomplished."

"That is it," the fat man added, and he was now truly weeping without hiding it.

"Let it be," my father resolved.

The forebear sat self-absorbed for a while. Then he placed his bony hands open on the table and, gazing at them, he spoke: "Good! You shall take him to her, so that he will not go astray again."

He said that to my brother. Then he stood up, and the others stood up too. I have forgotten whether they said anything to me when departing; I was too deeply moved. No, wait: I recall that my father stood in front of me for a while, and we actually wanted to embrace. But we did not do so; it was not customary between us.

Then I was already off with my brother.

Perhaps the person hearing this will be bored and will think: Why does he not talk about the house and the woman he was alone with? For that must be more important. Does he wish to keep it a secret?

I do not know which is more important. Those men are no longer here to guide and protect my life. I do not believe that they are resting; it is not like them. They will be back if the events should make it necessary. But not I will be the object of their concern. Anyone who seeks them will not find them. Anyone who shouts for them or for one of them and accuses them with the cry: Why have you forsaken us? will not be heard by them. The violent shout will return to the shouter and crush him. One can look for the mother and one will find her at any time. But it is different with these men. One has to let oneself be found by them.