An Offering for the Dead (9 page)

I also had to say so much about them in order to explain how it happened that I went to my mother. The one is unthinkable without the other, like that woman, about whom I may be giving too few details. Even if she is less visible, she must be audible to an ear that pays more heed to the sound of words. Perhaps she can be best perceived from my breathing during my pauses and silences.

Granted, it would be nice if I could recount: We walked together through the dining room past the cleared table. She slightly rearranged a vase of flowers, and then we walked on into the other room with the books and the piano. There, we sat down and talked about the evening, using somewhat weary words, and she sloughed off the role of hostess. But I would only be making that up retrospectively.

The only thing that is certain is that I must have been more familiar with that woman than I thought. But I have completely forgotten how that came about. What had previously existed carried, no doubt, too little weight.

You see, I was in her room. It was the same room that contained the mirror that did not render my image, and her bed, in which I dreamt. But now it was night, and heavy curtains had been drawn across the window. When I describe this, it almost seems to me as if she were the same woman to whom I am reporting it all. Only one candle was lit in a white holder, which stood in front of the mirror. The light fell warmly on her face and hands. The rest of the room lay in soft darkness. I too stood invisible in the shadow behind her. For she was sitting on the low footstool in front of the mirror.

I dare not claim that we were in love. Rather, I would guess that the two of us had gotten underway with different goals. We could easily have passed one another by; but we happened to see each other, and we believed that we were the ones we were looking for.

I spoke to her the words that I had previously heard: "It will cause a great deal of grief. " Those were not good words on my lips or at that moment. If I truly wanted to avoid grief, all I had to do was leave without first saying that. But in this way, I probably wanted to shed all responsibility, and that was cowardly.

She eyed me skeptically from the mirror. I did not dare emerge from the darkness, because I was afraid she would
notice the absence of my mirror image. Since I was standing in the darkness, there was at first only darkness in her eyes. But they stared right in the direction of my voice. Whether her gaze approached me slowly, or I entered it — being curious about whose image was in it, mine or someone else's — then the dreadful thing happened, and I had to defenselessly watch what happened to me. As punishment for my indecisiveness, I became the witness of my destiny.

I saw myself groping through the dripping fog. I was fleeing the inescapable. I had no idea where I was heading. I kept changing directions. I ran around in a circle. What I saw was not the same man who had so overweeningly bragged that that afternoon, a high-placed visitor in his room had reached a decision about him. Perhaps the forebear had already recognized this and had therefore asked: Why is he trembling?

Now I too saw that I was trembling. I was trembling so badly that it was communicated to the fog around me and to the ground on which I seemed to be standing. It was an awful sight. Nowhere was there anything to lean on. No tree, no wall. All familiar things had dissolved. The world was a clayey ocean. At times, I saw only my head when I stumbled into a trough of the waves, and at times, only my legs, when I came to a hill and my upper body vanished in the haze. That was why I heard myself panting from the strain, and whenever I pulled my feet out of the clay, they made a smacking noise.

Often I halted and listened. I must have noticed what I thought. If only I had paid attention earlier to the small, shy caresses, and not rejected them gruffly. For example, when we sit at the table, facing one another, as we have been doing every day for years now. One brings spoon after spoon to one's lips without thinking of the food. One thinks of the
struggle that lies behind one and that is only half completed; and while chewing and swallowing, one already furiously continues to wage the struggle tomorrow. Suddenly, one's hand is grazed lightly. One looks up, astonished, as if the enemy were already here, one sees a smile, the touch lingers on the hand for an instant, but one already angrily shakes it off. And so one day, one stands altogether outside. When the lindens are in leaf, one probably sees it and yearns to be present. But one can no longer find the first word. One grieves, and the lindens also grieve because someone is standing on the side.

Once, a war took place outside. The nations tried to destroy one another. That was a long time ago. The dead can scarcely remember. They tell each other we are better off forgetting all about it, and we will forget it; otherwise someone will feel like trying again and will declare that he has to avenge us. But that is only a pretext, because he is dissatisfied with himself; for we do not need revenge, we need peace. At that time, the storm was raging around the house. The windows rattled, the ceiling shattered, and the tottering walls might collapse at any second, burying everything. But I cried: "Thank goodness! Thank goodness!" and I puffed myself up in defiance. Then someone said to me: How sorry I feel for you. And the ground rocked under my feet.

But now it is too late. There is no more moon, whose dishonest mildness sparks our protest. And we also lack a moonless dwelling. Misery anticipated us and has impounded every true haven. We rummage in the garbage cans.

However, I am not blameless in this matter. Why was I not told this by the men who conferred about me in my room? Or did they want me to hit on it myself?

Eventually, I saw myself halting at a precipice. Subsidence had formed a crater there, deep and with smooth walls. The water had gathered at the bottom, producing a small, milky lake, like a blind eye. Not knowing what to do, I peered helplessly into the depth. Now, I saw a tiny human figure squatting at the edge of the lake. I was so overjoyed that I forget where I was standing; I trod down too hard or stepped forward — in any case, the ground gave way underfoot and I began sliding. Inexorably I slid downhill, faster and faster. It was a highly ludicrous sight — the way I slid and struggled. And someone even laughed. At first, the laughter was remote and alien, then increasingly closer and louder. And, above all, increasingly familiar. It sounded like a friendly jeering.

"Welcome, my friend. I have been expecting you for an eternity," a voice greeted me when I came to. It was my friend.

But how dreadful he looked. In contrast to me, he had always been extremely clothes-conscious. "One makes one's life unnecessarily difficult by standing out against others because of some sloppiness," he had often admonished me. "And we honor the riffraff too greatly by separating ourselves and therefore permitting them to look at us." Yet now he was caked with clay. His left trouser leg was slit up to the knee, the white skin of his shin peeped through. He was wearing only one shoe. It was obvious that he had slid down into this crater just like me. This would no doubt have been the right moment for me to laugh in turn. He even seemed to expect it. But, to his chagrin, I did not do so. I was too amazed. I had reckoned with never seeing him again after he left me on the terrace that evening.

"Did I not tell you that I would survive?" he remarked grimly. "In any case, as you can see, I have not been inveigled into becoming a bird."

I did not understand him at all. But he misread my querying gaze. "Or do you see feathers, claws, and a beak on me?" he inquired mistrustfully. "Why are you gaping at me like that, huh? Do you imagine that you look any better than I? Or do you find it inconvenient to run into me here, my friend?"

Indeed, nothing mutually distinguished us. Each could have pretended to be the other. But that was not what frightened me. "Has something happened?" I asked him.

Now it was his turn to gape. "Are you trying to make a fool of me?" he asked. But since I shook my head, and he also knew that this was not like me, he added: "Where have you been?"

"In the fog."

"I mean before that."

"Before that?" I could really not recall any time in which I had not groped about through the fog. I did not think about that woman and the terrace. Nor did my friend seem to think about them; otherwise he would not have spared me a few sarcastic allusions.

"So you are seriously asking me whether something has happened?" he inquired, still incredulous. "You holy innocent! More, my friend, could not have happened than has happened. If I had not seen it myself, I would regard it as impossible. Or" (even now, he could not refrain from attacking me) "or as one of your fantasies. Yes, it was worth experiencing. Damn you, it was worth it. But what is this? We are sitting here in this mucky hole as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and you ask whether something has happened?" he resumed. "Do you not know that we are all that has remained?"

"What do you mean 'all'?"

"There are no human beings left."

"No human beings left?"

"Now that would not necessarily be regrettable. But it
is
astounding."

"And what happened to them?"

"They have become birds."

"All of them?"

"Most likely all of them. Perhaps some are still left on the other side of the earth, but we need not count on it. Can we even still call this 'earth'?" he cried, smacking his hand on the ground, which yielded like dough. "And the sky, huh? Where is it? Has everything gotten all scrambled up? I would give anything to have one of those boring scientists here in order to listen to his explanations. Not that it would help us much, but it would be quite amusing. My compliments, incidentally, for holding your ground so well. I would have expected you to be the first to proceed to become a bird. Perhaps I would even have followed you for old time's sake and out of curiosity. It was so damn hard anyway not to push off from the ground and fly after the others. What a powerful herd instinct I do have. I had to throw myself on my belly and clutch the dirt. How quickly they all lost their sense of propriety!" he added, embittered. "They even spurt their white droppings about, as if they had never learned to act otherwise. Shameless!"

"Have they really become birds?" I asked once again. "Do you believe I am in any mood to tell fairy tales?" "All of them?"

"Yes, all of them. Or have you encountered anyone? "No."

"Perhaps a good friend will slide down to us."

We both looked up, but there was nothing to see. I asked him to tell me when it had happened.

"Soon after we parted. Yesterday, today, or tomorrow, who can say for sure in this humdrum monotony. I went outside the city. Why should I not go outside the city? I was taking a short constitutional. We had eaten our fill. I see nothing odd about that. I walked all the way to the mouth of the river, where the ocean begins. No sooner was I there, than it started. An endless rustling of wings. At first, I thought I was drunk. But nothing of the sort. One could not be more sober. First that rustling of wings threatened to confuse me. Always beginning far behind my back and then overhead and away. As I have said, it took a bit of doing to keep from losing one's mind. I would never have dreamt that so many people existed. There were also children among them. A few people still found it difficult to fly. They alighted on the shore in front of me, beating their wings and shrieking. And other birds instantly turned back from the swarm and drove the laggards along. In the end, a few stragglers joined in. They circled slowly above the estuary. Fortunately, they did not sight me. Then they too vanished over the ocean, and I was alone. I stood up in order to return to the city. What could have become of it? I do not care two hoots about it. It probably dissolved like everything else. Next, I wandered into the fog and slid into this hole, just like you. A miracle that we did not bang heads in the fog. Well, here we are. You would probably have preferred my taking off with the others, right? But it will not help you. I am still here."

He tried to look at me in triumph, but he failed miserably. There was more query than triumph in his eyes. "Now what do we do next?" He even nudged me with his elbow; for I sat there in silence, mulling over his account.

"We have to wait and see," I responded.

"Wait and see?" he exclaimed, indignant. "What good will that do? Do you possibly believe that someone will come and pull you out of this hole? Ah, you patient lambs!"

"I am sure we will find a way out," I tried to placate him.

"I am sure we will find a way out!" he mimicked derisively. "Do you know me so little as to think that I have been moping around instead of looking for a way out? Just try climbing the walls yourself. You will not advance two paces, everything is too smooth. And even if we did climb out? What should the two of us do up there in the fog? Do you hope that we will find something to eat? I do not. Or should we now choose lots to decide which of us will consume the other? We used to read about that in books when we were children. And then, if you please, dear friend, the question still remains: Why even bother?

"Why, huh?" he screamed at me. His voice broke. He seemed embarrassed about it himself. "Just look, I have caught cold and I am croaking like one of those birds. In any case," he went on in a calmer tone, "it will be very boring; we have not considered this sufficiently. But what surprises me the most is that you do not seem to find anything unusual about your being in this situation."

"We were alone often enough in the past," I countered.

"But that was our own intention. And if it got too bad, we could go and make fun of people. They were very serviceable for that, at least. But to have to keep staring at one another oh no, bah!" He spit.