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ow, after the Threshold of Postojna, it began to snow, which it had been too cold to do before. At an unmarked stop by a road through the woods, a schoolchild, his cheeks rosy, stepped in the swirling white out of the underbrush, and did not even need to warm up particularly on the bus; while waiting he had crouched in a natural basket formed of branches, without freezing.
And after the next threshold, the one leading into the lowlands along the Adriatic coast, it was raining, and in Nova Gorica, where darkness had long since fallen, a warm wind was blowing, in tune with the palm trees there, which rustled. From the bus station, a glass shed in a wooded park, walking paths radiated in a star pattern, and Valentin joined the largest group. On this evening he walked along among the unknown silhouettes as if he were a local person going home, and not only because he had the address of the place where I had stayed there.
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he offspring of a villager, he had none of the traits of one. Where I had stubby fingers, his had turned out long, narrow, and almost oddly flexible; I could not imagine they would ever display hundreds of little scars like his father's. Likewise my neck, which was squat, or perhaps hunched between my shoulders out of old boarding-school habit, had in him grown freely into the air, also strong and straight, and when he was tired his head never drooped to the side like mine, or to the back, like his grandfather's on the farmyard bench of an evening. At the same time, Valentin had larger feet than I, and his soles had more standing surface than those of almost all the cottagers and their offspring in the region we came from, where people stand better on one leg than on two (one immediately notices, whether inside churches or outside at gatherings, that the men as well as the women, the entire population, are constantly shifting from one foot to the other, just like that, standing next to each other and talking, often shifting at the same time, as if in a preestablished rhythm, giving the impression of a regional dance that consists of constant rocking back and forth, swaying, wobbling).
My son likewise shows no tendency, as we do, when meeting even a familiar person, to become skittish (observation in the Jaunfeld villages: that in everyday conversation, even between neighbors who have known each other all their lives, each looks somewhere elseâas if they felt brush by them and flash through them that old uneasiness on soil where they were once only tenants).
And it means little to him that he is an Austrian, or a German, and not merely because he has a Catalan mother. He is neither ashamed of it nor is he proud of anything in that connection; he is indifferent toward it, in a way that seems entirely new to me, as far as one's own country is concerned. As a young person I suffered from AustriaâI use this expression advisedlyâand thought I was the only one, discovering only later: many suffered. Yes, we suffered from Austria, and differently from the way I imagine a German suffering from his Germany. That a person then became head of state who represented to a T the outlines of our perhaps half-forgotten youthful suffering brought all this back and at the same time made it obvious that this was a suffering without hope, for life.
Valentin, on the other hand, who had been living in Austria for years now, had a few places, or rather spots, there, where he liked to go, and
that was enough of a country for him, if he even used such a word. And when I visited, if he happened to take me to them, I allowed myself to catch his enthusiasm, for I noticed how important it was to him that I at least approve of what he liked. Although he had spent most of his time in suburbs, dragged out there by his father, and then eventually reconciled to it, all that now seemed as if it had never taken place, and in Vienna he never looked for a possible equivalent to the suburbs of Paris, unlike me (every time on the very morning of my arrival, as if salvation depended on it). He strikes me as the kind of personâand his entire generation with him?âwho is less intent on finding a permanent home than on having hideouts here and there, located neither in the center nor on the outskirts, but usually, almost as a rule, somewhere in between.
Also my habit of walking everywhere means little to him. But when he walks, from one hideout to the next, he moves so quickly, without ever breaking into a run, throwing his whole body into it, that I can barely keep up with him.
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e traveled south, crisscrossing Slovenia, from the coastal area back into continental Europe, from early spring into winter and vice versa. For a long time he saw the sea, the Adriatic, only for seconds, from afar, from the limestone ridges. Sometimes, after covering a stretch in the dark, when he had not been able to see anything, the next morning, in daylight, he would take the bus back the way he had come, approximately to the place where night had fallen.
It was already February when he found a place to sit by the harbor of Piran, otherwise hardly a day's journey from Nova Gorica, on the breakwater there, my stones of ignorance, in the face of which, when I was his age, thirty-five years ago or the day before yesterday, everything I had learned and all my origins had fallen away from me, and for an afternoon and an evening I had felt nothing but that I was cocooned in the world, a feeling that never came back so completely, if at all, after Piran and that first day by the sea.
From this vicarious refresher course, Valentin sent me a drawing of the stone blocks, nothing but these; the bay and the wooded shore opposite he had erased. Seen thus, with nothing around them, filling the
paper and furthermore executed with excessive precision, the blocks looked unrecognizable, might just as well be animal heads, cracks in a wall, bundles of laundry, and were, or created, when I held them up close to my eyes, just as long ago, for seconds at a time, the image of nothing at all. Yes, I had seen these objects back then, and myself with them, as just this pre-creational, unformed. But how could one escape knowledge in the long run? No matter: my stones were still there.
Hardly imaginable that in the calm bay of Piran such a breakwater was necessary, and yet farther out by the
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with the lighthouse Valentin encountered wall-high masses of pebbles, thrown by the most recent Adriatic floodwaters from the ocean bottom high over the seawall onto the promenade, up to the foundations of the houses on the spit of land, much as a previous storm had buried those saltworks in the neighboring bay of Strunjan, where the youthful first-person narrator of my much later “Stones of Ignorance” story, aroused by the salt-white emptiness, hounded by lust for an unspecified woman, who, however, never appears, then decides it is now or never: he must sit down and write a book.
This sea, calm as a pond today, tomorrow a raging monster, began to preoccupy my white-skinned son, previously a rather reluctant guest on the Atlantic and the Pacific. Yet he saw “my” saltworks only on exhibit in the Piran salt museum, in photos, with the last remaining objects, the corncob as the smallest sluiceway possible, the bread stamps the various saltworks families had had for the bread that was baked for them in the communal ovens, the hats with extra-wide brims that also protected their eyes and noses from the blazing sun there.
He also studied in Piran that particular gray of the palm trunks, and in the mild evening on the docks for the first time enjoyed a folk dance, even the costumes; or he caught a sense of how the dancers enjoyed finally having such a different performance space for their dance and their music, otherwise always performed only far off in their narrow Alpine valleys; here their accordions, clarinets, costumes, and limbs were animated by the wind on the harbor square, serving as a great dance floor, and open besides at the rear to the salt tide.
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uring the first month of his trip he had not always been so much in the thick of things. From time to time he had even been seized with desolation.
Again unlike me and many of my generation, being isolated, alienated, or dislocated did not give him a heightened sense of reality. (At least when I was his age, it was often the odd twist, the element of strangeness that made me feel at home, synchronized.) Only on his first day did all the unfamiliar silhouettes provide an escort for Valentin; then they took on hostile or at any rate unfriendly features; shifting his focus to music or nature no longer created a protective sphere around him.
For the first time in his life he found himself in a truly foreign land, and this seemed particularly meaningless to him, for he had gone there after all without any necessity. This was not his world, not Europe; these Balkans, of which he had had no image ahead of time, did not allow him to form one even now. And if the streets in the couple of larger cities with their hordes of pedestrians had been great centers for stimulation and relaxation well into the century, including for my generation, they were nothing of the sort for my son now: reality for him was assured only by his few regular hideouts at home in the in-between districts, along with the jam-packed crowds of his contemporaries who frequented themânot even friends.
But turning back was not possible. He had told his people at home about the trip, and until it was completed he could not show his face among them. And yet at the beginning, every time he made one of his morning excursions back in the direction he had come, retracing the previous night's stretch, he was strongly tempted to stay on the bus as it traveled north, and flee back to his own world.
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uring just such a spell of back-and-forth, at the station in Koper, Istria, which on the previous evening, through the steamed-up windshield of the bus, had been nothing but a rain puddle in the drizzling darkness, the turning point came.
Various factors were at work: the transportation center in the freshness of morning, long and low, with lots of glass, in which the sky was mirrored and through which the sea shone, far outside town, the depot
for buses, for a couple of boats, and likewise for trains, whose tracks ended at a belt of reeds, showing a new shade of winter gray, among them scattered vegetable gardens and orchards won from the sea, each populated by one sheep; a saying of Pythagoras, encountered as he read on in the biography: “Every place demands justice”; simply counting silently, and perhaps even the local brandy, helpful this time, drunk outside standing up, with other drinkers, older and younger, at the tent-like snack bar between the end of the tracks and the bus platform.
After that he was healed of his foreignness. He had reached the point of no return, and there my son, who otherwise always had a strange look whenever I asked him whether he was happy, could say he was, yes! No more thinking that he was missing something in his Viennese cellars; and before his eyes a wonderfully long trip. Nothing, nothing, would make him turn back now.
First, however, he went to get some sleep, under a cypress in the local cemetery, on the slope just beyond the tracks, boat channels, and streets, and waking up as if it were the next day, although he had drawn only a few deep breaths, seeing a blond young woman in dark clothing watering the plants on a freshly dug grave, he took the local bus to that very Piran where “the day before yesterday” he had slunk around like a total stranger.
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rom then on, although he continued to dawdle and also returned to his practice of repeating night trips the following day, his journey took on a sort of elan.
Still on the Istrian coast, in Porec, he copied off the oldest building there a Latin tribute to a famous man; he, until then completely without ambition, was gradually catching fire for some undertaking or otherâ“I shall do something”âand wanted a similar memorial to himself one day: “In his honor this hall has been doubled in size,” and then forgot such dreams again, for instance spending an entire Sunday in Pazin, back in the interior of the country, knowingly missing one train after the other, while he listened to the doves calling through the city and out into the whole expanse of countryside.
He, ever meticulous, positively finicky about his clothes, discovered shabbiness, or the particular form of it characteristic of Yugoslavia, felt
accepted by the deliberately unpleasing, pocket-sized, shacklike lodgings as by a reality more compact by comparison with that of the Europe he knew, stood, soon no longer distinguishable from those next to him, at bars often set up for only a day out in the open, squatted, leaned, and lay down among the scraps of newspaper, indecipherable to him, in the dust and weeds outside bus shelters, forgot departure times, slept his daily brief day-before-yesterday sleep on the floor of public toilets, curved in a U-shape around the bowl, by train embankments, also in the middle of a railroad yard.
Letting himself go was not merely a game for my son now. He even considered it something worth striving for; only in this way could he fulfill his potential; only by letting himself go would he also belong to the others, be less conspicuous and alone.
As for his face, it took only a little, a reddening of the cheeks, a swollen lip, for him to seem on the skids (at least to me). And on the other hand it took even less, almost nothing, or just that momentary dozing off, for the apparent bum to change back, into a young man? No, rather into an ageless scientist, someone untouchable, the very opposite of the genuinely down and out, for whom, according to Pythagoras, no doctrine was even conceivable, because not even a dream could cleanse their souls anymore.