The Wall (39 page)

“The same time?”

“Ah, the same … You talk such nonsense. Time is not forever, but time is always the same, though not the same time.”

“But you say, Johanna, that I have no time.”

“You have none at all. I feel sorry for you because of it. You have fought against it, brought yourself in opposition to it. You believe you can play with it, even control it. But it plays, instead, with you. Now, please go off with the children!”

“I have no time. You already said so.”

“Ugh, such sophistry! I mean now. You should go now! For that, you need no time. All you need is the clock. Make sure and keep an eye on it so that you’re home in time for tea. That’s all you have to do.”

Johanna kissed me softly and slowly pushed me out of the room. Then I awoke completely for the first time and laughed.

“Was I dreaming?”

“You’re a good man. Just go, it will do you good.”

Now it’s time. I felt it more clearly: it is time. When I stepped over the threshold, the children romped into the hallway and cheered.

“Father is coming! Daddy has time!”

Johanna had dressed up the children, as she always did when she sent me out with them. Michael romped along and jumped about me; Eva took me dutifully by the hand as we shuffled through the door. Johanna yelled to the children to “Be good!,” waved goodbye to us, and disappeared. She remained behind in her time. Michael called out our destination, Eva agreeing completely.

“We’re going to the rides!”

“To ride on the donkey,” piped Eva. “Yes?”

Three or four times a year the rides and the concession stands are there, yesterday today tomorrow, and then they move on again. Michael already knew everything his father would do better than did Eva, who just needed to go along with her brother’s wishes. Down West Park Row the children cheered, knowing the way to the rides exactly. But you didn’t have to know at all, for it was impossible to miss them. You could even hear them, the sound carried on the wind—the sound of loud thumping music rolling closer in waves. It wasn’t far to Shepherd’s Field, only the railway embankment crossing the end of West Park Row blocking its view. Then that was behind us and we crossed Halstead Way, which bordered Shepherd’s Field. Toward the left side of it, the pointed peaks of tents and concession stands had been erected. Droves of children streamed about, dragging along compliant adults with them. They moved along fast, for Michael didn’t want to miss a thing. We approached the funfair from the side, motors snorting and dogs snarling on their chains. Eva grabbed my hand tighter, but Michael had no fear and had to be warned by his father. Already we were surrounded by the hubbub, the noise swarming around me, the children cheering and bursting with demands.

“Father, did you always go with your father when your mother said that you should go with your father?”

“Yes, he always went with me.”

“And did he always let you do as much as you let us do?”

“He let me do a lot.”

“Did he also say that he got dizzy when he spun around too much?”

“He could stand it better than I could.”

“And your mother, could she stand it better than our mother?”

“No, she never could handle it all that well. She always had to look on, and even that made her dizzy. She had to look away, or she closed her eyes.”

“You don’t have to look away, Father, do you? You can look at us and keep your eyes open? You always have them open.”

“You can see for yourself, Michael; you know so already. Why are you asking?”

“Father, look! Father! Can I toss at the coconuts? Please, please!”

“When you’re bigger.”

“I’m already big. Only Eva isn’t big yet.”

“I’m also big! Mommy says that I am.”

“You’re both big. But not big enough.”

“Oh my, Father, please, please! Let me toss at them! Just one try! Maybe I’ll get a coconut.”

“No, my child, you’re not getting one. You have to have a lot of strength for that, and also be very clever.”

“Aren’t I clever?”

“Not yet enough.”

“But, Father, you’re clever! Go and buy some balls and knock down a coconut!”

“No, Michael. I’m not at all good enough.”

After I finally dragged the children away from the coconuts, my lack of cleverness was still bemoaned for some time. At first, some cotton candy that amassed from a churning cylinder worked to placate them. Eva loved this swirly foam on a wooden stick, her mouth and tongue battling happily with the brittle sweetness. Michael liked it as well, but he wanted licorice—long, black, thin strings of it. Then Eva rode on the carousel for the smallest children, and Michael, who seemed too grown-up for this ride, thought better and decided to accompany his sister in order to make sure that she didn’t scream or fall down from her swan chair. And so her brother rode along with her. Next came the large swing seats. Eva was too small for them and wandered on farther without fear on a path she already knew, allowing her brother to ride the swings without envy. No one could deny her the chance to ride the donkey. The animals strode along quite slowly, a short way back and forth, it hardly being worth the price. The time was too short, and the children complained loudly. The tall tower of the slide was the right size for the boy. Eva pressed her little fist into my back when she looked on, amazed at his steep slide down through the narrow winding chute to a straw mat. She asked, “Daddy, why don’t you slide?” Meanwhile, the mouse circus lured us on with its pretty pictures. The entry fee was modest, and when we paid we were told, “Stay inside as long as you wish!” Inside the tent, there was nothing but a glass house on a low pedestal in the middle. The white mice, at least a hundred of them, ran through grottos, over stretched and
swaying lines, tumbled over teetering bridges, crouched on swings, and had to climb steep steps to the tower of a knight’s castle, wanting to nibble on white bread that was strewn on the balcony.

“What cute bunnies! Such long tails!”

“They’re not bunnies!” Michael informed her. “They’re real white mice. Like the kind the bird store sells on Truro Street. They’re very cheap, and Mommy says they make a lot of mess.”

“They don’t make any mess!” protested Eva. “They’re so white and clean. But they stink a little, and the tails are ugly. Little white bunnies! Could we have one?”

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

“No!” Michael asserted. “Mommy doesn’t want one.”

Michael was ready to leave the mice, but Eva was so entranced by the scurrying around that there was no pulling her away. Michael nudged her and pulled at her sleeve.

“Cowboys, there are cowboys! Eva, have you seen them?”

“Lovely little white bunnies!”

The brother didn’t let up, and scolded her. But when I pointed to the colorful signs for the cowboys Eva finally turned away from gazing at the little bunnies. Michael hopped to it, knowing already where to find his favorites.

“I know, I know the way!”

There was no stopping the boy. Along the way we came upon a colorfully painted wagon, its doors standing open. Inside was Fortunata, the resplendent and celebrated original fortune-teller and real Gypsy, a niece of the most famous fortune-teller of all time and all countries, looking proud and glistening before the noisy surge of people around her. Fortunata advertised nothing; she just waited. I would have been glad to wait for her in order to see who would be her next customer, whose times she would reveal: yesterday today tomorrow. But Michael was too impatient and pulled at my coat.

“They’re over there! We shouldn’t be standing here! Oh, c’mon, Father, c’mon!”

He pulled me away and squinted angrily at the Gypsy, because she’d stolen my attention. I couldn’t resist Michael any longer, as a new performance
by the cowboys was being touted with a wild clamor. A loudspeaker played a recording of loud fanfare; two bells, a thudding kettledrum, and a snare drum announced the pressing news. On a high stage, show people stood splendidly and presented themselves to the honorable public below in the dust, where there wriggled about, romping feverishly, wild and outlandish children, with docile or mistrustful men and women looking on. Through the brightly colored megaphone, the announcer’s cascade of hawking phrases powerfully rolled. Michael had quickly pressed forward. Eva pressed tight against me, though she wasn’t afraid, but simply drew my hand to her as protection as I gently stroked her head.

Standing tall and proud, Roy Rogers rose up, king of the cowboys, all decked out in full splendor in a costume of rugged brown, his hat dashing with its wide brim, a flashy scarf worn loose at the throat, two mighty pistols stuck in the holsters of his decorated belt, his legs thrust into high boots. Two girls in tightly gathered dresses with white blouses looked at the crowd, serious and demanding, one of them holding three flashing knives with long blades, the other holding her head between two shimmering bare halberds. A blond-haired boy in a brown jacket could only be the master cowboy’s apprentice. In the glassed-in booth out in front of the tent stood the cashier, dressed exactly like the other girls. In a black suit with gold braiding strode the announcer, microphone to his mouth, walking back and forth across the stage in a commanding manner. He appealed to the honored guests below him with fiery tributes to the wonders of the performance nearby, yet the rising storm of the ragged music and the flapping roar was too strong to allow one to make sense of anything he said.

Soon it got better; the distant fanfare quieted down, and now his appeals could be understood. Fun and instruction for everyone. Satisfaction guaranteed, no tricks, just the real thing. You had to see it for yourself. Unforgettable, unique, exciting, full of danger, and yet harmless. Suitable for the smallest of children. This man, Roy Rogers of Texas, is a wonder. Whoever is not satisfied will get his money back. Satisfaction guaranteed. A shilling for grown-ups, half price for soldiers and children. Members of the royal family had graced a performance with their presence. It’s written here on this placard. The announcer lifted it up high, solemnly panning the holy object to the left and to the right before the astonished gathering,
while whoever was able to read it had to be convinced. No one should wait; it’s only three steps up and the show will begin. Parents, bring along your children! Children, bring along your parents!

Some had already decided to do so and climbed up to the ticket booth, disappearing behind the curtain. Yet it was just a few, too many of those looking on agape proving fickle as they remained standing there patiently and waited for what might come next. They weren’t disappointed, for already the announcer was at it again, saying fine, since there were so many who couldn’t decide, they’d give them a free performance. He brought out all the members of the troupe, each offering a polite and charming bow as the names were called out to the crowd. Roy Rogers looked on in all his splendor, but I caught his gaze, which indeed seemed a bit bored by the foolishness of the crowd. But the cowboy in him took charge, didn’t let his boredom show, drew his guns, holding out one of them and spinning the other on his stretched-out index finger. When the announcer had finished presenting the artists, Roy’s apprentice rushed forward, tossed a spinning knife high, grabbed it, and tossed it up again. Then he showed how his master had taught him to handle a lasso. It wasn’t a complete performance, yet I was impressed. It had to be difficult to make a rope move in modest leaps up and down in such a sublime, solitary dance. Yet this demonstration of the art served only to make the mastery of it seem all the more marvelous. Then the boy took three steps back with obedient charm, bowing to his master as was his due, brief applause erupting as he did.

Then Roy Rogers stepped to the middle; the others onstage moved to the right and left, looking on in astonishment in order to set the right example for everyone. Only the announcer hardly moved; like a herald, he divided his attention between the hero and the audience. Four blades flashed as they spun in a whirring fashion up and down, turning in flight, which was marvelous. Then a long lasso danced sinuously in seesawing circles and sharp spirals. Suddenly, Roy Rogers jumped inside the circling rope and rose up within it, standing on his tiptoes as if making a pirouette, sinking down on one knee, then both, spinning around as well, the wild twirling continuing until finally the rope collapsed, coming to rest in large rings that looped from the right arm to the shoulder. I would have been happy to stand there awhile and extend my appreciation to the master, but neither
was allowed, because everyone up on the stage, the announcer included, even the tireless Roy Rogers, released a huge cry of “You saw it with your own eyes, it’s unbelievable, it’s all the proof you need, but there isn’t a moment to lose, today’s the day, now, it won’t last forever, come on, come on, come on, all of you have to come, the artists are inside waiting, the show will begin, don’t wait any longer, for what you have seen is only a taste of the wonders that await you.”

By then most of the crowd was moved, unable to resist any longer, coins leaping from their pockets as they besieged the cashier, who dealt with the onslaught. Michael’s legs jerked, and I let him run. Happily he stormed ahead, already having disappeared into the tent as I stayed behind with Eva. In order to make it up to her, I allowed her to have two more rides on the carousel. Again, she rode on the white swan, not wanting any other, and she wrapped her arms tight around its neck worn smooth. The outside of the stage was now empty, only the cashier stuck in her booth, smoking and shooing away small boys who kept trying to jokingly do handstands and somersaults.

I peered over at the Gypsy, who was still sitting in the door of her wagon. After a little while, a female customer arrived and disappeared through the door, which closed behind her. The Gypsy Fortunata had business and needed to look into the future. Placards announced how well she could tell the truth; she was a wise woman who understood everything—the stars above, the lines in the hand, and the loops of one’s handwriting. Since the truth was revealed and confirmed in three different ways, there could be no doubt. The mix of fortune and misfortune, an unchangeable destiny, was revealed through wisdom’s insight. But why do people wish to learn their fate from other people? Was it not already fixed, whether heavy or easy, and always inescapable? Did they have to hear it said in order to be eased by a fate well fashioned? Did foreknowledge ease its power? Or could one’s fate be eased? Not eased, perhaps, but slowly dispersed, at least held fast and patient by the distant future if a wise woman conveyed it.