Authors: Marjana Gaponenko
The elevator opens its chest. To step onto the carpet, to dip your foot noiselessly into the softness, is a revelation. Levadski’s delight gives way to astonishment: in a display cabinet in front of the entrance to the café there is a gleaming black and gold lorgnette with an elegant plaited chain twining around it. In the display cabinet next to it, dazzling, pristine white pillows with the initials of the grand hotel, napkins, starched bed linens. Levadski bows in front of the inconspicuous treasures shown to such advantage by the cabinet lighting. Through the pane of glass he admires a china doll wearing a chambermaid’s outfit, holding a tiny feather duster in her hand. The door of the hotel café creaks, perfumed ladies go in and out, their steps swallowed by the carpet, their stilettos taking revenge on the marble in the spacious lobby for the brief hardship endured.
The door creaking behind him, Levadski strides through the soft chandelier light of the café, where the sound of the piano bathes his old carcass. A waiter with a menu in hand emerges from the musical backdrop and shows the guest to one of the tables near the grand piano. Everything is in perfect harmony, the lighting with the carpet, the muted tinkling with the soft glow of the mirror. Only Levadski and the waiter stand out from this somnolent lava for as long as they are in motion. Levadski is already seated. The waiter too, who flits back and forth between the tables, soon becomes part of the furniture. Even in such a small room a person becomes a blur, Levadski is astonished to find, as if the room itself possessed so much soul that we, its true animate souls, suddenly are drowned in it.
The pianist mops his brow and with an encouraging nod and barely audible snort plunges into the keys.
I Did It My Way
. Levadski wants to polish his eyes, which are two dull buttons. The pianist’s friendliness is genuine, but it’s also pure discrimination. Levadski returns the smile. He deserves it. He who has observed so much. So many waterfowl, nocturnal raptors, diurnal birds of prey, coliiformes, totipalmates and waders, antbirds, the blue cuckooshrike, even calm and sociable Nordic birds such as waxwings, with their beautiful crests. Levadski has observed them, too. He would have given all the fruits of his garden, which he did not own, in exchange for the tinkling warble of the waxwing. Levadski opens the dessert menu. If they eat constantly it is believed there will be a harsh winter. Which is pure nonsense – birds always eat constantly. It is just like breathing. Like thinking.
Semolina dumplings “Old Viennese style” with toasted apricots
, 13 euros. The bird eats because this is its way of communicating. Without thought or malice. It talks to the trees through the fruits it eats.
Tarte tatin of apple and pear with walnut brittle ice cream
, 14 euros. It talks to the bushes and flowers through the seeds it devours.
Valrhôna chocolate tartlets with cherry sorbet and Mon Chéri
, 15 euros. It whirrs along in the perpetual cycle. Harsh winter, either way.
The pianist appears to have found in Levadski an addressee for his noble feelings of pity. In recognition he squints over at him and plays
Bridge Over Troubled Water
.
Iced “Mozart dumplings” with Amaretto foam
, 12 euros. The piano player’s button eyes flash contentedly during some bars of music, as if there weren’t a care in the world. But, my God, it is true: a person who knows music can never be unhappy.
Tiramisu with basil foam and baked raspberries
, 14 euros. My mother was in the habit of happily saying. She did not say it to me or to anyone else, but to herself, sighing deeply down at me.
The savory alternative: A selection of local and imported cheeses with nuts and grapes, 15 euros
. I too was once no higher than a dining table. What about Beethoven, I could have asked her, how could he be happy as a deaf man?
Levadski orders the chocolate cake. In a matter of minutes it arrives. His memory of it is different. That is, if he remembers it at all. Levadski sinks his fork into the fragile shell of his slice of cake and notices that he feels hot and dizzy. As if a sticky sweet claw were rummaging inside his chest, soft as butter. Suddenly he is a boy, sitting in a church in Lemberg during the midday prayer service. Whimpering, he is sitting on a hard pew, letting the tears roll freely down his stony face. He doesn’t dream of wiping them away. He is sitting in the Catholic church like in a jewelry box. He is here to cry in safety until he is exhausted, until he is totally cleansed and free from care. Madly in love, he believes he will die, become crippled and impoverished. Levadski bathes his young face in tears and in self-pity. “Oh Lord, we confess, we are sinners. We are all sinners before you,” the priest mumbles. Levadski blows his nose. “And do not turn away from us,” the priest prays. Covered in tears, the little martyr looks up towards the ceiling. The Holy Spirit is directly above him, frozen, soaring in perpetuity. Levadski imagines that this dove also has an eye on him, he cannot be lonely, and he cries all the more. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, we pray of you, Holy Mary, we pray of you.”
With a sense of elation, Levadski once again turns his attention to his slice of cake. This madness must have gotten into him on that day of the church service. What was the girl’s name again? Dunia? Apolonia? Seraphina? Could well be. Not even a name any more. Just these palpitations. What’s in a name anyway?
A corpulent gentleman with white combed-back pomaded hair throws his napkin on the table with a dull thud. He wants to pay. He pays and leaves.
“She is in Cyprus playing bridge,” an older waiter whispers to a younger waiter in passing.
“Good for her,” the young colleague exclaims, without turning around. A tiny piece of silver foil is stuck to his striped trousers. When he turns the corner with a laden tray, the foil is snatched away by a gust of air and washed up beneath one of the tables.
Levadski’s eyes wander around the room. The great-aunts sat over there with me, sometimes mother joined us. Over there, where a young couple are toasting each other with champagne glasses filled to the brim. How deeply they look into each other’s eyes – disgusting. The world surrounding the two is a gently rippling lake, and they themselves are a boat adorned with flowers. A sinking one. An embarrassing one. A moving one. The only possible and genuine boat at this moment in time. Any second now the young man will notice the waitress’s calves and destroy the pastoral.
We sat over there, as well, in one of the window niches. The blue-cushioned seating areas must have only recently sprung out of the walls. There used to be leather armchairs, and the coffeehouses smelled of a world to be taken seriously. Glamorous creatures with feather boas would float past the tables. And I ate my cake and was one of these angels, by virtue of the exquisite breath created by their boas. I was one of them.
“I am accidentally in heaven, I don’t eat anything, I don’t drink anything … A little … I read a good book. I read a good book, and already I am accidentally in heaven …” The voice belongs to a lady with red painted nails. The lady’s hand is vibrating like a bough of a mountain ash as she tells her story. She must be my age. Very elegant, her fringe, that hides the wrinkles of her brow. Very clever. And the black arches of incredulous eyebrows. “Hair across his eyes, he always wanted his hair across his eyes, but I cut it off during the night.” Dark red shred of a mouth. I wonder if she is talking about her son? The way she talks, my God! A stream filled with smoothly sanded pebbles. What a beauty. Levadski orders a tea.
“Green or black?”
“Black, please.”
The sight of this gently gesticulating herbarium flower in the circle of her family makes Levadski thirsty. The flower throws back her head and laughs. Crowns of precious metal gleam in her wet mouth. My goodness. What a woman! Levadski drinks and sweats. The son or son-in-law pours the diva some water. Rapt, slightly melancholy faces surround her, while for the hundredth time she tells one of her old stories from times gone by. How she glows! Then she leaves. She is helped into her coat. She throws back her head once more, once more the sight of precious gleaming crowns. Charming soliloquy on the way to the door. The son or son-in-law leads the way, stumbling behind him is the rest of the clan. At the tail end, a child with a short-haired dachshund on a leash.
“Is the lady an actress?”
“No, but she has been coming here every Sunday for thirty years.”
“Interesting,” Levadski says through his nose. The waiter is already at the other end of the room. “Interesting,” Levadski repeats and finds himself boring. Meaningless. For a split second. The waiter is already on his way back. The man whirrs from table to table with the grace of a dragonfly, races, tails flapping, through the rows of tables, almost collides with his two colleagues, walks straight through them.
With withered steps, a couple approaches the table where the beauty was just sitting. The gentleman is wearing a tie and the lady has a brooch pinned to her jacket. Both are holding a newspaper in their hand. After they have ordered two glasses of sparkling wine, they hide behind their newspapers. The sparkling wine arrives. Cheers! The lady closes one eye when she drinks, as if she had whipped up the sparkling wine to a spray with her breath.
“Here’s an interesting article about Transylvania.”
“Aha.”
“Yes, it interests me.”
“Sir and Madam have chosen?”
“Two cream of pumpkin soups, a small veal schnitzel and a small beer.”
“I would have preferred duck, but you have run out, haven’t you?”
“Do you know why Siebenbürgen is called Siebenbürgen? After the seven cities that the Germans founded in the 12th century.”
“Very interesting.”
“Excuse me?”
“Very interesting.”
“Yes, my darling.”
“Yes.”
Which direction is she speaking in? Her neatly coifed head slightly cocked like a dove observing its reflection in a puddle, the lady appears to be speaking into a tin can.
“Yes, my darling, yes, alright, my child.”
The tin can is snapped shut.
The husband waits for explanations behind the wall of newspaper.
“When our daughters do come, they always arrive late.”
The husband turns a page. He must be looking forward to his daughters’ arrival.
The main thing is that they are coming. Better late than never. He must be looking forward to it. Nobody is coming to see Levadski. This sad certainty makes him feel superior to the married couple.
“Yes, nuclear power really is a great threat to the world, it will probably be the end of it.”
“This is newfangled soup. The pumpkins of our youth, they don’t exist anymore.”
“Yes, it used be different.”
“The pumpkins were never that dark.”
Levadski’s gaze wanders to an inconsolable face. Two strings of pearls entwine the wrinkly neck they belong to. The old woman turns her head like a blue tit, looks around, before she plucks up the confidence to shakily steer the fork with the piece of cake in the direction of her mouth. She protectively holds her other hand beneath it, chews, swallows, and then, with a critical gaze, chin pressed to her chest, she checks whether any of the cake has fallen onto her lap, her bosom no longer able to catch crumbs.
The red of a broad-shouldered jacket catches Levadski’s eye. Barely arrived on the threshold, the female creature with short hair strides towards the nearest waiter. Both come to a stop in front of Levadski’s table. “Is there a special Sunday menu today?” the red jacket wants to know. Her earrings are birdcages inset with egg-shaped gemstones. “No,” the waiter says regrettably, “the menu is the same as always, but we are serving brunch on the second floor.” The lady mumbles something and leaves.
A group of guests traipses through the room. The leader has a sliver of wood in his mouth, which helps to identify him. A lumberjack, springs to Levadski’s mind, or perhaps a coffin maker?
A Mr. Sulke arrives and asks for a table for three, father, mother, child. “Sulke is my name,” Mr. Sulke says in a deep voice, “we will eat and leave.”
“Eat and leave,” he repeats. The echo of the name Sulke hangs in the room for a while.
“The worst thing that can happen to you is a stain,” the older waiter instructs his younger colleagues, “a stain on a guest is the worst thing that can happen!”
“I mean, I don’t begrudge any man for dying his hair, but gray is perfectly fine,” a faded beauty assures her friend who isn’t exactly a picture of freshness herself anymore. Both of them unleash their venom on a man seated at one of the neighboring tables, whose hair is apparently dyed. His younger companion seems not to be bothered by this at all. She lovingly guides a laden dessert fork towards the open sparrow beak of the man. “Ridiculous,” the girlfriends agree. There is nothing cheerful about them, nothing life affirming, thinks Levadski. They won’t allow the man anything, neither his dyed hair nor his lover. Under the false pretense of a Sunday breakfast they poison the surroundings with their disgust for life.
Glumly Levadski pours himself tea, and while doing so it occurs to the lid of the teapot to rip away and hurl itself onto the carpet, where it innocently spins around and comes to a standstill in front of the riding boots of one of the girlfriends. She picks it up with two of her varnished nails and brings it over to Levadski, who on his part airs his flat behind and receives the lid with embarrassment.
Shortly afterwards the two leave; the disparate couple also pay and leave. The piano player has left ages ago, something that escaped Levadski’s notice, so engrossed was he in his field studies. Levadski has the bill charged to his room. Leaning on his stick, waiting for the golden mirrored elevator, his eyes heavy, watching the coral-colored digits lighting up above the elevator button, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, M, G, he suddenly realizes that it is he, he is the one who despises life.
M
Zimmer / Room 71–86
I
N HIS ROOM,
L
EVADSKI TAKES A DEEP BREATH.
T
HE AIR IS
delicious and sharp, as if a brazen woman is lurking in the cupboard, a smoldering beast with sparkling rings on her cold fingers. Take me out, buy me this and that, protect me, build me a nest! An expectation hovers in the air in Levadski’s suite, an invitation, cloaked by an elegantly arranged bouquet of flowers.