Homo Faber

by Max Frisch

  The sun was rising.

  Then a group of Indians, employees of Hencke-Bosch & Co. Ltd, Düsseldorf, came and told us their señor was dead. I had to translate, beause Herbert knew no Spanish. What did they mean, dead? They shrugged their shoulders. Their señor was dead, they said, and one of them showed us the way by running alongside our Land Rover at the Indian jogtrot.

  The rest went on working.

  So there was no question of an uprising.

  It was an American Quonset hut, roofed with corrugated iron, and the only door was bolted from inside. We shouted and knocked for Joachim to let us in.

  ‘Nuestro señor es muerto.’

  I fetched the spanner from our Land Rover, and Herbert broke open the door. I wouldn’t have recognized him. Fortunately he had done it behind closed windows, there were zopilotes on the trees all round, zopilotes on the roof, but they couldn’t get in through the windows. You could see him through the windows. Nevertheless, the Indians went to work every day and never thought of breaking down the door and taking down the hanged man. He had done it with wire. I wondered where his radio, which we immediately switched off, was getting the electric current from, but that wasn’t the important thing at the moment…

  We photographed and buried him.

  The Indians (as already stated in my report to the board of directors) carried out all Herbert’s instructions, although at that time he spoke no Spanish, and at once recognized Herbert as their immediate superior… I sacrificed another day and a half to convincing Herbert that there could be no question of an uprising and that his brother had simply been unable to stand up to the climate, which I could well understand; I don’t know what Herbert had got into his head, he refused to be persuaded; for his part, he was determined to stand up to the climate. We had to go back. We felt sorry for Herbert, but it was quite impossible for us to stay, apart from the fact that there was no point; Marcel had to get back to his work in Boston, and I had to move on, or rather back along the route Palenque–Campeche–Mexico, to continue my flight, quite apart from the fact that we had undertaken to return our Land Rover to the friendly landlord of the Lacroix in a week at the outside. I had to get to my turbines. I don’t know how Herbert imagined he would manage, he couldn’t even speak Spanish, as I have said, and I found it uncomradely, positively irresponsible, to leave him there with no other white man; we begged him to come back with us, but in vain. Herbert had the Nash 55, which I looked over; the car was standing in an Indian hut, protected from the rain only by a roof of leaves; it obviously hadn’t been used for a long time and was scratched and filthy, but it went. I overhauled it myself. At that time the engine was in working order, although clogged up; I tested it out and there was plenty of petrol. Otherwise, naturally, we shouldn’t have left Herbert alone. We simply had no time, neither Marcel nor I; Marcel had to get back to his symphony players, we both had our jobs, whether Herbert could grasp that or not – he shrugged his shoulders without contradicting, and scarcely waved when Marcel and I were sitting in the Land Rover giving him a last chance to come with us; he shook his head. On top of everything it looked as though a storm was blowing up, and we had to get going while our trail was still there to follow back.

  *

  It still puzzles me why Hanna and Joachim married and why she never let me, the father of her child, know that this child had come into the world.

  I can only report what I know.

  It was the time when the Jewish passports were withdrawn. I had sworn not to leave Hanna in the lurch and I stuck to my promise. Joachim was willing to act as witness to the marriage. My worried middle-class parents were also glad we didn’t want a wedding with coaches and a lot of to-do; only Hanna was still doubtful whether it was right for us to marry, right for me. I took our papers to the appropriate office, our wedding announcement was in the papers. Even if we get divorced, I told myself, Hanna will remain Swiss and in possession of a passport. Time was short, because I had to start my job in Baghdad. It was a Saturday morning when we eventually – after a queer breakfast with my parents, who, when it came to the point, missed the sound of wedding bells – went into the town hall to go through the marriage ceremony. The place was teeming with couples waiting to get married, as always on a Saturday, that was why we had to wait so long, we sat in the antechamber, all in our everyday clothes, surrounded by white brides and bridegrooms who looked liked waiters. I thought nothing of it when Hanna went outside; we talked, we smoked. When the registry official finally called us, Hanna wasn’t there. We looked for her and found her outside on the banks of the Limmat; we couldn’t shift her, she refused to go into the registry office. She couldn’t! I talked to her encouragingly while the clocks all around struck eleven; I begged Hanna to look at the situation quite objectively; but in vain. She shook her head and wept. I was only marrying her to prove I wasn’t an anti-semite, she said, and there was just nothing to be done. The following week, my last in Zurich, was horrible. It was Hanna who didn’t want to get married, and I had no choice, I had to go to Baghdad under the terms of my contract. Hanna went with me to the station, and we said good-bye. Hanna promised that as soon as I had left she would go to Joachim, who had promised his medical aid, and it was on this understanding that we parted; it was agreed that our child should not be born.

  I never heard from her again.

  That was in 1936.

  I asked Hanna at the time what she thought of my friend Joachim. She thought him a nice chap. It never entered my head that Hanna and Joachim might marry.

  *

  My stay in Venezuela (two months ago today) lasted only two days, for the turbines were still at the docks, all packed up in crates, and there could be no question of assembly.

  April 20th – Flew from Caracas.

  April 21st – Landed at Idlewild, New York.

  Ivy hooked me the moment I stepped off the plane, she had found out when I was arriving and there was no escaping her. Hadn’t she received my letter? She kissed me without replying and already knew that I had to fly to Paris in a week on official business; she smelled of whisky.

  I didn’t utter a word.

  We got into our Studebaker, and Ivy drove to my flat. Not a word about my desert letter! Ivy had brought flowers, although I don’t care for flowers, and a lobster, and sauterne – to celebrate my escape from the desert – and more kisses as I went through my mail.

  I hate farewells.

  I hadn’t reckoned with seeing Ivy again, and certainly not in this flat, which she called ‘our’ flat.

  Maybe I was a long time in the shower…

  The row began when Ivy came in with a bath towel; I threw her out – violently, unfortunately, for she loved violence, it gave her an excuse to bite me…

  As luck would have it, the phone rang.

  After I had made a date with Dick, who congratulated me on my forced landing, a date to play chess, Ivy called me a brute, an egotist, a monster with absolutely no feelings…

  Of course, I laughed.

  She struck me with both fists, sobbing, but I took care not to use force, because that was what she wanted.

  Maybe Ivy loved me.

  (I’ve never been certain with women.)

  A quarter of an hour later, when I rang Dick and told him that unfortunately I couldn’t come after all, he had already set out the pieces; I had to apologize, which was embarrassing. I couldn’t tell him why I wasn’t able to come, I merely said I would much rather play chess.

  Ivy started sobbing again.

  That was at 6 p.m., and I knew exactly how this long evening would pass if we didn’t go out; I suggested a French restaurant, then a Chinese one, then a Swedish one. All in vain. Ivy coolly told me she wasn’t hungry. But I was, I told her. She pointed out the lobster in the refrigerator and also her casual frock, which wasn’t suitable for a smart restaurant. What did I think of her frock, by the way? I had already picked up our lobster with the intention of throwing it into the incinerator – I wasn’t going
to be bullied by a lobster…

  Ivy immediately promised to be sensible.

  I put the lobster back into the refrigerator, Ivy agreed to the Chinese restaurant; only, as I had to admit, she certainly had to make up her face after all those tears.

  I waited.

  My flat, on Central Park West, had been costing me too much for a long time. Two rooms and a roof garden, a unique location, no doubt of that, but much too expensive if one wasn’t in love.

  Ivy asked when I was flying to Paris.

  I didn’t answer.

  I was standing outside sorting my last films in readiness to have them developed, writing labels on the spools, as usual…. I didn’t feel like talking about Joachim’s death, Ivy didn’t know him, Joachim had been my one real friend.

  Why was I so taciturn?

  Dick, for example, was a nice fellow, also a chess player, highly educated, I believe, anyhow more educated than I am, a witty chap whom I admired (only at chess was I his equal), or at least envied, one of those people who could save your life without becoming your intimate friend on that account.

  Ivy was still combing her hair.

  I told her about my forced landing.

  Ivy was doing her eyelashes.

  The mere fact that we were going out together again, after parting in writing, made me furious. But Ivy seemed to have no idea that we had parted!

  I suddenly felt I’d had enough.

  Ivy was varnishing her finger nails and humming.

  All of a sudden I heard myself on the telephone, inquiring about a passage to Europe by boat, it didn’t matter what line, the quicker the better.

  ‘What do you mean, by boat?’ asked Ivy.

  It was very unlikely that I should be able to get a passage to Europe at this time of the year, and I don’t know what suddenly made me decide not to fly (perhaps only the fact that Ivy was humming and acting as though nothing had happened). I was surprised myself. I was lucky, a cabin-class booking had just been cancelled – Ivy heard me take it and jumped up to interrupt me; but I had already put down the receiver.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said.

  Ivy was speechless, which I enjoyed; I lit myself a cigarette.

  Ivy had caught the time of my departure.

  ‘Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  I repeated it.

  ‘Are you ready?’ I asked, holding her coat in the usual way, ready to go out with her. Ivy stared at me, then she suddenly threw her coat across the room and stamped her foot, beside herself with rage…. Ivy had arranged to spend a week in Manhattan, she now revealed, and my sudden decision not to fly, but to leave tomorrow by boat so as to reach Paris in a week’s time as planned, upset her calculations.

  I picked up her coat.

  I had written and told her it was all over, she had it in black and white; she simply hadn’t believed me. She thought she could lead me by the nose and that if we spent a week together everything would be as before, that’s what she thought – and that was why I laughed.

  Maybe I was mean.

  So was she.

  Her suspicion that I was afraid to fly was touching, and although, of course, I have never felt in the least afraid of flying I acted as though this was the explanation. I wanted to make things easier for her. I didn’t want to be mean. I lied and told her (for the second time) all about my forced landing at Tamaulipas and, to make my decision understandable, how close we had come to…

  ‘Oh honey,’ she said, ‘stop it!’

  A fault in the fuel feed, which should never happen, of course, one single breakdown would be enough, I said, and what use would it be to me that out of 1,000 flights I had made, 999 would pass without incident; of what interest would it be to me that on the same day as I crashed in the sea, 999 planes made perfect landings?

  She grew thoughtful.

  So why not travel by sea for a change?

  I worked out the odds until Ivy believed me, she actually sat down and admitted that she had never worked out the odds like that before; she could well understand my decision not to fly.

  She begged my pardon.

  I have flown more than 100,000 miles in my life, I should think, with no sign of a breakdown. There was no question of my being afraid of flying. I just pretended, until Ivy asked me never to fly again.

  I had to swear…

  Never again!

  Ivy was funny – she wanted to read my hand; she suddenly believed in my fear of flying and was afraid for my life. I felt sorry for her, because she seemed to be completely serious when she spoke about my short line of life (and yet I’m already fifty!) and wept; as she deciphered my left hand, I stroked her hair with my right – which was a mistake.

  I could feel her hot skull.

  Ivy is twenty-six.

  I promised to go and see a doctor and felt her tears on my left hand, it all seemed to me terribly sentimental, but there was nothing I could do about it, Ivy was like that by temperament, she believed what she said and although I, for my part, don’t believe in fortune telling, naturally, not for a moment, I had to comfort her as though I had already crashed and been smashed to pieces and charred beyond recognition, I laughed of course, but I stroked her hair as you stroke and comfort a young widow, and kissed her…

  Everything happened exactly as I had intended it shouldn’t.

  An hour later we were sitting side by side, Ivy in the dressing gown I had given her for Christmas, eating lobster and drinking sauterne; I hated her.

  I hated myself.

  Ivy was humming. As though contemptuously.

  I had written to tell her it was all over, and she had my letter (I could see it) in her pocket.

  Now she was having her revenge.

  I was hungry, but the lobster revolted me. Ivy thought it heavenly, and I was revolted by her demonstrations of affection, her hand on my knee, her hand on my arm, her arm on my shoulder, her shoulder against my chest, her kiss when I poured out the wine, it was intolerable – I told her straight out that I hated her.

  Ivy didn’t believe it.

  I stood at the window and hated every moment I had spent in this Manhattan, and especially my flat. I felt like setting fire to it. When I came back from the window Ivy still wasn’t dressed, but she had prepared two grapefruits and asked whether I wanted coffee.

  I told her to get dressed.

  As she walked past me to put the water on for coffee, she turned her nose up at me. As though I were an idiot. Did I want to go to the cinema? she asked from the kitchen alcove, as though she were ready to come at once – in stockings and a dressing gown.

  Now she was playing cat and mouse.

  I controlled myself and I didn’t say a word, I collected her shoes, her underclothes, all her odds and ends (I can’t bear the sight of these pink things at the best of times) and threw them into the next room, so that Ivy could go through her interminable toilet all over again.

  Yes, I wanted to go to the cinema.

  The coffee did me good.

  My resolve to give up my flat was now unshakeable, and I told her so.

  Ivy didn’t contradict.

  I felt a desire to shave, not because it was necessary, but just because I felt like it. To avoid waiting for Ivy. But my shaver was broken; I went from socket to socket – it wouldn’t buzz.

  Ivy thought I looked perfectly all right.

  But that wasn’t the point.

  Ivy had her hat and coat on.

  Of course I looked perfectly all right, quite apart from the fact that I had another shaver in the bathroom, it was older, but it worked; but that wasn’t the point, as I said; I sat down and took the shaver to pieces. Any appliance can break down; it only worries me until I have found out why.

  ‘Walter,’ she said, ‘I’m waiting.’

  As though she had never kept me waiting!

  ‘Technology!’ she said – not only uncomprehendingly, as I’m used to hearing women speak of it, but positively scornfully, which didn’t prevent me f
rom taking the little appliance completely to pieces; I wanted to know what was wrong.

  *

  It was once again pure coincidence that decided the future, no more, a nylon thread in the little appliance – anyhow it was pure chance that we had not yet left the flat when the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique rang, the same call, probably, that I had heard about an hour ago, but hadn’t been able to answer, a crucial call it was. My passage to Europe could only be booked if I called at once, by 10 p.m. at the latest, with my passport. All I mean is that if I hadn’t taken the little appliance apart the call wouldn’t have reached me and this would have meant that my voyage would never have taken place, at least not on the ship on which Sabeth was travelling, and we should never have met, my daughter and I.

  *

  An hour later I was sitting in a bar, my boat ticket in my pocket, down by the Hudson, cheerful, now that I had seen our ship, a gigantic tub with lighted port holes everywhere, masts and cranes and the red funnels in the floodlight – I was enjoying life like a youngster, as I hadn’t done for a long time. My first sea voyage! I drank a beer and ate a sandwich, a man among men; a hamburger with plenty of mustard, because I felt hungry as soon as I was alone; I pushed my hat on to the back of my head, licked the froth from my lips and glanced at the boxing match on television. I was surrounded by dock labourers, most of them Negroes, I lit a cigarette and asked myself what I really expected from life when I was a youngster.

  Ivy was waiting in the flat.

  Unfortunately I had to go back, I still had to pack, but there was no hurry. I ate a second hamburger.

  I thought of Joachim.

  I felt as though I were beginning a new life, perhaps merely because I had never made a sea voyage before; anyhow, I was looking forward to my sea voyage.

  I sat there till midnight.

  I hoped Ivy wasn’t waiting any longer, that she had lost patience and left my flat, angry with me because (as I very well knew) I had behaved like a heel; but there was no other way of getting rid of Ivy – I paid and walked all the way, to increase the chances of not meeting Ivy by half an hour; I knew she was tough. That was about all I did know about Ivy. She was a Catholic, a model, she could take a joke about anything except the Pope, perhaps she was Lesbian, perhaps frigid, she felt the urge to seduce me because she thought I was an egotist, a monster, she wasn’t stupid, but a bit perverse, it seemed to me, a bit queer, and yet she was a good kid when she didn’t get sexy…. When I entered my flat she was sitting in her hat and coat, smiling; although I had kept her waiting over two hours, there were no reproaches.