The Dedalus Book of Austrian Fantasy;1890-2000

by Mike Mitchell

  The catastrophe occurred in one of these out-of-the-way spots. Both processions had stretched out because the paths between the graves were too narrow to allow more than single file. Alfred, who was trying to keep close behind his latest informant, was already becoming concerned about the increasing crush when he suddenly saw, either side of an alabaster angel extinguishing its torch, two crucifixes swaying above the crowd in front of him. Like a soldier clinging to his regiment’s flag in the tumult of battle, Alfred fixed his gaze on the black crepe of what he assumed was the lemonade manufacturer’s crucifix. He was mistaken, as were many others. They had all known the old gentleman, of course, but hardly knew each other, and the bereaved family not at all, despite everything they knew about them.

  The disaster took its course. Soon they had reached the open grave. The priest said the prayers and a few heartfelt words about the deceased which would have fitted any deceased. Alfred had worked his way to the presumed nephews, who were standing with the veiled nieces by the mound of freshly dug earth, some of them already receiving handshakes of condolence. A youngish man who was standing somewhat to one side seemed the right person for Alfred. Mourners who, either from shyness or a dislike of empty ceremony, avoided the hand-shaking were almost always worth while talking to.

  ‘Might I make a request?’ Alfred’s grief led him to disregard normal formalities, but the mute question in his raised eyebrows also contained an implicit apology. ‘Alfred B., by the way.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you – Kurzmann.’

  Alfred was told that Herr Kurzmann was not actually related to the deceased. ‘He’d been a fatherly friend.’

  ‘Ah yes, he was that to many. When I think back to those long winter weeks we spent side by side in the trenches … We shared everything, everything: bread, cigarettes, schnapps. Was he still smoking at the end?’

  ‘He never smoked.’

  ‘Oh. He did then, but those were exceptional circumstances. I really regret that we lost sight of each other. It was only a few weeks before he died that we happened to meet, by chance in the street. We went to a café together and talked about old times, and a bit about new times, too. What was the cause of death? it came so suddenly?’

  ‘A weak heart.’

  ‘A weak heart? Death can come quickly then. But I think he must have suspected it.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised. I tried to get him to have an espresso, but he said no, not an espresso, that’s poison for me. I laughed at him, but he had a vermouth.’

  ‘He did? But he hated vermouth.’

  ‘Really? Perhaps it was a sherry, then, or something like that. He didn’t enjoy the stuff anyway.’

  Cautiously Alfred worked his way round to the request he had not yet made. He was glad there were so many people who insisted on shaking the bereaved family’s hands, for this Herr Kurzmann had turned out to be an unexpectedly awkward customer, monosyllabic and suspicious. Also, only the most general outlines of the picture of the dead man Alfred had put together, like a mosaic, from various remarks appeared to correspond to the reality. At least Herr Kurzmann immediately expressed his willingness to introduce him to the widow. Alfred, who had somehow got the idea the lemonade manufacturer had been an old bachelor, thanked God for saving him from a disastrous faux pas. Herr Kurzmann went over to one of the black-veiled ladies and whispered something in her ear.

  When, finally, the last of the condolences had been expressed, the lady turned round and came over to Alfred, who was chatting to Herr Kurzmann about the advantages of cremation. Alfred bent over a tired hand on which a variety of different perfumes mingled.

  ‘I hear you knew my Teddy,’ the widow whispered in a voice choked with tears.

  ‘I didn’t know him half as well as I would like to have.’ At times Alfred could be disarmingly frank. ‘But I would be delighted to hear more about him. It’s been a long, long time since Teddy and I…’

  The lady gave an understanding nod and invited Alfred to accompany her home, where she would love to talk to a man who had known Teddy during the war. Herr Kurzmann drove the car.

  It was a very expensive limousine, with plenty of chrome and leather and even more horse power. Alfred had never travelled in such luxury before. He sat in the back beside the lady who, as he had suspected, turned out to be beautiful into the bargain, and made an honest attempt to demonstrate his interest in good old Teddy. Outside, the last houses of the suburbs flashed by.

  ‘A house in the country, I’ve always dreamt of that,’ sighed Alfred.

  The lady concurred. ‘Just like us.’

  ‘Just like good old Teddy,’ sighed Alfred.

  ‘May I offer you a sweet,’ the lady asked. ‘Teddy’s favourites.’

  ‘May I?’ said Alfred, popping one of the horrible sweet things in his mouth. He was soon overcome with a pleasant tiredness.

  ‘Are you sleepy?’ asked the lady.

  ‘Incredibly,’ Alfred yawned.

  ‘Just like good old Teddy,’ the lady declared. ‘It’s the sweets. A good job he didn’t eat all of them. You knew too much, Herr B., and asked too many questions. Shall we let him out here, Max? We have to get back, the guests will be sure to be waiting for me. If we don’t, he’ll die on us here in the car. Max?’

  Herr Kurzmann stopped and opened the door. Alfred got out and, supported by Herr Kurzmann and pushed by the lady, tumbled down the deserted rubbish tip until he came to rest on a pile of rusty bed-springs. The last thing he heard was the squeal of the tyres and the roar of the engine as the car turned and drove off, then a hot, burning sensation starting out from his heart engulfed the whole world and extinguished it.

  Incident in St Wolfgang

  Peter Daniel Wolfkind

  It was a gloomy day. The lake was rough. Not many people swimming. A lot of sailing boats were out. The road into St Wolfgang was jampacked with cars. I drove very slowly. I could see the soft contours of the old church even when I was still a good way away.

  The radiant white of its plaster seemed to have grown duller since my last visit. The car parks were full. I drove slowly round the narrow streets of St Wolfgang. They were crowded with pedestrians. I got many angry looks. Women pulled their children out of the way. Others walked on with pointed slowness in front of the car. I turned off into a side street. It went up steeply. It was empty. The surface potholed. A mouldering wall guarded the drop. There were large cracks in it. Just before a hairpin bend the street became wider. I drove up close against the mouldy wall and parked the car.

  I walked slowly back down into the town. There was a stiff breeze blowing. I stumbled on loose cobblestones. In the streets below, the stream of cars and pedestrians was washing at the houses up to their flower-bedecked window-sills.

  I went up the few steps to the church. People were crowding round the headphones through which, after inserting a few coins, they could hear the history of the twelfth-century church and the town. I went down the arcades surrounding the church. Under one of the round arches in the grey wall I stopped. I was alone. I looked down at the lake. A gust of wind seemed to go right through me. It was very chilly. The wind cut the surface of the lake up into lots of small waves. Each one of them had its own grubby white crest. The little waves broke up the reflections. The grey of the arcades and the grubby white of the church tower mingled with the dull colour of the waves. In the shattered mirror of the lake the church appeared like a shapeless lump of dough. I looked for my own reflection. Raised my arm, made furious movements. But I could not see myself.

  It was one o’clock. I wanted something to eat. I went to the steps leading down into the town. The grey of the wall dissolved in the bright colours of the tourists. I pushed my way through the streets to the inn where I normally eat. All the tables were taken. I went out again.

  I drifted through the streets with the stream of people. The entrances to the restaurants were packed. Some were forcing their way in. Others pouring out. The ai
r in the dining rooms was oppressive. I couldn’t find a seat. It would be a while before one was free, I was told again and again by sweating waitresses.

  I came to the deserted lake shore. The wind was billowing out the grey sails of the far-off boats. There was an inn. It had flowers in the boxes on the window-sills of the upper floors. Bits of plaster were lying around on the cobbles. A large piece had fallen off from the front of the doorway. The dark, vaulted entrance was empty. Beside it was a small door with ‘To the Dining Room’ written on it. It led to a huge verandah where just a few people were eating. It was stuffy. Someone coughed. It was the waiter. He was leaning forward on a seat next to the serving table and smoking. He ignored me. There was one table still free by the window. I sat down. I felt a cold draught on my left shoulder and my left arm. The window beside me was open a little. I wondered whether to close the window. In many places the dull brown paint was peeling off. You could see the split wood underneath. I heard the waiter coughing. All the time I could feel the cold draught on my left shoulder and my left arm. I left the window open. The air in the room was stale enough as it was. There was a huge set of antlers over the little doorway. The dark sockets in the yellow bone were fixed on me. I turned away. My view of the choppy water was hindered by people walking past. I saw the lake between their arms and bellies. Now and then a sailing boat. A grubby steamboat by the shore. There were stains on the table-cloth. The wind was pushing the trailing tendril of a flower in through the window. The cold draught was becoming unbearable. I decided to see if I could get another table. When I looked up, the waiter was standing there. His shoulders were hunched up. His eyes bulged in their sockets. His jacket was grubby. Without a word he handed me the dog-eared menu. Many items had been crossed off. Others added in scarcely legible handwriting. He stood by my table, staring at me. His presence made me uncomfortable. I would have preferred to read the menu in peace. I ordered trout and red wine. The waiter snatched the menu up from the table and went. I heard him coughing again. A pale girl brought the red wine. It tasted of mould. I had to wait a long time for my food. The draught did not stop. I was afraid I might catch cold. The waiter kept on coughing. In a strained voice he gave orders to the pale girl. She brought the trout. She set it down clumsily on my table. A few drops of melted butter fell onto the stained table-cloth. ‘Get out of the way!’ he shouted and made heavy weather of placing the fish before me. He only used his left hand. ‘Enjoy your meal,’ he wheezed. He sat down by the serving table again and smoked. The trout had a strong smell of fish. Raised in a tub, I thought. Its flesh was grey. It tasted stale. A strong gust of wind blew the window almost fully open. I stood up and closed it. I just managed to suppress a cry of pain. I felt a violent stabbing in my left shoulder and my left arm. I sat there without moving for a long time. I hoped the pain would go away. It didn’t. I continued eating. It took great self-control. By this time the trout was cold. The waiter was sitting in the background, smoking and coughing. In closing the window I had trapped the tendril against the top of the window. It was only hanging on by a thread. I heard the waiter stand up. He came towards me. Without a word he leant over my table and pushed the window open again. ‘Please leave the window closed. I have pains in my arm and my shoulder from the draught,’ I said. The waiter gave me an angry look. ‘You don’t get pains from fresh air.’ He spoke very loudly and in fits and starts. Like someone with asthma. His bulging eyes had gone red.

  Conversation at the neighbouring tables went quiet.

  He was breathing heavily. With great deliberation he took off his jacket. He threw it over an empty chair with his left hand. The nylon shirt he was wearing underneath his jacket was damp. There was a stench of sweat. I was afraid. I did not know what the waiter was going to do. He tore furiously at the cuff of his right sleeve until the button shot off and rolled across the dark floorboards. He jerked the sleeve up over his right arm. I drew back, horrified.

  A woman at the neighbouring table screamed and vomited.

  ‘That’s what’s hurting you,’ wheezed the waiter. ‘That’s where the pain comes from. You’ll feel it often enough from now on. You’ll all feel the pain.’

  He held up his bare arm with his left hand. It was puffed up like a pasty lump of dough. The skin was broken by wave-like spots. It gave his arm a fungoid look. I could see small, dark openings at the tips of the bumps. Some were crowned with grubby white crusts. His lower arm was grey. As if covered with mould. ‘That’s what’s hurting you,’ the waiter groaned again. He squeezed the grey flesh of his diseased lower arm. Milky pus poured out of the dark openings of the wave-like spots. The waiter was getting more and more worked up. In a frenzy, he kept pressing the fluid from his right arm. A little pool had formed in the crook of his right elbow. A drop trickled slowly down to his hand.

  There was a smell of vomit.

  ‘That’s what it looks like when you’re in pain,’ he roared and began tearing at the rotting flesh of his lower arm. It came away, layer after layer. Bigger and bigger lumps dropped onto the floorboards. The customers leapt up in horror. Some threw a banknote on the table. Others ran out without paying. I didn’t dare move. The waiter was standing close to me. I was afraid a piece of his disintegrating arm would touch me. The serving girl ran up. ‘Don’t, Papa, don’t,’ she shouted. She held on tight to his left arm. She was flushed. The waiter stumbled back a few steps. ‘Get out of the way,’ he shouted again.

  I took advantage of the moment and ran, as fast as I could, out into the open. The streets were still thronged with people. My arm was very painful. I examined it as I went along. The skin of my arm had not changed. I got to my car as quickly as I could. Hurriedly I unlocked the door. As I got in my left sleeve touched the mouldy wall. I tried to brush the mould off my sleeve. But the deposit on my sleeve was tough and was soon sticking to my right hand. I didn’t have a handkerchief on me to wipe myself down. I started the car and touched the instruments with my soiled right hand. This put mould on the steering wheel and gear lever. It was only with difficulty that I managed to get out of the crowded town. The pain in my left shoulder and my left arm made driving difficult. It wasn’t until much later, when I was well away from St, Wolfgang, that it gradually eased. The sticky mould dried up and dropped off from my hand and sleeve in little lumps. From the steering wheel and gear lever as well.

  The Journey to the World’s End

  Barbara Frischmuth

  So there she sat and it wasn’t funny. The long clothes round her body, a straw hat on her head. That was the way she looked when she wasn’t in the mood for anything.

  There was the philosophy book she’d been reading, lying by the water, and next to it the woollen jacket she’d been knitting. The half-empty bag of popcorn, the sweet kind, caramel flavour, and the can of apple juice.

  She had been young for so long it didn’t mean anything to her any more. Come on, she said to the secret soulmates she talked to, there’s no need to sulk just because you’ve deprived me of your voice again today. And she went on waiting, as was only right and proper. There was nothing she was so good at as waiting.

  D’you know, she said to Osman, the son of the boat-builder, I’ve waited long enough. If only I hadn’t got so used to it. Her bare toes played with the pebbles in the water, the wind stuck its hand up her long skirt, making it billow out at the hips, then got inside her blouse from the other side. The waves were still small, and the sun shone brightly between the clouds as they crossed the sky.

  Can you tell me why I never learnt to swim? She dipped one foot up to her ankle in the water, which wasn’t all that cold. I could even go for a swim in the nude here.

  The wind leafed through the philosophy book, then went off with the half-empty bag of caramel popcorn.

  I gave you everything you need to listen to me. She picked up the jacket, wound the wool over her finger and started knitting.

  I really went to a lot of trouble not to bore you. I don’t want to complain about all the years wi
th you, but are we going to grow old together like this?

  She stopped knitting, letting the wool slip off her finger. I’ve spent long enough imagining you’d come one day to fetch me, drag me away from here, by the hair if need be, and I’d know what was happening. But all that came were the parcels from the mail-order stores, the books and the travel brochures. All by post.

  So that will remain, she said with the same waiting in her voice as always. And she watched her hat the wind had taken off her head and carried out onto the water. Her hair came undone and blew back over her shoulders towards the land. The hat was lifted up by the waves and bowed in one last greeting. She waved to it.

  I went to a lot of trouble over everything. Your looks, your voice, your character. Even your education. She picked up the philosophy book and carefully let it slide into the water.

  The waves wetted it, but tried to push it back onto land. Even this jacket. It’s too big for me. She took the needles out and threw them, like tiny spears, far out into the water. They glittered and sank. The waves accepted the ball of wool and she just had to hold onto her knitting until the pull of the water had unravelled it.

  I’ve never been able to quench my thirst. She drank up the apple juice and threw the can a long way away. I can imagine even the desert wouldn’t have dried me out as much as my life.

  She had stood up and had both her feet in the water.

  There’s one more thing I have to ask you. Why have you never put in an appearance? The impetuous wind tore the words from her lips and she made her hands into a funnel. Why?

  And for the first time in their life together, Osman, the son of the boat-builder, replied.