The Dedalus Book of Austrian Fantasy;1890-2000

by Mike Mitchell

  You ought to marry and have children, my mother would say during the first years whenever I swapped one lover for another. Later she stopped saying that. And when the question cropped up, she would say, It’s better the way it is, given your crazy behaviour.

  When she looked down at herself, she saw that she was floating along in her underclothes. The current must have undressed her some time ago, since there was no trace of her skirt. Only her blouse – at least that was her impression – was drifting down, a long way behind her, towards the bottom in a strange spiral.

  What’s gone is gone. Doesn’t matter, my clothes weren’t suitable for the desert anyway.

  For long stretches she was already dreaming without words and algae and mud caught in her hair without her noticing.

  Strange how little not arriving bothers me. The only reason I can imagine is that you’ve been swimming alongside me all the time.

  The water had distended her body and her nails had gone soft and blue.

  And with time all that was left were very quiet thoughts inside her, and it went on like that, just as it went on like that for her once she knew that Osman, the son of the boat-builder, was with her, wholly with her. Some time, was the thought inside her, I will surface and see the beautiful city of Alexandria, or not, as the case may be. And she appreciated the increasing lack of feeling in her body, which did not allow the least pain.

  So the illness has come to an end, was the thought inside her, that is good. And it felt as if she must surface once more. Her body righted itself and she was drawn up to the surface. Perhaps the beautiful city of Alexandria after all?

  But that was just the afterglow of a thought that had faded to complete unconsciousness when her body emerged from the water, frightening to death a few people who were taking a harmless boating trip.

  The Epidemic

  Marianne Gruber

  Her words had a strange undertone. ‘I’m saying goodbye now.’

  It sounded odd, but meant nothing to him. K. held the receiver in his hand, uncertain what to do, then dialled his mother-in-law, complained, told her to get his wife sorted out, then went back into the vast shed where the machine he operated was.

  Items for repair went past him on the conveyer belt. He straightened out legs, removed faulty parts, closed up splits, opened brains.

  When someone asked what was the matter, he shrugged his shoulders. His answer was lost in the noise of the machines. The sun was shining through the closed windows of the factory shed. Midday arrived.

  Before the conveyor-belt was shut down temporarily for lunch, he was called to the telephone a second time.

  ‘She’s not there,’ his mother-in-law said. She sounded helpless. ‘Women,’ he thought. There was always something contrary, something that disrupted the schedule. The day had been planned, had its directions, its targets: a leg to be pinned, two cuts into the abdomen, injections, bandages.

  The foreman gave him permission to leave with a pitying nod. Suddenly he started running, ran to his car, drove too fast along the straight stretches, skidded round a bend, took his foot off the accelerator, ran from the car to the house, then eased off again, finally going in with quick, if measured steps.

  She wasn’t in the house. His mother-in-law had said that. There were a few things scattered around, indicating an erratic route. He bent down over the items and started looking for clues, went in a circle from the living-room to the hall and back to the living-room, went to the bathroom, bedroom, utility room and garden. The garage in the garden was locked. He shook the door, looked for a key, finally had to call on the man next door who happened to be there and knew something about locks and how to open them without keys. Then the garage door gave way too.

  She was lying on the back seat of the new car, still warm. She had stopped breathing. He knew about that. Conveyor-belt emergencies. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He dragged her out of the car, lay her heavy body down on the concrete and bent over her lips.

  It was not the same as usual this time. There was no noise of the motor starting. He kept up the artificial respiration, she was still warm and silent.

  ‘Send for an emergency unit,’ he said to his mother-in-law, bending over his wife’s body again. He was no longer cool, no longer detached. The emergency unit arrived and took charge of her. He jumped into the vehicle with them. They were poorly equipped. By the time they reached the workshop all hope had gone. The sensitive motors that looked after her could only tolerate a complete stoppage for a very brief period.

  They continued to try. ‘To give up’ was not in their vocabulary. The company specialists arrived. Eventually they too turned away and, without a word, shook his hand. It was all over.

  After the end of his shift he went to the pub with some friends and got moderately drunk. They raised their glasses to him, but in silence. No one ordered sandwiches. By now the next shift would be at the conveyor-belt. It was already getting dark when he went home.

  The next morning before the shift started he was sitting in the recreation room, not knowing what to do. His bewilderment was beginning to turn to anger. To leave him like that. Why? Blackmail, that’s what her death was. Hesitantly, his friends agreed. The word freed them from their own thoughts. Who knows? Why? Whatever for?

  He left the factory and began to arrange her funeral. There was a lot to think about, not really to think about, but to choose. Red and blue, carnations or roses, the writing that wasn’t the writing on the wall, but was still his writing. Then he went back to the factory and took up his place at the conveyor-belt.

  In general they shared K.’s thoughts and views. Their wives were somewhere outside the factory gates, just waiting for the chance to overwhelm them, disturb their plans, break out of their ordered world. They would stop at nothing. Not even suicide.

  The following morning a worker at the same conveyor-belt came up to K. He had a black tie on and the same expression K. had had the day before. ‘Last night,’ said F., ‘after I’d told my wife about yours, my wife committed suicide. I don’t know why. She didn’t say much, although she usually had a lot to say for herself. She asked me what I had to say about the ‘business’. Then before we went to sleep she asked me if I had anything to say to her. I turned over on my side and said nothing. You know how it is. That’s the way they start when they’re looking for an argument. The first thing that struck me in the morning was that breakfast wasn’t ready, and then that she was still in bed – I hadn’t noticed when I got up. I bent over her, but she was already dead. She must have taken sleeping pills. No thought for the children.’

  K. went to his locker and brought out a bottle of brandy. They both had a drink. When the shift began, they stayed there for a while, but then went into the machine shed and were only slightly late getting to the conveyor-belt. The cleaner passed them. She gave them a long, hard look as they went to their places. A morning accident rolled past on the conveyor. Word of the new incident slowly got round the shed, and the neighbouring sheds as well. After the end of their shift K. and F. went to the pub together again. They got moderately drunk. It was already getting dark when they went home.

  A few hours later first K., then F. heard the news that, when he got home, B. had found his wife dead. She had cut open an artery. She must have done it immediately after he left for work.

  An incredible quantity of blood had come out of her, the amount had surprised him, even though he was not usually surprised by wounds that bled profusely. That same night K., F. and B. made an arrangement and met at B.’s house, which was out in the country and contained neither children nor a dead woman.

  From there they went to the factory, where they saw the old cleaner again, who gave them a long, hard look then, without being asked, brought a bottle of brandy and four glasses. K., F. and B. were probably surprised at the fourth glass, but they said nothing. A little later W. came in. He was wearing a black tie and didn’t waste words. His wife had also killed herself during the night.

 
At this point they still tended to regard the incidents in and around the factory as a series of coincidences. Even the experts could find no evidence of any connection. What had happened was tragic, of course, but their work at the conveyor-belt definitely came first. None of them had ever had anything other than this work, these motions, these daily operations, nothing other than the thoughts of what was, the way it was.

  As far as K., F., B. and W. were concerned, work not only came first, it was their salvation. Occupational therapy. Take your mind off it. Think of something else. Do something meaningful. Sometimes K. broke off working and put his face in his hands, in one of those mute, helpless gestures for which no one else would have found a word either: a silent keeping-yourself-together. These gestures only took up a short time and so only disturbed his work-rhythm imperceptibly, if at all. The way he coped was magnificent and a not inconsiderable support to his colleagues, above all to P., whose turn it was next. His wife threw herself under an express train. After that it was K.2.

  When he arrived at the factory with the news, everyone apart from the cleaner was devastated. She went to K. 2 with a glass, which she held to his lips saying, in response to his look of surprise, ‘Of course, your wife also…’

  When the number of suicide wives reached a round dozen, the Works Committee convened. Coincidences of this type were either uncanny or not coincidences at all. The discussions came to no new findings and no conclusions. Eventually it was decided to leave things as they were and wait and see.

  The only difference was the cleaner’s new activity. She waited by the factory gates when the shifts changed to welcome the newly widowed workers. They all behaved in exemplary fashion. Only J. departed from the norm. When his wife rang one morning and pleaded with him to come home, she was so terribly afraid, he left the factory at once, only returning after several days. The cleaner was waiting for him at the entrance, but the glass she had ready in her hand sank when she saw him. ‘Your wife didn’t … ?’ J. shook his head.

  The deaths started to come thick and fast in the neighbouring sheds. One firm of undertakers concentrated entirely on organising funerals for the factory workers at specially reduced rates. Things developed a routine. Now and then one of them got immoderately rather than moderately drunk. The management granted a day’s leave of absence for the formalities as an exception rather than the rule. Conjecture was rife in the recreation room as to who would be next, but no bets were made.

  J. was threatened with the sack. He kept running away from work and driving home. When he arrived at the factory one morning, the cleaner drank to him, then took up her mop and bucket again.

  ‘You’re the last,’ she said. ‘It’s not worth waiting just for you. It could take a long time.’

  The days passed. K., F., B., W. and the others worked at the conveyer-belt. The sun shone in through the closed, frosted windows. They straightened out legs, arms as well, closed up splits and opened brains. They spoke little and worked hard. The transporters brought more and more pieces for their conveyor-belt, and more and more quickly. They often had to work overtime.

  Overtime had sometimes been necessary in the past as well, but now the workload doubled. That was why J. could not be dismissed. The arrangements were becoming difficult. Many of them had children who had to live with their grandparents. They could only go and see them on their free days, if there were any free days.

  Now and then one of them would talk about his wife. She had done some things quite well. It had been quite pleasant while she was still alive, especially on days when she had operated in silence. They might have considered other women, but none were available. People were obviously avoiding the factory employees.

  One morning an angry crowd prevented the early shift from going into the street as they tried to leave the premises. The men were driven back into the factory grounds with catcalls and then stones. J. telephoned his wife at once and begged her to come and collect him. The Works Committee convened. The local police station was informed, but the crews of the patrol cars that appeared were exclusively made up of policewomen who strengthened the siege instead of dispersing it. No one was stopped from entering the factory premises, but it was impossible to leave them again.

  Despite this all the employees, impelled by an inexplicable sense of solidarity, gathered there, even those who had already gone home, or not yet turned up for their shift. There were no problems with catering for the internees. During the first few days of quarantine books and newspapers were also brought in. The transporters continued to bring fresh work. Those who had children were allowed to send letters, the telephone lines remained open, radio reception functioned as normal.

  After a few days, however, there were increasing indications that things were not going to remain as they were. First of all the letters came back: Return to Sender. Then the newspapers stopped being delivered. The men, who had initially accepted the situation with stoical calm, became uneasy. The transporters brought less and less new work, so that hopeless cases were sent through to maintain the same level of employment. One morning the telephone wires were dead, radio reception impossible and the factory gates only opened to bring in food supplies.

  J. stood at one of the windows staring out. Right at the back of the crowd surrounding the factory he had seen a hat, a ridiculous thing, like one his wife wore. He had bought it, even though he didn’t like it. Maria loved turquoise and green, but so childlike was her delight, he didn’t care about the colours.

  She was standing far away from him and he had left the conveyor-belt without permission. It ran day and night now, since it could only be switched off from outside and clearly no one could be bothered any more. They no longer had anything to repair. What ran past them were dead bodies, just dead bodies, nothing but dead men.

  Then J. saw the hat begin to move and push its way towards the front. He saw her face. It was pale and seemed tired. He waved, although he did not expect her to be able to see him.

  Now she was standing in the front row, talking to some of the women. Suddenly she looked up at him. He waved, making elaborate gestures, and called out her name. A colleague walked past behind him. It was K.

  ‘Stop that,’ said K., ‘it could be misconstrued.’ He tried to pull J. away from the window. J. freed himself from his grasp and ran out into the yard.

  During his military service he had learnt the Morse code. Later, after he had met Maria, they had turned it into a game, conversing between rooms by knocking on the wall. J. started hammering out their secret words on the factory gate. It was a long time before he received an answer.

  ‘I love you,’ came the message in Morse

  ‘I love you …,’ then, ‘wait, wait, wait…’

  J. waited. From outside came the noise of machines, diggers, cranes, bulldozers. Something was being built right beside the factory, or perhaps even around it. J. waited all night. Once K. came and then W. and tried to get him to come away. They meant well. Three of them had taken over his work at the conveyor belt so that his absence would not be noticed. After their shift had ended, they came and sat with him. K. even brought some blankets. But suddenly J. could not understand them any more. Towards dawn they left him. Their next shift was about to start. The sun rose over the roofs and a soft tapping could be heard on the gate.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘I am so awake,’ J. replied, ‘that it hurts.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes. I am as alone as before I was born.’

  Suddenly the door opened. In astonishment J. watched the narrow strip of sunlight appear in the darkness of the yard. Only then did he stand up. Maria was outside. She took him by the hand and tried to pull him away quickly. The door was closed.

  ‘You’re the only one,’ she said.

  J. looked around. They had started to build a high wall round the factory. It was already half finished and the work was continuing at incredible speed.

  ‘What’s the point of all this?’ J. asked.
One of the women in uniform stopped.

  ‘It’s to shut the factory in,’ she said.

  ‘And then?’ asked J.

  ‘Come,’ said Maria, but J. held her there. ‘What will happen then?’ he asked again.

  ‘Nothing,’ the woman replied. She did not even smile as she turned away. A funeral cortège drove past, a dozen black vans, the sides of which had been replaced with black glass. Through the gleaming windows J. saw glass coffins. Men. All of them men. Dead.

  ‘Now you’ve found out after all,’ said Maria. ‘I had hoped we could get home before you…’

  ‘Everything’s the other way round out here?’ asked J.

  ‘Don’t look.’ Maria put her arms round him. J. extricated himself from her embrace and followed the vans. They were going at walking pace. Suddenly he stopped and screamed her name. She could feel his mortal anguish.

  ‘We have always betrayed each other as honestly as possible.’ He trembled.

  ‘There’s another way,’ she said. He followed her as if in a dream. She opened out a picture book in front of him. A path led across a green meadow to sky-blue mountains.

  ‘Leave everything behind?’ he asked. She nodded. He took her by both hands. ‘I love you,’ he said, ‘I truly love you.’

  Together, and without looking round, they stepped into the picture book of their unborn children. Someone behind closed it and picked it up carefully.

  They talked together for a long time. Late in the night, when they had found all the words again, they lay down side by side.

  They slept out in the open, under a starry sky.

  My Day

  G. F. Jonke

  Early morning

  The post arrives. The postman brings me a parcel. In the parcel I find: a picture by Hans Staudacher that can be bent slightly since it is stuck onto a thin metal plate, the latest atlas for use in secondary schools, and a book in English sent to me by a writer from Japan whom I know personally but can’t remember.