Who Is Martha?

by Marjana Gaponenko

  You are a treasure, Habib, Levadski wants to say. “You have done me a tremendous favor,” he slurs into the receiver and hangs up. My goodness, hard to believe. Musikverein. Great-aunts! Suddenly he feels a shiver run down his crooked spine. His great-aunts, what if they are still alive! He never received any death notices. Oh come on, Levadski thinks, they passed away long ago. Both of them. Their graves must have been leveled at least fifty years ago to make room for new great-aunts. Nobody who has ever made inquiries about reserving a plot in a cemetery believes in the fairy tale of eternal peace. All a sham. I won’t be bumping into them in the Musikverein, thinks Levadski, unsure of whether to be sad or relieved, but I will raise a glass of sparkling wine to the darling dead. And to mother, who never managed even once to come along, as she was always working. The poor thing. I will drink to mother later, at the bar.

  Flight PS 819

  Non-Stop

  Flight time 2 hours

  AT 7 P.M. ON THE DOT LEVADSKI SEES THE GLEAM OF MR.Witzturn’s silver cane handle on the stairs. His steps are muffled on the red runner and echo on the marble of the lobby. Leather shoes, thinks Levadski, extending his hand to Mr. Witzturn. “I thought,” he joked, “that we would bump into each other in the elevator again.” Mr. Witzturn pants and laughs, he had wanted to get a bit of exercise and decided to take the stairs at ten to seven in order to arrive in the lobby on time.

  “Five floors,” he says, fluttering his eyelashless lids as if he himself refused to believe he had just managed to master them. Levadski doesn’t believe it either. I bet he got out on the second floor and then took the steps, the old windbag.

  “Impressive, impressive,” Levadski praises Mr. Witzturn. “So your room is on the top floor.” Mr. Witzturn nods and whispers meaningfully:

  “Above the tops of the trees!”

  “Let’s go,” Levadski suggests, waving two tickets printed on shiny black paper. Only after Levadski has politely nodded at a doorman with gray hair at the temples does Levadski realize that Mr. Witzturn has followed him through the revolving door, rather than him going first. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Witzturn, please forgive me!” Mr. Witzturn’s mouth is twisted, he is trying to suppress a laugh.

  “One doesn’t get any younger,” he says coughing. “As an old man I am used to the youngsters being in the fast lane.”

  A flock of perfumed matrons with fat ankles noisily totter past the two of them. “In the old days,” Mr. Witzturn recollects enthusiastically, “if you were a lady, you had a feather boa and moved as proudly and silently as a marble column.”

  “Hhm, hhm,” says Levadski in a huff.

  “One let oneself be worshipped like an icy mountain peak,” Mr. Witzturn says, waving his hand in its leather glove. Levadski grumbles and looks into the illuminated window of the restaurant, where yesterday he nearly dislocated his jaw on the Iberico. “For the conqueror,” Mr. Witzturn skips on, “the air grew thin around them, and some lost their lives in the ascent, isn’t that so?”

  “You probably know better, I have never been a ladies’ man,” Levadski shrugs his shoulders.

  “And those long languishing lashes, double rows of pearls, those scamps!” Mr. Witzturn says intoxicated, his voice sounding increasingly tender, as if a sharpedged sliver of candy were melting beneath his tongue. “And now this,” he says dryly, signaling with his head in the direction of the matrons in their clodhoppers hurrying away.

  “Do you like classical music?” Levadski asks while crossing the street.

  “Oh!” Mr. Witzturn exclaims, “I wanted to thank you so much for taking me with you today. I love music.”

  “Wonderful,” Levadski says pleased, “I also love music, and Glazunov is one of the greats. A drinker!” he murmurs, causing the two women wearing trousers in front of them to turn around in alarm. “A drinker and a genius!” Levadski adds decisively, “one of the Russian greats!”

  “Those two gentleman are showing us the way,” Mr. Levadski says to the backs of the trouser wearers, “the entrance must be there.”

  “Have you ever been in the Musikverein before?” Levadski asks, keeping an eye on the steps, which he takes elegantly, according to his strength, one after the other.

  “Yes, a hundred years ago,” Mr. Witzturn laughs, overtaking Levadski. “This evening, with your permission, I will lead the way.”

  “That suits me fine. You are also the taller of the two of us,” Levadski cheerfully hurls at his back. “I almost feel like a female blackbird during the breeding season beside you!” he admits, breathing laboriously in the lobby.

  The few steps have also taken their toll on Mr. Witzturn. “I like you,” he splutters, leaning against a column, “I like you, Mr. Levadski, although you have a lousy character.” Levadski expresses his horror by letting out a low whistle. “But I presume,” Mr. Witzturn adds, “that the lousiness of your character has gotten worse with age.”

  “What a consolation,” Levadski says by way of thanks, looking around.

  In the meantime the clodhoppers have dropped off their coats and are assessing – so it seems to Levadski – each other’s miserable festive attire. “Very shabby.” Mr. Witzturn confirms, following Levadski’s gaze.

  “Oh, I have forgotten my magnifying glass!” Levadski says, slapping his brow.

  “And the tickets?”

  “Those I have, although nobody has asked to see them.”

  “We are not in the auditorium yet,” Mr. Witzturn says to placate him.

  “We will not be sitting in the auditorium, but in a ground floor box. First row.”

  Mr. Witzturn clamps his walking stick between his thin legs and takes off his coat.

  Levadski skilfully receives it and is rewarded with a beaming smile from Mr. Witzturn. “Stay here, I will drop off our coats.”

  “Allow me the honor, Mr. Levadski.” When Mr. Witzturn has returned, Levadski hands him the program he has just bought. “I am really looking forward to this.”

  “Let’s go,” says Levadski, “I will smooth the way through the crowd.”

  “Strange, they didn’t check our tickets at all,” Mr. Witzturn remarks, making himself comfortable in an upholstered chair.

  “They did, you just didn’t notice. There was a young lady at the entrance to the box.”

  “Oh, I see, that’s reassuring.”

  “Why reassuring, if I may ask?”

  “That we are not taking the state for a ride,” Mr. Witzturn laughs into the audience. “Look, look, one gray wave after the other.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean all the old fogies in a festive mood,” whispers Mr. Witzturn, stroking his bald head.

  “If you screw your eyes up slightly,” Levadski whispers derisively, “all these people look like the sea on a cloudy day.”

  “And those people over there!” Mr. Witzturn tries to keep his forefinger in check, “that woman looks like a lampshade.”

  “Perhaps because she is wearing a hat?” Levadski suggests.

  “True. But my God, how tasteless. I mean, if you are that ugly you should at least try to put yourself in a good light by wearing unobtrusive jewelry and modest attire.”

  “By having winning traits, a friendly smile, a warm heart,” Levadski goes on listing.

  “Unfortunately I can’t see the lampshade.”

  “Oh!” Mr. Witzturn exclaims, “one second!”

  “Where are you going?”

  “One second.”

  “They are about to begin.”

  “Yes, I will be back.”

  “You will trip in the dark. Where are you going?”

  “To wash my hands!” Mr. Witzturn mumbles, forcing his way past Levadski.

  He really could have thought about that earlier, thinks Levadski and gazes at the surging sea in front of him. Here and there he registers a bright red dress, a light blue scarf, a made up black-haired beauty, jammed between two rotten mushrooms. His heart pounding, he registers the golden tone of the
brass instruments on the stage, white nymphs, golden nymphs with shapely arms, the wood of the coffered ceiling. Where has the old boy gotten to? Levadski is beginning to feel uneasy. In the auditorium and in the balconies people are taking their seats, the lights of the large pear-shaped chandeliers are being dimmed. Slowly the chandeliers rotate as if they were being roasted on a spit, heated by people’s breath, and if everyone were suddenly to grow silent and freeze, Levadski swore, you would be able to hear a gentle tinkling from the casing of the chandeliers.

  “Voilà!” Mr. Witzturn pants in Levadski’s ear, “a present for you,” proferring a little black velvet case that feels quite heavy in Levadski’s hand.

  “What is it?” Levadski whispers.

  “Open it.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “Open it and take a look yourself. I chose it from the selection in the glass cabinet of the hotel,” Mr. Witzturn lets slip, before Levadski opens the small black box.

  “You have gone mad.”

  “Open it, open it!”

  “You are crazy.”

  “Come on, open it.”

  “Don’t tell me you just went back to the hotel.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Mr. Witzturn giggles.

  “Gentlemen, a little quieter if you please!” a male voice barks out of the dark.

  “I bought it for you this afternoon,” Mr. Witzturn tries to whisper more softly, “and I forgot the package in my coat pocket. Come on, open it.”

  “You are embarrassing me,” Levadski whispers and opens the black box without making a sound. “Opera glasses!”

  “As I know your penchant for magnifying glasses …”

  “Oh, and how beautiful they are! With a gold chain!”

  “It says Luxury Collection.” Mr. Witzturn points to the gold lettering on the inside of the box. “I thought they would suit you.”

  “Be quiet!” a female voice entreats, before succumbing to a severe prolonged coughing fit.

  “We can only reciprocate the entreaty,” Levadski whispers to Mr. Witzturn, in the hope that the message reaches its true destination. He takes the binoculars from the box and puts the long chain around his neck. With an enchanted smile, Levadski looks through the opera glasses onto the stage and sees – nothing. He sees a lot further, into his own pleasure. Mr. Witzturn’s presence fills Levadski with a kind of intoxication, a growing feeling of triumph that conquers everything in its path. He could fell trees, he could perform a saber dance, yes, he would defeat a sabertoothed tiger in battle, all because he had been given a present with a single thought. “I don’t know how to thank you,” Levadski murmurs.

  “You’re welcome.” Mr. Witzturn has raised his head, his gaze rides on the waves of gray and dyed hair, stumbles over a few bald heads and is lost in the froth of the music. He closes his eyes. Levadski tries to concentrate on the music, but he can’t. The elegant opera glasses around his neck have conjured up a new being from inside him and sat him on his lap. They suit me, he said, thinks Levadski and looks at Mr. Witzturn, who, with his eyes closed, has started swaying on his chair. Luxury Collection … Mr. Witzturn gives a soft grunt and touches his chest. And again he gives himself up to the music.

  During the intermission a silver tray with two glasses of sparkling wine filled to the brim sit on a bistro table, a folding card with the name Levadski placed in front. “You are famous,” Mr. Witzturn jokes, grabbing a champagne glass that splashes as he holds it out to Levadski. He pulls the other towards him a little more carefully. “I love music, and I would like to thank you for the enjoyable entertainment this evening,” Mr. Witzturn says, taking a sip from his glass. “Your visual aid really suits you.” Levadski strokes the opera glasses resting on his belly.

  “You have moved me to tears, Mr. Witzturn.”

  “Wait a second. I will read something to you. Please hand me the box.” Mr. Witzturn unfolds the leaflet with the instructions. “Room with a view. That must be what the thing is called. Cast your eye down on the angels!” he recites in a distorted voice. “For more than 135 years they have been looking over the shoulders of the great maestros on the podium of the Vienna Philharmonic, well, one doesn’t live that long … With an eye for detail,” Mr. Witzturn continues with a raised finger, “focus on the essence. These elegant opera glasses open up undreamed of perspectives, oho-ho, and unknown pleasures, enjoy, Mr. Levadski. Enjoy the world of music. And thank you for the sparkling wine.” The tears in Levadski’s eyes cause his already distorted vision to become even more blurry.

  “Oh, you have given me such a wonderful present. You know,” Levadski dries his tears under the false pretense of gazing at the ceiling submerged in thought, “I must confess something to you.” Mr. Witzturn nods. “I have always been a bit ashamed of my magnifying glass. And now that I am holding these beautiful opera glasses in my hand,” Levadski’s voice trembles, “ehehem, the good old magnifying glass is just embarrassing, so embarrassing, that I would like to bury it somewhere.” Mr. Witzturn tilts his head and chews on his lip. “What can I say … I know every scratch,” Levadski continues, “even the circumstances under which the magnifying glass received them … and now, alongside these beautiful opera glasses …”

  “You don’t need to feel bad,” Mr. Witzturn interrupts, “life is unfair.”

  “I do!” Levadski says heatedly. “But just how fair life is!”

  “Please allow me to explain to you,” Mr. Witzturn says, putting his empty glass decisively on the table.

  What a conceited oaf, thinks Levadski, and I thought he was congenial! I will hang his opera glasses on the wall and let them gather dust there.

  “You see,” Mr. Witzturn says, “we are in the well-heat-ed Musikverein, drinking sparkling wine and being transported by music.” You were reveling in sleep, you snooze bucket! thinks Levadski.

  “But that does not in the least,” Mr. Witzturn continues, “mean that luck is on our side. If the world we know, the visible and the invisible, is a kind of river, then we aren’t sitting in a concert at all.” Mr. Witzturn looks at Levadski expectantly.

  “We are in the intermission of the concert and we are leaning on a bistro table.”

  “We cannot be sitting here in the ground floor box for the more privileged, Mr. Levadski, because, and now I need to take a deep breath, because everything is flowing. Everything is changing.” Levadski’s eyebrow, in the guise of a thin caterpillar, creeps up towards the plateau of his head, oblivious to the fact that nothing is growing there. “While we sit here in the warm hall, having a civilized conversation, smartly dressed, we are both lying in the gutter half frozen to death with liver disease …”

  “Haha!”

  “… an ignoramus bringing a child into the world to a working class family …”

  “Hahaha!”

  “… sweating in a deep coal mine in India, hooligans urinating from a bridge in London …”

  “Ha!”

  “ … and are thrown behind bars for the tenth time …”

  “Muhaha!”

  “ … while we were whizzing up and down in the elevator of our hotel …”

  “I thought you took the hotel stairs, you athlete!” Levadski clutches his stomach with laughter.

  “… while we were pressing on the buttons in the elevator and consuming electricity,” Mr. Witzturn continues, eyes firmly shut, as if he were standing in the pouring rain, “while we were helping ourselves to chocolates from the cake rack and drinking coffee from cups that were far too small, dressed up like two peacocks …” Mr. Witzturn smacks his mouth bitterly, “I don’t know where you were, Mr. Levadski, but I lay between the corpses of my comrades in my own excrement, shooting at people I didn’t know.”

  “Please take your seats!” a young man shouts into the crowd of buffet guests.

  “This doesn’t mean I am so moved by this knowledge that I cannot either appreciate or enjoy life, Mr. Levadski.” Mr. Witzturn hastily adds, releasing his finger from the tabletop. “Now, m
ore than ever, I am pleased about the illusions I see. Do you know the magic lantern?” Levadski nods and follows Mr. Witzturn to the box. “I presume we live in such a thing. All of us. All human beings.”

  “But not the animals!” Levadski places his hand on his heart. “Not the animals!”

  “As far as animals are concerned, I don’t have a clue,” Mr. Witzturn says, grasping the door handle to the box. “All I wanted to clarify with my monologue, which is evidently a source of amusement to you, is that we human beings, when we speak of fairness, are talking about a chimera. There is no fairness. There is only fortune and misfortune, two sides of one coin, and something better still.”

  “And that would be?”

  Mr. Witzturn lets Levadski pass, closes the door to the box behind him, leans his walking stick against the wall and says:

  “Pleasure in pleasure.”

  Impressive, thinks Levadski in the dimming lights of the ground floor box, and ripe for the stage. Human beings have already come a long way with this all-relativizing belief in a kind of multiple dimensionality of the world. And have always just run around in circles. Loud noises, dramatic curves of tension, a confusion of speculations and exhaustive explanations. But in the animal kingdom, Levadski squints over at Mr. Witzturn, who has closed his eyes again, in the animal kingdom there is no room for this kind of maybe here, maybe there, magic lantern show. There an aged blackbird sits on the tip of a birch tree and chirps the soul out of its body like a young thing, without respite, unshakeable in its love of nature, for the other blackbirds, for its own little life, and the next moment, on account of its age, breathes its last in midsong. That is true fortune.

  Annoyed, Levadski has to admit to himself that once again he is not capable of concentrating on the music. He is not even interested in the faces of the female musicians. This would be the ideal time to make use of his opera glasses. But no, Levadski is sulking in the darkness of the box beside the chirping Mr. Witzturn. The more he chirps, the more he moans in his sleep and twitches his legs, the more Levadski hates him. He must be on the chase, the old hand, Levadski thinks, a bat out of hell. Or did he mean to clarify with his trench story that he has lived a more intensive life than I have? Clever, very clever. And how narcissistic, at the expense of all those dead …