by H. G. Adler
No more wandering into the past. Yet that was easy to say. The past had long exceeded all of the future with a decisive resolve. The wall before me, which I sought to get past or to pardon, was not so completely impenetrable as I thought: only my wishes were prevented from passing through, no matter how much I pleaded. The wall was behind me and pressed at me from behind. If I had let up, it would already have overtaken me from behind, the future lost along with me. I stood amid the chill of the past, my hand holding the handle in vain. The lost shop in the Reitergasse was closed; a command had been sent me from the garden, such that behind the wall I had to seek out the works which I had set on earth to do. Thus was I driven out and imprisoned before the wall of the lost shop. I had gained nothing when I hid myself, for I had been found out and had to rise up.
“You must return to your beginnings, Adam!”
I stood naked before the voice, which brooked no objection.
“Who are you?”
I pointed disdainfully toward the shut-up garments of the shop, at the dismantled counter, the smashed cartons.
“Who told you that you are naked?”
I hid my face in my hands in order to see less of my nakedness.
“Do you see something?”
No, I saw nothing. Only the wall, the wall of my hands. The command was yelled loudly and shattered, pointed splinters of it reaching me.
“Look! There it is. Do not deny it.”
I did not deny it and submitted myself entirely to the command, but what I saw was that there was nothing to see. Taken by the shoulder and shaken, I was supposed to recognize my face, the one that saw. I reached for my head in vain. The headless one could not see. I whispered my dismay.
“No head!”
Laughter hopped about behind the bars of all the cages. The entire shop shook, the weeds shot up, the foliage and all the trees. Also, many animals and worms gathered about. Then a voice came forth that was strong and was intended just for me.
“No head, that’s well said. No head for these times. Back to your times, Adam, you old good-for-nothing.”
My knees rubbed against the sand.
“I want, want, want …!”
My throat flushed, whereupon the old night had mercy, but not the unleashed time that disdainfully whistled away pell-mell. The lost shop collapsed and disappeared in yawning despair. The doors were swallowed up within it and the soft breeze cut across my face.
“The children would love to go for a walk with you.”
“Really? Which children, Johanna?”
“Michael and Eva.”
“Why do you say the names so solemnly?”
“Because you asked which children? Right, then. Don’t give me that look, Arthur. Go with them! I have to clean.”
“The window is open, Johanna. Fresh air. Do you have to really?”
“At some point. The fresh air alone won’t sweep away the dust. At some point, I have to do some serious cleaning. To clean out for real. You’ve made such a mess of things.”
“Not intentionally!”
“I don’t mean anything by it. What’s happened has happened.”
“It’s about time I cleaned it up myself.”
“You always say that. Then you don’t. It’s not your fault, fine. I believe you. But that’s why I have to do it for you.”
“Johanna, please, listen. Is it today?”
“Always, dear. It’s today.”
“And yesterday? Tomorrow?”
“That’s something different.”
“How, then, can it always be today?”
“You know, that’s exactly what you don’t understand. Yesterday, today, tomorrow—a string that presents itself every day.”
“How, then, every day? Today. You said it is today.”
“Today, I say: today. And on every day, indeed in your own time, I say again: today.”
“And the past?”
“Indeed, every day of your time was today. You get that mixed up, not me.”
“Can you explain it to me?”
“I can try, but it won’t do any good. You’ll never get it. Your understanding of time has been destroyed.”
“The clock, the clock—I can read it! Look, the calendar. I can rattle off the seven days of the week, the days and months add up together—seven twelve and seven twelve. And each year is made up of them, this I know. It’s true that the reckoning of time has changed many times over the years, but always the day has consisted of the evening and the morning. When that no longer works, there is leap year, and everything is good again. See, Johanna, my awareness of time is not destroyed, it’s intact.”
“Not at all. You deceive yourself. It all runs together, it seems to me, every tick and tock. Clock and calendar mean nothing to you. In fact, leap year doesn’t even make up time for those who have no grasp of it.”
“I have a grasp of time and don’t need to change. There’s nothing wrong with me, Johanna! I have it.”
“You take it away, even from me—a time thief. Indeed, you have no time. Thus you have to take it.”
“But I do indeed have time. Can’t you see?”
“No. You have no grasp of it whatsoever. What was and is no longer, that’s because of time. What is and never will be, that is also because of time.”
“The same time?”
“Ah, the same … You talk such nonsense. Time is not forever, but time is always the same, though not the same time.”
“But you say, Johanna, that I have no time.”
“You have none at all. I feel sorry for you because of it. You have fought against it, brought yourself in opposition to it. You believe you can play with it, even control it. But it plays, instead, with you. Now, please go off with the children!”
“I have no time. You already said so.”
“Ugh, such sophistry! I mean now. You should go now! For that, you need no time. All you need is the clock. Make sure and keep an eye on it so that you’re home in time for tea. That’s all you have to do.”
Johanna kissed me softly and slowly pushed me out of the room. Then I awoke completely for the first time and laughed.
“Was I dreaming?”
“You’re a good man. Just go, it will do you good.”
Now it’s time. I felt it more clearly: it is time. When I stepped over the threshold, the children romped into the hallway and cheered.
“Father is coming! Daddy has time!”
Johanna had dressed up the children, as she always did when she sent me out with them. Michael romped along and jumped about me; Eva took me dutifully by the hand as we shuffled through the door. Johanna yelled to the children to “Be good!,” waved goodbye to us, and disappeared. She remained behind in her time. Michael called out our destination, Eva agreeing completely.
“We’re going to the rides!”
“To ride on the donkey,” piped Eva. “Yes?”
Three or four times a year the rides and the concession stands are there, yesterday today tomorrow, and then they move on again. Michael already knew everything his father would do better than did Eva, who just needed to go along with her brother’s wishes. Down West Park Row the children cheered, knowing the way to the rides exactly. But you didn’t have to know at all, for it was impossible to miss them. You could even hear them, the sound carried on the wind—the sound of loud thumping music rolling closer in waves. It wasn’t far to Shepherd’s Field, only the railway embankment crossing the end of West Park Row blocking its view. Then that was behind us and we crossed Halstead Way, which bordered Shepherd’s Field. Toward the left side of it, the pointed peaks of tents and concession stands had been erected. Droves of children streamed about, dragging along compliant adults with them. They moved along fast, for Michael didn’t want to miss a thing. We approached the funfair from the side, motors snorting and dogs snarling on their chains. Eva grabbed my hand tighter, but Michael had no fear and had to be warned by his father. Already we were surrounded by the hubbub, the noise swarming aro
und me, the children cheering and bursting with demands.
“Father, did you always go with your father when your mother said that you should go with your father?”
“Yes, he always went with me.”
“And did he always let you do as much as you let us do?”
“He let me do a lot.”
“Did he also say that he got dizzy when he spun around too much?”
“He could stand it better than I could.”
“And your mother, could she stand it better than our mother?”
“No, she never could handle it all that well. She always had to look on, and even that made her dizzy. She had to look away, or she closed her eyes.”
“You don’t have to look away, Father, do you? You can look at us and keep your eyes open? You always have them open.”
“You can see for yourself, Michael; you know so already. Why are you asking?”
“Father, look! Father! Can I toss at the coconuts? Please, please!”
“When you’re bigger.”
“I’m already big. Only Eva isn’t big yet.”
“I’m also big! Mommy says that I am.”
“You’re both big. But not big enough.”
“Oh my, Father, please, please! Let me toss at them! Just one try! Maybe I’ll get a coconut.”
“No, my child, you’re not getting one. You have to have a lot of strength for that, and also be very clever.”
“Aren’t I clever?”
“Not yet enough.”
“But, Father, you’re clever! Go and buy some balls and knock down a coconut!”
“No, Michael. I’m not at all good enough.”
After I finally dragged the children away from the coconuts, my lack of cleverness was still bemoaned for some time. At first, some cotton candy that amassed from a churning cylinder worked to placate them. Eva loved this swirly foam on a wooden stick, her mouth and tongue battling happily with the brittle sweetness. Michael liked it as well, but he wanted licorice—long, black, thin strings of it. Then Eva rode on the carousel for the smallest children, and Michael, who seemed too grown-up for this ride, thought better and decided to accompany his sister in order to make sure that she didn’t scream or fall down from her swan chair. And so her brother rode along with her. Next came the large swing seats. Eva was too small for them and wandered on farther without fear on a path she already knew, allowing her brother to ride the swings without envy. No one could deny her the chance to ride the donkey. The animals strode along quite slowly, a short way back and forth, it hardly being worth the price. The time was too short, and the children complained loudly. The tall tower of the slide was the right size for the boy. Eva pressed her little fist into my back when she looked on, amazed at his steep slide down through the narrow winding chute to a straw mat. She asked, “Daddy, why don’t you slide?” Meanwhile, the mouse circus lured us on with its pretty pictures. The entry fee was modest, and when we paid we were told, “Stay inside as long as you wish!” Inside the tent, there was nothing but a glass house on a low pedestal in the middle. The white mice, at least a hundred of them, ran through grottos, over stretched and swaying lines, tumbled over teetering bridges, crouched on swings, and had to climb steep steps to the tower of a knight’s castle, wanting to nibble on white bread that was strewn on the balcony.
“What cute bunnies! Such long tails!”
“They’re not bunnies!” Michael informed her. “They’re real white mice. Like the kind the bird store sells on Truro Street. They’re very cheap, and Mommy says they make a lot of mess.”
“They don’t make any mess!” protested Eva. “They’re so white and clean. But they stink a little, and the tails are ugly. Little white bunnies! Could we have one?”
“I don’t think so, sweetheart.”
“No!” Michael asserted. “Mommy doesn’t want one.”
Michael was ready to leave the mice, but Eva was so entranced by the scurrying around that there was no pulling her away. Michael nudged her and pulled at her sleeve.
“Cowboys, there are cowboys! Eva, have you seen them?”
“Lovely little white bunnies!”
The brother didn’t let up, and scolded her. But when I pointed to the colorful signs for the cowboys Eva finally turned away from gazing at the little bunnies. Michael hopped to it, knowing already where to find his favorites.
“I know, I know the way!”
There was no stopping the boy. Along the way we came upon a colorfully painted wagon, its doors standing open. Inside was Fortunata, the resplendent and celebrated original fortune-teller and real Gypsy, a niece of the most famous fortune-teller of all time and all countries, looking proud and glistening before the noisy surge of people around her. Fortunata advertised nothing; she just waited. I would have been glad to wait for her in order to see who would be her next customer, whose times she would reveal: yesterday today tomorrow. But Michael was too impatient and pulled at my coat.
“They’re over there! We shouldn’t be standing here! Oh, c’mon, Father, c’mon!”
He pulled me away and squinted angrily at the Gypsy, because she’d stolen my attention. I couldn’t resist Michael any longer, as a new performance by the cowboys was being touted with a wild clamor. A loudspeaker played a recording of loud fanfare; two bells, a thudding kettledrum, and a snare drum announced the pressing news. On a high stage, show people stood splendidly and presented themselves to the honorable public below in the dust, where there wriggled about, romping feverishly, wild and outlandish children, with docile or mistrustful men and women looking on. Through the brightly colored megaphone, the announcer’s cascade of hawking phrases powerfully rolled. Michael had quickly pressed forward. Eva pressed tight against me, though she wasn’t afraid, but simply drew my hand to her as protection as I gently stroked her head.
Standing tall and proud, Roy Rogers rose up, king of the cowboys, all decked out in full splendor in a costume of rugged brown, his hat dashing with its wide brim, a flashy scarf worn loose at the throat, two mighty pistols stuck in the holsters of his decorated belt, his legs thrust into high boots. Two girls in tightly gathered dresses with white blouses looked at the crowd, serious and demanding, one of them holding three flashing knives with long blades, the other holding her head between two shimmering bare halberds. A blond-haired boy in a brown jacket could only be the master cowboy’s apprentice. In the glassed-in booth out in front of the tent stood the cashier, dressed exactly like the other girls. In a black suit with gold braiding strode the announcer, microphone to his mouth, walking back and forth across the stage in a commanding manner. He appealed to the honored guests below him with fiery tributes to the wonders of the performance nearby, yet the rising storm of the ragged music and the flapping roar was too strong to allow one to make sense of anything he said.
Soon it got better; the distant fanfare quieted down, and now his appeals could be understood. Fun and instruction for everyone. Satisfaction guaranteed, no tricks, just the real thing. You had to see it for yourself. Unforgettable, unique, exciting, full of danger, and yet harmless. Suitable for the smallest of children. This man, Roy Rogers of Texas, is a wonder. Whoever is not satisfied will get his money back. Satisfaction guaranteed. A shilling for grown-ups, half price for soldiers and children. Members of the royal family had graced a performance with their presence. It’s written here on this placard. The announcer lifted it up high, solemnly panning the holy object to the left and to the right before the astonished gathering, while whoever was able to read it had to be convinced. No one should wait; it’s only three steps up and the show will begin. Parents, bring along your children! Children, bring along your parents!
Some had already decided to do so and climbed up to the ticket booth, disappearing behind the curtain. Yet it was just a few, too many of those looking on agape proving fickle as they remained standing there patiently and waited for what might come next. They weren’t disappointed, for already the announcer was at it again, saying fine, since th
ere were so many who couldn’t decide, they’d give them a free performance. He brought out all the members of the troupe, each offering a polite and charming bow as the names were called out to the crowd. Roy Rogers looked on in all his splendor, but I caught his gaze, which indeed seemed a bit bored by the foolishness of the crowd. But the cowboy in him took charge, didn’t let his boredom show, drew his guns, holding out one of them and spinning the other on his stretched-out index finger. When the announcer had finished presenting the artists, Roy’s apprentice rushed forward, tossed a spinning knife high, grabbed it, and tossed it up again. Then he showed how his master had taught him to handle a lasso. It wasn’t a complete performance, yet I was impressed. It had to be difficult to make a rope move in modest leaps up and down in such a sublime, solitary dance. Yet this demonstration of the art served only to make the mastery of it seem all the more marvelous. Then the boy took three steps back with obedient charm, bowing to his master as was his due, brief applause erupting as he did.
Then Roy Rogers stepped to the middle; the others onstage moved to the right and left, looking on in astonishment in order to set the right example for everyone. Only the announcer hardly moved; like a herald, he divided his attention between the hero and the audience. Four blades flashed as they spun in a whirring fashion up and down, turning in flight, which was marvelous. Then a long lasso danced sinuously in seesawing circles and sharp spirals. Suddenly, Roy Rogers jumped inside the circling rope and rose up within it, standing on his tiptoes as if making a pirouette, sinking down on one knee, then both, spinning around as well, the wild twirling continuing until finally the rope collapsed, coming to rest in large rings that looped from the right arm to the shoulder. I would have been happy to stand there awhile and extend my appreciation to the master, but neither was allowed, because everyone up on the stage, the announcer included, even the tireless Roy Rogers, released a huge cry of “You saw it with your own eyes, it’s unbelievable, it’s all the proof you need, but there isn’t a moment to lose, today’s the day, now, it won’t last forever, come on, come on, come on, all of you have to come, the artists are inside waiting, the show will begin, don’t wait any longer, for what you have seen is only a taste of the wonders that await you.”