by Tim Davys
Then came the news that they had fooled us, that Maximilian had already been set free. Therefore we were now standing here, a decimated band, and our only spectators were the trees, the forest, and Eva Whippoorwill.
Eva still said nothing, and I realized that she did not intend to say anything either. We were the ones who encroached on her reverie; we were the ones who needed to explain ourselves. I was just about to take a step forward and make myself known when Adam Chaffinch broke free from a larger group of stuffed animals that had been standing in the middle of the round lawn.
The movement was, in the midst of the compact stillness, almost offensive.
“We have come to meet Maximilian.”
His tone was low, soft, full of veneration. Eva nodded. She turned around, but before she had even managed to enter the house, Maximilian came out. He wore the bed-sheet around him, a white cover that dragged behind him like a bridal veil. And he had brought the pillowcase to tie into a headcloth over his head and ears.
Not a word was spoken. Yet what followed happened as if we had rehearsed it.
Maximilian seemed just as surprised as his mother. He went past her without hesitating—without granting her a glance, which afterward I would have a hard time accepting—and down the few steps to the gravel path. The stuffed animals who had stood unmoving took a few steps forward, those who stood nearby and those who stood far away; we all closed up. Who came up with the idea of raising Maximilian from the ground, I do not know. Perhaps it was Adam? In any event, up into the air he was lifted, and the stuffed animals not only formed a king’s throne beneath him; we became his ground, his earth.
In this way we carried him out of there, in the same silence in which we came. I never turned around; I did not want to know how Eva Whippoorwill looked when we disappeared with her only son.
Ten years is a long time. Had something happened to Maximilian in prison, something I don’t know about, or was it my mental image that had re-formed reality? I do not know, but the stuffed animal who returned was not the same as the one the court had taken from us. The first weeks I consciously avoided making comparisons, and I did not speak with others about the matter when I became certain. But I am positive that at least Adam Chaffinch saw it as I did. It was an older, more serious Maximilian who had come back to us; his youthful energy was gone.
We installed Maximilian in Maria’s House on eggplant purple Damm Weg. For me Maria Mink’s financial successes remained just as unfathomable as Maximilian’s similes. Despite the fact that she worked hard with her Retinue, and despite the fact that I saw her spend just as much time as Dennis and Adam with Maximilian, her financial position only seemed to get stronger.
Damm Weg 62 was a typical three-story brick house built during the fifties. We had arranged a pleasant two-room apartment with a pantry and bathroom for Maximilian on the top floor. On the second floor were three classrooms, smaller than a traditional classroom but somewhat larger than an ordinary living room. Our expressed intent was to avoid institutionalizing the training or the need for such; we offered time to stuffed animals who sought us out. Over the years certain distinctive features of Maximilian’s teachings had nonetheless crystallized—even if you, reader and doubter, have already understood the main ideas because I have anticipated our later conclusions in this text—and animals who wanted to do more than simply take part in one of our three Retinues had to be taken care of in some way.
“This is not about an education with a special degree,” Adam Chaffinch emphasized. “More like a deepening in Maximilian’s teachings in an organized form.”
Our worry was partly political. Starting an educational institution required permission, and one of the referees would in all likelihood be the theological department at the university in Mollisan Town. We already knew what they would say.
On the bottom floor of Maria’s House were a large kitchen, some storage areas, and the Planning Room, where Adam, Dennis, Maria, and I usually met. There was also the Chancellery, where Beetle Box and some of his temporary helpers worked. The Chancellery was our heart—or perhaps more accurately, it was the central hub, from which the nervous system of the three Retinues sprang. At that time Adam, Dennis, and Maria each held two lectures per week. Finding new places, and not least spreading information about where the lectures would be held, was an extensive process. Beetle Box was not only responsible for making this work, he was also forced to maintain a low profile, use decoys, and write contracts under assumed names, all to avoid incidents like the one on Maximilian’s birthday.
The Planning Room was windowless, narrow, and filled with the type of soft, colorful, plush-covered furniture that was modern in the seventies. I used to sit in a green-and-yellow-striped armchair that was very comfortable, and which could be tipped back. We needed a constant supply of fresh lilies in the room, however, to cover up the odor of unwashed fabric.
“Is this just the top?” I asked my friends. “That’s what I am worried about. That I haven’t even seen the vegetable itself.”
I was again speaking about the threat that the Kwai family was still subjected to, and I readily admit that the comparison was not the most brilliant. What I meant, and I think I understood, was that perhaps we weren’t taking the threat against the Retinues seriously, that we only saw the harmless outgrowths of an invisible, far more imposing organism.
“I wouldn’t worry,” said Dennis. “We have, mm, talked about this before, Diaz. Apart from, uh, that this bull is crazy, I can’t really take him seriously.”
“Sometimes I think you isolate yourself too much,” said Maria. “I think it would do you good to go out with me sometimes, Diaz. I don’t mean to the Retinues, but out into the real world…”
She did not finish the sentence, but Adam was thinking along the same lines.
“What we are trying to say, Wolf, is that even if they turn against Maximilian, it’s not him, but the society, that is the problem. We respect your instinct, but there are things going on in this town far more dangerous than youthful hoodlums.”
I shrugged. This was not the first time they had dismissed me; in fact, by now I was used to it. It was my own fault. I had not been able to make the threat real to them.
I peeked out the window, but saw that I had time. Every day I went up to Maximilian a while and sat. Ever since his release he had, as I mentioned, been different. We let him stay highest up in Maria’s House, but yet we did not see much of him. He mostly kept to himself, in his minimalistic room. Above all, those first months after he came back we made serious attempts to get him to take a greater share in the work. We told each other that that was what was needed; it would entice him out of his shell. But the more we failed, the less we tried. Slowly we were forced to realize that we had built the operation and the three Retinues in a way that did not require Maximilian’s presence. This caused us to feel ashamed—we spoke about it often, but secretly we felt a great relief, since Maximilian was not himself.
I was still occupied with my Recording, even if it took no more than a few hours a day; neither Maximilian nor I could concentrate any longer than that. Several days might go by without Maximilian saying anything really important. Of course I asked the question: Did he want to break off these sessions?
“The cat’s playing with the ball of yarn does not knit any sweaters,” he replied.
I interpreted this as meaning that he wanted to continue.
“Hmm,” said Chaffinch.
I was lost in reverie; like mischievous lambs, my thoughts had wandered off in every direction, and now I was forced to gather them together.
“On Friday,” I answered to the question I knew he had asked.
Dennis nodded.
“Perhaps we can be down at the Wrest again?” Adam proposed.
“Are you joking?” I said. “We can’t be at the Wrest. Never again.”
“Simply because it happened once, that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen there again.” Maria smiled gently.
&nbs
p; “You can call me paranoid,” I said, “but we all know how afraid certain animals have become over the years when Maximilian has…healed them. And we all know where that fear can lead. If anyone, such as Rothman, starts systematically spreading lies about Maximilian, it can…I don’t know…We live in our little bubble, Adam. Imagine if there are—”
“Diaz,” interrupted Adam when I could not find the words, “I’m not certain that we, you and I, are living in the same bubble. Because I feel, and have felt for more than fifteen years, ever since you were holding forth in the church in Kerkeling, that in the presence of Maximilian there has always been a threat. Rothman or not, what we do…We grant faith, hope, and love to those who need it. We have gathered so many; we are a force, Diaz, we have long been a force that threatens established structures. Why do you think that Dennis, Maria, and I do not preach in Maria’s House? Why do you think that we steal away to the most unlikely places to hold our meetings? Why do you think we have so few students? I am certainly living in a bubble, but I have never imagined that we are secure.”
“But Rothman—”
“He is only one of the many who believe they have reason to get back at us, one of many who are afraid of what they do not understand, and transform their fear into anger.”
I did not answer. This was only one of many dialogues that were repeated to the point of exhaustion. The meeting proceeded to practical matters, and when it was over, my frustration was, as usual, as great as my doubt.
I wish with all of my heart that I had been wrong.
REUBEN WALRUS 10
Reuben Walrus lay hidden in one of the covered boxes on the second tier as the orchestra musicians came back to the rehearsals on the morning of the thirteenth of April. The murmur from the arriving musicians suggested a certain expectation; they were looking forward to seeing how Walrus had finally finished his symphony. Yesterday evening he had promised that there would be new scores at their places this morning.
Reuben Walrus himself heard nothing from up in the balcony. He had stayed behind yesterday evening when they had all gone home. Perhaps he thought that a miracle would occur in the concert hall during the night? But more or less deaf as he was, he could not even try to produce one. The promise of new scores was empty and stupid, and when he gave it he had consciously avoided looking at Dag Chihuahua.
Did Chihuahua understand what was going on? That Reuben was a sham? Under other circumstances this question would have tormented him, but as things were now, he didn’t care.
When they were younger, Buffalo Bill had been a friendly type, labile and headstrong but also loyal and tenderhearted. He had discussed music with Reuben as if they were equals, despite the fact that the opposite was already apparent even in their teenage years. Reuben’s talent went far enough to understand the genius that Buffalo was supplied with, but not much farther. In comparison with Bill, Walrus’s efforts as an instrumentalist, composer, and director were no more than mediocre.
They were both accepted at the Music Academy, Reuben as one of many ambitious stuffed animals and Bill as a shining talent. Stimulating personal creation was a significant aspect of instruction at the school, and for the walrus it was painful to see at close quarters how the music was born inside Bill without the least effort. What he himself produced was only affected, stolen, or bad. Bill could hear music inside himself, and wrote it down without even touching an instrument. It was fascinating.
And it became not only Bill’s music, but also his process, that Reuben borrowed and made his own when Bill was taken into Lakestead House.
Reuben by then had pretended to be the great composer genius for so many years that he almost believed that it was he who had created these amazing works. He had lived for so long with his false role that he had stopped feeling like a deceiver. So deep was his self-deception that in some small part of his heart he actually believed that during the night he would be able to create the end of the Symphony in A Minor, Bill’s last composition before madness finally conquered him.
Reuben Walrus had slept in the box during the night, and his body ached when he woke up. He had slept remarkably calmly, but as soon as he opened his eyes, he realized that he had failed, that it was too late. Nonetheless he did not flee. Instead he sat in the darkness and watched the orchestra members arrive, one by one. He saw them come onto the stage, go up to their places, and search in vain for the music he had promised but which was not there.
Reuben had never been inclined toward self-torment. On the contrary, through his entire life he had chosen to handle problems by closing his eyes to them. Yet he stayed to observe his own defeat. Only when almost the entire orchestra was gathered down on the stage did Reuben get up and steal away.
Reuben went home to Knobeldorfstrasse in the Morning Rain, and was soaking wet when he arrived. On the answering machine there were six messages. From the numbers on the display he could see that five were from Philip Mouse. Instead of calling back, Reuben continued toward the bathroom, undressing on the way. One after another pieces of clothing fell to the floor—his jacket in the hall, trousers, underwear, and socks in the corridor, and at last the damp shirt in the washbasin in the bathroom. Then he climbed into the drying cabinet, turned the heat to maximum, and closed his eyes. He remained in the warm, dark cabinet until long after he had dried.
He heard almost nothing. He tried to stop himself from thinking about it, stop himself from listening, which was actually easier than it ought to be. Only when a sound reached one of his few living hair cells did panic strike him.
He turned off the drying cabinet and got out, positioned himself in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door, and gave himself a crooked smile. It would be known as his unfinished symphony. Perhaps that wasn’t so bad? If he forestalled his critics, he could pretend that it was Drexler’s syndrome that had kept him from completing this final work. The connection between the illness and the symphony was indisputable. It was better than indisputable; it was true.
The thought gave him a certain consolation and strength, and he went naked out into the kitchen and picked up the phone, dialed the number for private detective Mouse, and waited until he thought he heard someone at the other end.
“Mouse?” he said, and continued without waiting for a reply. “It’s Reuben. Mouse, I saw that you’d called. I know what you want. But it’s over now, Mouse. I don’t need any more help. If you want to find him, you can try on your own. I’m not paying another cent.”
Reuben waited a few moments. He thought he heard Mouse say something, but he was not sure. He knew that the private detective wanted to prolong the assignment, wanted to work on, but at some point you had to bring it to an end. Mouse had played out his role.
“So that’s the way it is,” Reuben resumed when he thought that sufficient time had passed. “Your final payment will come in the mail, no later than Monday. Thanks for your help, and say hello to Daisy.”
He was rather sure that Philip Mouse was still talking when he hung up.
When the doorbell rang, Reuben Walrus was on his way from the kitchen back to the bedroom, where his dressing gown waited. It was starting to get cold without clothes. He faintly perceived the sound of the doorbell as he went past the hall, and wondered how long someone had been standing outside and ringing.
His first thought was that it was Mouse, but that was impossible, of course. Reuben shuffled out into the hall. Just as he was about to open the door, he remembered his nakedness and pulled on a coat that was hanging among the outdoor clothes. It was black and made from wool, and he hardly recognized it; it must have been hanging there for many years.
“Yes?”
Outside stood a female in a black suit, a business female in a tailor-made jacket under which she was wearing a white blouse and a discreet, burgundy-colored tie. She was holding an attaché case in her hand, and when she set it down, she produced a little grimace that suggested that the bag had been heavy to carry. For a moment he was uncer
tain whether this really was a female, but something in her charm made this indisputable. And of course he considered himself a connoisseur.
“Yes?” he repeated.
Then he realized that she was actually talking to him. He held up one fin, the sign for waiting, and went back into the apartment to fetch a pen and some paper. Equipped in this way, he returned to the hall, where the suit-clad stuffed animal politely hesitated outside on the threshold.
“Yes?” he asked again, then handed over the writing implements.
“My name is Maria Mink,” wrote the suit-clad female. “Dennis Coral suggested that I should visit you.”
Reuben read what was there, and looked up again at the mink. It had been impossible to overlook the suit, but now he took note of her beautifully gleaming fur, her long, pointed nose of yarn, and her small, brown eyes that observed him with curiosity. Was this the apostle of love of which Adam Chaffinch had spoken? This surprised Reuben greatly, and he was uncertain whether the surprise was positive or negative.
She took the paper from him and wrote, “Excuse my apparel, I’ve come straight from a board meeting at one of the real estate companies.”
He stroked his mustache, took a step to one side so that she could come in, and only then realized that he was standing there dressed only in an overcoat. He took the pen from her, and wrote on the same page:
“We both need new clothes.”
When he did not hear his voice, he had become uncertain whether he pronounced the words correctly. That was ridiculous, of course—he had been talking his whole life—but it still felt more secure to write.