Almost Everything Very Fast

by Almost Everything Very Fast Christopher Kloeble

  “Mama says you used to be a diver,” said Fred in a rather reedy voice, having stuffed his nose with catkins against the sewer’s stink. “That’s someone who stays underwater for a really long time.”

  “I was famous!”

  “In oceans, too?”

  “Once I dove all the way to the floor of the Baltic. Without any help!”

  “Where’s the Baltic?”

  “Up north.”

  “Will you go diving with me, too?”

  “Of course! We’ll go to the bottom of all seven seas!”

  Fred smiled. “That’s a lot.”

  “But first,” said Arkadiusz, pointing to a metal grate down at the end of the tunnel, all overgrown with scraps of vegetation, and pressing a scrub brush into Fred’s hand, “first we have to make sure that Segendorf stays spick-and-span.”

  Arkadiusz waited long enough—or too long. On August 25, 1939, a week before the German invasion of his native land, he stumbled across a collapsed sewer tunnel. Instead of reporting the damage right away, he investigated it on his own. Possibly because his eye had been caught by a glitter among the stones. I imagine Arkadiusz climbing over the rubble, pushing clumps of dirt aside with both hands, picking up an unnaturally heavy stone, spitting on it, and wiping the filth away with his shirt—though he knew it would earn him a disapproving shake of the head from his wife. He smiled, thrilled, while a drop of water burst unnoticed on his shoulder. Arkadiusz was barely able to believe that now, without even looking, he’d managed to find it.

  “Waiting always pays off!” he informed the sewer pipe, kissing the gold and laughing.

  By the time he heard the rushing, it was already too late.

  Days passed before they managed to retrieve his body, since only a handful of people took part in the search. These were tough times in which to mobilize help for a Pole. Via Markus’s radio the news had reached Segendorf, delivered by an audibly outraged gentleman: “TONIGHT FOR THE FIRST TIME, REGULAR TROOPS FROM POLAND FIRED ON OUR TERRITORY. WE HAVE BEEN RETURNING FIRE SINCE FIVE FORTY-FIVE A.M. AND FROM NOW ON EVERY BOMB WILL BE ANSWERED WITH A BOMB.”

  I was the one who discovered Arkadiusz. At first I’d bristled at the idea of lifting so much as a finger for my brother-in-law’s sake, but of course I couldn’t have refused my sister anything. Without actually putting any effort into the subterranean search, I found him wrapped around an outflow pipe, sallow and bloated. But his face! I’d had plenty of experience with corpses, among them a whole crowd of indolently scowling floaters—but Arkadiusz’s face was in a league of its own. Even in death, he seemed outrageously lovable.

  Two Burials

  I weighted Arkadiusz’s body down with stones, and sank him in the Moorsee, according to Anni’s wishes. Out there where, years before, a girl from Segendorf had first met a shape-shifter.

  The same evening, I went to visit my sister in her room. She sat on her bed, looking weary, too weary even to shake her head, and was surrounded by her Most Beloved Possessions, all that she’d rescued from the ruins of our parents’ house … the spine of the cookbook … a stove tile broken in five pieces … arrowheads … a clutch of hairpins all melted together …

  “How are you doing?” I asked in a whisper.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  I came closer. “I’m sorry.” I sat down beside her on the bed and tentatively slipped an arm around her.

  Anni snuggled up against me.

  “Back when I went away, I thought that I’d find someone out there, someone who’d love me, and whom I could love. But my true love, I’ve realized, my true love lives right here.”

  “You’re going to marry Mina?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “But you should! She’s already waited so long! When two people love each other, they should be together!”

  “That’s what I think, too.”

  “Then don’t wait any longer! You never know how much time you have left! Someday everyone you love will die.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “I’m an orphan. And a widow.”

  “You’re a sister.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Remember how we used to play who-can-fill-the-cup-with-spit-first?”

  “Terrible.”

  “You usually won!”

  “That was the past,” she said. Leaping up, she hurled the Most Beloved Possessions into a box, and handed it to me. “Here. Do what you want with them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve kept them too long. They’re burned. It’s over. Go on, get rid of them.”

  That night I saw how patiently the bog swallowed the box of Most Beloved Possessions, and hoped that with this, the story of Jasfe and Josfer was finally at an end.

  Afterward, I sat down on Wolf Hill by the tree’s serpentine root, and read I love you. From now on, Arkadiusz would no longer stand between me and my sister.

  From a pouch I pulled the gold I’d found on Arkadiusz. He must have stuffed it into his pocket just seconds before the surge of water had swept him away. I’d hold on to it for the time being; who knew what good it might do someday.

  Then I saw Fred hurrying up the hill toward me, and tucked it away. Though he wasn’t yet nine, my nephew’s legs, thin as matchsticks, were known as the longest in all of Segendorf, and patches of downy beard were already sprouting on his cheeks. “Mama says she can’t be a mama now!”

  “And why are you telling me that?”

  “I’m telling you because Mama says you can be my papa a little bit now.”

  “Me? No, Fred. Nonono. Only your papa can be your papa.”

  Fred shook first his right, then his left leg, looked up at the sky, cleared his throat. “Mama says you can be my papa a little bit now.”

  “You already mentioned that.”

  “What?”

  “You said that already.”

  “I know.”

  “So you can go now.”

  “I can draw a picture of you!”

  “I don’t want any of your pictures. Go play with some kids, any kids!”

  “Any kids are sleeping now.”

  “Then why don’t you go to sleep, too?”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because my papa always sings a song so I can sleep. It has really funny words. Do you know that song?”

  “No.”

  “I was in the pipes today,” said Fred. “I looked for my papa. Mama says my papa is always traveling through the pipes. Sometimes he’s in America, and sometimes he’s in Poland, and sometimes he’s here, too.” He scraped at the ground with his feet, crossed his arms, stretched them out again, and sniffled. “Mama says you can be my papa a little bit, while my papa is traveling.”

  “Fred.”

  “Are you my papa a little bit now?”

  “Listen.”

  “You have to be my papa a little bit now!”

  “Listen, Fred, listen carefully: I’ll never be your papa. Not today, not tomorrow. Never. Because I’m already a father. I have a son, a healthy son, who I like spending time with. His name’s Ludwig. You aren’t my son, and that’s why I’ll never be your father. I’m not going into the stinking sewers with you and I’m not singing for you and I’m definitely not going to be your papa. And thank God for that. Because I could never be anything for someone like you. You’re nothing to me. You’re nothing.”

  The Truth

  A few minutes later my bad conscience sent me after Fred, who’d leapt up and run away. I told myself that I could at least try to be his papa a little bit. In the end, that would please Anni. And maybe then I’d be Fred’s papa a little bit in her eyes, too.

  I found Fred at the bus stop; he was crying. Before I could make my presence felt, Markus sat down beside him, and since I’d never had much sympathy for the pig farmer, I hid myself behind the maypole, where they wouldn’t be able to see me.

  “The next bus doesn’t c
ome for three days,” said Markus to Fred.

  “I’m not waiting for the bus,” said Fred.

  “For what, then?”

  “For my papa.”

  “The Polack?” Markus passed Fred a handkerchief. “That could take a while.”

  Fred blew his nose. “I’m nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Julius says I’m nothing.”

  “Ha. Julius Habom isn’t so much himself.” With a casual gesture that betrayed how often he did it, he flipped open a makeup compact and checked to make sure his toupee was perfectly seated on his scalp. Since the unfortunate encounter with Anni many years back, he’d used it to hide his bald patch.

  Markus held the mirror up in front of Fred. “Who do you see there?”

  “Frederick Arkadiusz Driajes.”

  “And is that nothing?”

  “Yes?”

  “The correct answer is: You can never be nothing. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be there at all!”

  “That’s right.”

  Markus pointed to Fred’s reflection. “Do you know what I see?”

  “Frederick Arkadiusz Driajes?”

  “To tell you the truth: no, not just that. I see a boy who could be something great someday, I see potential.”

  “You use a lot of words that nobody knows.”

  “I read plenty of books.”

  “As many as Julius Habom?”

  “More, much more.” Markus tapped his finger on Fred’s reflection. “What color eyes do you have?”

  “Green!”

  “And what does green stand for? It’s the color of hope, of nature—green stands for growth. Green grows!”

  “I’m growing a lot, too!”

  “Precisely! Most people never grow. They simply settle for their lives, and when they die, it’s as if they’d never been. But the two of us, we’re different. We grow, we change. Before, I was just the son of a pig farmer. But now, look!” Markus opened his coat and showed Fred a pistol. “My best friend. A Walther P38.” He slipped it from the holster. “Want to feel?”

  Fred hesitated.

  Markus snatched Fred’s hand and laid the butt of the pistol in his palm.

  “It’s heavy!” said Fred.

  “It has to be. The weight reminds its owner of the power and responsibility that the possession of such a weapon brings.” Markus held the mirror up before Fred once more. “Who do you see?”

  “Frederick Arkadiusz Driajes.”

  “And what else?”

  “Green.”

  “And what else?”

  “A pistol.”

  “That’s quite a lot, isn’t it?”

  Fred looked at the ground, and whispered: “Quite a lot.”

  “Why so shy? Say it louder: quite a lot!”

  “Quite a lot.”

  “Even louder.”

  “Quite a lot!”

  “Louder!”

  “THAT’SALOTTHAT’SNOTNOTHINGATALLTHAT’SALOT THAT’SQUITEALOT!”

  I should have done something, I shouldn’t have just surrendered Fred to Markus. But then, I was glad someone was looking after him, sparing me the task. During the next few days, Markus demonstrated to Fred how you slipped the magazine into the gun, how you cocked the hammer and stood with your legs spread and arms extended and supported your right hand with your left and squinted your eyes and jerked the trigger. For targets they built scarecrows—which Markus called “blackamoors”—from old clothes stuffed with muddy straw. Whenever Fred landed a bull’s-eye their heads burst like kernels of corn in a hot pan, and Markus applauded. “Of course, killing is always the last resort,” he said, “but one should never forget: blackamoors steal children and eat them.”

  At home, Anni often forgot to cook anything for Fred, and when he asked her for food she didn’t even shake her head, but slipped out of the house and ran to the Moorsee, where she spent most of her time nowadays. At home Fred slunk around, always on guard, because he didn’t want to run into me. At home he sometimes awoke, thinking that the day had come when his father would return, but the day never came. At home, it was obvious, Fred didn’t feel safe.

  But he did with Markus, very much so. The man’s mere proximity infused him with a feeling of strength, just like the pistol in his hand. As long as Fred walked along the main street by Markus’s side, everyone said hello to him. In the tavern, they were the first ones served. While listening to the radio, Fred could sit right up in front of the set. Or he could stretch out on the floor while Markus read to him from his books. Nobody called Fred Klöble anymore, they all addressed him as Frederick or Herr Driajes, and he liked the way that sounded: “Herr Driajes.”

  In exchange for all that, Markus wanted merely a handful of drawings. At first, these showed Markus himself—with a full head of hair, blond hair, parted on the side. Later, his new friend began to take an interest in pictures of other Segendorfers, too. He made no secret of this, and allowed Fred to hand them over to him in public. He wanted everyone to be aware that he was aware of everyone. His monologues, seemingly directed at Fred, were in fact camouflaged addresses to the community at large. “Everything is mixed up with everything else,” he said to Fred. “And that’s why I need as many pictures as possible of as many people as possible. Pictures of whoever Blacksmith Schwaiger talks to in the tavern. Of wherever Farmer Obermüller’s widow roams around at night. Of whoever Cobbler Gaiger sells his fishing rods to. Drawings help us understand life. Where it comes from, for example. And, in the best case, where it’s going. And wouldn’t it be marvelous if you could divine just how every life is going to unfurl? If you could hold the future in your hands, and step in at an early stage to shape it? No more subterranean drownings, no more blows of fate, no unpleasant surprises. You could prevent the bad, play midwife to the good, and never have to rely on God again. If you ask me, you, Fred, are the best draftsman there is. Most people see things the way they want to see them—for instance, when it’s raining, everyone says it’s rotten weather, and that the weather is good when the sun shines, but, as you’ve certainly found, we need rain for drinking and washing and irrigation, and thus rain is good weather, too—you, Fred, see things as they are. And draw them. You might not understand it all, you probably don’t know many of the words I use, but I’m convinced that you have a grip on the deeper truth of things. You can’t help but see the truth in things, that’s why you’re so valuable. You observe and you listen and you draw. Nobody can do that better than you. And it’s no surprise that others have been struck by this remarkable ability as well. I know it’s strange when people who used to talk with you are now always hurrying past. But you can chalk it up to envy. They want to be like you and me, they can’t grow the way we can and want to belittle us to make themselves feel bigger. Don’t let it bother you. Just think! Why does your mother go around claiming you’re only six years old, when everyone knows you’re nearly nine? She wants to make you small. Because she senses that she’s inferior to you. You’re no Klöble, not anymore, just like I’m no longer a pig farmer. I used to use idiotic words like heya, I sounded just like you’d imagine a pig farmer sounds, and I bullied other kids to make myself feel strong. But I’ve grown! Significantly, all of this started with a root up on Wolf Hill. Pastor Meier told me what someone had carved there: I love you. Those were the first three words I learned. I love you. The ones after that I found in his Bible. And the ones after that in books that an undertaker from out of town gave me in exchange for a pair of juicy porkchops. I read and read and read, until the letters faded on the page and my fingertips grew black. And even then I didn’t stop. Every new book honed my mind further. Books became my best friends. Through them I traveled the world, made the acquaintance of places we can only reach with our minds. Thanks to them, I was finally able to see things plainly, as plain as print on paper. I understood that I couldn’t, shouldn’t, mustn’t be the way I’d been any longer. Because almost everything goes by very fast. A love. Our lives. Simply all of
it! There’s not a lot of time. Anyone who doesn’t comprehend that will get lost in hopes and memories and die without ever having lived. The books opened my eyes, I came to understand what I love you really meant: to accept myself. Because that’s the first step toward growth. You have to realize who you are. Once you’ve understood yourself, you can like yourself, and whoever likes himself won’t let himself be hurt by others anymore, and when one can’t be hurt by others anymore, one is on the path toward setting oneself free. I was my Most Beloved Possession. At that point, it wasn’t long before my maturity, ambition, and will became apparent to others. Just the way you noticed me. You’re an outstandingly gifted boy, Fred. Not everyone can handle that. Just think about your father, your papa! Where is he? Why is he traveling the world, why isn’t he taking care of you? Why didn’t he take you with him? Why doesn’t he write? Very simple: he’s intimidated by your greatness! But your uncle is even worse. When others have something that he can’t have himself, he tries to destroy it. In this case, your talent—where does he get the right to abuse you? The same goes for the honor of this village—why doesn’t he marry Mina Reindl? And the same for the faithful love your mother bears for your father—how dare your uncle live in a house with her, alone, for months at a time? Unfortunate as it is, it seems to me that Julius Habom is not a good man. While we grow, he shrivels. And sadly, sadly, he’s not the only one. You will have noticed: The racial integrity of the German nation is in grave danger. Like a malignant cancer, lives unworthy of life are proliferating throughout its body. We can’t ignore this threat any longer. We have to look it in the eye. Now. Even right here, in our homeland, there are souls, sad, pitiful souls, who are lost forever. I know this won’t have escaped someone like you. Like me, you see the truth in things. And in times like these, there’s great need for figures like us, with a firm hold on the truth, unswerving, never straying from the right path. We, my good man, must do anything we can to preserve truth whole in the maelstrom of history. We must! Because without the truth, we’re nothing.”