Cleaver

by Tim Parks

  Jürgen has died drunk in the snow, Cleaver thought, and I will take his place here at Trennerhof, I will milk the cows and muck them out and make Graukäse and gather hay and listen to silent radios through winter nights while the old woman mutters her rosary.

  They had given him blue dungarees, a blue jacket and he had put on Jürgen’s boots again. Rosl showed him where the tools were. Why not wait your son in the Stube? she said. It is warm. I can make clean. She is curious to meet my son, Cleaver realised. She is curious about me. No, I want to help, Cleaver insisted. You saved my life. She shook her head. She knew he knew it wasn’t necessary.

  Like this, she said. There was a long pole with a heavy rectangular scraper at the end, made of slate it seemed. First you used a pitchfork to lift the dirty straw onto the wheelbarrow, then you dragged the scraper across the cement. It squealed. My mind’s starting to mill again, Cleaver realised. The piss gathered in a shallow drain behind the animals’ legs. Rosl was watching him. The calm is over, he told himself. He worked despite smarting hands, aching legs. The cows stepped out of the way of the pitchfork with surprising agility.

  That’s it, she said approvingly. The air stank as the smell of the shit was released. You don’t need to stay, he told her. First I must show you … She was at a loss for words. She pointed at the wheelbarrow, Kommen Sie, and began to walk behind the cows across the stall.

  The wheelbarrow had no sides. The handles were very low. Cleaver was amazed how heavy the shit was. Trying to get it moving he almost toppled the load back on the floor. He limped after her. The ankle was fine till you put weight on it.

  There was another door at the other end of the stall and outside, across a small yard, rose a great flat mound of straw and shit, perhaps six feet high. A broad plank had been laid against the side to form a ramp. Rosl indicated how it was done. Cleaver could see that a few loads had been dumped up there since the snow had fallen. But he doubted he could manage. The plank looked slippery. The wheelbarrow steamed in the cool morning air. He set it down at the bottom of the plank. What if Amanda is with him? he wondered. I’m not going back.

  You must run, Rosl laughed. Stooping to grip an imaginary wheelbarrow, she huffed and puffed and ran at the plank. She is pretty, Cleaver thought. Why no ring? She said she was married. He remembered that Jürgen had been good at miming. What do you do in Bozen? he asked. What’s your job? Computer graphics, she said. For the first time her accent was perfect. Cleaver shook his head in wonder. I have no problem, she laughed, with words like, co-ordinates, three-dimensional, rotate clockwise. But this – she gestured to the farmhouse, the old tools, the stacks of wood, the shit pile – this is not … international.

  Cleaver pulled the wheelbarrow back and took a limping run. The load surged and wobbled. The wheel bumped onto the plank, climbed a yard or so, then, halfway up, he lost control, the wheel slid off and the load was spilled down the side of the mound into the surrounding ditch. Macht nichts, Rosl shrugged.

  As they went back into the stall, he asked, Why was it called Rosenkranzhof, anyway? He picked up the pitchfork to resume his work. Why did they give it that name? Keine Ahnung, she said. Then mimicking an American voice she must have heard: I ain’t got the slightest.

  Seffa is scared of her father coming back.

  Rosl shrugged her shoulders.

  You know who the baby’s father was, don’t you? Why don’t you tell?

  Mr Cleaver, she said. Please.

  Back in the gloom and stench of the stall, Cleaver worked methodically. The skin on his fingertips was itching. It’s a pleasure to be around these animals, he thought. He liked the touch of their flanks. I forbid you, he told himself, to fantasise about living with this woman. When will you have had enough of life? On the other hand there was no question of packing up to go back to Amanda.

  Keeping the load on the wheelbarrow smaller, he was able to push it up the plank quite easily. Another plank ran along the top of the mound. It sagged as the wheel trundled across. Cleaver tipped the shit onto the snow beside what he judged to be the most recent dumping. They build up the pile of shit, he realised, consolidate it, then move the plank on top of the new level. Shit on shit. C’est la vie.

  Still up on the muck heap, he put down the wheelbarrow and gazed at the landscape. The panorama rose and fell in range after range of white peaks. The sun glittered on the melting snow. Everywhere there was the sound of dripping and trickling. My son is climbing the gorge, Cleaver said out loud. Who cares why the place is called Rosenkranzhof? What difference does it make to you if some old charcoal burner died there alone with a rosary in his hands and then his friends nailed the beads to the door and called the place Rosenkranzhof? What can it matter? Or that an old Nazi retired there to pray for forgiveness? I want to make this a place of prayer, he thought, and he nailed a rosary to the door. Seffa went down the track with Uli to take him his food. In the sky over the gorge a hawk was circling. How did my son find me? He will be here any moment. The whole world is a place of prayer, Cleaver muttered. Since when did you have thoughts like that?

  He went back into the stall and picked up the pitchfork. Perhaps all my thinking at Rosenkranzhof was conditioned by the name Rosenkranzhof. Hoist by the petard of his own thirst for celebrity. Cleaver heaved a clump of straw and shit onto the wheelbarrow. Can one be so easily led astray, by a name, a name he had only responded to because of his son’s book? Had it made any difference, he wondered, changing all the place names around here from German to Italian. Brunico, Luttago? Had it changed people’s minds. Was that why Jürgen gave his cows Italian names? And why do you keep expecting to uncover some secret, Cleaver demanded of himself, some revelation that will explain and resolve things, that will open a new way for you? Amanda spoke directly to Priya, perhaps. Could that be the truth? After Angela died, Amanda and Priya sorted out between themselves who should have you. I wouldn’t be surprised. Like farmers bargaining over an old bull. Or they tossed a coin even. Seffa is her grandfather’s daughter, maybe. Melanie told Alex that she was my lover and that I was paying for her to go through drama school. You preferred Angela to me, that is what he is going to say. You preferred my sister, and after she died you filled your life with Angela substitutes rather than pay any attention to me. You always ignored me. Cleaver can hear his son’s rather high-pitched voice. Of what possible interest could it be to me, he thought, to know who is the father of Seffa’s baby, to know if it was Jürgen who insisted on his father being banished to Rosenkranzhof: Either he goes or I go, he told Frau Stolberg perhaps. In German of course. In Tyrolese. Despite the sweat on his face, Cleaver shivered. A cold draught rushed into the stall.

  Dad!

  Cleaver looked up.

  Christ, you need a shave!

  Amanda wasn’t with him. Relieved, Cleaver, smiled, or half smiled, indicated he couldn’t embrace, or even offer his hand in his present state and insisted on finishing his job in the barn. Five minutes, he said. Small and neat in bright red skiing gear, his son sat on a milking stool and stared at his father. Christ, he said again. He looked young for his age. I promised I’d help here, Cleaver explained. These people are in a bit of a crisis. There’s a baby just born and now the guy who does all the work has disappeared.

  Cleaver took pleasure forking straw and shit very carefully onto the barrow. The pains in his hands seemed quite unimportant. You always did cut a figure, I suppose, Alex laughed. Of one kind or another. It was a nervous, eager laugh. God, it stinks though! Cleaver breathed deeply. It’s going to be more like ten minutes, he thought. Alex watched in silence, then said: Actually, I think that must have been the guy who came up with us.

  What?

  The farmer here. Seems he was out on a binge last night. He walked up beside the sleigh. Had snowshoes. Big stocky man with a funny leather cap, long arms, morose.

  That’s him, Cleaver said.

  Fantastic place you found, Alex chattered on. These mountains. Quite something. I’ve never been to this ne
ck of the woods before. I had no idea.

  But Cleaver was marvelling at his own sense of disappointment on hearing of Jürgen’s return, as if this were more important than his son’s arrival. You really did think that might be a way out, he realised, taking Jürgen’s place. It was hard to get the scraper right into the final corner. Old age on the farm. There was a glob of soft dung. Cleaver trundled the wheelbarrow out of the barn, very conscious of his son getting to his feet to follow. He took a shambling run and forced the barrow up the slippery plank. How ridiculous I’d look if I fell over now. He had to put all his weight behind the thing to heave it over the lip. He was gasping. Done it. The barrow creaked across the top of the mound. The plank sagged. I might as well be on camera, Cleaver thought. I might as well never have left Chelsea at all.

  You’re limping, Alex said.

  I hurt my ankle.

  Cleaver took off his gloves and went into the dairy to wash his hands, allowing his son to trail after him like a dog, or a second-string production assistant. Two churns of milk stood in a tank of chill water. The wall was an array of hooks and curious utensils. It’s the cheese they make, Cleaver laughed, explaining the smell.

  Mind if I take a photo? Alex asked.

  Cleaver had his back to him. He washed carefully, keeping the water away from the dressing on his middle finger. Material for another book? he enquired over the sound of the tap. An illustrated version perhaps? Or is there to be a website? Then, pulling the plug and tearing a sheet of towelling paper from a roll on the wall, Cleaver turned and faced his son at last. Alex had a small camera in his hands.

  Snap away, Cleaver said.

  You look so different, Alex laughed, without the smart suits. And it’s quite a beard. Mum will be amazed.

  Cleaver couldn’t contain himself. You were a little runt writing that book, he said.

  His son held his gaze with troubled eyes. It was a handsome but always troubled face. They had seen each other so rarely these last few years.

  A runt, Cleaver repeated.

  There was a long silence. Water trickled into the cooling tank and out through a drain under the floor.

  You understood nothing of the relationship between myself and your mother. Nothing. And what you did understand you distorted. You distorted everything. You presented me as a fake, a hypocrite and a buffoon.

  Cleaver was aware that he hadn’t meant to speak so soon or so forcefully. But the words came. His elder son listened to him. The muscles round his small mouth had stiffened.

  You talked to people who were jealous of me. But never to me. You had no time for my version. It was disgraceful. An assassination. Cleaver was trembling. And you were jealous yourself. Of me. Of Angela. What crap that stupid last scene in the hotel. What utter bullshit!

  Alex Cleaver ran his tongue over his lip. He had put a hand on the stone counter.

  So when you phoned me, he asked – his voice was low and tense – was it to tell me this?

  More or less.

  Go on then, if there’s more.

  Cleaver took a rapid step across the room and slapped his son hard across the face. He has never slapped a face in his life. Then he crossed the dairy and pushed through the thick curtain and out of the door. His hand was ringing with pain. He banged his elbow on the stone lintel. Just an hour ago you were so calm! He threw himself down on the wet snow beyond the track and pushed his hand into the ice. For a moment he almost passed out; the big landscape reeled. He shook his head and breathed hard. The cold filled his lungs. Then, as his dizziness settled, he became aware that Alex was standing watching him from the door to the dairy.

  Why did you come? Cleaver asked. How did you find me?

  Get up, Dad, Alex said. Come on. Get up. He hesitated. Mum’s really upset, you know. The young man lifted a hand to rub his cheek. We always knew where you were. More or less.

  Always?

  You made a big purchase in Brunico. Mum talked to someone at the credit card company.

  That easy?

  She really wants you back, Dad.

  And so?

  So, I came to tell you. In case …

  Suddenly Cleaver was livid. First you write down all the shit she tells you to write about me – how many hours did you spend on the phone together? – you make it funny, you make it appetizing for the public, you package it, you sell it, you get famous, and then you obey orders and come out here to bring me back.

  Dad, can’t we …

  What in God’s name are you doing here? You didn’t come to see me at all. Just to bring a message about something that has nothing to do with you. My relationship with your mother has nothing to do with you. All right? It’s not your business. Invent stories about it by all means, but if she wants to send me messages, she can damn well do it in person.

  Dad, get up. Please.

  Cleaver struggled. One foot sank into the melting snow. Alex offered his hand and pulled him up. As Cleaver stumbled to his feet, his son opened his arms. Cleaver pushed by. Let’s go inside, he said.

  In the parlour, Rosl offered warm milk. Mit Schnapps, mit Schnapps! Hermann cried. As always the man has his cowboy hat tipped back from his long red face. Uli barked and snapped at their feet. Engländer, Hermann roared, grabbing Cleaver by the shoulders. Now you are ein Landwirt! He gave Cleaver’s beard a little tug and took a handful of the blue peasant’s work jacket, shaking his head in fake amazement.

  Jürgen was sitting at the table with his chin on his hands. His coarse face seemed dazed. Tausend Dank, he muttered in Cleaver’s direction. He scratched the back of his neck, tipped his leather cap forward so it was almost covering his eyes. Frau Stolberg brought a tray with mugs and a bottle.

  This is my son, Cleaver said. Mein Sohn.

  Alex nodded, Hello everybody. Erect and compact, a white woollen hat in his hand, he looked younger than his age. How old is he now? Cleaver wondered. His smile was handsome, faintly sardonic. Thirty-one, thirty-two?

  Er heisst Alex. Alex, this is Seffa, Rosl, Frau Stolberg.

  Frau Stolberg bowed slightly and stiffly, but already Hermann was chattering. Jo, jo, jo hait znacht schun, he slapped Jürgen on the shoulder, du muisch kemm. He spoke insistently, almost bullying. Kimm, kimm, kimm!

  Jürgen seemed reluctant, but about to give way. The two men argued back and forth. With her baby in the holdall on her lap, Seffa watched them from the fireside, smiling blandly. How quickly the family has recomposed itself, Cleaver marvelled, after the bust-up yesterday evening. Jürgen picked up the bottle, poured himself a small schnapps and tossed it back in one. Stimmt, he grunted. Genau. He banged the bottle back on the table. Hermann stamped his foot and clapped. Gut gut gut! Cleaver sipped his mug of warm milk. Perhaps a slap round the face clears the air, he thought. Perhaps Alex wanted to be slapped. Then the family gets back together. It’s a formula. He felt tired and his hand was aching.

  Erklär! Hermann shouted at Rosl now. Or at least this was one of the words. Erklär es dem Engländer! We must make come the Englishmen.

  Rosl brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. She smiled. Tonight is the first night of the Klöckler … How do you say klocken? she asked Hermann.

  Klocken? Klocken ist klopfen.

  So. Frau Stolberg rapped her knuckles three times very slowly on the breadboard. Klopfen. She is relieved her son is back, Cleaver saw. She has things under control again.

  Knock, said Alex.

  Richtig! shouted Hermann.

  Tonight is the first night of the Klöckler, the men who knock. It is a tradition, Rosl explained. She had changed into a skirt. People go from house to house, you know, in the night to knock on the doors.

  Hermann went to the porch, picked up a tall wooden staff leaning beside the coats and banged it on the wooden panels. Loud, he said. We knock loud.

  And they … dress … Rosl shook her head. Das weiss ich nicht, Hermann. They dress … funny.

  Hermann turned to Jürgen and fired off a question.

  Jo
, jo, Jürgen reassured him.

  They dress up, Alex said.

  Right, Rosl smiled at Cleaver’s son. Hovering in his bright red ski suit, gloves hanging from a clip, white woolly hat in his hand, the young man looked more dressed up than the others would ever be. He wore his hair brushed back stylishly from a centre parting. That was new, Cleaver noticed. The first adult wrinkles were gathering around his eyes.

  Right, they dress up and they knock, in the night. It is a tradition. It is to chase away the silence and … Again she looked to Hermann. Hilfe, she laughed, she said a few words.

  Hermann took off his hat, pulled a long face, dropped his shoulders, bent his knees and slouched slowly to a chair. He sank down, buried his face in his hands and appeared to be on the edge of tears. Seffa giggled. She likes him, Cleaver thought.

  To chase the silence and the …

  Traurigkeit, Seffa offered.

  The sadness, Rosl translated. Yes, the sadness of the winter nights that in the mountains are very long.

  Then we drink and sing, Hermann added. It is a party. And with some Damen – he winked at Cleaver – we dance.

  Jürgen filled another glass, raised it and drank it off. He didn’t seem convinced. Frau Stolberg made a dour comment. There was a brief back and forth between herself and Rosl. Asleep by the fire, the ancient mother let out a long soft snore. Hermann produced a torrent of words that had everybody laughing. He rushed round the table, still with the staff in his hands, and pretended to knock on the old woman’s skull. Only Frau Stolberg had her lips set.

  Every Thursday, Rosl finished, for three weeks before Christmas, we have the nights of the Klöckler.