Hansen's Children

by Ognjen Spahic

  Spreading the wet soil, I packed on a handful of mud to completely smother the fire. Only then did he try to stand up, holding on to the rotten stump. The Russian waved nervously, trying to get us to hurry, but Robert was now dumbfounded and looked up at the sky with wide eyes and at the tall trees that held him up. His indecision was not caused by his physical discomforts, or by the fever or pain in the lungs. Robert W. Duncan was fighting against a powerful, unrestrainable tide of reflection on what had become of his life. He groaned, caught up in the same ghastly thoughts that befall people who commit suicide, prisoners on death row or women who have just had a stillbirth. The whites of his eyes reflected the pearly shine of the winter landscape. He gazed all around, refusing to blink, as if the tiny curtains that were his eyelids, the movement of minuscule muscles in the corner of his eyes, would destroy not only the existing world but the one that had been and the one that was to come. Robert had to blink several times, in quick succession. I grabbed him firmly by the forearm and pulled him away. I wanted to rip him away from that intensifying mental maelstrom. He stared at me and then at the barge. Floating branches banged into its bow and then sank among the whirlpools of the swollen river. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ I said.

  The Russian waved nervously with both arms, and Martin tried to calm him with some hushed words. When Robert finally held onto my shoulder and began to move his feet, Martin and the Russian fell silent and each moved to opposite sides of the gangway. Martin took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Then he put the cap under his arm, took out a rubber glove from his inside pocket and put it on his right hand. I stood as straight as I could and quickly tidied up my clothes to suit the solemn mood of the moment. The mechanic turned on the engine. The vibrations spread to the gangway, making the tiny stones and lumps of mud on the edge slip quavering into the river. The Russian stepped back and theatrically removed his beret as if we were a deposed royal couple secretly fleeing the country after a revolution. I shook Martin’s glove. And he shook my hand, fidgeting as he stood. ‘Save yourselves,’ he said, looking me in the eyes. I tried to smile.

  Just then Robert coughed. Martin stepped back a few feet. The barge’s engine coughed and spluttered even louder. Robert’s hand shook and squeezed the rusty cords of the railing. ‘Come on boys, there’s a long trip ahead!’ the Russian said, as he clapped his hands and ran up the gangway. ‘Off we go!’ he yelled, happily fondling the bundle of banknotes in his inside pocket.

  I could not find the words to say goodbye. Instinctively I raised my right hand and gave a military salute, standing at attention. Martin did the same, and I thought I saw two crystal tears in the corners of his eyes. ‘Go west,’ he called, ‘Good luck!’

  It felt as though I hadn’t heard anyone say that for a long time.

  The gangway was lifted to the noises of a heavy winch. A faint shudder ran through the metal colossus, the engine howled and there was a velvety splash of cold water, then the barge started moving and the landscape began to rock. We were standing on a deck covered in patches with shiny scales. The smell of fish mingled with the heavy odour of Russian oil. Robert leaned over, gagged, and from his mouth gushed a greenish river of half-digested food. After emptying his stomach he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sighed deeply. He gathered the remains of the acidic substance and spat towards the shore. Martin disappeared among the bushes, the Russian vanished below deck.

  He and the mechanic, as it turned out, were preparing our apartment. In fact he called it a hole, and that’s what it was it. We were to savour its comforts all the way to the edge of Western Europe, to the deserted Vienna docklands, the heart of darkness, where two lepers’ waves of hope would break against the cyclopean wall of a different world. ‘Your Honour,’ the Russian said, fingering the large-bore Zbrojovka pistol beneath his belt, ‘everything is ready. This way, please.’

  A spiral staircase wound down into the darkness beneath the stern. After his high fever and vomiting, Robert was hardly able to move his feet down the triple spiral and we felt our way down using the floor and the steel wall. On one side there were two small round portholes about the diameter of teacups – two holes that would show us foggy pictures of the riverbank, the patrol boats of various armies, and the silhouettes of cities: more magnificent and beautiful the farther we travelled west. The iron door closed with a creak and finally with a crash with which the whole lower deck resounded.

  This was the first take of a film whose plot no one knew, least of all us two, I thought as I lowered Robert onto the greasy, oil-smeared blanket. He leaned his back against the metal wall between us and the engine room. It ensured us a source of warmth that would save us from freezing in the next four days. It also ensured a tormenting noise that would stop us from sleeping. The whine of the pistons hindered any form of communication, whereas not long before, soft words had rung out clearly in the cold, high-ceilinged rooms of the leprosarium.

  Reading words from Robert’s leprosy-maimed lips was impossible, and he was hardly able to move his hands. He would stare up at the little portholes, waiting for me to catch sight of a city with my healthy right eye and to write on the metal wall with a finger dipped in a little puddle of oil: MĂGURELE, CALAFAT, BEOGRAD, then VUKOVAR, MOHÁCS, DUNAFÖLDVÁR, BUDAPEST, and later ESZTERGOM, KOMÁRNO, BRATISLAVA, and finally WIEN. Vienna! My finger wrote with a broad trail. My eye followed the green signs with the names of the cities on the Danube whose lights rose above the weeds and dilapidated harbour warehouses all white with hoarfrost.

  The little vent at the bottom of our door was opened once a day. A gnarled Russian hand would stick through to take back the empty bowl and return it full of a soupy mixture with pieces of half-cooked fish. I set the fish aside for Robert and piled the bones in the corner. The little heap grew, forming a pyramid of spines and ribs, a transient monument to insignificant deaths, a fragile symbol of our presence here and our journey into the heart. ‘The heart of darkness’, I said out loud, but my voice was silenced by the whine of the engine. I thought of the hordes of wild Slavic tribes prowling the banks and rattling their weapons. So it once was, and so it would be again, I imagined.

  In the year of our lord 1487, victorious Ferdinand, King of Aragon, took Isabella, Queen of Castille to be his wife, and the two mighty Pyrenean kingdoms were finally united beneath one bloody crown.

  The celebrations, which the legends say lasted seventy-three days, shook the spires of the Moorish mosques; from his minaret, the muezzin no longer saw peaceful streets but hordes of terrified women and small children; horses’ hooves clattered past as Arab knights headed for the final battle; knights whose heads would soon roll on the pavements of Ayerbe, Zaragoza and Pamplona. A world was overturned, its fragrant gardens trampled, Mohammed’s words reduced to dust, the fountains laid dry yet drenched with young blood.

  Ferdinand and beautiful Isabella knew that the downfall of the great enemy would play into the hands of small enemies and that many wise men of the unified kingdom desired to become sultan in place of the sultan. The whims of battle-proven fighters who had charged the Arab scimitars received satisfaction in the sumptuous uniforms of the new crown and titles of royal counsel; arrogant aristocrats were pacified by regular banquets, drinking parties and damsels to deflower in the sheltered chambers of the court. These cries of lust were mingled with screams of pain from the damp cellars of the palace where all the Moorish secrets were to be plucked out, all the Moorish treasures dug up. The walls were set with chains, the cells equipped with the evil devices of cunning mechanics; yet the most secret room lay at the lowest level of the southern wing of the catacombs, furnished with a luxury worthy of royal chambers, precious canopies, rosewood intarsias and a gilded statuette of the Virgin Mary. A carpet of black wool, crystal glasses and silver candlesticks awaited their guest, arousing the curiosity of the guards and court retinue.

  A rainy November night howling with icy mountain winds was good cover for the coach drawn by the horses of the royal guar
d. The fortress quickly swallowed the unusual procession, and the guards saw to it that the gate was closed almost noiselessly. The guest arrived, it was rumoured, in the company of his bride. Sheltered by the shields of the queen’s most loyal officers, the couple took up their abode in the scented living quarters in the cellar, lit by only one torch. For days no inquisitive eyes were able to peer past the muscular chests of the well-armed guards. Since the anniversary celebration of the union of the two kingdoms was approaching, the mysterious guests garnered less and less curiosity and in the end were completely forgotten. Except perhaps for a faint trace of malicious satisfaction on the queen’s tender lips when she returned from nightly visits to the damp basement rooms.

  The celebrations were as befitted a powerful young dynasty – the best Sicilian wine flowed in rivers and the table was replete with all manner of exotic game. The masses shrieked in delight beneath the walls as they were showered with roast pheasant and young goat’s thighs cooked in milk. All received equal satisfaction and left the citadel with full stomachs and bolstered egos, digesting the royal honour they had been accorded and which they would later recall in tales told to their children, grandchildren and servants. But not everyone would tell those tales.

  Only a select few, hand-picked by the queen, had the honour of attending her banquet in the highest tower and to be presented in person to the envoys of distant lands who shook hands with everyone in turn. The last couple, falsely announced as Prince Eugene the Younger, Lord of Oltenia, and his wife Constanta, did not deign to smile at the other guests. Their faces were concealed by mother-of-pearl masks in which only their eyes could be seen. Before bowing and shaking hands, the couple, contrary to the custom, removed their silken gloves, and the guests interpreted this as a sign of particular consideration and did the same. He who had rough hands hardened from the sword and mace, hands scarred by Arab scimitars, lived a long and happy life, peeling oranges in the luxurious gardens of Aragon. While he, whose hands retained their tenderness and had peeled oranges while brave knight and thoroughbred horse bled before the assaults of the Moors, died in pain in the mud of a leprosarium, cast out by his family and society.

  Soon the whole kingdom learnt of Isabella’s cruel justice and her gruesome revenge on the haughty aristocrats. Satisfied with the results, she established the title of Conte di Lepra at her court with a salary of one hundred florins.

  The engine of our dark dungeon finally stopped. We were now gliding silently through the water, awaiting collision with a concrete dock. Robert opened his eyes, startled by the silence. We ought to go out to a ball and shake hands with all of Europe, I thought. Smile and extend them our leprous hands: that’s what they deserved. Tenderly stroke the chubby cheeks of Viennese children and spit in every glass. Caress every tree and leave our diseased shit in every toilet. That’s what they deserved, I thought, staring at the yellowish light of the big city.

  The hull shook. Phantoms of boats slipped by on the Blue Danube and were lost in the oily dark of the east. We docked beside the wreck of a large cargo ship. I tried to make my heart beat faster, my palms break out in a sweat and my voice tremble, but none of that happened. There was no trace of excitement.

  Robert got up slowly and went to the porthole. ‘I’ve always wanted to see Vienna,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ came his reply.

  ‘Let’s go into town. We can go to a good hospital in the city centre. We’ll get hot coffee, and they’ll be fascinated to study our disease,’ I said, trying to lighten Robert’s mood. ‘I bet they haven’t had patients like us in two hundred years.’

  When the Russian fist pounded on the door and then opened it and called for us to come out, as his bony fingers came in to grab us out of the darkness and make us step out into the black outside and leave the safety of the hold, then my heart began to pound: beating the rhythm of fear.

  Robert got out first, and after a few angry calls I followed.

  The Russian stood on the bow clenching a long wooden pole which he intended to use to maintain a safe distance between the worlds of the sick and the healthy. As soon as we started off, he pointed the pole in our direction and said, ‘Nice and slow now, my friends. There’s no hurry.’ Quite a pleonasm, that second phrase. I sniggered and the tips of my lips quivered. Robert coughed, irritated by the cold air. The demon on the bow gave a signal and the steel turned again, now slower and slower, and I heard every creak of the toothed wheel of the iron gangway that descended towards Austrian soil and came to rest in an oily puddle. Prince Eugene the Younger, Lord of Oltenia, and his wife Constanta, I thought to myself, amused by the comparison. The bargepole poked us each in the back, and we had no strength to rebel or bare our rotten teeth. We walked down slowly, afraid of slipping and falling into the water. When we got to the end, the bargepole suddenly gave us both a hard prod and we flew towards the black puddle on the dock. Had I fallen slowly, I might have been able to see a reflection in it – of the starry sky, a plane flying to Sydney, or even The Great Bear.

  The Russian threw the pole into the water and with a slow movement of his hand made the steel construction move upwards. Up, up to the heavens, I thought.

  To finish off the impression, the Russian bowed low, took off his beret and gesticulated like a circus performer, as he had done several days previously when he took us on board. The mechanic’s hand waved from the helmsman’s cabin. Robert concluded that he ought to wave back and he moved his hand slowly, trying to establish which direction the barge had left in. I pointed to the left, to the east, but he blinked and hardly recognised my face. His pulse was weak, his forehead cold, yet he found the strength to stand up straight and take a few steps on foreign soil. He said he could walk by himself. ‘Yes, of course you can!’ I reassured him. I realised it was a question of pride and that Robert would obstinately limp along behind me. ‘There are many steps still before you, my friend,’ I said.

  Before us lay the millennial dark of the Vienna Woods. The same Vienna Woods where in 1529 well-fed dromedaries and two-humped camels grazed and Ottoman smiths, no less well-fed, devotedly sharpened thousands of yataghans, honing them for infidels’ necks. This noise of this grinding, the legend says, was like the screaming of children, and there are accounts of perfumed young Habsburg ladies, in hysterical fear, seeking salvation in flight from the city ramparts.

  From the depths of the Vienna Woods now came a mighty humming: the Landstrasse highway. Europe ends and Asia begins at his road. Prince von Metternich considered this dark line of cobblestones, now tarred to make asphalt, the border between two worlds. Robert and I would cross that border and continue along the roadside to the glorious city. The squeal of tyres and the drone of Volkswagen diesels became louder and louder as we passed by centenarian trees. ‘We’re going the right way.’ I said, but Robert sat down to have a rest. ‘Get up, there’s no giving up now, you fool,’ I told him, though at that moment I didn’t know what my friend would be giving up if he waited till morning on that tree stump.

  He nodded absently and tried to laugh. ‘There’s no giving up,’ he said, getting up again.

  With our hands over our eyes, we followed the movement of the glowing headlights as they veered away in front of us like ominous comets on the large Landstrasse curve. Robert made it there first. A well-compacted field separated us from the edge of the asphalt. I noticed that Robert was walking strangely, like someone who has surrendered to death’s embrace and is wading out into a hail of bullets.

  He was moving incredibly fast, considering his condition, and was probably in excruciating pain. Skilfully, he sidestepped stones, manoeuvring like a hunted rabbit with a fox at its heels. He seemed much too determined in his intention to reach the road.

  I stopped and watched, perplexed, until I realised what Robert intended; and remembered Zoltán. Suddenly Robert shed a layer of clothing and started to run. The headlights bobbed crazily up and down, making curves of yellowish light.
I tried not to lose sight of Robert and closed my damaged left eye as it was just making the landscape more blurred.

  Robert slowed down and came to a halt several steps from the edge of the road. I ran even faster, trying to reach him. I began to scream out his name. Robert took off his cap, put it down on the Austrian soil, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and then raised both arms and waved goodbye. Then I stopped too. The cars’ lights behind him made him a dark silhouette, a black hole in the murky microcosm of the landscape; more like the absence of a person than the presence of Robert made of flesh and blood. There was a brief silence, in which our thoughts met in the geometric centre of what people believe are long predestined fates, and then the December night’s symphony of horror continued with clear acts of will, futile to resist. I stood rooted to the spot, breathless and filled with endless sorrow.