by Peter Nadas
The rolls were warm and fragrant, drops of water glistened on the little balls of yellow butter resting in a bed of fresh strawberry leaves; when I gave the cart a slight nudge with my elbow I saw the raspberry jam dotted with tiny seeds quiver in its dish.
If my childhood had not been burdened with so many dark unpleasant memories, if the image of my mother, even as a memory, had not been so coldly distant, I might have thought that what was beckoning to me from this little scene was a long-lost feeling of security, might have said then that in those wholesome rolls, steaming tea, fresh yellow butter, quivering jam, I sensed a peaceful order of things that assures us that once we awaken from our dreams, however frightful, our world—at whose center we ourselves sit, in the bed warmed with our own bodies—not only will be there, spinning securely according to its own immutable laws, but will struggle mightily to satisfy our needs and desires, will heat our room with the trees of the forest, with no cause for alarm, fear, or anxiety; but the truth is that even as a child I had sensed the brittleness, falsehood, and illusory nature of this order; and later, my passionate search had led me to people who were not only ready to expose it but whose declared purpose was to end it, end all deceptions and bring about genuine well-being and security, even at the price of blowing up this shaky corrupt order and incurring a heavy loss of life, so that afterward, on the ruins of the old, they could build a new world fashioned in their own image; I might say, then, that while my eyes, tongue, and ears savored the pleasures of the morning's unchanged old-fashioned order, my mind's eye viewed its own joys, reminiscent of its childhood, from the greatest possible distance, and as it did, I suddenly grew old.
How far this white bedroom lit by bright sunshine seemed from the rooms of bygone years, the dim rooms of my youth where I spent my time in secret company with Claus Diestenweg, hatching plots to bring down the hated old order and build a new one; and how very close it seemed, I thought, to the rooms of my childhood which never really existed in this pristine form.
A fleeting change of mood is all it takes, and we feel, to quote the poet, that time is out of joint.
It was almost as if the man now lying in bed, slightly disillusioned and still perturbed by dreams yet casually sipping tea, had to cope not with three successive stages of a single life but with the lives of three different individuals.
A puff of smoke blew out of the stove, then the fire flared up, painting the valet's face red and continuing to blaze, it seemed, in his hair.
The smoke made him squint; he wiped his tearing eyes and for a moment stared into the clearing, now smokeless fire.
"What's your name?" I asked him quietly, still from my bed.
"Hans," he answered, and as if momentarily forgetting his dutiful attitude, he did not bother to turn toward me.
"And your family name?"
I was glad to have a valet here with me, yet at the same time, having just slipped back from my earlier life, I was ashamed at being glad.
"It's Baader, sir," he said, his voice back to the earlier, proper tone, and there seemed to be no connection at all between the two voices.
"And how old are you?"
"Eighteen, sir."
"Then I will ask you, Hans, to congratulate me; as of this morning, I am thirty years old."
He stood up at once.
He broke into a grin; his beautiful almond-shaped eyes disappeared in the soft cushions of his eyelids and cheeks still like a child's; above formidable teeth his gums flashed pink, almost like raw flesh, which in redheads are always in attractive harmony with their complexion and hair color; sweetly, almost as it I were his contemporary standing next to him, a chum he was about to jab playfully in the chest, he swung out his arm toward me, but the gesture was so blatant and therefore so inappropriate that he became embarrassed, blushed, his whole face turning flaming red, and he could not speak.
"Yes, today is my birthday."
"If we had known, Herr Thoenissen, we would have observed it properly; still, allow me to congratulate you!" he said, smiling, although the smile was no longer meant for me but for himself, pleased that he had managed so cleverly to extricate himself from a delicate situation.
And then there was silence again.
And when in this helpless silence I thanked him, something happened between us which I had anticipated, waited for, tried to help along, for naturally, my thanks alluded not to his congratulations, which I had more or less forced out of him and which in themselves were rather ludicrous, but to him, him for being so perfect and for moving me deeply with his perfection.
He stood there silently for a moment, as I lay motionless in my bed, he bowed his head, humbled and helpless, and I kept looking at him.
And when, moments later, he asked if he could now bring the water, I motioned him to go: this was the boundary beyond which lay the forbidden realm that I shouldn't have wanted us to enter; at the same time, something also came to an end between us, because the intimacy forced out of the moment was now exposed, and sharing anything between us was out of the question, I remained master and he servant who had to fend for himself, be clever in dealing with me, most probably as disgusted as he may have been moved, understanding our inequality enough so as to spoil any pure game of intimacy between us; it was an experiment, then, to want to touch something that had nothing to do with our assigned roles, and I had nothing to lose, since with my advantage it remained my experiment and, I had to admit, for me it was humiliatingly one-sided; yet I couldn't resist the experiment's temptation, because I enjoyed my advantage, enjoyed his defenselessness and enjoyed that he had to endure it precisely because he was a servant, what's more, could even enjoy my own humiliation given his; so our little story continued on its own accord, almost completely independent of me; it couldn't be stopped.
Standing astride my spread-out thighs, he wet my face with a porous sponge that still smelled faintly of the sea; with a slow, circular motion of two fingers he applied the shaving cream and with the soft shaving brush whipped it into a thick lather over my stubble; of course our bodies were very close; with his free hand he had to hold or support my head and put his palm on my temple or forehead now and again; I had to guess his wishes from his movements, follow them, help them along; his knee would occasionally touch mine, but he had to focus all his attention on my face, while I kept an eye on his every move; he held his breath a little and so did I, both of us trying not to breathe into each other's face, a mutual restraint that only intensified the scene unfolding between us, which was about to reach its climax when, having done with the preparations, he pulled the bone-handled razor from its case, ran the blade a few times over the strop, stepped between my legs this time, placed his index finger on my temples, pulling the skin nice and tight, ready for the blade, and then, for one moment, looked into my eyes.
With a single decisive stroke he drew the razor down the left side of my face, I could hear the fine crackle of my whiskers as they parted from the skin, chuckling inwardly at my own nervousness, because no matter how readily we may present our face to the razor and try to be very relaxed about it, fear for life makes the facial muscles tense and knotted, so we want to see that the razor hasn't gotten stuck somewhere and then slipped and cut the skin, our eyes almost pop from their sockets with curiosity, and at the same time we must continue to exude trust, since otherwise we might hinder the work and thus increase the danger, ourselves becoming the cause of a little accident as unpleasant for us as for the man with the razor, because if the skin is injured, suddenly raw hatred spills out from under the disguise of the intimate physical proximity and mutual attentiveness; he'd hate us for our annoyingly unpredictable skin, which makes a mockery of his skill and experience by having whiskers in swirling clumps, or simply hiding little lumps, not to mention peak-headed pimples, that get in the way of the razor; and we'd hate him for his clumsiness and, most of all, for having put ourselves thoughtlessly into his hands; and the mutual hatred only increases when, looking in the mirror and seeing bl
ood trickling down, we both have to pretend it's nothing, and he begins to whistle in embarrassment and with a wild gesture wrapped in the guise of helpful routine picks up the styptic pencil and, causing more, stinging pain, even takes revenge on us; but so far nothing untoward happened; from the way he smeared the lather on his stretched-out finger and from there flung it into a little bowl, I could tell he was experienced; he turned my head and after stepping even closer, so that my nose almost brushed against his shirtfront, starched to an armorlike stiffness, and I could feel his slightly bent knee very close to my groin, he just as decisively shaved the right side of my face; but despite the barber's skill and experience, his almost surgeonlike precision, the skin remains tense and taut, we feel it quivering on our face, and the most sensitive areas are yet to come, the complex chin region, the neck, the throat, to say nothing of the fact that while he is jumping about brandishing the razor, the thought does occur to us: What if he should accidentally cut off our nose or ear, such horrors have been known to happen! but looking at him like this, from below, with upturned eyes, for all the attractive charm of his youth and strength I found his face somehow much too soft, and this exaggerated softness could be seen only from this angle; on his skin, under which you could sense a layer of white fat, the reddish fuzz had hardly begun to sprout; he'll never have to shave, I noted with satisfaction, he'll remain hairless like a eunuch, which you could also see in his large nostrils and capriciously curving mouth—he was biting his lower lip as he delicately worked away on my chin—in a few years' time he'll probably grow a second chin, I thought, his big frame will run to fat, he'll pant and wheeze under the burden of his huge mass, and as my throat anticipated the ticklishly sensuous pleasure of the razor's touch, when he'd stretch the skin away from my Adam's apple and run the blade, smoothly and dangerously, over it, I lifted my hand so he couldn't see, and waiting until he got there, not before, and even then making it appear as though I did it from fear, without moving a muscle in the rest of my body, I placed my hand on his firm thigh.
The smooth muscles under my hand were hard, incredibly powerful, my palm was at a loss on them, seemed weak and insignificant, as if I were touching him in vain, for not only did this reveal nothing of his inner nature, it didn't even let me touch the surface, as if this surface, which of course I could feel, were only a cover on the real surface, a protective armor hard to the point of insensibility; this is what I could have thought if I had thought of anything, for it was clear that just as I could not register any reaction in his eyes and mouth or other features of his face bending over me, now I could not do so in his flesh either, no embarrassment, no consent, no rejection; his skin, face, and muscles remained as neutral as all his movements had been; I was the one who wanted to make this cruel neutrality my own, I reacted to him, not he to me; he didn't feel me, seemed not to understand me or, more precisely, didn't think there was anything to feel or understand.
It always seems pointless to make sweeping statements, but still, I have to say that never in my life, not before or after this incident, have I made a more senseless gesture.
By making it, though, I felt I had reached the peak or the bottom of my strange inclinations.
I couldn't just pull back my hand, anyway the gesture couldn't be undone; at the same time I felt nothing, even though I left my hand there; still working on my neck, he was untouched, as if my move had been only a figment of my imagination, which of course couldn't possibly reach him.
I wouldn't have minded if he had slit my throat at that moment.
If with a barely audible crack the razor had cut through the delicate cartilage.
And I couldn't close my eyes, waiting still for a telltale sign.
To shake into the bowl the lather accumulated on his finger he had to turn aside, which was the only reason he moved his thigh away from my hand.
The orphaned hand, a strange stump still part of my body, was empty, left hanging in the air.
He dipped the sponge in the water and, supporting my head with his arm, washed off my face.
In the meantime I could finally close my eyes.
"This is a cursed place, sir!" I heard him say in my darkness.
By the time I opened my eyes he was again leaning aside to throw the sponge back into the bowl, and there was no telltale sign.
"Some eau de cologne?" he asked, without turning around.
His perfect poise, seeming neither offended nor reproachful, cheered me, for it was as though together we had relegated my failed overture to the world's great junk heap of futile experiments.
"Yes, why not."
At the same time it also occurred to me that his strange statement may have been a secret allusion to those frightful nocturnal noises, the cries and shrieks that woke me from my first sound sleep, with which, for all I knew, he may have had something to do.
In which case my gesture was not an insult and may not have been completely in vain.
Holding the back of my head with one hand, pressing his little finger to my neck and sinking the others into my hair, he used his other hand to splash alcohol on my face.
He fanned my face with a cloth to make the alcohol evaporate more quickly—at such moments we always feel especially refreshed—and for the first time in a long while we looked into each other's eyes.
He must have known something, the place may have been cursed, but the little event I had managed so successfully to force out of ourselves now made the place of my memories cozy and intimate, suggesting I wasn't mistaken, after all—his glance remained dispassionate—yes, I'd be just fine here, the fire crackled away cheerfully in the stove, and I could hardly wait for him to gather his things and leave; as if driven by a slight fever, I was ready to pounce on my black briefcase, snap open its lock, spread my papers over the clear desk, and get to work, even if my bitter experiences warned against haste; things are never so simple as our desires would like them to be; one must delay things, one should skim the foam of tension from the bubbling brew of sensations, let it thicken and mellow, for the moment is never ripe when it appears to be! so when at last he closed the door behind him, I first stepped up to the window, then drew aside the white curtains, and the splendid sight indeed cooled me off.
I had a whole hour to myself before the little bell would sound, calling the guests to our commensal breakfast.
The autumn sky was bright, the slender red pines now stood motionless in the park, the night winds having died down completely, and although I could not see the sea from here, or the promenade along the shore, or the bathhouse, or the wide road leading to the station, or the seawall, marshland, and woods behind, yet I knew they were there, within reach, everything that could be important and painful was there.
I saw a few fallen leaves on the decorative tiles of the terrace.
Yes, everything was here, and therefore I could afford not to be here but in my imagined story.
To forget everything.
But wasn't this feeling of lightness nourished by the hope—so lovely because unrealizable—with which I was deceiving myself that, having finally broken free of my future bride, now this young obliging servant was near me and I could summon him any time I wanted to? but then wouldn't I again be caught between two human beings?
Where, then, was my yearned-for solitude?
The thought unpleasantly linking the two of them in my mind was a pain at the pit of my stomach.
Why were they here, crowding me even in my solitude?
My mood did not darken, though; on the contrary, I was like someone who suddenly glances at his own body with a stranger's eyes and finds its proportions pleasing, not that he doesn't see its flaws and imperfections, and realizes, finally understands, that a living form is always delineated by the relationships among details which are shaped by unalterable processes; the imperfect has its own laws, which is what is perfect in it; functioning itself is perfect, existence is perfect, the unique and unalterable order of disproportions is perfect—why was this made cl
ear to me only now, on my thirtieth birthday, I wondered, why at this mysterious turning point in my life? after all, ever since I could remember, ever since I had become aware that one's body has a life of its own, I had suffered from a sense of always being cast between two things, two phenomena, two people, as though between two crushing millstones! this was part of my earliest memories! for example, when, divided yet unshared, my body was between those of my mother and father on our long late-afternoon walks on the waterfront promenade, my parents may have been full of mutual hostility and murderous rage toward each other—because their bodies were irreconcilable—yet I not only felt identified but wanted to identify with both of them; I neither could divide myself between them nor had any intention of doing so, even if they had wanted to tear me apart; and indeed, I may have been torn apart, for my features, build, and character were undecided between them; I took after both, and after others as well, many others; only for the sake of simplifying things do we speak of a dual division, a dual likeness, for in reality I also resembled my dead forebears, who lived on in my features and gestures; but now it made me quite happy that these two people, my bride and this valet, strangers to each other, wound up so disturbingly close in my thoughts, for how could I possibly decide, know for sure, or have a say about what I was permitted or not permitted to do if I knew nothing about the origin of anything? how could I share what was unsharable in me? everything is permitted, I decided: yes, I'd be the most obstinate anarchist, and not only because fortuitous events in my youth had led me into the company of anarchists (and those years couldn't simply be dismissed, nor the fact that it wasn't high-minded goals and intellectual aspirations that made me join them), but also because I have always been an anarchist of the body, believing that there is no God besides the body, and that only a completed physical act can redeem my body, when I can feel the infinite abundance of my possibilities.