by Roy Jacobsen
Markus said a dog was a living being which you cannot treat like an object, life sets limits to the use of force and the rights of ownership.
This nugget of wisdom had such an effect on the butcher that he offered to rescind the deal, to which Markus reluctantly agreed, after intense pressure from Robert.
The boy was ecstatic, and once again impressed by Markus’ wisdom and eloquence. On the way home, however, the blind man insisted that the butcher had not relinquished Delilah out of the goodness of his heart, which had been opened by some well-chosen words on Markus’ part, but because Delilah was as worthless a watchdog as she was a guide dog, she was downright useless for everything except living her own life.
Robert said this was a depressing interpretation. But Markus disagreed:
“If someone does a good deed,” he said, “you don’t start asking what the motives are, it’s enough that the deed is good, you can’t expect any more than that unless you want to be racked by disappointment and bitterness.”
Robert said that this too was a depressing way of looking at life.
“Well, in that case, you will find most explanations of human motives depressing,” Markus said. But from then on Delilah lived by their side, at times of her own accord, she lived in Markus’ house and did as she wished, like a human being, or like a cat – she also had nine lives.
“She’s a clever dog,” Markus said. “She’s seen through me.”
At school Robert learned about the Grand Duchy’s motley past, the way it had belonged to Spain and Austria and Holland and France and Germany, just as all schoolchildren first learn about their own country before others. It was Markus who revealed to him the true nature of the Ardennes forests:
“They are a mystery to those who don’t live here, and a blushing beauty to those who do, a green cushion in the middle of Europe whose shifting borders we cross without moving so much as a millimetre – that’s why we speak several languages, to be on the safe side. It is also strange to reflect that no war has ever started here: it is war that comes to the forests, again and again, usually without warning.”
Through chatter and play and grandiloquent lectures Markus introduced his young companion to life’s banalities, as well as its less obvious sides, he whispered and spoke aloud, declaimed and illustrated, ordered, pleaded and persuaded, and he it was who was able to present the boy with the definitive explanation of Clervaux’s divine location at the bottom of a dark well: St Bernard had founded its namesake, Clairvaux in France, a good eight hundred years ago and made God aware of Clervaux’s existence; St Bernard was the founder of the Cistercian Order of monks who, unlike the Benedictines, did not allow themselves to freeze on bare rock and barren slopes in order to come closer to their Creator, but instead preferred gorges and deep valleys where they could be in intimate contact with the inner being of all things, of the earth.
Bernard extolled not only spiritual exercises but also the mortification of the flesh – hard work, to put it plainly, from which everything is derived, both the physical world around us and our clear insights, whatever good they might be.
“The greatest wisdom is to be found in the legends of the saints,” Markus said. “And as for our own patron saint, Hubertus, the apostle of the Ardennes, he has more to offer the younger generation than any political party, because it is the same with politics as it is with borders, you can’t be in two parties at once, that is the truth of the matter; moreover, politics makes people bigger than is good for them, it gives them power. Remember that, Robert. Actually we’re only tiny. In every respect. That’s also the first thing we forget when we grow up.”
He would sometimes ask:
“Have you noticed that, in some respects, we not only resemble each other but are identical, not only in a chemical sense, as those new books of yours tell us, but inasmuch as we all, in certain situations, will try to act in the same way? We are equipped with an ability to imitate each other, Robert. That’s why we feel sad and lonely when we’re not like someone else; without a mirror we lose our understanding of who we are; our sense of security does not lie in independence and individual traits but in there being many others like ourselves.”
His inventor’s instinct also lived on in the dark, even though for obvious reasons the practical manifestation of it had been put on ice, and Markus was a true master at repairing toys, in all secrecy, adapting them and devising new ones.
“It’s all about having an eye for what’s missing in this world,” he said. “It might be a pair of newly polished women’s boots which still let in water – in which case you improve the waterproofing – or it might be a bike that you can always get to go that little bit faster than it does now.”
Just seeing someone standing on the pedals of a bike going up a steep hill, let alone getting off and pushing, was enough to start his mind working.
“All it needs is a single mechanical modification – it’s only a matter of gearing – for any child to be able to make it up the hills to Reuler while sitting. Yet it can take years and a day before anyone can be bothered to invent such a device. The discomfort of modern-day bikes, you see, is not significant enough, which means the profit made from inventing a new one is not significant either, even though we cannot rule out the possibility that one day laziness might turn out to be the decisive factor.
“Nor is there such a big difference between getting a bike to go faster and inventing the bike itself, even though many like to think there is. For the bicycle did not suddenly appear out of nowhere It is constructed on the basis of more simple bikes, or carts, and a primitive mechanical knowledge of the wheel and the principles behind the balance nerves, just as the compass presupposed a knowledge of magnetism and the nature of the world, likewise the sailing ship was based on a centuries-old awareness of the simple fact that even a sail-less boat drifts in the wind. So man is not so clever, Robert, he is minuscule, he imitates his predecessors and moves much, much more slowly than even the greatest pessimist can imagine on a dark day.”
Markus continued:
“At school when they start telling you stuff about great progress, about technological wonders and political miracles, keep it in proportion, think of it as very minor, especially as far as man’s thinking capacity goes – do you remember William of Orange?”
Yes, yes, Robert did remember William, who is a central figure in Markus’ wax cabinet, which he used to illustrate the principle of imitation – the fact that human beings have a limited range of movements at their disposal, and they repeat these movements, they fine-tune and improve them until they become identical with those others have performed. This is called both inheritance and tradition. What you call it is of no significance.
In fact, for Robert’s first communion Markus gave him a biography of the Prince of Orange, as well as a children’s illustrated encyclopaedia of saints in which it was said that St Vitus – one of the great figures from the Ardennes – was tortured to death by his heathen father, and lucky is he who does not have a father like that, it is better to be fatherless.
For Robert’s second communion he was given a facsimile edition of the life of St Malachy, an Irish monk who, eight hundred years ago, breathed his last in the French Clairvaux, as well as a classic edition of the Old Testament, containing a dedication written by Markus to the effect that it was the Old Testament that had significance and power, because God hadn’t decided yet whether He should invest in man or not; and, as we all know, He still hasn’t.
Maria was a little uneasy about this last present, not so much because of the unusual theological message but because the book was very valuable and had belonged to Nella and Markus’ son, Peter, for which child they’d had similar aspirations, but whom they lost on the Eastern Front before he could live up to any of them. Maria was worried Robert would not only be raised and adopted by the neighbouring couple but also be transformed into a substitute for the child they had lost, and thereby become an even greater phantasm than he already was.
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6
At this time mother and son had other problems to contend with. Robert was lonely at school, and outside too; his peers were either too young or too old, he made a friend and lost him again. He took up an interest, engrossed himself in it, then it became as boring as clearing the table and he dropped it. He took Delilah for walks or went alone, then he disappeared again, wandered around in the borderlands, crossed the River Our and exchanged small talk with the local farmers, and this time he wasn’t found by nightfall, he didn’t come home of his own accord either, he was on his way south.
“How can he do this to me?” Maria complained to Markus, who placed both hands on top of his white stick and answered consolingly:
“He isn’t doing it to you, Maria, and he’ll get over it. Look how calmly I’m taking it, even though I love him like my own son.”
“But what if the Knife-Thrower gets him?”
“There is no Knife-Thrower, you know that.”
“But why doesn’t he stop doing it?”
That is a question her son has to answer for himself, so Markus says nothing, and Robert is found the next day. He had slept on the slopes above Gentingen, on the Luxembourg side, it was bright, early summer weather, warm, and he had wanted to listen to the Our’s tinkling, silvery voice and watch the sunrise above the Rhineland, he is a dreamer, there is no more mystery to it than that.
“But can’t you just stop doing it?!” Maria exclaims to the person in question. To this he just smiles and asks if he can have a budgie, a new book, a Thermos flask, or a mudguard for his bike. He is beginning to get a name for himself as a schemer, but Maria is not having any of this, so he doesn’t get the budgie, or the Thermos flask, but he may be given an edifying book a little later, and his attempts to run away are gradually demystified, they suddenly stop for a while, and there appears to be an external cause:
The world has moved into the 1960s, and Maria has a year’s sabbatical from school to put the finishing touches to a work she has been struggling with for as long as anyone can remember, at any rate since she herself was a schoolgirl: a new Latin primer for use in the top classes, a book which aims to reveal the ancient language’s true beauty in an attractive and engaging manner.
Robert cannot quite see what is wrong with the old book, except that it is old, and of course producing something new is always a worthy motive, whether there is a need or not. This is her life’s work, a task which calls for both idealism and endeavour, presumably it is also the gateway to a new era, an ambition she has nurtured for so long it is now impossible to lower her sights.
But a paid sabbatical to work on this pie in the sky is out of the question, so mother and son have to live on their savings, which are next to nothing, since Maria in the post-war years “was fortunate to have full-time employment”, as she used to say, and “fortunate to live in the large house she had paid almost nothing for”, and therefore had acquired the habit of giving away everything she could dispense with to those “who were even worse off than us”: pupils she had for some reason taken an interest in or felt sympathy for, poor wretches from the sleepy villages on the surrounding hillsides, for education is that gift of God – next to love – which we must do our utmost to make ourselves worthy of; so they decide to take in a lodger.
The first to arrive is one of her young colleagues, a maths teacher and a bookworm from the capital, who is out of place up here in the north, in Ösel, at any rate, he can’t talk about the weather, the war and growing potatoes in a natural, chatty way, he demands a territory of silence around his person, requires hot milk every morning and wants his dinner served in his room in order to avoid the ridiculous and incomprehensible conversations between the mother and son. This lasts for approximately three weeks. Then that is the end of room service and silence; Maria ensures the former, and Robert the latter. And they have to look for someone else.
There are even greater problems with the next lodger, however, as in Robert’s eyes he is as unbearable as the first, while Maria is transformed into a foolish young girl the moment he appears. His name is Albert, a farmer’s son and a real ruddy-faced son of Ösel, bursting with energy and the possessor, furthermore, of a heroic war record: when he was only sixteen he joined the partisans and fought the Germans tooth and claw and was later duly decorated when the country’s rightful government returned from London. Now he is working on the railway, which creeps through the valleys in this rugged little country like a slow-worm through a quarry, and is in permanent need of repair and maintenance: trees that fall on the lines, landslides, bushes and shrubs that grow where they shouldn’t. He is in his early thirties, with a body that youth will not relinquish, energetic from morning till night, also in his free time at home on his host’s badly neglected farm, chopping wood, doing garden work and making repairs here and there which Markus, because of his blindness, cannot help him with – new tiles on the roof, a broken attic window, that type of thing. And Robert particularly dislikes the lingering gazes his mother casts like a veil over those broad, brutal shoulders. So he does what he can to sour the atmosphere in the home by means of moodiness and backbiting. But it has no effect, neither on the new Adonis nor on his beloved mother, especially not on her.
“Why are you behaving like that?” she says. “Anyone would think you were jealous! As if I will ever find a new husband…”
Her words are not without a tinge of sorrow and regret, her intonation in particular is revealing, and her sitting at home all day, lonely, dwelling on all the things she hasn’t got contributes further to Robert’s annoyance. In the end, the boy has to turn to Markus once again:
“Yes, I see the problem,” the blind man says. “And it shouldn’t be too hard to solve…”
But then he has second thoughts, and mumbles something to the effect that the solution may be beyond them, or beyond Robert at least, who is only fourteen …But this is not what Robert wants, he nags Markus until he gives in:
“First you’ve got to realise it’s no use criticising or maligning him to your mother. It’s better to make friends with him and make him your new idol. But – after a month or two – express your disappointment with him, she won’t be able to take that.”
Robert immediately recognises that this plan is a stroke of genius and cautiously begins to change his sullen manner, as though reluctantly falling for the same charm that has so dramatically cast his mother at the interloper’s feet. And it is a surprisingly painless transition, it is a sheer relief to call off this self-destructive tactical warfare, and Albert doesn’t object to Robert chopping wood alongside him or talking about girls and football (he supports Standard Liège), or school for that matter. He teaches Robert how to work a draisine, shows him how to shunt a train onto another track, and Robert begins to value his opinions, including in those areas where earlier Markus had reigned supreme.
One Sunday in autumn he also goes with Albert to visit his family, who live in the village of Boennange in the hills to the west. They have just got their electricity back, so Robert is present at the solemn presentation of an electric coffee grinder and a hairdryer to Albert’s younger sister, who giggles and hardly dares show her face until the guest has talked Letzebuergesch long enough to prove that he is normal. A wonderful meal is served, they talk about the weather and the war and the crops in a natural, chatty way, and afterwards Albert shows Robert his medals and an album of photos taken during the darkest days of the offensive, and he lets Robert hold a gun he seized from the Germans and later kept as a trophy – it is things like these that tell a man where he belongs and who he is, Albert says pointedly, and Robert feels the scales falling from his eyes, bred as he has been on Markus’ much more chaotic war, and on his mother’s, which he will probably never ever make sense of.
On the way back, the old jeep has a puncture and they find themselves with an unplanned walk of more than two hours, but the weather is magnificent, the autumn as clear as water and the silence as immense as it can be around the screeches
of distant buzzards flying above unchanging forests. Robert, in other words, begins to suspect that “being disappointed” by this man is not going to be an easy task. So he postpones his plan, some flaw will crop up, no doubt, even beneath such a hale and hearty exterior, if it makes sense to speak in such paradoxical terms. But as a result they become even closer, so Robert decides at length to forget the whole project. And he does. Until Markus brings up the subject again as they are walking home from high Mass on Christmas Day, a few steps behind the rest of the party.
“Well, how’s it going with Albert?” the blind man asks, and he does so because it is obvious that he has already seen how it is going. “Not so easy, eh?” he concludes before Robert has time to cough up an answer.
“No,” Robert is forced to admit, and suddenly realises – seeing his own reflection in the dark glasses – that this was in fact the plan, Markus’ plan, from the outset, to ensure that his dear friend and neighbour, Maria, didn’t get her much-needed romantic pleasure spoiled by a pampered whelp. Robert was stunned.
“Your mother’s still a beautiful woman,” Markus says. “In these past few months she’s been more beautiful than ever.”
After a moment’s thought, Robert feels a kind of relief at this development, despite everything, even though the purely aesthetic side of the matter still disgusts him, the thought of this bundle of energy from the woods, ten years younger than her, uninterested in anything bookish, an impossible constellation even in his darkest fantasies, but if the worst came to the worst, what would his family relationship be with Robert? Father? Big brother? Or a constant reminder that he wasn’t either?
But just into the New Year, Robert comes home from school and finds his mother in quite a distraught state, similar to when she received a letter from her saviour Cota.
“Albert’s gone,” she says bluntly, without giving any further explanation, just shaking her head in despair (too theatrical, the son thinks) – Albert who had promised to extend her kitchen garden in the spring.