by Lutz Seiler
‘Charitable donation, charitable donation,’ he murmured, and everyone around him tilted the necks of their bottles towards him. He himself offered a swallow of champagne. ‘Slowly, slowly, friends,’ the one wearing the apron said, and after each donation he lifted the funnel into the air in a kind of victory sign.
During the entire process, the cart was raised and lowered in a quick, almost measured rhythm. Despite the sandy surface, the vehicle, with its large wheels and thin tyres bounced high into the air with each bump. The victim’s girlfriend alternately whimpered and giggled. She seemed to be drunk. In the meantime, Ed had recognised the victim. He was a dishwasher in Norderende, the very esskay who had whispered the word Crusoe like a secret message at Ed when he first arrived on the island.
The machine was not used for long. In an extended procession, the dishwasher was wheeled down to the shore. Ed felt his stomach tighten.
The cart was pushed into the sea, as far out as the ceremony seemed to require — there was hollering, and among the white caps the dishwasher’s body was soon drenched, gleaming darkly as the cart hit a rock and tipped over.
With each new wave, the man’s head was underwater; the esskays at the drawbar could hardly control their laughter. The dishwasher also seemed to be laughing, at the top of his voice, or shouting for help — it was hard to tell with the noise of the surf. In his euphoria, the man in the apron started pouring the rest of the champagne into the waves. ‘Go forward youth, youth go forward …’
In two, three bounds — faster, in any case, than Ed or anyone else could grasp what was happening — Kruso had crossed the beach. With the flat of his hand, he slapped the man in the apron so hard that he fell right down and lay sprawled. Then Kruso grabbed the cart, but its frame was already sunk in the sand. A few of the esskays, who seconds before had been laughing, leapt to help him. They grabbed the fetters and straps that hung down the side. ‘No-one, no-one …’ Kruso yelled, setting the rhythm.
‘This is surely not how you imagined life on the island?’
‘A lot has changed,’ Ed countered.
Kruso had no doubt recognised him by his step. Or he was simply sure that it must be Ed who had hurried after him. For a while, they walked together without speaking. Ed’s courageous friend seemed completely calm. He was carrying the book, and Ed wondered where it could have been the whole time.
A salty spray hit them in the face. Moonlight gleamed in the stones on the shore. A few sentences whirled in Ed’s head; suddenly he had a good feeling. But before he could speak about C. (and maybe even G.), Kruso offered his explanation.
‘They call it slamming. When the machine crashes on the ground, the mixture explodes — schnapps and champagne — right into the brain. It’s like being shot into another world. You don’t need much alcohol for it, the effect has to do with physics, not chemistry, you see, Ed?’
‘I never was any good at physics,’ Ed answered, embarrassed by the intensity of his desire to speak with Kruso.
‘Before they called it Mass. They did it once a week. Somehow, it always ends in the water. For them, it’s about the sea, which they revere, pray to, and so on. Primitive, but understandable. For their old singer, slamming was about gear changes, circuits in the brain, consciousness-expanding brain programming, and such things. But he left the country last year. Since then, it’s gone downhill. Even the Buddhist tree …’
‘The Buddhist tree?’
‘Yes. A tree with a hundred arms, branches, to be exact. One of a kind, a marvellous tree. Some say it’s an enchanted tree. It’s on the Capri-path, right on the coast. They use it for their acceptance ritual. They sit up there. They drink and wait to see who falls first. Almost everyone is caught, and nothing happens. They claim the tree brings luck to everyone who needs it. But I really advise you against it, Ed. You don’t need to do it. By now, they know you and accept you.’
Kruso’s concern. Ed was touched.
‘A lot has changed,’ he began again.
‘You’re right. We get to our poems less and less often, isn’t that right?’
‘Our holiness!’
Ed’s answer was too quick. A crazy mixture of rejection and inclination.
‘I know why you’re here, Ed.’
Ed was silent. Then his gaze clouded over. He was simply exhausted. The sleepless nights had made him thin-skinned. But the wind dried his eyes, and he began to speak almost despite himself.
‘The photograph of your sister, Losh. It reminds me of G., my girlfriend, who was run over by a tram a year ago. I know it’s crazy, but sometimes I have the feeling we lost the same person.’
Kruso stiffened, in so far as that was possible when walking over a rocky beach.
‘You’re not a castaway, Ed.’
‘I’m not?’
‘No. Two nights before you arrived, I dreamt you were coming. I saw you coming. As was written: “now was the time to get me a servant, and, perhaps, a companion or assistant”.’ Kruso turned his face to the wind and laid a hand on Ed’s shoulder. He gave a soft chuckle, but maybe Ed had misheard and it was a sigh or even nothing at all.
‘That’s just Defoe, Ed, don’t worry. For Robinson, Friday is the guide, at least he dreams that Friday’s one. A guide who helps him get off his island, get away from his bad luck. In his dream, it’s Friday who shows him which places to avoid so as not to be eaten, where he can venture or where he can’t, and how to get food …’
‘But that’s not how the story goes. In the book, Crusoe rescues Friday, the story is exactly the opposite.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Maybe you saw me in the port the day I arrived?’
‘No, Ed, just in a dream. At first, I naturally had doubts. But the poems confirmed everything.’
Ed was careful to walk so that his friend’s hand wouldn’t slip from his shoulder. He considered the fact that it was impossible to see down to the beach from any of the Klausner’s windows. He had noticed this a few days earlier. Until then, he must have been blind. And he must have been imagining things on the day of the allocation when he saw the beach and the barracks through Kruso’s binoculars, under Kruso’s hand.
His friend was walking on the coast side and so seemed even taller. By simply turning his head, Ed could have lain it on Kruso’s chest. He noticed that Kruso was also trying to walk at an even pace, which was difficult on the steep beach. Ed’s shoes (Speiche’s, to be exact; he’d been wearing them for several days) were completely soaked because he had walked through the gently rolling fringes of the waves instead of swerving around them.
Kruso looked at him.
Or he looked right past him at the lights of a patrol boat that passed them at the time.
Or he looked at the tiny lights further out, in the channels of the deep-sea vessels and ferries to Sweden that passed as slowly as years. Ed felt the hand on his shoulder clench. He turned his head and felt, at that very moment, Kruso’s lips on his face.
THE SPRITE MARÉN
… still, so still as if only the house were listening to the rushing sound of the pines that was taken up by the surf, softly, muted, then thematically elaborated and varied by the stone sinks and amplified by the metal sinks, which sounded like drums under the falling water with their dark rumbling, a domestic sound that cocooned Ed in a sense of well-being and contentment because it was like back at home; the hollow sound of water flowing into the bathtub, and the humming of the flash heater heard from the living room or his bedroom, Fridays at six p.m., immersed in the rushing sound.
But this was not his childhood bath day, the best evening of the week; it was simply: this night. Nights were announced by the drumming of the washing, which was followed by the sound of steps on the stairs. There was rarely any whispering, just the soft closing of doors, everyone knew their way, and that was one of the mysteries for Ed. Only then, gradually, did Viola re-emerg
e, the ‘Evening Concert’; later, the newscaster’s voice, differently constituted than during the day since he had to speak against darkness and sleep — the man in the studio, therefore, stressed certain words and let others fade almost completely, with long pauses between them and with the sound of papers being shuffled this way and that as if the speaker were desperately searching for the next sentence or choosing it only then. Yes, he’s alone in the night, alone with his voice, Ed thought. Ed thought of C. and thought I want, and he knew what exactly he wanted to do, and also what next and next and next.
He went to the door once again and listened.
The news followed the ‘Night Radio’. A new report on refugees in Hungary, more crossing the border daily, certain words repeated over and over again, or were they just particularly audible amid Viola’s fluctuations: embassy, special envoy, sanitary conditions. Ed lit a candle, blew out the match, and swore. His lips had brushed against its tip. ‘A north-west stream of cool sea air is flowing towards Germany. The eastern edge of an almost stationary high over the eastern Atlantic and associated disturbances will bring changeable weather over the coming days.’ Ed felt ill. Viola loved the weather forecast, the only report she fished from the ether.
The door opened, soft and strange. In the flickering candlelight, the gable in his room receded, but the stained wall slid upwards again and again, slowly at first, then faster. Ed hastily put his hand on the light switch.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Marén.’
She was small. She had short, curly hair and the face of a sprite.
‘Marén. You got the wrong door.’
‘I don’t think so.’ She looked at the floor, then back up at Ed or past him, at the window, as if she already knew that this would be the most difficult moment.
‘Where’s C.?’ Ed asked.
He was only imagining this sprite, and he hoped C. would still appear or would suddenly emerge from its tiny body.
The young woman’s face cleared. ‘Yes, in the afternoon she was still there, in the forest, but not for the soup in the evening. She had accommodation with us for a long time, longer than any of us, I believe. Her time must be up.’
Gliding as in a dream, the sprite Marén moved to his bed. As if she were following some higher law that Ed was bound to recall sooner or later. She began to take her dress off smoothly and carefully, all the while avoiding looking at Ed.
‘And you’re Edgar, right?’
Ed marched. He could feel it on his arms, his chest, all over his skin — something was going to explode. His lust was now external, and he marched straight through a space in which his wounds were glowing. They were so raw and sensitive that everything hurt, both what he touched and what he did not touch. The underbrush hit him in the face, branches that broke underfoot — the forest smelled of rot.
Too dark, but he could feel the sleep that filled the base of the valley. He drew closer and recognised the outlines of sleepers, the shimmer of a plastic tarp, sleeping bags, the sound of breathing, twitching in dreams. Buried alive, Ed thought, and the image of a mass grave overwhelmed him. As if compelled, Ed took another step, then someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him to the ground. Ed tasted Kruso. Kruso’s lotion, Kruso’s hand over his face. In the hollow, the bulb of a tiny light flashed and went out. Ed groaned softly, and Kruso uncovered his mouth.
‘Where is C.?’
‘Did you think she could stay here forever?’
‘I just want to know where she is.’
‘Don’t be childish, Ed.’
‘And the sprite’s got to disappear from my room.’
‘Your room? Who do you think you are? It’s one of the Klausner’s rooms, one of its choicest cabins. Don’t ever forget it. C. had five days, more than anyone else here, you don’t seem to have noticed. Who do you think made that happen?’
‘I want …’
‘Yes, Ed, you want. And yes, I have to say, we were surprised after what we understood from you. No allocations to Ed, those were the instructions.’
‘You choose your own castaway, you said.’
‘Sure, Ed. The first time.’
Kruso gestured toward the sleepers’ grave. ‘The allocation has to have criteria, it has to be just and disciplined, or else there’s no sense, you understand? Freedom and order are always colliding on our path. Don’t ever forget how you yourself were accepted. You found yourself a cave here. You’ve thought only of yourself for long enough.’
Ed’s throat tightened. He wanted to lunge at Kruso, and immediately felt ashamed. He could hardly breathe. He had lost his best friend — in one second. Now he was simply tolerated. Not even.
‘Of course, you’re free to go at any time. I can’t stop you.’
In his friend’s eyes, Ed had failed; even though he had always done everything. He had been a good companion, the best. It was as if Kruso had stripped everything away with a single sentence.
‘You dreamt me up.’
‘And now you’re a part of the Klausner, is that not a dream?’
In the courtyard, all was still. There were no lights on in the dishwashing station, just the small violet fluorescent light on the bar shelves. They sat at the waiters’ table under the window. Kruso tipped Kirsch-Whisky into a coffee cup. He had put an arm around Ed’s shoulders and led him slowly, like an injured man, back to the Klausner. Ed shivered, and his teeth clicked against the porcelain. As if his body were registering the withdrawal right then. Insanity still flickered in his eyes, but his anger had evaporated. He blew puffs of breath into his cup. As if it had only been about finding Losh. Only about that. Not C. And not G. either.
‘You should have stayed in your room.’
Losh sounded worried.
‘You like being there. Of all of us, you’re the one who spends the most time in his room, and it can stay that way.’
Inside the Kirsch-Whisky it was warm and good. As if the Kirsch-Whisky had drunk him. When he raised his head, he noticed a pair of slender, bare feet under the next table. Someone is lying there asleep, Ed thought. Everyone just needs a place to sleep, shelter, accommodation where …
‘Is C. safe?’
‘She’s fine, Ed. She had her time.’
‘Is she coming back?’ The refrigeration unit started up with a jerk and set the glasses in the bar rattling. The steel jugs gleamed in the half-light as if freshly polished. Ed knew they were brown and crusted over inside, some almost black.
‘She’s not really gone. Now she’s one of us. Those who have been enlightened all stay in contact, every man, every woman.’
Ed exhaled and pushed his cup into the middle of the table. He hadn’t exactly understood. He was starting to forget what sentences meant. He was now living in a cave, surrounded by noise. There, one spoke softly to oneself, in one’s own voice. There, it felt wonderful to hear the sound of these words, to feel Kruso’s strength and energy.
‘They’re practising freedom, Ed. There’s nothing anyone has to do, nothing you have to do.’
‘Don’t they think, I mean …’
‘They’re learning, Ed. For some, it’s not easy. Some are surprised and confused. It’s normal. They suddenly discover so much with freedom, all their buried needs, often all at once.’
The rushing still continued through the night. Ed was caught in it. The rushing reduced him to the size of an ice cube, while the outside grew ever larger.
On the base of one of the steel jugs one day, Ed had discovered one of the most forbidden signs in the world. Eagerly and without thinking, he scraped his brush several times over the inside of the jug, and the sign shimmered through the crust. Suddenly, Ed realised the responsibility they, the dishwashers, carried. It was almost more than he could bear.
The new girl moved her arm and Ed woke. ‘Two-oh-four a.m. There is no traffic announcement.’
&n
bsp; The rushing still continued through the night. Ed was caught in it. The rushing reduced him to the size of an ice cube, while the outside …
THE CASTAWAYS II
There was no sign, no password. Just before midnight, they simply walked into his room. They stood in the dark. No one turned on the light. Viola played the national anthem.
Not one of them turned on the light, as if that were a proviso. A certain protection, perhaps, one of Kruso’s rules. Their contours blurred and blended with the things, and so they were still there in daytime, on the table, on the bed, on the floor; his room gradually took on the aspect of a shipwreck. A strange and a familiar shipwreck, the shipwreck of an entire country.
No one who had to feel around for the light switch, no one who had to debase himself. Many wanted to give back, Kruso had said, but there wasn’t anything that anyone had to do, and there wasn’t anything that he had to do.
And that’s the way it was.
Everything happened on its own, without a face.
Monika, the little invisible one, soon brought Ed a second blanket, which he rolled himself up in when he eventually switched to the floor to get some distance.
But there were also some among the clandestine sleepers who did not want to get too close and so didn’t dare use the empty bed. Without a word or sound of any kind, like ghosts, in fact, they closed the door and stretched out on the floor.
And so it was that on some nights, no one slept in the bed. Instead, it got crowded on the dirty floor, on which little piles of dried up, dead cockroaches lay, as neatly and systematically as if a burying beetle had carefully collected them. Half-conscious, Ed wondered what animal could possibly eat cockroaches. Their crackly little bodies probably contained all imaginable vitamins, trace elements, and precious ingredients that, in the right dosage, would make you almost immortal or at least sensitive in some way that would make it possible, with their help, to read not only with just your eyes, but also with your skin, in complete darkness, for example.