by Sjón
And she heard other things.
The male-voice choir in her head sang the homecoming song:
Like a shot bird
your hand flees
my hand.
Like an eclipsed moon
my eyes darken
your eyes.
Like the shadow of a flame
your child plays
my child.
And those who had fought so that the battle lines would never be drawn up around those hands, those who had shielded the brightness of those eyes by facing up to what no man should have to see, those who had no life to look forward to but the lives of their children.
Yes, who was she, a little girl like her, to rub their noses in the fact that they hadn’t brought an end to all wars by surviving one bloody world war?
She said she didn’t mean anything by it, it was just something people said.
They shook their heads indignantly and left her alone with the invalid.
Marie-Sophie pulled on a pair of deceptively warm stockings and poured a rose-print dress over her head: the world could do with cheering up today, overcast as it was and ready to burst into tears. She fetched her lipstick from its hiding place in the cupboard, dipped her little finger in the tube and applied the colour to her lips with her fingertip: not too much for the moral majority in the middle of the day – not too little for Karl.
When they were alone again in the little compartment, she had recalled for the invalid the feminine war wisdom that she hadn’t dared to mention to the two men: somewhere she had read that all beings were sexless in sleep; he was out for the count and so ought not to be offended by what she had to say.
* * *
A TRAVELLER’S TALE
In the years after the First World War a tramp travelled across Europe, visiting women who had lost their husbands and lovers on the Eastern and Western fronts: Flanders, Tannenberg, Gallipoli, the Dardanelles, the Somme, Verdun, the Marne, Vittorio Veneto. They knew the roll-call of names and the despair it evoked.
The tramp went from country to country, city to city and house to house. There were more than enough war widows and he visited them all.
On pitch-dark nights when the widows lay unable to sleep, sighing with longing for gentle fingers to stroke their cheeks and hard muscles to flex against their thighs, the tramp would appear without warning in their rooms, like the moon from behind a bank of cloud. They welcomed him with open arms.
There was always something about him that reminded them of the departed, that one little thing that had made him unique, made him theirs. Some recognised the unruly lock of hair that fell over his left eye, others the crooked thumb on his right hand, and others the birthmark by his Adam’s apple where they had kissed him in a final farewell.
The tramp would undress in silence and allow the widows to survey him before he joined them under the covers, cold from his night’s wandering.
And they would guide him through every movement that had characterised their lovemaking with their husbands, their lovers.
In the morning he would be gone.’
‘I’ve heard this story before, I know who the tramp was.’
‘So who was he?’
‘Franco Pietroso was a nondescript functionary who worked in the Italian war ministry, sending out death announcements to the fallen’s next of kin. Except that instead of doing what duty commanded, he stuffed the announcements under a chair, got in touch with the widows and pretended to be from their husbands’ regiments, claiming that he was on leave to attend his mother’s funeral.
When Franco Pietroso had won the women’s trust with this deception, he regaled them with tales of the debauchery at the front, saying that there were plenty of Red Cross girls to entrap the soldiers in their toils, and you could count on the fingers of one hand those who resisted the temptation.
The poor widows, who had not the slightest idea what life was like in the trenches, any more than Franco Pietroso had, and assumed that their husbands were alive and well and cheating on them, sought “comfort” from their confidant.
In the end Franco Pietroso was exposed; a soldier who was supposed to be dead caught him with his “widow”. And the story goes that when he was hanged, the gatekeeper of hell, unable to find the crime of “cuckolding dead men” in his books, turned him away.
He won’t gain admittance there until a war widow declares her love for him, despite knowing what kind of man he is.’
‘That sounds plausible – and I must admit that the man’s name fits with what I know about him – but I’m afraid the truth is not so pretty.’
‘If the widows had known the tramp’s origins one can be sure they would not have welcomed him with open arms, no, they would have buried their faces in their pillows and shuddered in speechless horror when the ghastly presence lay down under the covers beside them.
He’s cold from his night’s walk; my burning flesh will warm him.
So they had thought, but they hadn’t noticed that the tramp’s body temperature remained the same even in the heat of the action. He was not cold from his long walk.
He did not exist.
Yes, the reason why winter frost and women’s embraces had no power to touch the tramp was quite simply that his name was not recorded in the book of the living; the ruling powers had not intended him a place in Creation.
It was the widows’ frustration that had created him from the mortal remains of the men they had loved and lost.
The body parts had torn themselves off the rotting corpses on the battlefields and been borne across Europe by wind and water. In a gneiss cavern deep in the bowels of the Alps, beneath the Jungfrau, to be precise, there gathered kneecaps from Flanders, fingernails and guts from Tannenberg, tonsils, spleen and ligaments from Gallipoli, hipbones, eye sockets, testicles and gums from the Dardanelles, lungs, soles, vocal cords and pituitary gland from the Somme, tongue root, shoulder-blades and colon from Verdun, lymphatic system and cheek muscles from the Marne, and a pair of kidneys from Vittorio Veneto. Combining with a host of other body parts they assembled themselves into a man with everything that a man should possess.
That man was the tramp.’
* * *
‘And you think that’s more credible than the story of Franco Pietroso?’
‘I don’t think anything; that’s how the story goes.’
‘The invalid dozed during Marie-Sophie’s tale and she didn’t seem to care whether he showed any reaction to the content.
When he stirred he thought the girl was interrogating him about his movements during the period from 14 August 1914 to 11 November 1918, and he shrugged. Even if he told her what he remembered, she wouldn’t get any feathers in her cap for that: every fart and belch could already be found recorded in the archives of the Third Reich – everything that is, apart from the time between his being led out of the camp by the hand of fate and their finding him again and depositing him here with this talkative girl.
There was a knock on the door and the girl admitted an older woman into the priest’s hole and told her there was no need to do anything for the man in the bed, it would be best to leave him be; she’d be back in an hour anyway.
He murmured some gibberish and pretended to sleep.
Marie-Sophie tidied away the lipstick and soap, combed her hair and pinned it back with a silver clip, pulled on her cardigan, locked the room and went down to reception.
The owner was standing behind the desk. He scowled when he saw the girl.
— An hour! Not a minute more …
The old man sat at his ease by the front door, parroting the owner’s words.
— An hour! Not a minute …
She blew them both a kiss and sped out of the guesthouse.
Marie-Sophie headed across the square. She paused by the draper’s, examining her reflection in the window and rearranging a lock of hair that refused to stay in its place by her left temple. Inside, Fräulein Knopfloch was bending over a whopping great mass of bl
ack velvet, measuring tape in hand.
Marie-Sophie nodded to her. She was sometimes allowed to buy leftover pieces of expensive fabric for a bargain price; often they were enough for a shawl or a dress.
The woman was too engrossed in marking off the roll of cloth to return the girl’s greeting, but an enormous man wearing such a tight suit he must have borrowed it from his youthful self, who was standing at the counter with a huge bunch of silk ribbons in his big hands, smiled all the more sweetly at her. She bridled: why was this recent widower pulling faces at her? Had he been blinded by grief? Why on earth would a blooming girl like her take a second glance at a buffoon like him? Did she look like some loose-living tart?
Marie-Sophie darted a glance at the window pane to reassure herself that she looked no more tarty than usual – which is to say, in every way respectable – only to catch the eye of the man who had now come over to the window. There was no mistaking it, the old sod was flirting with her. He ran a coal-grimed hand over the bunch of silk ribbons and formed silent words with his thick lips: “O, come my dear, let us be joined/ Together in my black lair!”
The girl shivered; her heart missed a beat at this snatch of the old song. She backed away from the shop and bumped into a boy who was lost in contemplation of his watch.
What am I thinking of? Time’s passing and Karl’s waiting!
Marie-Sophie stuck out her tongue at the suitor on the shop floor. Fräulein Knopfloch looked askance at her and she shrugged at the spinster.
The man could tell her whatever lies he wanted. As soon as they took the invalid away she would be a free woman again and could ask forgiveness for her sins all over town.
The girl quickened her stride.
Her heels clicked on the paving stones, her footsteps counting off the seconds; every step was half a second, click-clack, click-clack, that made a hundred and twenty a minute, click-clack, click-clack, three thousand six hundred a half-hour, click-clack, click-clack, click!
Clack! I’ve got fifty-four minutes left.
She swung out of the square and into Blumengasse where no flowers grew. The street was nothing but a rubbish tip; dustbins stood along the soot-stained walls and it was obvious why the householders couldn’t be bothered to put on their lids: anyone who chose to hang about in this tip was bound to fit in with the scenery.
I only hope God doesn’t know about this. He gave men the power of speech so they could name everything under the sun, but I bet He’d think the naming of this dreary spot had gone a little awry. What would he say, for example, if he sent an angel here to raise up the sinners and the feathered one came back with the following description: “I landed on the square, walked round the corner by Fräulein Knopfloch’s and found the sinner in a filthy tip called Flower Street.”
How are men to reply when He asks them about this slip-up?
“There used to be flowery meadows here in the olden days!”
I don’t suppose the Lord would believe that for a minute; He must know that Kükenstadt is a town built on a mud flat – they joke about it enough in the surrounding countryside.
He might think of striking us all dumb for such a blunder.
Marie-Sophie paused a moment under the sign at the end of the street.
But I’m wearing a flowery dress and I’m walking along you, so today you can be called Rose Bloom Street and we’ll just have to hope that the Creator changes His mind about striking us dumb – I’m going to need my tongue to soften up Karl.
Herr Abend-Anzug, Karl’s neighbour, was standing on the doorstep, apparently unsure whether he was coming or going.
He was awkwardly attired, out of keeping with the hour – in starched evening dress and patent-leather dancing shoes – and had plainly been loitering there for some time, because when he caught sight of Marie-Sophie he called:
— Good evening!
The girl bid the man good afternoon and made to slip past him but he sprang backwards and took up position in the doorway.
— I’ve heard you’re a good girl, and I believe it.
He waited expectantly for an answer.
Marie-Sophie adopted the neutral expression that had proved useful in her dealings with amorous guests at Gasthof Vrieslander: she had neither the interest nor the time to listen to speeches about her character.
Herr Abend-Anzug tweaked the topic of conversation.
— Yes, I’m sure you are.
She twitched up the corners of her mouth and this reaction satisfied the man. He laughed:
— Mama’s no fool.
It transpired that Herr Abend-Anzug had not blocked the girl’s way in order for her to solve his existential problems on the doorstep.
— But the same can’t be said about the swine I imagine you’ve come to visit. We don’t ask much of the residents of the attic, but things can go too far; you couldn’t hear yourself speak for the racket he made when he came home this morning.
Marie-Sophie paled.
— When he wasn’t bawling out the “Internationale” he was crashing the furniture around, or goodness knows what. Some people wouldn’t have hesitated to call the police.
Herr Abend-Anzug looked the girl solemnly in the eye.
Marie-Sophie didn’t know what to think: Karl furniture-moving, singing the “Internationale”? He despised the Communists, they had treated him badly. He had read her a call to arms he’d written for the Chimney Sweeps’ Union, at the urging of radicals who had then failed to publish it. He must have got roaring drunk – to be caught engaging in Communist activities could mean big trouble.
— Yes, my mother and I were just talking about how sad it is to see you in the clutches of such a brute. My mother said these very words: “What’s she hanging around with that Karl for, a good girl like her?” And she added: “It should be child’s play for her to get a decent boyfriend, a pretty girl like that…”
— I’m grateful to you and your mother for your kind words about me, but it sounds from what you say as if Karl must be ill – I’d better go and nurse him so you and your mother can indulge in your little dreams in peace.
Marie-Sophie bowed politely to Herr Abend-Anzug but this had the opposite effect than intended on the dandified man, who now became a little too gallant, given that she was just a humble chambermaid.
— Perhaps the young lady would care to partake of an early dinner with me, or whatever you call a splendid afternoon repast. I’ve been called up – don’t you know? – to fight the Slavs, and I’m taking the train this evening; that’s why it’s dinnertime for me now.
Herr Abend-Anzug went down on one knee.
Marie-Sophie squeaked “Good grief!”: the man clearly had little faith that the war was being won if he meant to propose to her right here on the doorstep.
— They all want to make widows of us.
Herr Abend-Anzug looked awkwardly at the muttering girl as he rolled up his trouser leg, stuck his fingers down his sock, drew out a bundle of notes in a worn elastic band and dusted some cake crumbs off it.
— It would delight my mother more than words can say if I were to be seen dining out at a smart restaurant with a young lady such as yourself.
Marie-Sophie smiled sweetly at him and shook her head in reply.
— Thanks for the chat, Herr Abend-Anzug. And for your mother’s sake, please come home alive from the front.
At her last words the man stood up, stepped aside and fumbled at his brow for the brim of his non-existent hat.
Marie-Sophie knocked tentatively on Karl’s door but received no reply. She knocked harder and listened for any movement in the room: what the hell was Karl playing at? She had managed to escape from work and he couldn’t even be bothered to drag himself out of bed. It was a bit much for a fully grown man to be so hurt about missing a single Sunday at the so-called zoo.
She slapped the flat of her hand on the door and turned abruptly away.
— Go ahead and sulk, then!
A door opened on the floor below a
nd a white-haired old lady, the size of a seven-year-old child, appeared on the landing.
— It would take the trumpets of Jericho to rouse Herr Maus, my girl!
She hobbled halfway up the stairs and held out a hand to Marie-Sophie.
— I’ve been up and down these stairs like a yo-yo ever since noon trying to wake him, though I’d rather not; he’s so nice when he’s asleep.
Between the gnarled arthritic fingers was a little folded napkin with a glimpse of a pencilled butterfly: Marie-Sophie’s message to Karl.
— A young lad came by. He was supposed to give this letter to Herr Maus but said he was afraid of him, so I offered to deliver it. You must take it, dear; I don’t like having another person’s post in my possession, I’m always tempted to read it – and you’re here now anyway.
The girl went down to the yo-yo and took the letter.
— Do give the lad my regards; he was ever such a charmer, unblocked my kitchen sink for me, told tales about your boyfriend and accepted no more than the price of a pint of ale for the whole thing.
The old lady simpered and crept off downstairs.
Marie-Sophie considered the message: perhaps she should make another assault on Karl’s door and just say hello – that way he’d be in a better mood next time they met.
Before she could make up her mind there came a whisper:
— Has she gone back inside?
Karl darted red-veined eyes out on to the landing.
The girl nodded at her lover: his pale face was deeply creased from the pillow. There were wretches and then there were real wretches.
He opened the door a crack and beckoned her to come up to his landing. Marie-Sophie shook her head: she didn’t like the way Karl looked: he was half dressed or undressed, the blond hair plastered to his forehead, a bloodstained hanky bound around his right ankle.
— I’ve been standing out here for quarter of an hour already – I’ll be late.
Karl clutched his head and moaned:
— That degenerate at Gasthof Vrieslander’s not the only one who needs nursing.
— What did you say?
— You’ve got plenty of time for the man you’re hiding at the guesthouse.