These days, who’d grow buckwheat around here, and where? You saw for yourself, there’s the lake they made, the cabins around the lake, and the woods. The woods were always there. They’re the only thing that was there then and is here now. Except that the woods were mostly on this side. Now they’ve spread to the other side, where the fields used to be. If you don’t hold woods back they’ll grow everywhere, into your yard. They overgrew where the farmyards used to be. When I say the other side, I mean the other side of the Rutka. The Rutka? That was the river that used to run through here, I told you how it split the village in two. How could they have made an artificial lake if there hadn’t been a river? The name comes from ruta, rue, not from ruda, iron ore. Do you know what rue is? You’re not the only one. Here in the cabins hardly anyone knows anything about herbs. At most mint, chamomile. They don’t know their trees, can’t tell an oak from a beech. Not to even mention hornbeams, sycamores. They can’t tell rye from wheat, wheat from barley. They call it all grain. I wonder if they’d even recognize millet. I don’t see many people growing millet these days.
Rue was used to treat different illnesses, on its own or with other herbs. They used it for eyes, for nerves, cuts and bruises, to prevent infection. You could drink it or make a compress. It could break spells. And most important of all, young women wove their garlands out of rue. It was like a magnet for young men. A lot of it grew around here, maybe that’s where the Rutka got its name? You can’t imagine what that river was like. It wasn’t especially big, rivers that run through villages never are. It came down a broad valley where there were meadows, then after the valley the fields began. It was wider at some points, narrower in others. In some places, when it hadn’t rained for a long time you could get across by stepping from one rock to another. When you stood at the edge of the valley and the sun would come out from behind the clouds, it looked like the Rutka was flowing across the entire width of the valley. Course, there were times it actually was that wide, when the ice melted, or when it just kept raining and raining. At those times you wouldn’t believe it was the same Rutka, it was so wild. It didn’t just cover the valley, the fields flooded as well. Anyone that lived close to the river had to move to higher ground. At those times people swore revenge on the Rutka, they wept over it. But then the waters would fall and it’d go back to being calm and good-natured. It would flow in its leisurely way. You could throw a stick into the water and walk alongside on the bank to see who was faster, you or the Rutka. Even if you only walked slowly, you’d always win. It twisted and turned, and in the places where it meandered it got overgrown with sweet rush, bulrushes, water lilies, white lotuses. When it all bloomed you can’t imagine what it was like. Or if you could only have heard the nightingales in May.
It wasn’t all shallow. Most places it was shallow. But it had its deep moments too. One of them was the deepest of all. People went there to drown themselves. Mostly young folks, when their parents wouldn’t agree to them getting married. They said most of the ones that had drowned there, it was for that reason. That people had always gone there to drown themselves, because that was where it was deepest. Though they did it for different reasons. And not just young people. Though they didn’t always choose drowning, some people hung themselves. And the Rutka just flowed on.
You might find it hard to believe, but to me it seemed the biggest river on earth. I was even convinced that all rivers were called Rutka and that they all came from the Rutka, like from a single mother. I’d already started at school but I still couldn’t believe there were much bigger rivers in the world, and that they each had their own name.
We had a boat. Sometimes I’d drag it into the densest rushes, everyone would be calling me, mother, father, but I wouldn’t answer. I’d just lie there in the bottom of the boat feeling like I was nowhere at all. And if you were to ask me whether I’d ever been happy, it was only ever then. You’d rather not ask me that? I understand. Or I’d take the boat out into the middle of the stream, lie down in it and float and float, and the river would carry me. What do you think, do rivers like that disappear? I really don’t know. Sometimes I go and stand down by the lake and look out there wondering where it must flow now. And you know, one time I managed to make out one of its banks. Which one? To know that, I’d have to have known which one I was standing on.
I couldn’t tell you where it came from or where it finished up. Back then no one went that far. It was scary to walk such a distance, the woods in these parts stretch on and on. Nowadays I don’t go walking that far either, because why would I. Besides, you go into the woods on this side or the other, and right by the edge you have everything you could need. Blueberries, wild strawberries, blackberries, mushrooms. Not at this time of year, of course. You’re too late for that. Now there’s only cranberries. But you’d need to wait till the frosts set in, because they mostly grow in the bogs. The bogs aren’t far from here. I could give you a jug, you could go pick yourself some. Cranberries are delicious with pâté. Especially when you add pears as well, and if it’s pâté made from hare.
I don’t go picking. I don’t have time, I have to mind things here. Now for example, in the off-season, aside from me and the dogs, there’s not a soul here. Once in a while someone’ll come by to check on their cabin. Though in fact they don’t need to. Everyone knows that it’ll all be OK. It couldn’t not be, because I’m here looking after things. They’ve had many an opportunity to see that for themselves. But I’ve no right to stop them if they want to come and see what’s what. They belong to them. But that’s usually in the morning. This time of day no one’s likely to show up. At this time nothing happens. And dusk is starting to fall a lot earlier. A month ago I wouldn’t have needed to turn on the lights. I could see the letters perfectly well, even the tiniest ones. And I wouldn’t have needed my glasses. Whereas now, like you saw, it’s dusk, and there isn’t even the faintest ripple on the lake. You’d be forgiven for thinking the water had hardened into solid ground. Especially on a day like today, when there’s no wind, someone might imagine they could cross from one shore to the other without getting their feet wet.
So you’re staying in Mr. Robert’s cabin? I don’t think you arrived in the night, I would have heard you. I didn’t sleep at all in the night, I’d have heard. In the night the faintest sound carries across the lake. I only got to sleep in the morning. The dawn was already starting to break, I looked out the window, but you weren’t there then. After that I dropped off, I don’t even know when. The fog held you up on the way? We didn’t have any fog here. True, in the fall you get fog that’s so dense you can barely drive through it. You’re driving along and all of a sudden there’s this white wall.
When I was still living abroad, one time in the fall, round about this time of year, I decided to come for a visit. In fall, when no one would be here. And I stayed in Mr. Robert’s cabin, like you. Mr. Robert had told me where to find the key. Under the deck, hanging on a nail in the beam. That’s where you found it too? There you go. Before that I’d only ever been here once, one Sunday during the season. Mr. Robert and I arrived together then. This time Mr. Robert couldn’t make it. Of course I could have the use of his cabin, he said when I phoned him, but unfortunately he wouldn’t be able to join me. He told me where things would be, and where I’d find the key.
The sun had already set by the time I crossed the border. I figured I’d arrive in the night and maybe even get a decent night’s sleep. As long as I was on the highway everything went OK, it was a starry night, the moon was out, I could see clearly. But I turned off onto a side road, then onto another, and the fog started. To begin with it was sparse, and it only appeared here and there, I’d just drive through strips of mist lying in places across the road. My fog lamps worked just fine. I was even driving pretty fast for the time of day. But with every mile the strips of mist grew thicker. After a bit, it seemed like barriers of fog were starting to rise up in the road. You could only see anything in the towns, where there were lights. B
ut as I’d leave each town I’d find myself in even thicker fog. It got denser and denser. The fog was in front of me, on top of me, to the sides, behind. It was like the world had gone away and there was only fog. I tried turning on all the lights I had, but nothing did any good. I was well aware that full beams are the worst in a situation like that. You turn them on and immediately you have a white screen in front of you. You can only use your sidelights and fog lamps. Best of all is if someone’s with you in the car, they can crack the door open and watch the road surface, tell the guy at the wheel which way to go. But I was on my own. On top of that, there were no other cars either in front of me or behind. Because you can agree with another driver to take turns at leading, him for a bit, then you for a bit. In fog, the best way to know where to go is to follow someone else’s red tail lights. At moments I almost lost confidence in whether I was even on the road, I was scared I’d drive into the ditch or hit a road sign or a tree. Honestly, I’d never driven in fog that bad before. Every now and then I’d stop and get out to take a breather. I’d stretch a bit, climb back in and drive on.
All of a sudden I see these strange faint little lights along the sides of the road. What could it be? To start off they were only here and there. But you could see they were in people’s windows, even though the windows themselves were barely visible, let alone the houses, which were no more than faint outlines in the fog. I guessed I must be driving through some town, especially since there were more and more of the lights, they came closer together, and soon they formed a shining chain on either side of the road so it was like driving down a kind of avenue. Well, I wasn’t exactly driving, more like inching along. The fog in front of me was still as dense as before.
Then, out of the blue two figures emerged from the fog right in front of the hood. It looked like two men. I didn’t have time to hit the horn, I just slammed on the brakes. I broke out in a sweat and my heart pounded so loud it almost made the car shake. I was convinced they’d go for me, start hammering on the car windows, pull the door open, start calling me all kinds of names. And they’d have been right, because what of it that they’d been walking in the middle of the road? But can you imagine, they didn’t even notice the car. I think they were arguing, I could hear hoarse raised voices. They were waving their arms, pushing at one another. It looked like on top of everything else I was about to witness a scrap in the middle of all the fog.
I wound the window down a bit and turned the radio up to the max. There was some booming music playing, I thought maybe they’d hear and get out of the way. Not a bit of it. They stood there swaying every which way, then all at once they threw their arms around one another, hugged affectionately, and kissed each other on the cheek. They were so drunk they each had to take turns holding the other guy up when he started to slip to the ground.
In the end I sounded the horn once and twice, and to my surprise they patted each other’s arm and one moved to one side of the road, one to the other. My foot was already poised over the gas pedal when they suddenly came back and started hugging each other again. And this time they stayed there, holding on to each other and rocking, as if they’d vowed that they’d never part, they’d simply lie down and sleep where they were, on the road. But luckily they put their arms around each other and set off into the fog, taking up the whole width of the road. I crawled after them, hoping I might be able to get around them when one of them pulled the other to one side of the road. But whenever one of them pulled his companion toward one side, the second man would pull him back the other way. They zigzagged forward, plus they’d come to a halt every so often, clapping each other on the back, shaking the other guy or tugging at his hand. And I had to stop with them.
At a certain moment a gateway loomed up out of the fog over the road. Actually, it shone there. A chain of faint little lights, like the ones in the windows, marked it out from the roadside on one side. The lights climbed up then broke off in the middle over the roadway, probably the bulbs in the other half were burned out or there’d been a short circuit. On the half that was lit up, one word could be seen: Welcome. The message for sure was longer, but the other half of it had gone out.
They stopped in the gateway. They weren’t hugging anymore, or shaking one another, or slapping each other on the back. They just shook hands, and I started to hope that maybe they’d finally go their separate ways. They couldn’t let go of each other’s hands, as if they weren’t sure they could stand on their own two feet. In the end, though, they managed to pull apart, and one disappeared on one side of the road, the other one on the other.
I breathed a sigh of relief. But I didn’t move off right away. I got out of the car and stood there for a while to calm down. The chill of the fog did me good. Only then did I get back in the car and move off very slowly. I’d gone maybe a few dozen yards, and here they appeared out of the fog again, in the middle of the road. I didn’t know what to do. I pulled up. But they must have noticed the car, because they turned around clumsily to face me, still arm in arm. I rolled the window down and leaned out.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Do you think you could …?”
They gestured as if to tell me they’d get out of the road right away. And in fact, a moment later they staggered forward. I decided to wait a while. I found some music on the radio and listened for a bit before I set off again. I drove with my heart in my mouth, my eyes peeled, worried they might loom up yet again out of the fog in the middle of the road. You may find it hard to believe, but it was like I’d grown attached to them. I’d even begun to miss them.
The lights came to an end and I sped up a little. A few miles further on I suddenly felt so tired that when I saw a lighted sign saying “Inn” I decided to stop.
The place was quiet and the owner polite. He advised me against driving in the fog. Fog like this, you’ve no business driving in it. Get some sleep, some rest, let the fog clear. Our rooms are comfy, reasonable. Would you like something hot to eat? We can make it right away. Will you have a beer? These days you can get any kind of beer you want. Imported even. Or would you prefer something a little stronger? We’ll have a room ready for you in no time. We’ve had a busy day today.
“What were all those lights in the windows? And the gateway?” I asked without thinking. “Was it because of the fog?”
He gave me a distrustful look.
“Where are you from?”
“I live abroad.”
It was only then he softened:
“There was a procession with a holy picture.”
But you know, I didn’t sleep a wink all night. I was even weighing up whether I should keep going or turn back. You got a decent night’s sleep, though, right? Because when I woke up, or rather when the dogs woke me, and I glanced out the window a couple of times, there was still no sign of you. The car was there so I gathered someone must have arrived. I only wondered who it could possibly be this time of year, in the fall. Especially as it was a different car, no one around here has a car like that. What kind is it? Thought so. I used to have one of those. Went like greased lightning. And never a problem. I’d take off from the lights and be half way down the street before the other drivers had even moved. I’d step on it and the thing would almost leap under me. Hardly anyone ever overtook me on the open road. I liked to drive fast. Drive fast, live fast. I used to think that if I lived fast, life would last shorter. Was I afraid? Of what? It was no big deal. There really isn’t that much of a reason to respect life. My life at least. Oh yes, I got plenty of speeding tickets. One time my license was suspended for a year. Accidents? Can anyone drive without having accidents? Just like you can’t live without having accidents. Once I broke my leg, right here, in this place. Once I had a broken collar bone, once three ribs, another time I had a concussion. One time they had to cut me out of the car. But can you imagine it, I was all in one piece. Just a few scrapes and bruises, nothing more. I was lucky? Perhaps. Though I don’t know what luck is. It was only when I came down with rheumatism that I didn’t
drive at all for three years. Then after that I drove much slower.
What’s your license plate number? I didn’t see it, and I have to note it down. I write down every car that comes here. Not just the number. Make, model, color. Not the owners of the cabins. I’ve had their cars written down from the beginning. Except when someone gets a new car. But otherwise I already have them all. During the season all kinds of friends of the different owners come to visit. Often I have them show me their auto registration document, and I check to see whether the car has any dings or scratches. You can never be sure with friends. He’s a friend, but he could turn out to be anyone. And you can’t count on witnesses if something were to happen. Ten witnesses and there’ll be ten colors, ten makes and ten different models, not to mention all the license plate numbers. I don’t trust witnesses. I even write down when they arrive and the time they leave. I have a separate notebook for cars. I’ve a different one for the cabins, who and when, for how long, how many people. And a third one for other business. You can’t keep proper order with just one notebook.
I didn’t realize at first that you were staying in Mr. Robert’s cabin. It was only when you opened the curtains. Could it be Mr. Robert? I thought to myself. I couldn’t believe it. It’s been such a long while since he was last here, but here he is after all this time, how about that. It must have been after midday when you came out, right? You stood on the deck, took a look around and it was then that I saw it wasn’t Mr. Robert. Though not right away. You’re the same height as him and you’re both slim. Also, your hat was covering your face. The dogs started pawing at the door to be let out, and that was when I knew it wasn’t Mr. Robert. But I wouldn’t let them out on their own with a stranger. I decided to wait till you came over to my place, you’d tell me who you are, why you’re here, how long for.
What puzzled me the most was how you knew where to find the key. Aside from Mr. Robert and me, no one knows it’s on a nail in the beam under the deck. I even thought you must be a close friend of Mr. Robert, so all the more I won’t go over there, especially with the dogs, asking you questions and checking on you like with other visitors. You’re sure to come see me, tell me what’s going on with Mr. Robert, where he’s living, how he’s doing. I once tried to find out where on earth he’d moved to, but even his closest neighbors on the same floor didn’t know. He didn’t leave a forwarding address with anyone. He sends me the money regularly. In an envelope, not by money order. But he never even includes a note, just money folded in a blank sheet of paper. And the postmark’s so faint I can never read where it’s from. He must have a friend at the post office. If it’s not from him, who could it be from? Why would some stranger keep sending me money? I don’t get it. He might at least visit just once. To see how things are here. Or at the very least send me his address so I can write and tell him everything’s fine. The cabin’s still there. I’m looking after it. So he needn’t worry.
A Treatise on Shelling Beans Page 2