‘Rome is hellishly expensive,’ he complained, trying to fix his camera in the Day Room. ‘Twenty-eight euros, that coffee cost me.’
Herr Pfammatter couldn’t get the flap on the camera to open, the flap over the battery compartment for the light meter. We tried to screw it open with a coin, but – no hope – the flap refused to budge. The shutter was crooked, having been screwed on badly, and the threads weren’t catching. Herr Furrer, a retired engineer, kept us company as we tried, and explained in great detail how Herr Pfammatter could take photos even without a light meter. He’d only have to adjust the shutter settings of the lens depending on the light conditions, and do so in keeping with the scale on the instruction leaflet that came with the film. Though I knew no person in his right mind would ever use this method, Herr Pfammatter listened patiently. Later, when my family came by on a Sunday visit, I asked Herr Pfammatter to give his camera to my son. Markus disappeared to my room and returned with it repaired an hour and a half later. I remarked to the ever-so-pleased and grateful Herr Pfammatter, ‘I knew Markus would relish the challenge.’
‘Above all,’ my daughter-in-law objected, ‘if he can help someone in doing so.’
It was one of those moments when I can see that I don’t know my son at all, but perhaps we should talk about Markus another time.
From Rome? In St Peter’s Basilica he took a candle socket down off the wall. – But of course. Herr Pfammatter really has to check himself in order not to steal here in the Home. The building’s crammed with all kinds of junk. Trinkets, Persian carpets, the amphora vase with the spray of golden dwarf broom in the Day Room.
What’s the point of our being alive, Kâzim? – To fulfil a task? But that’s precisely the difficulty! What is the task? In strictest confidence: as a teacher I corrected jotters every evening, but if all that had gone up in smoke, not a single tear would have been shed. The pupils corrected one error with a new error; and, jeering, at the end of their schooldays, threw their exercise sheets, crumpled into balls, into a cement mixer to prove how I had failed. Thank Heaven I lived to see my retirement. At last I could be free-and-easy when out and about on Seidenfadenstrasse, and didn’t need to fear snowball peltings from the balconies of blocks of flats. What I’m saying is: for most people, teachers are, and knowledge is, completely useless. Unless it’s for the entertainment value. If a piece of knowledge is neither funny nor scary, and if it’s not going to make you rich, then ditch it. I’m sure you were a good pupil, Kâzim. Hardly home from school before you were sitting down to your homework. No TV until your homework was done – am I right?
But ‘task’ in what sense? In the past, you often saw death notices in the papers with a terrible quotation over them: ‘Your work was your life, you never thought of yourself. Looking after your kin was your greatest duty.’ Every time I read that, I thought, ‘That’s an obituary for a brewery horse.’
I don’t think the purpose of being here is to fulfil a task. Civilian service – instead of military – fine, and if you help old people on staircases, that isn’t bad either. But if the old person doesn’t know the point of being alive, then surely you can’t know whether it makes sense to help him. In that case, you’re maybe better sitting him down, stripped to the waist, at an open window, and he’ll be dead before supper. – No? – You can discuss these things endlessly.
What’s the point of being alive? You know, my grandparents’ home was always there for me. Once, I was sitting in my grandfather’s study, reading with grim determination.
‘Granda, what does this mean?’ I ask. ‘This here. Is that English?’
I carry the book over to Grandfather who is seated, sad-eyed, at his desk. He takes the book from me and clears his throat. ‘To Look and Pass is the title. See and die.’ He gives the book back to me and glances at me, watchfully, over the top of his steel-rimmed glasses. ‘Now, Lukas, have you any idea what could be meant by that?’
‘Yes, Granda, I think so. See and die. Maybe other people see it differently, but for me it means: you are born, live and die. You look at the thing and pass on. It doesn’t matter whether you work or not, make something of yourself or remain a zero, whether you run around madly or stand still.’ I look at the book. ‘Matthäus looked at everything and died,’ I say, quietly.
I clearly remember the odd silence that followed these words.
‘Now, Lukas,’ Grandfather puts his glasses on the table and rubs his eyes, ‘where would we be if everyone thought like that? Where would we be without ambition, without get-up-and-go, without striving for justice?’
He smiles weakly and puts a hand on my shoulder. He tries to continue speaking, but doesn’t.
‘Sometimes I think I’m to blame for his death,’ I say. ‘If I hadn’t been so determined to beat him, he wouldn’t have raced down the alley like a savage.’
‘You mustn’t think like that,’ Grandfather says.
‘It’s just: I miss Matthäus.’
‘I miss him too.’ Then Grandfather takes his bowler and his stick and leaves the room to go for his daily walk.
Do you know what I think, Kâzim? We’re not walkers by nature but are in the world to become walkers. To touch trees with winter-proof leaves. To rub wild rosemary and thyme between our fingers and smell them. Let sand slip through our fingers. To pet the coats of dogs that won’t bark, never mind bite. To take a new path to the Day Room every day. Let wild strawberries, warm from the sun, melt on your tongue, and smell the pine resin. And if a person isn’t interested in such things, he’s missed his calling as a human being. Then there’s no point in talking to him about all kinds of possible and impossible things.
I’m telling you that because it’s a great comfort. Although you can never really know what use words are. It’s been known to happen that I’ve talked about walking, and the listeners tell me: your words are boring. Am I boring you, Kâzim? If it’s boring, it’s my fault. Walkers can sometimes put you off walking.
I’m thinking of a particular day when Emilie and I walked through Bonstetten Park in Thun, where there were gigantic Canadian firs. Barefoot along the gravel path, careful not to step on a broken bottle. I talked the whole time, for some reason. In flowery language, I outlined everything I knew. I wanted to impress Emilie. And now, hold your breath. Emilie pulls her silk shawl tighter round her shoulders. And suddenly, out of nowhere, this gentle woman turns to me and slaps me across the face!
My lip was bleeding and there were tears in my eyes. I looked at Emilie, indignant, put my hand up to my lip and said, ‘That’s the limit! Why did you do that?’
You didn’t often get the opportunity to voice your indignation with her. I gave it my best shot. And with a vehemence I’d never before experienced from her, she shouted, ‘Just be quiet for once!’
Emilie and I had survived a war, brought a child into the world, spooned soup from the same tureen, comforted each other at the funerals of our respective parents, stood by one another in sickness and in health. And now, all of a sudden, she was a transformed woman. Calmer, she added, ‘Just shut your mouth for once, Lukas.’
Now, Emilie was no doubt right. All in all, she was a good bit cleverer than me. But I also had my pride. ‘Very well,’ I began. ‘Stevenson did write that marriage was one long conversation, but if you like, I’ll never say anything ever again.’
The whole of the next day, I remained silent. Anything I had to communicate went down in writing. My teacher colleagues were frightened by my silence, believe me. For my pupils, I was a lost case. Would you say you’re capable of being silent, Kâzim? – I look every pupil in the eye briefly, sit down, fold my arms and cross my legs. The pupils, too, try to sit as comfortably as possible, shift on their seats for a while still, rest their arms on the scuffed desks or their legs. Some look at the teacher, others look around, silently consulting their neighbours, give cautious smiles. The classroom becomes quiet. We sit and wait. Nothing happens. I’m still sitting in the same position and there’s no sign of my
being about to break the silence. Martin is the first to show the strain. He can’t sit still any more, his upper body leans forward, then he sits back again, he coughs and snaps a rubber in two. Others lose patience too, chair-shifting, Fredy and Kurt grin at each other, the girls giggle. In the back row, a sharpener falls to the floor. Five minutes have already passed without anyone saying anything. Martin leans forward on both elbows and addresses a question to me. ‘Herr Zbinden, how long is this going to go on for?’
His voice sounds tinny after the long silence. He clears his throat and repeats the question. The others are startled, look to me, but I don’t answer. I change the position of my legs, look around the group.
Martin now addresses the other pupils. ‘If the teacher doesn’t want to, then we’ll just start without him.’ And when no one does, he adds, ‘Why’s no one saying anything? It’s not as if he’s forbidden us to speak, he’s just not speaking himself. Let him be quiet, what does it matter to us?’
He nods in my direction, but without looking at me. Now the others start to relax. They begin to speak, all at once; if the teacher doesn’t want to, then we just will, that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it, okay, let’s get started, but they don’t quite know what to start with. As each suggestion is made, they look in my direction, hoping I’ll nod in agreement.
In a fluster, Martin turns to me and says, ‘This is not on, Herr Zbinden.’
The others look at me, full of expectation.
‘I suggest we take out our Geography books, and Konrad reads something out,’ Silvia says. She looks at me, waiting.
‘Has anyone any objections?’ Martin asks.
‘Why Konrad?’ Mathilda asks.
‘You read then,’ says Martin.
Konrad sits and sulks as if something’s been taken away from him. He pulls a face.
‘What do I have to read?’ Mathilda asks, looking at me.
‘Something that will interest everybody,’ Martin says.
‘That’s boring as shit, if you ask me,’ says Konrad.
‘Shut your gob, you!’ Martin screams, throwing half a rubber at him. ‘Mathilda, kindly read to us!’ He looks round the class. ‘No one has any objections. So let us begin.’
‘What do you mean: no one has any objections?’ Konrad says, and a ruler flies through the air. ‘Some people haven’t said anything yet!’
‘We’re stuck on the moon without any bog paper,’ Fredy pipes up, with a grin, while Martin and Konrad lay into each other – each questions the other’s mental abilities, casts a slur on the legitimacy of the other’s birth, and there’s a barrage of foul expressions, highlighting activities ranging from incest to intercourse with barn animals.
‘Konrad! Martin! That’s enough!’ the teacher shouts, reaching for the blackboard pointer and slamming it down on his desk.
It’s perhaps not the most favourable moment to break my silence. For Martin and Konrad show no intention of stopping. They pounce on each other, Martin sits on Konrad’s chest … What do you mean, Kâzim? Cruel? You think I was cruel to my pupils? – Listen, I taught in a catchment area where the people were cruel, believe me. Konrad’s hosing the skinny chickens down, they’re clucking and flapping around. ‘Why are you doing that?’ I call across to him.
Konrad shouts, ‘Because chickens hate water!’
Konrad lay in wait for Martin behind the fire brigade station and gave him a doing, leaving the bridge of his nose in bits, but Emilie supported me in my plan to introduce regular silence days. – Frau Jacobs, your visitors have left already? – And your itch, it’s still itching? – Exactly. You need to get Lydia to give you some milking grease. – I meant to ask you earlier, how’s your brother, the one in hospital? – What do you mean, they let him out again? What do they think he is, a lion? – Get Lydia to … Okay! – Bye!
She’s noticed you, Kâzim, Frau Jacobs is acknowledging you. A good start, congratulations. – I know. The entire team doesn’t like Frau Jacobs especially. The chef goes out of his way to find a fresh peach for her, and hopes in vain she won’t notice the marks on it. In the past, you should realise, her name was well known. People talked about her over lunch, at the garden fence. ‘Have you seen Julia Jacobs in this new film?’
Ask Frau Jacobs whether she’s still recognised in the street. She’ll tell you, honestly, that she doesn’t like to be recognised, and likes it even less not to be recognised. She’ll admit quite freely that her talent was founded on youth and beauty, neither of which she now possesses. Her name was known in the Elysée Palace and amid the ice of Norway. – But no, of course, she doesn’t think she’s superior, somehow. She has requests she makes to the staff, and the staff make requests back. – Why so impatient? She’s afraid of being transferred, at some point, to a special-care home. Sedated by medication. Kept there against her wishes. And silenced.
A nice little town but a terrible catchment area, believe me. Once, Emilie wanted to take Konrad’s mother to a women’s meeting across the bridge in Interlaken. Carlotta. She needed to get out more, Emilie reckoned. Carlotta’s husband wasn’t happy with her going, simply loved causing trouble. But Emilie said, ‘Just don’t take it from him, Carlotta. Say hello from me – what kind of country does he think we live in?’
Carlotta worked on her husband and, finally, was permitted to go. They met up with Annemarie and Frau Schmutz and I don’t know who else in the Savoy. They were talking and laughing, and it got really late. Well after midnight it was, when Emilie took Carlotta home, to Hohmüedig.
Emilie went in with her to have a last coffee. And Carlotta’s husband’s sitting in front of the TV. Raging, he looks at his wife, jumps up and hits her in the face – so hard she falls over. He then makes for Emilie who runs away.
No, he did, he wanted to belt her one too. Maybe he thought he’d be doing me a favour. Emilie was raving and ranting when she got home. I was long since in bed. She rushed up to me, pulled me up and hugged me. She calmed down and I said, ‘Come on, we’ll sit down and you can tell me what happened.’
When she was finished, it was my turn to jump up, raving and ranting, to put on my shirt and trousers, and run to the police station in Marktgasse. They listened and nodded, but no one wanted to go and fetch Carlotta’s husband to take his fingerprints. So, taking bigger steps than usual, I stomped my way to Carlotta’s house, hammered at the door and, when the door was opened, set upon her husband. ‘You belong in jail,’ I shouted.
He put up his hands to protect his face. Konrad tried to grab my arms and tear me away from his father. In her nightdress, Carlotta was shouting, with a burst lip, ‘Thomas! Your teeth. Watch your teeth!’
The incident left its mark on me too, and Emilie put poultices on the injured body parts. ‘Konrad still hasn’t seen a man who can get by without turning violent,’ she said.
My heart hurts if I think of Konrad. The circumstances he’s grown up in. What will have become of him meanwhile?
An eternally long staircase, God knows. You’d think I was Methuselah’s age, the way I’m taking these steps. I need longer to go down these stairs than it takes a lazy Christian to get to Paradise. Maybe, in future, I should take the lift after all? You enter it for a few seconds, and meanwhile they’re altering the world outside.
Let’s sit down a moment in the alcove there, Kâzim. It’s true, Herr Imhof regards this sofa as his private property, but it’s the most comfortable seat in the entire Home, imagine! – No, you can’t smoke, surely you know it’s all no-smoking here, Kâzim? The Home, from top to bottom, is one big oxygen tent. Lydia cowers on the very top landing from time to time, at the door to the attic. It’s the only place in this wonderful old building where she can enjoy a cigarette without setting the alarm off.
Sad? What makes you think I could be sad? – I’m just trying not to speak for a while. Federal Councillor Rudolf Minger used, before chairing a public administration meeting or addressing the Agricultural Association, to sit on a comfortable chair, close his mouth,
and sleep like a babe in arms for a quarter of an hour. I spent all my lunchtimes trying to do the same, with varying degrees of success. Sure, my life was in no way sensational. I was conscientious and did my work well, but I’m in no way outstanding. My pupils saw no danger, shine or reason to get excited in me. I’m an ordinary man and have lived an ordinary life. I’ve taken paths, no doubt, many others took before me. On the other hand, I loved someone, with all my heart and soul, and that was always enough for me.
But the writers are right: love makes you suffer. During our walk round the shops on the main street, one morning, Emilie vanished from my side all of a sudden. I heard a loud sigh. Then it was as if the ground had swallowed her up. Straight away, a nice, somewhat nervous-seeming man addressed me, and don’t ask me how, but I knew right away that this had to be Walter Hensler, Emilie’s admirer from the bird-watching course, above Interlaken. Emilie had told me he desperately wanted to take her to the Rex to see a Hitchcock.
‘Will you go with him?’ I’d enquired, in as composed a fashion as possible.
‘Oh, Lukas,’ she laughed.
And yet I’m not a jealous man. Anyone who knows Lukas Zbinden well will tell you: I’m not a jealous man. Being smitten, occasionally, is part of life, after all. Nothing to get worked up about.
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