Amberville

by Tim Davys

  Poor wretch.

  Let me give examples:

  I don’t walk against red lights.

  I don’t tell “white lies.”

  I redid one of my last examinations after I’d accidentally caught a glimpse of the answers my neighbor had filled in and then couldn’t figure out what I’d happened to see and which answers were my own. Despite the fact that the likelihood that I was influenced was very, very small. Despite the fact that he’d never done better than me on any test.

  I’m not some kind of compulsive truth-sayer who can’t keep his thoughts to himself. I don’t run over to strange animals and accuse them of living in sin. But I suffer—and I don’t hesitate to use the word “suffer”—from an effort to be good and truthful in a way that restricts my life.

  When I look back, I realize that it’s always been like that.

  I talked with Mother and Father and Eric about the matter. They reacted in different ways.

  I spoke with Father one morning when he had time and was sitting, enjoying the newspaper with a cooling cup of coffee. That was the way he liked his coffee best. Cold. I did my best to express what I was feeling. Father’s sense of justice was almost paralyzing. It was one of the most distinguishing features of his character, and I thought he would understand.

  He didn’t understand.

  He looked at me as if I were crazy. He muttered that life didn’t let itself be tamed. That principles were a way of surviving. That terms like “good” and “evil” always had to be put into context. After that he lost interest in his line of reasoning and returned to his newspaper and his cold coffee.

  Mother didn’t understand, either.

  We were on our way to the market hall in Amberville one Sunday the month after I’d finished my degree.

  “I had a plan for the future,” I explained. “But then it didn’t work out. It doesn’t matter. My mission is more important than anything else.”

  “What mission, darling?” asked Mother.

  I told her. About being good, and what that entailed. About the illusory simplicity of the promise. How it was a matter of a full-time occupation and that perhaps I would have a hard time managing much more than that.

  Mother didn’t understand.

  I tried to explain three times, three times she changed the subject and instead talked about the red beets that we were on our way to buy.

  Eric understood everything. This was no surprise. We were each other’s antitheses; if he hadn’t understood, it would have been strange.

  Eric understood everything, but didn’t agree with anything.

  Getting Eric interested in goodness was like getting a reptile interested in doing laundry.

  After the summer, I applied for a job at an advertising agency.

  It was by pure chance. A good friend of Father’s had told about a job as an assistant. The pay was better than for an established energy researcher. I sent in my application papers without any expectations. I will never understand why they decided to call me in for an interview. Two days after the interview they called and offered me the job. Father’s friend had exaggerated the pay, but only marginally. I arranged to start at the advertising agency Wolle & Wolle the first of October.

  Wolle Hare and Wolle Toad had located their office in the Lanceheim district. Of the city’s four districts, Lanceheim is the largest. In Lanceheim there are both hectic office districts and broad, illuminated shopping blocks. In Lanceheim there are large, green areas of single-family homes in the north and crowded apartment blocks of high-rises and underground garages in the west. The advertising agency Wolle & Wolle was on plum-violet Place Great Hoch, just over a block from the Star and walking distance from the advertising school where the hare and the toad had once met.

  The position I took was as assistant to Wolle Toad, the stingy, bean-counting Wolle in the successful duo.

  I didn’t think it would mean anything.

  I thought my mission in life had to do with goodness. That the job was something I could go to in the morning and go home from in the evening. Nothing more.

  It didn’t turn out that way. Not at all.

  I met Emma Rabbit on the outskirts of my universe.

  In a neighboring galaxy.

  She was an angel. If I close my eyes, I see her before me clad in white. How she floats up the stairway.

  Can it have been at Wolle & Wolle? In that case, Emma must have felt as uncomfortable there as I did.

  That was why we sought each other out. We were both in the wrong place at the same time. Forced to be in the wrong place, for different reasons.

  Deep down, Emma Rabbit didn’t want to work at an advertising agency at all. She despised the advertising industry. It was for art that she lived and about art that she dreamed. It was in her studio apartment in Tourquai that she showed me the minimalist canvases where she, with the finest pony-hair brush and watercolors, created enchanted forests and meadows and fields and mountains.

  After that evening my fascination turned to veneration.

  In Emma Rabbit’s imagination lived primeval forests and wide-branching, richly fragrant deltas.

  No one listened like she did.

  With her head to one side and those big eyes that followed every thought. From its source to its outlet. I had never been able to talk with anyone that way.

  It made me happy.

  It made me unhappy. How many years had passed without my having a friend like her?

  I brooded.

  The job as assistant to Wolle Toad offered independence. I was creating routines on the basis of a responsibility that I myself had defined. This suited me well. My time was required, not my thoughts. This meant that I could devote myself to significant questions.

  I was worried.

  I was almost alone in putting value on that goodness that ought to be desirable for everyone.

  I believe, I explained to Emma as we sat across from each other and her large eyes were locked with mine, that all animals are delivered good. But from the first day outside the factory we are exposed to temptations.

  To expose the good to temptations is the challenge and driving force of evil. Evil derives its nourishment by luring the good stuffed animal to commit mistakes.

  What worried me was how unequal the battle was. I drew up a number of maxims in order to make clear the relationship between good and evil.

  Evil had a clear advantage.

  Like this:

  Evil is impossible without goodness. Evil seeks balance, it seeks symmetry. Evil is social, because it only exists in an opposing relationship. Goodness is self-sufficient. It needs no one, nothing. I can be good on my own. But to manifest evil requires a counterpart.

  Evil is restless, goodness passive. Evil constantly seeks ways to reach its goal. If one temptation isn’t enticing, evil tries another. Goodness seeks nothing, because it knows in advance how it should be good. If evil is dynamic, changeable, and intellectually stimulating, goodness is, to put it bluntly, boring. Goodness doesn’t have much to put up in defense in the battle against all the temptations of evil. Evil is incomprehensible and absurd. Goodness lacks a short-term force of attraction.

  Against the background of these suppositions, I asked Emma Rabbit, is it possible for an intelligent animal to remain good? Or, in reality, is goodness only possible for fools?

  Emma Rabbit shook her tender head and wrinkled her plastic nose.

  She didn’t have the answer. But in her eyes a possibility glistened.

  I showered her with questions.

  Are good actions without genuinely good intentions pointless? Are good intentions which result in misery disguised evil? If goodness is a matter of faith, is goodness impossible for the agnostic or atheist? Is there a clear connection between goodness and spiritual harmony? Is there a connection between evil and anxiety? If there isn’t such a connection, how will goodness find its adherents?

  Emma Rabbit looked into my eyes. She had no answers, but together with her I dared
to formulate the questions.

  There were no answers, and together with Emma I was secure enough to dare to admit that.

  The first time Emma met Mother, we were treated to mushroom risotto with boiled viper’s grass and béarnaise sauce in the kitchen in Amberville. With it was served the pickled pumpkin preserve that was Mother’s specialty. That same afternoon Mother had baked a rich carrot bread and had time to season the fresh cheese with dill. Mother had exerted herself.

  Father thought that the vanilla sauce with lime and confectioner’s sugar was a tad bitter when it was served with the rhubarb pie.

  Emma thought there was a lot of food.

  Eric was, as usual, not at home.

  Many times I’ve tried to recall the conversation we carried on in the kitchen that evening, but I don’t recall a single word.

  I recall that Emma was tense.

  In her eyes it wasn’t my mother who, with an apron around her voluminous trunk, stirred the risotto, it was the legendary department head Rhinoceros Edda.

  Several months later Emma hinted that she had expected something else. I can only speculate about what she meant. Perhaps candelabras and crystal chandeliers, servants and a political discussion. Politics had never been discussed in the little kitchen on Hillville Road. There we talked about cooking, sports, and everyday things.

  Emma was not interested in politics. From that it followed that she was politically unaware. Did Emma say something foolish about politics that evening? Something Mother and Father found inappropriate? Was I ashamed in such a case? I hope that I wasn’t ashamed. The shame of being ashamed is heavy to bear.

  I loved Emma Rabbit. You shouldn’t be ashamed of your beloved.

  Love had come stealthily. Love had waited, lain in wait and attacked when I least suspected it.

  I’d been defenseless.

  The first days I didn’t dare say anything. We attended to our roles as usual. She asked how the night had been, I answered that it had been good. She asked if I wanted to have the window open or closed. I answered closed.

  But I answered with a joy that I couldn’t rein in. Love made me strong and exhilarated. It didn’t take very long before I told her how I felt.

  I was afraid of how she would react.

  In the kitchen with Mother and Father, she was the one who was afraid. Why didn’t she let her eyes sparkle and reveal all their warmth and joy? When Mother asked about her ambitions and mentioned that I’d told her about her paintings, why didn’t she say anything?

  At ten o’clock Emma went home.

  It was as if she’d never been there.

  Mother and I sat down in the living room. We heard Father upstairs. Often he would sit at the desk in their bedroom and work until far into the night. I needed times to talk alone with Mother. It was a need she’d implanted in me, just as physical as my need for food or sleep. The spiritual closeness I felt toward her was coupled with these conversations.

  As usual, we’d each opened a bottle of mineral water and placed them in front of us on the coffee table.

  “Teddy, she’s marvelous,” said Mother as we heard Father’s footsteps from upstairs.

  Then an insight struck me. When I heard Mother praise Emma Rabbit, common sense forced its way up through my amatory intoxication. For a moment I saw my beloved objectively. As Mother saw her.

  I shut my eyes.

  But a feeling of uncertainty remained. I understood that there was another way of looking at Emma Rabbit, in a different light than love’s rosy shimmer. I understood that the essence of my love was a loss of distance. This sort of absorption in one’s self and one’s own feelings was one of evil’s many temptations. Without distance, I felt myself pleasantly free from responsibility.

  This made me afraid.

  I consoled myself that this insight about the danger made it harmless. (Later I understood that this thought, too, was an attempt by evil to overthrow my mission in life.)

  I tried to restrain myself. In the morning when Emma Rabbit came in I kept my eyes shut.

  But it’s your deepest emotions that are the most difficult to conceal.

  Emma Rabbit was like a drug. I could not refrain from the delight mixed with terror she infused into my heart.

  One day we took a long walk on the shore in Hillevie. Emma had come to get me without advance notice.

  We have something to celebrate, she said.

  She didn’t say what it was. The daytime breeze picked up as we came down to the sea. Her ears bumped against her cheeks. She held on to me so as not to fall down. I held on to her. There was a scent of salty damp from the sea and of damp yarn around Emma. In a little more than a quarter of an hour the Afternoon Rain would be over Mollisan Town, while we were walking securely out here in Hillevie, watching the dark clouds passing over our heads.

  “Teddy,” she said, “I’ve given notice.”

  She was beaming with happiness. With happiness.

  I was struck with panic. If she hadn’t been holding me under the arms I would have fallen flat onto the cold sand.

  “Emma Rabbit,” I said, “will you marry me?”

  I had thought about asking earlier. I had abstained. I’d been wise and strategic. I was through with so-called wisdom now. A seagull was screeching out over the sea.

  “Emma Rabbit,” I repeated, “will you marry me?”

  Later she would tease me about that. It was my need for control that caused me to get to the point, she would say. When I realized that I wouldn’t get to see her at work anymore.

  She was so lovely on the shore at Hillevie. Happy as a cub at having finally made her decision and chosen art.

  I put a damper on the mood with my proposal. I couldn’t let be.

  “Emma Rabbit,” I said for a third time, “will you marry me?”

  Her broad smile became even broader. She nodded and whispered, “Yes, thanks.” It was enchanting.

  In the very next moment I knew that I could never carry out the marriage.

  It had to do with Father.

  Eric and I grew up with a powerful father figure. Boxer Bloom served not only as our role model; he was a role model for many. The stories about him were legion. The one I personally placed foremost, and which moved me most deeply, dealt with pride, dignity, and respect. It dealt with a stuffed animal’s attitude toward his place of employment.

  When I started at Wolle & Wolle, it was unavoidable that I compared myself to my father.

  Father had been trained as a schoolteacher. Immediately after his education, he started to work at the elementary school in Amberville, where he later remained. He taught chemistry and physics and made himself known for his unusually just treatment of the pupils. He became the school system’s living model, who proved that it was possible to treat everyone alike: cats and chimpanzees, foxes and badgers.

  Therefore it was peculiar that Rector Owl called on Father in that particular affair that would transform their lives.

  This was at the time when Eric and I were not yet in school, because we were too little. One evening as Father sat correcting papers in his office, there was an unexpected knock at the door. Father stopped what he was doing and looked out through the window. The storm had swept in over the city. Father often worked late, because he could be in peace in the evenings. Now he asked the person who was knocking to come in. To Father’s astonishment, Bo Owl was standing outside the door.

  “Bloom,” said Rector Owl, “do you have a minute?”

  Of course Father had a minute for the venerable rector. Owl had already been serving at Amberville when Father had been a pupil at the school. Father pushed his papers aside and prepared to listen. It was the first time Owl had called on him after school hours.

  “You do have Nathan in your physics class, don’t you?” said Bo Owl.

  Nathan was Bo Owl’s cub, a beaver who’d been delivered to the rector and his wife late in life. Now Owl’s cub was in one of Father’s final-year classes, and he had major problems with ph
ysics.

  Father nodded thoughtfully, and said, “With your help, Bo, I’m certain that Nathan is going to pass his examination.”

  “Unfortunately that’s not good enough, Bloom,” sighed the owl. “Nathan wants to continue his studies at the art academy. So he has to have the highest grades in all of his subjects, even in physics. Just passing isn’t good enough.”

  “Then he’s really going to have to work at it,” declared Father.

  That Beaver Nathan would receive the highest grades in physics, Father considered to be more or less impossible. Nathan had neither aptitude for nor understanding of the subject.

  “We’re planning to work at it,” the rector assured him. “You can be quite certain that I as well as Nathan are going to do everything in our power to succeed.”

  Father nodded.

  “But what I would really appreciate,” continued the rector, “were if you, Bloom, also did everything you could.”

  Father said that he always did his best. According to his opinion, most of the pupils responded well.

  Father misunderstood the rector’s intentions. The idea of giving Beaver a grade that had nothing to do with his efforts was so preposterous that it didn’t occur to Father.

  Rector Owl was forced to become explicit to the point of vulgarity. The conversation ended with Owl openly threatening Father. If Beaver Nathan wasn’t guaranteed the highest grade in physics, Father would lose his job.

  Father left school that evening crushed. When he came home, at first he didn’t want to tell Mother what had happened. That an animal he had long admired could behave in this way made him deeply distressed.

  He did not consider giving in to the threat.

  Toward midnight he told how things stood. Mother’s reaction was practical.

  “But we’ll never be able to afford living here,” she said.

  Mother understood immediately that Father didn’t intend to accommodate Owl. He would thereby lose his job. The monthly payments for the mortgage on the house in Amberville were still high and Mother’s career had not yet taken off.

  “No, no, there’s no danger,” said our naïve father. “It’s clear that Rector Owl is going to come to his senses.”