To Greet the Sun

by Claus von Bohlen

  I was surprised that my daily routines failed to provide the welcoming sense of familiarity which I had been anticipating. My sleeping patterns continued to be irregular and I had to supplement my sporadic nightly rest with naps throughout the day. At times, when waking from a nap in my armchair, the objects in my house, the same objects that I have collected over the course of my lifetime, seemed strange and new, as if I had never seen them before. Even the lawn was no longer familiar; it seemed even brighter and greener than I remembered, just as it had looked in Anna-Maria’s Polaroid photo. I was disconcerted to note how profoundly I had been affected by the incident in the shop, and the operation, and the long conversations with Pietro.

  By the day of the surfing contest, I was able to move around autonomously. After a week in a wheelchair, this was a source of considerable satisfaction. Of course, I still needed crutches, and my palms were sore from practising with them up and down the path that runs around garden. However, this was a price I was happy to pay; I did not want to appear pitiable at the contest.

  The lack of movement in my hip meant that even simple tasks like getting dressed took much longer. Consequently I had allowed myself a full hour in which to prepare myself on the morning of the competition. This was fortunate since I became entrapped in my suit trousers. Anna-Maria was out so I had to shout out of the window for Valdemar’s assistance. Once Valdemar had liberated me, I finished dressing and sparingly applied the pomade which is sent to me once a year from London’s Bond Street. I slipped a white handkerchief into my top pocket. Anna-Maria irons beautifully, and also starches and folds my handkerchiefs to perfection. I patted the white triangle in the top pocket of my suit jacket and manoeuvred myself in front of the long mirror.

  The elegant cut of my suit disguised the fact that I had lost weight during my stay in the hospital. Yes, I thought to myself, truly that is the skill of a good tailor – to make clothing which will compensate for physical fluctuations. The swelling around my eye had subsided, leaving just a dark smudge beneath the eye itself. I thought I looked quite rakish. What is more, with the bright light reflecting off the sea behind me and my back to the window, my appearance in the mirror was wholly satisfactory – not only well dressed and lean, but also remarkably upright for a man of my years.

  Pietro had offered to send a friend of his to come and pick me up in the combi. I had politely declined the offer and instead asked Anna-Maria to book me the taxi that was now sounding its horn outside the house. I feared for a moment that the taxi might leave before I made it to the front door, but Valdemar had already engaged the driver in friendly conversation.

  The drive to Joaquina beach took me right across the island, past Lagoa with its hordes of mate-sipping Argentine tourists and alongside the calm waters of the saltwater lagoon, Lagoa da Conceição. Here I often see couples my own age sitting in deckchairs on the shady grass by the water’s edge; their grandchildren splash around in the shallows or hang from the large, swan-shaped white pedalos that can be rented from the rickety wooden pier. Sometimes the parents do the pedalling. The shiny brown bodies being towed along behind the swans are like so many grinning little Lohengrins.

  The grandparents rarely move from their deckchairs. In fact, they often appear to be asleep. But then their grandchildren come with toys to be inflated or pebbles to be admired, and I think that the old couples are probably happy. It is at moments like these that I sometimes experience a sense of regret that family life was never vouchsafed me. I have led a full life, there is no doubt about that, but on occasion I do wonder whether an essential part is not perhaps missing. There have been certain moments and certain experiences that I would have liked to share. Equally, there have been moments when I have been grateful not to be beholden to anyone. And, frankly, my feelings for another person have never been sufficiently strong as to outweigh the inevitable ennervations. What’s more, living with a woman would have necessitated the carnal act, and my adult desires have rarely led in that direction. Although now, at my age, perhaps it is permissible to live in a union for the sake of companionship alone? It is an appealing thought: to live with someone who is not an employee, not to have to observe the barriers required by that relationship, but to have someone with whom to share the remaining joys and sorrows of life. Perhaps it is not out of the question.

  The world has changed so much. I am not referring to the technological and medical advances, impressive as they are. No, I am thinking of the social norms, of the behaviours that are considered acceptable in today’s world. For instance, it is not unusual to see young men walking hand in hand through the streets of Florianópolis. In the Hitler Youth, such behavior would have earned you a fearsome beating, immediate expulsion, probably some time in a correctional facility and, in extreme cases, chemical castration. Even in my adult life in Brazil, such predilections were secrets to be guarded at all costs. And now the politicians are debating whether to raise the status of the union of man and man to that of a traditional marriage. Truly, the world has changed. Since the operation, I have not been able to still that small voice which wonders how different my life might have been had I been born half a century later.

  *

  After a couple of miles the road parts from the lagoon and climbs gently towards the enormous dunes that tower above Joaquina beach. The road ends shortly before the beach; there are a couple of hotels, two or three white kiosks, and a rundown seafood restaurant. The beach is wide and empty and sweeps for many miles down to the south of the island, which on this occasion was clouded by a slight haze. The taxi driver helped me out of the vehicle and I hobbled towards the concrete steps leading down to the beach.

  In the far distance I could make out the red-tented constructions which Pietro had told me to look for. I hesitated. There was no road that ran parallel to the dunes and it would have taken me the best part of the afternoon to stagger with my crutches across half a mile of soft sand. I was considering getting straight back into the taxi to return home when I spotted a small vehicle, like a motorbike with four oversize wheels, racing towards me from the direction of the red tents. The driver seemed to be waving at me. I leant against the railing by the top step and waited. The vehicle travelled fast over the sand and soon pulled up level with me. Then the driver released the controls – they were more like handlebars than a steering wheel – and vaulted onto the sand. He was an extremely handsome young man, his brown eyes almost gold in the bright light. As he stroked his tousled hair out of his eyes, I noticed the perfection of his boy’s body – shoulders tapering to almost impossibly thin hips and low-slung shorts revealing the subtle undulation of abdominal muslces.

  ‘O Senhor Eisinger?’ he asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘It is a great honour to meet you. My name is João. Pietro sent me to pick you up. Unless, of course, you wish to drive?’

  ‘To drive that?’ I asked, pointing at the four-wheeled motorcycle.

  ‘Yes, o Senhor. It is the only vehicle allowed onto the beach. But don’t worry, it can easily take two people. We will put your crutches in the surfboard holder and you can hold onto me if you feel unsafe.’

  I made my way over to the vehicle. João took my crutches and loaded them between the two metal struts that stuck out from the side. Then he helped me into a side-saddle position on the cushioned seat before supporting my shoulders from behind as I rocked back and drew my good leg over the seat. I was being very cautious; Linda Pereira had instructed me that on no account was my knee to be raised above my hip. João pressed a button on the handlebars and the motor sprang to life. Then he nimbly jumped onto the cushion in front of me.

  ‘You can hold onto me,’ said João.

  I placed my hands around his waist like the pillion rider on a real motorbike. João turned the handlebars to the side and described a large arc in the sand. I felt his muscles tighten as he accelerated in the direction of the red tents.

  I looked down at the sand rushing by beneath the footrests. Then I looked back
and was surprised to see how far we had already come from the dunes.

  ‘Tudo bom?’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  ‘Tudo bem,’ I replied, the air rushing into my mouth and throat.

  *

  João stopped the vehicle in the shade behind the small wooden scaffold next to the tents. With his help I was able to dismount – clumsily, it must be said, but without drawing undue attention to myself. João handed me my crutches and I straightened the handkerchief in my pocket and smoothed the creases in my suit. I was about to walk round to the front of the scaffold when I heard a familiar voice:

  ‘Seu Otto!’ Pietro sounded jubilant. I turned round to see him striding towards me in his swimming trunks.

  ‘Seu Otto, I am so happy you came. I’m sorry about the quad bike, we were denied permission to bring a car onto the beach. Was it alright?’

  ‘It was invigorating,’ I said.

  ‘When I saw you through the binoculars I sent João to pick you up. I hope you didn’t mind.’ Pietro smiled at me.

  ‘Not at all, not at all. A charming boy.’

  ‘He’s a very good surfer too, as you will see. Now let me introduce you to the other judges.’

  ‘But Pietro, I already told you, I don’t know the first thing about surfing,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll explain it all to you. This afternoon is just an air competition. It’s not difficult to score.’

  As he was saying this, Pietro mounted the steps onto the wooden scaffold. There were already five people sitting there. They were the other judges and they each had a small desk in front of them. On each of the desks a few sheets of paper were pinned down by a pair of binoculars. Pietro introduced me to each judge in turn. Despite their long, unkempt hair, each one of them stood up and shook me firmly by the hand.

  ‘They all look very young,’ I remarked quietly to Pietro.

  ‘Perhaps, but they are some of the island’s best surfers.’

  Pietro indicated the last, empty desk. I was about to sit down when he said, ‘I am afraid you may get too hot. I should have told you that these events are quite casual.’ It was true, everyone else was just wearing swimming trunks.

  ‘It would have made no difference,’ I said. ‘I always wear a suit when I leave the house.’

  At that moment a tall, attractive girl gleaming with coconut-scented tanning oil appeared at Pietro’s side. Her white dental floss bikini was indecently skimpy. She was slim but her breasts were not insignificant. I wondered if they were made of plastic.

  ‘Seu Otto, may I introduce my girlfriend, Marina.’

  Marina shook my hand – limply – and flashed a very white smile. She must have had her teeth whitened; there are dentists who will do that.

  ‘Seu Otto,’ she lisped, ‘I have heard so much about you – the Hero of Sambaqui. I saw you on the television. It is a great honour to meet you.’

  ‘Marina works in the Jungle bar in Barra, where they have the best caipirinhas,’ interrupted Pietro. ‘She’s agreed to serve them here, you know, to keep the judges happy. And to sway them into scoring me favourably.’ Pietro winked at me and affectionately put his arm around Marina’s waist. She pushed him away.

  ‘Seu Otto, will you have a caipirinha?’ asked Marina.

  ‘No thank you. I am still taking antibiotics,’ I replied.

  ‘Come Seu Otto, just one. It will help you get into the spirit,’ said Pietro.

  I am no great admirer of that sickly lime based cocktail. Nevertheless, the young couple appeared so keen for me to accept the offer, and were waiting so expectantly, that I did not have the heart to disappoint them.

  ‘Well, why not?’ I said.

  Pietro pulled the chair out from the desk and I sat down carefully while Marina returned to the makeshift bar beside the scaffold, surrounded by customers sipping their drinks. I could not help noticing that the other two bargirls were wearing similarly insubstantial dental floss bikinis that disappeared between their bottom cheeks. Really, I had thought Pietro would have better taste.

  Pietro shuffled the papers on my desk. ‘So, Seu Otto, this is the air competition,’ he said. ‘You are looking for the surfer who performs the most radical air in the most critical section of the wave. The score ranges vary for different types of air. An ollie, for example, can be awarded anything between 2.0 and 5.0, and a stale fish or an air 360 can get anything from 7.0 to 9.0. The greater the air, the higher the score. Here is a sheet for you with the different types of air and the maximum and minimum scores. There are some drawings so you can see what they look like.’ Pietro was interrupted by the sounding of a horn directly above us. ‘I have to go now, I’m in the next heat. If there’s anything you don’t understand just ask the other judges, ok?’

  ‘How do I know who is who?’ I asked.

  ‘It’ll be announced over the loudspeaker,’ said Pietro over his shoulder; he was already halfway down the wooden stairs. Then he called out, ‘Seu Otto, thank you so much for coming,’ before running off to join a cluster of surfers who were standing around with their boards.

  I began to read the scoring guidelines but I could make little sense of them. There were a lot of drawings of stick men with arrows pointing in different directions. I was just thinking that it really was very hot on the judges’ scaffold when I once again caught the strong scent of coconut oil. Looking round, I saw Marina’s glistening form bearing down on me. She placed a large, poison green caipirinha on the desk in front of me. I took a tentative sip and was pleasantly surprised to find it less sickly and more refreshing than I had anticipated. I took another sip while waiting for Marina to leave. However, the miasma of coconut persisted and when I turned around I saw that she was still standing behind me.

  ‘There he is,’ she said, pointing out to sea. And it was true, Pietro’s blond shock of hair could be seen heading out into the waves alongside the other surfers.

  ‘He really admires you, Seu Otto,’ she said.

  ‘He is a very sympathetic boy. And a handsome one too, as I am sure you are aware.’

  ‘He is handsome, but so are lots of boys here,’ said Marina. I could not fault her on that. ‘But Pietro is different.’

  She looked at me expectantly. When I didn’t reply she continued, ‘Most of these surfistas, they’re happy so long as they can surf and have a couple of beers in the evening and…’ she paused momentarily, ‘… and get laid regularly. I’m sorry Seu Otto, but it is important that you know this. You see, Pietro isn’t like that. He wouldn’t be happy just surfing and living in one of these beach shacks.’ Marina gestured dismissively towards the dunes. ‘Pietro really wants to do something with his life, you know, to make a difference. He has a big heart. That’s why I think he admires you so much. He knows that you also have a big heart.’

  ‘He does?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘Of course. He told me the story about your best friend, the one that you said looked like him. It’s so sad. I’m so sorry.’

  Marina seemed genuinely downcast, saddened by something that had happened over half a century ago on the other side of the world. Once again I realised that I had judged too hastily, that beneath the shiny coconut oil and the indecent dental floss this was a girl with a kind heart.

  ‘That’s what I love about Pietro,’ she said. ‘He really cares; he wants to make a difference. But it is so hard to get started.’

  ‘He is intelligent and well-mannered. I am sure he will do well,’ I said.

  ‘But that’s not enough. He needs to get his toe in the door.’

  ‘Well, if he gets a good degree…’

  ‘You know how much he admires you,’ interrupted Marina. ‘Don’t you want him to do well?’

  ‘Of course I want him to do well,’ I said.

  ‘Then why don’t you want to do the television interview? It would be so easy for you, and you would be helping him so much.’

  Ah ha, so this was what the caipirinha and the flattery and the attention was all about. ‘It’s not that si
mple,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to profit from the death of a dear friend. That feels like a betrayal.’

  ‘Then do it for free, just for Pietro’s sake,’ she said, imploringly.

  I didn’t reply. I did not like the idea of telling Siggi’s story on film. It felt too personal. What’s more, when I thought back to my conversations with Pietro in the hospital, I was no longer so sure what Siggi’s story was. Pietro thought that Siggi’s desperation had driven him to commit suicide, and I had to admit that this was a possibility. But what did that mean? That the Hitler Youth was an organisation in which the abuse of a young boy could go unchecked? An organisation in which such abuse might even be encouraged? Had I buried my head in the sand all those years ago? And was I therefore complicit? But when I think back to the person I was in those days, wasn’t that the best, the bravest, the most heroic that I have ever been? And wasn’t it the Hitler Youth that made me what I was?

  So many questions. But there is one thing I know for sure: Siggi reached the top of the Matterhorn all by himself. The rest is conjecture. So couldn’t I avoid these difficulties by just sticking to what I know? No conjecture, no hypothesis, just facts. How hard can that be?

  ‘It would help Pietro so much,’ said Marina.

  I did not know whether the interview would be as useful to Pietro as Marina seemed to think. On the other hand, if I stuck to the facts, then what harm could come of it? And I did want to help Pietro if I could.

  ‘Alright, I will do it,’ I said.

  ‘Really? Seu Otto, you will do the interview?’

  ‘Yes,’ I affirmed. ‘Tell Pietro to arrange it with Anna-Maria.’

  ‘I knew Pietro wasn’t wrong about you. Thank you so, so much.’ Marina flashed her white teeth at me.

  ‘Now please, Marina, it is time for me to judge the radical air.’

  I turned back round to face the sea where the surfistas were already leaping off their boards into the foam. Then I felt Marina kiss me lightly on the cheek. From up close the scent of coconut oil was not at all unpleasant.