“What shall we do about the window?”
Herr Schramm says, “I’ll see to it.”
“The Feast mustn’t be spoiled.”
“Johanna, I’ll do it. We’ll take you home.”
That isn’t necessary, says Johann. Frau Schwermuth nods, and links arms with her son. Anna and Herr Schramm watch them go: Johann thin as a stalk of maize, and with his hair cut to match, standing out to left and right like, well, maize leaves. And she—she’s Frau Schwermuth.
As they walk away she says, in a rather subdued voice, “Jo, you must do a few things for me tomorrow. I can’t.”
“What are they?”
“First there’s the anti-Fascist bike ride at twelve.”
That’s when he has his bell-ringing exam, says Johann.
“Oh.” Frau Schwermuth stops. “I don’t think anything will come of that. I know it sounds funny now, but your bells are down on the banks of the lake. . .” And so on, we don’t have to listen to it all, we know those two are safe together.
We take a historical interest in Frau Schwermuth and those like her, those with her kind of head. She’s had her hair done specially for the Feast. Now it’s been flattened by the spiked helmet. She puts the helmet on again. Johann puts on his top hat. They turn the corner and leave our night.
AT THE ANNA FEAST IN 1929, THE SHOOTING GUILD was photographed outside the house of the new champion marksman, Herr Werner Schramm. Unfortunately the picture is not a success. You can’t tell one face from another, our uniforms look like dressing gowns, in fact it is a disaster, that bastard Schliebenhöner who took the photograph ought to be horsewhipped out of the village. The photograph, plus frame, costs five Reichsmarks.
ON A CHIPBOARD SURFACE SURROUNDED BY human earths and dogs’ dreams, the vixen crouches in front of the container which, she knows, holds eggs. Her pelt is sticky with rain, she tastes her own blood, her paw hurts.
The vixen touches the container with her paws.
The vixen scratches its sides. Its top.
The vixen bites the container. The vixen jumps on the container, makes herself heavy, jumps and jumps and hurts herself landing, jumps and jumps and jumps. The vixen pushes her forehead against the container like a little bull. She can’t get any purchase on the wet surface.
On top it is paler. She bites the pale part. The pale part moves, the dark part doesn’t. The vixen waves her brush. The vixen tugs at the pale part of the container. When she lets go, the pale part snaps up. The vixen pushes her muzzle under the pale part. She lifts her muzzle, and the pale part rises. The vixen gets the idea.
The vixen is not alone.
Two male humans are leaning against the rock opposite, watching her tussle with the egg box. The vixen stops, one of them comes closer, is so close that he is within arm’s reach of her, nearly there, but the vixen can’t pick up any scent, no, couldn’t say where he came from or went. He and his friend are loners, but they have no aromas. She stays put. The other young male human gets into the metal box that carries humans overland, a box, a box faster than any fox. Rhythmic sounds swing through the air. The vixen waves her tail in time with them, can’t help it.
The first male human reaches his tentacle out to her, its claws spread. The vixen gets behind the container, ready to retreat, her injured eye throbbing with pain. But the human just picks up the container.
She’s a killer on the road.
The human calls in a quiet human tone. Her urge to flee disappears. At last the vixen scents something in his call. She scents speech in the sounds of the human who has no scent. He is calling gently to her.
A small male human comes out of the earth. The container is marked with his scent.
A fire going cold.
He croaks, goes toward the vixen, but the one without any aroma goes to him, calls something, the small male human stops. Good. The vixen gets up on her hind legs, propping herself on the container, the scent of egg wafts out, she tries to haul herself up by the edge of the container, slips on the wet wood, won’t let go and hauls the container over with her. Its contents fall toward her. Eggs break on the stone, she can already scent the little male human’s boots, she growls,
A barrel of a gun
snaps at him, no—snaps at a shell that has fallen out of the container, digs her teeth into that hard but fragile shell, runs for it with her brush held low, is off and away,
A villain on the run.
The startled, small male human and the vixen’s accomplices are left behind.
Well played, clever robber girl, we say.
ON THE 27TH DAY OF APRIL IN THE YEAR OF OUR Lord 1611, a female Wolf in Cub was taken in our Trap on the fallow Field at Geher’s Farm. Thereby was great Harm averted, for ten Wolves would have wreaked Havock among our Cattle.
DIETMAR DIETZ SOON CALMS DOWN AFTER THE theft of the eggs. He acknowledges the fox’s clever wit, and the young men agree with him. They fall into conversation. The two young men ask about the Feast, saying they’ve heard that there’s good dancing in Fürstenfelde. Ditzsche sets them right: there’s good dancing anywhere people can dance well, he says. The two of them appreciate his little boast, they say goodbye and wish the old man good music forever when he dances, which is what he likes to hear.
Ditzsche will dance, will swivel his hips without letting it look suggestive. He will smell of aftershave and Frau Reiff’s apple cake. Surrounded by the stony faces of senior citizens dancing the polka, any kind of passion looks extreme.
Many of the older folk have forgotten about Ditzsche or even forgiven him. Not Imboden, who can hardly control himself when Ditzsche turns up anywhere. But last year Zieschke played a piece something like a tango, and Frau Kranz danced with Ditzsche to it. She and Zieschke were already here when Ditzsche’s close relationship with our post was revealed.
But between ourselves: haven’t you ever imagined, for instance on a walk and when the postman has just disappeared into the entrance hall of a building, what it would be like to take a handful of white letters out of the yellow box on the yellow bicycle, or get on the bicycle yourself, ride away, and spend the day immersed in the lives and bills of other people?
These days, with the Internet, doing such a thing would be less interesting than in Ditzsche’s time. These days we all write emails. Well, here in Fürstenfelde not all of us write emails. And other people read our emails too, viruses and Americans read them, but that doesn’t bother anyone much. Back in the past only Ditzsche read other people’s letters. And the Stasi, but perhaps here it really was only Ditzsche. Although everyone knew everything about everyone else anyway, and still does.
Some day, when Ditzsche is no longer around, Fürstenfelde won’t dance so well. Imboden isn’t getting any younger either. Dietmar Dietz speaks lovingly to his chickens in Spanish sometimes. Maybe he learned to dance in Cuba, maybe he learned at the People’s University. And maybe he doesn’t dance so well as all that, but someone once said with conviction that he did, so it became the truth, how would we know? Usually it’s not so much a case of what’s really true as what people think is true.
When he was delivering letters, Ditzsche sometimes forgot himself and did a little dance. Everyone likes to see someone who may be bringing good news forget himself and do a dance. And maybe Ditzsche was dancing for joy because he already knew the good news.
Out of a pension of 534 euros a month, Dietmar Dietz spends nearly 300 euros on his chickens. When Ditzsche is no longer here, there won’t be a single pedigree chicken left in Fürstenfelde. Chickens will just be chickens. If you’ve ever seen specially beautiful chickens, if you’ve ever seen Ditzsche’s pedigree Kraienköppe chickens stalking about, you’ll know what a loss that will be.
But it’s a comfort to know there’s someone among us who understands rare creatures, or creatures hitherto entirely unknown here, whether he’s a biologist, a geneticist or a chicken-breeder. That someone, in Herr Schramm’s words, has a talent for the creation of what’s new and the preservati
on of the norm. Such a talent that Breakfast TV phones Ditzsche and calls him “Herr Dietz,” asking about his availability, and Herr Dietz hesitantly cracks a joke to the effect that he must look in his engagements diary. The Breakfast TV people say it would have to be a Saturday afternoon, and Ditzsche replies, “Then come to the Feast and you’ll really have something to see, not just my chickens.”
When people still went walking on a Sunday, Ditzsche would open his inner yard and let the chickens out of their enclosure. The people out walking wanted to see the chickens, and the chickens wanted to be seen; they stalked around and children clapped their hands. Ditzsche stood to one side, doing something or other, and no chicken ever left the yard. That’s all over, and the chickens didn’t stalk, Ditzsche would say, the chickens just had rather prominent chests and tall, elegant figures.
Even then, Ditzsche left his home only to go to work, to get things for his chickens, and to shake a leg dancing at Blissau’s. In spite of all his dancing partners, nothing ever came of Ditzsche’s acquaintance with women.
“Ditzsche, you’re as stiff as your chickens,” the ferryman once said, and Ditzsche replied quietly, “My chickens aren’t stiff, but you’re a layman, you wouldn’t know.”
And stiff wasn’t the right word for Ditzsche, either. Abashed was more like it. Except when he was dancing, Ditzsche looked abashed the whole time. And you can’t stand the company of someone who’s always abashed for long. As soon as the music stopped, Ditzsche looked down at the floor. Didn’t know what to do with his elbows and his shoulders, never asked a woman a question. And that’s no good, women have to be asked questions.
After that business with Durden and his act of revenge, Ditzsche lost his job and disappeared for a couple of years. Some said he was taking more dancing lessons in Cuba. Others said: you always want people to be doing something special, but on the whole people don’t do anything special. We’ve seen Ditzsche climbing scaffolding in Prenzlau.
He came back in 2003, but there’s very little to be said about that. Durden had retired, the old bigwigs wore new suits, the polka was still in fashion and was now joined in popularity by the metal band Rammstein, equally simple in principle, and they’re both all right. What didn’t function in the past still didn’t function, or functioned in a slightly different way, and functioned either better or worse, depending on your attitude to past history.
Dietmar Dietz functioned as usual. He began rearing a new breed of chickens. If he really did read our letters, people in the village may have shown him that they knew it, but he himself didn’t get to know anyone better than before.
He will open his inner courtyard for the Feast. The enclosure will be clean, the chickens will shine beautifully in the sun. Outsiders will pay them compliments as if there were no tomorrow. And in the evening Dietmar Dietz will dance, well and unabashed.
THERE’S STILL TIME TO PASS BEFORE THE FEAST, but it won’t be long now before the first light of dawn. The Adidas man has stationed himself outside the bakery earlier than usual; perhaps he thinks the Zieschkes will open sooner today. He keeps his head bent, rubs his hands either in anticipation or because of the cold. He is wearing the white tracksuit this morning. One trouser leg is hanging in tatters, as if a beast of prey had caught him there.
We’re too tired for suspicion after such a night as this. Never mind what we think of the Adidas man. All the clothes he needs are those two tracksuits, and all the nourishment he needs is orange juice and yeast pastries with vanilla filling. And those are all the words he needs to order them in the morning. Not everyone needs a history of his own.
Lada has never met the Adidas man before. Now he and silent Suzi come out into the road, both looking as if they haven’t had enough sleep. Until a moment ago they were playing games of chance on their computers to stay awake. Lada is still wearing his Shell overall, Suzi runs a comb through his hair, the dragon scales on his forehead sparkle in the light of the streetlamps. The plan is: the sooner they clear up Eddie’s place, the sooner they can start celebrating. They light cigarettes. Simultaneity, comradeship, happiness.
Yes, and there’s that character in his tracksuit outside the bakery. Lada’s mother once confessed that she was afraid of him because he really didn’t laugh, ever. Maybe Lada is thinking of that now. Thinking that a fear of his mother’s is standing there, and he should have dealt with that fear long before this; he signs to Suzi to wait.
The Adidas man rubs his hands again, even after Lada positions himself between him and the shop door. After he has said something. Has repeated it in a louder voice. Has asked something. Suzi taps Lada’s shoulder, walks his fingertips over it in an impatient gesture that says, “Let’s get going!”
Lada puts his forefinger under the Adidas man’s chin and raises it. He wants to look into his eyes. Those eyes are cornflowers. He doesn’t blink. He’s a field lying fallow. Lada’s words pass over the field like wind. The way Lada is now, Lada is an arsehole.
Silent Suzi takes his arm. Draws him away. Helps the Adidas man up. And as he does that the Adidas man, with blood on his lip, whispers something in his ear.
Lada kicks the lamppost. The lamp goes out.
Strangers seldom come to us. They seldom stay.
Strangers who spend some time with us seldom stay strange.
We seldom make friends with the strangers, even if they do spend some time with us.
We’re social. We’re anti-social. We’re open-minded. We’re suspicious. Who likes being bothered? No one.
The slats of the Venetian blind clatter. Frau Zieschke’s calves, apron, bosom and friendly round face come into view. The doorbell jingles generously. The baker’s wife looks confused by the small assembly outside. The Adidas man smooths down his hair, as if all the fall had done was disarrange it.
Frau Zieschke hesitates. He can come in if he likes, she says, but it will be a little while before the baked goods are ready to serve.
Cornflowers, Adidas stripes, we don’t know his name, we don’t know what he can do. The Adidas man goes into the shop. With blood on his lip, he goes straight to the corner table and stands there. Frau Zieschke puts a packet of paper napkins in front of him.
A paper napkin is dabbed on a wound.
Frau Zieschke nods to her son outside. The boys move away. She puts coffee on. The Adidas man has dabbed his split lip dry and presses his fist into his other hand so hard that the knuckles show white.
The baker’s wife gives him a cup of coffee. With a biscuit on the saucer.
He breaks the biscuit in his fingers.
He closes his eyes as he munches.
We don’t know where he comes from. We don’t know where he is going. A stranger is eating and drinking in our bakery.
UNDER A BEECH TREE ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE ancient forest, the injured vixen lies on damp leaves. Mist glows above the fields, enveloping the human earths. The vixen takes short, fast breaths. The little container is lying in front of her nose; she scents eggs, eggshells but no yolk yet. She gets up, limps farther into the forest with the container in her mouth.
The badger catches the vixen’s scent and follows her, enquiringly; she has something that he likes, so he follows her. The vixen knows about the badger. Knows about his speed and agility and his bite. But he won’t dare. The badger scents blood on the vixen, scents chicken, scents the eggs. It would be better for him if he could also scent her determination. She isn’t going to let him have her catch without a fight. The badger overtakes the vixen and stops. The vixen trots toward the badger. The vixen is calm.
There is movement in the mist: the wind carries an aroma out of the forest, an aroma that displeases both the vixen and the badger. It surprises her, almost frightens her. The badger forgets about the eggs and strolls away, but the vixen calls a single clear, long-drawn-out warning, and runs on as fast as she can. Bitter and over-sweet: carrion and droppings, a member of her own family never before scented in the ancient forest. Wolf.
Reaching her e
arth, the vixen lets the egg container drop. It opens and an egg rolls out. She ought to have many more eggs here for her cubs. She barks softly, calls several times in quick succession. They don’t come to her. She whines, she scents blood, scents wolf, snarls, she scents beech, ash, moss, blood, blood, worm, human, she scents the eggs, herself, the cubs, she scents the earthy honey of her coat, crawls into the earth, scents roots, scents play, scents cubs, can’t find them anywhere, picks up their tracks, scents wolf, here, here, here, she scents stars, night, time, death, the vixen freezes rigid with her jaws wide open, snarling, calling, whining, it’s over.
The vixen eats the eggs. Devours the eggs. The vixen barks. The vixen curls up in her earth. Licks her injured paw.
BATS SWIRL THROUGH THE AIR RETURNING TO their caves. Wild boar, full-fed, grunt. The screech owl lands softly, sings tu-whit tu-whoo.
LADA WOULD LIKE TO APPEAR ON THE TV PROGRAM You Bet! With this particular bet: he bets he could tell, from the way a streetlamp is made, where exactly he must kick it hard to make the light go out. He bets he could get it right with nineteen out of twenty streetlamps, although only those made in Berlin, Brandenburg and Mecklenburg-West Pomerania.
Silent Suzi is trying to tell Lada something. “Was strange man say me something.”
“He’s nuts,” says Lada.
Suzi shakes his head, nudges Lada impatiently, repeats his gestures.
“Hey, Suzi, what are you getting at?”
Suzi points to his trainers.
Lada doesn’t look at them, he is too agitated. He would have liked to wait for that punk to come out of the bakery again “so as to show him that he couldn’t cross the line.” Now he says, “Tell you what, Suzi, people think that guy is done for. Ex-druggie or some such, like Hirtentäschel, only done for. But he isn’t. Because did you see how he landed? If you’re done for, you don’t catch yourself up like that. If you’re done for you just fall down.”
Suzi shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Indicates that he wants Lada to watch his mouth, forms the words with his lips and repeats the gestures.
Before the Feast Page 18