A Gushing Fountain

by Martin Walser

  But even worse than encountering the words tango-mane and hair grease was when Adolf concluded the discussion of Johann’s haircut with the words, “Now that his father’s dead, there’s no one to tell him he can’t have a tango-mane.”

  Johann’s father had been buried on Epiphany. If anyone had something against long hair and unusual haircuts, it was his mother, not his father. Strictness wasn’t in his father’s nature. Maybe he was too sick or too weak to be strict. And now, according to Adolf, Johann had taken advantage of his father’s death to get himself a tango-mane.

  Johann had felt he ought to defend himself. Adolf was beating up on his crown of hair and the others were laughing. They were on Adolf’s side. He thought of Wolfgang, Wolfgang Landsmann. Edi (who was to be addressed as Edmund ever since he became troop leader in the Jungvolk)—Edmund the troop leader had thrown Wolfgang’s bicycle down a bank into a ditch at their first muster after summer vacation last year. Then he’d taken his position before the troop that was drawn up in front of the new gymnasium and festival hall and said that he was under orders from higher up to dishonorably discharge Wolfgang Landsmann from the Jungvolk. Then he withdrew from his right breast pocket a little book they were all familiar with: the troop’s roster. He slid the little yellow pencil out of its loop, moistened the pencil lead with his tongue, opened the roster, and painstakingly crossed something out of the book; everyone knew it was Wolfgang’s name. Never since Edmund Fürst had become the Jungvolk troop leader had he spoken such High German during muster. Then he commanded, “Wolfgang Landsmann, step forward!” He stepped forward. “You know the score,” said Edi.

  “No, I don’t,” said Wolfgang.

  “You’re a Jew,” said Edi.

  “I’m half Jewish,” said Wolfgang.

  “I’ve got my orders!” bellowed Edi, as if he’d been insulted.

  Wolfgang said, “Yes, sir,” and snapped to attention, hands at his trouser seams, heels together, shoulders back, chin thrust out. Then he left, but looked around one last time. He lowered his head, raised his right arm as if in the Hitler salute, and looked back at them once more from under his right arm. His long, dark hair hung down. He’d had that long hair from the first. Apparently, he was allowed to have his hair as long as he wanted. Then he straightened up, went down the bank to where his shiny balloon-tire bike lay, picked it up, pushed it up to the street, and rode away. Only then did Edi bawl out, “Troop tennn-shun, Riiight face. Song?” Josef called out, “‘Steig ich den Berg hinan,’ three four.” And they all started belting out, “Hiking the moun-tain paths, Is what I love. Hiking the moun-tain paths, Is all my joy. You have such lovely lovely eyes, That are so true, And two such rosy lips to kiss, Kiss black and blue.” Johann liked that song because on the chorus he could yodel out above all the other voices. Whenever Wolfgang came along on his balloon-tire bike, Adolf had always called out, “Caution, tango-boy on the right!” Wolfgang was the only one who rode a bicycle to muster. He was the only one who had a balloon-tire bike. Wolfgang had only been there half a year at most when he was sent packing like that. In that brief time, he had made a soccer team out of a scrum of kicking boys because in Stuttgart, where he was from, he had played on a team with a coach. Now they only mentioned Wolfgang when they played soccer. They used the words he had introduced: dribble, tackling, goal.

  When Adolf said that thing about a tango-mane and everybody laughed, Johann had said that he had to pick up a prescription from the doctor’s. Since he had just learned to sort sins into this kind and that kind, he reckoned this lie was a venial one.

  Coming home via the Moosweg, he had mounted the terrace from the train station side, seen the circus colors through the leaves and first blossoms of the pear trellis, and now pushed two stems aside. LA PALOMA CIRCUS was written on all the wagons. The circus people were sitting around a table in the warm April sunshine. One of them was wearing a short blue workman’s smock like Herr Schlichte the master electrician. This man kept jumping up, sitting down, jumping up again, talking, and gesticulating; they were all laughing. This gesticulator had a huge thatch of hair, a dense carpet of curls. At first sight you could have mistaken it for a fur cap. When this curly-head jumped to his feet, he was shorter than the others. As soon as he sat down, he was the tallest, not least because of his enormous fleece of hair. That anyone could argue about how to get a few wisps of hair cut by the barber seemed to Johann ridiculous in the face of this hairy fleece. It probably wasn’t possible to cut this fleece at all. There was no way the little giant would allow anyone to get near him with a pair of scissors. The color of his skin was as remarkable as his magnificent coiffure. Bluish-red and shiny, that was his skin color. His ears also shone forth bluish-red from beneath his fleece of hair. Enormous ears. One saw only the lower third, which was already bigger than any normal ear. You could imagine how far up under his hair fleece those ears went. Once, he raised his hand and pointed his finger straight up. That suited him to a T! When he spoke about something above him, he pointed his finger straight into the air. Johann felt it in every fiber: this man was the circus. He was the circus despite his electrician’s smock. Beneath the projecting roof of the carriage house, several horses were lying and standing on freshly spread straw. Or were they ponies? Someone had moved Tell’s doghouse down by the last carriage house door. But no trace of Tell. A powerful black beast with huge, curving horns stood tethered to the Gravenstein (always the first to bloom) by a chain wrapped around its trunk. That was the circus too, that buffalo. Did he like it? asked a girl’s voice. He turned around. And knew at once that her name was Anita. Close-set, dark eyes, a rounded forehead, but mostly: short bobbed hair and bangs. Bangs above the rounded forehead. And when she said she was Anita, he wanted to tell her he knew that already. But of course he didn’t say so. And he wasn’t so sure after all that he had known it right away. He didn’t have time to think about that right now. She hadn’t said her name was Anita, she said she was Anita, and he approved of that.

  He hoped she wouldn’t think he was trying to get a free look through the pear trellis. He could see right away that she belonged to the circus. Nobody here in the village would wear a sweater like that, especially not a girl. It was one giant explosion of color from top to bottom: blue and red and some white as well. Johann didn’t know how to tell this girl that he didn’t need to sneak a free look because he belonged to this house and had always been able to see the evening performances of all the traveling circuses that came to town without having to pay admission.

  “That’s Vishnu,” she said.

  “A buffalo,” said Johann.

  “An Indian water buffalo,” she said. From down below came a shrill whistle. “That’s my father,” she said. “He’s waiting for his cigarettes.” And she held up the pack of R-6s and ran down the terrace steps to the street and along the fence to the open courtyard gate and over to her father, who was sitting with the others at the table that was covered with a blue tablecloth, waiting to smoke his after-lunch cigarette. Johann had never seen a man wearing a jacket like that one. It only reached down to his hips and was covered with large red-and-black checks. And this wasn’t the first traveling circus to set up its rings in their courtyard. Evidently, word got around from one circus to another that the Station Restaurant was the best place to set up in Wasserburg. Three circus wagons to close off the area from the street and the carriage house running along the west side and the large main restaurant building on the north side meant that three sides of the rectangle were secure. And the large apple trees with their low-hanging branches were the guarantee for any circus that couldn’t yet afford a tent that no one could see anything from the south side either without paying admission.

  It was Johann’s dream to be able to whistle like the girl’s father. Edmund Fürst, five years older, could do it. Josef, two years older, could, too. Adolf, no older than Johann, could, too. Stick two index and two middle fingers into the mouth, stretch out the corners of the mouth left and right, and
you got the shrillest of all possible whistles. People just had to respond to it. Look how it made the girl take off at a run. Yes, Tell came when Johann pursed his lips and whistled, but he would come even faster to a four-finger whistle. When Johann stuck his fingers into his mouth and stretched out the corners, no whistle emerged. It was mostly just a hiss with a slight squeak. His theory was that his fingers were still too skinny, and he kept trying to see if they had gotten thick enough yet, but they were still too thin. Adolf had thicker arms and muscles than he did, too. But when they wrestled with each other, Adolf lost as often as he did. Johann wasn’t any weaker. Whether on the mat or finger-wrestling or cock-fighting or diving or high-jumping or shooting air rifles, he didn’t even want to be the winner all the time. Sometimes he had to win, sure, but not always. Nothing would have been more unpleasant to Johann than an Adolf who was always the hopeless loser. To be honest, Johann liked it best when Adolf believed that he, Adolf, was better than Johann in everything and Johann could only beat him now and then by accident, so to speak. It was important to Johann to keep Adolf happy. And if victories over Johann could contribute to that end, then Adolf could go ahead and be the winner. What was important was that Johann knew he could beat Adolf. When necessary. Not that it was easy. Nor was it ever a sure thing. But he could do it quite frequently. At least, as often as necessary. At the moment, however, when he thought about how nasty Adolf had been about his tango-mane, he had the feeling he would beat Adolf every time from now on. At wrestling, finger-wrestling, cock-fighting, high-jumping, target-shooting, diving—no matter what, Adolf had to lose. Until he stopped talking like that. Tango-boy, tango-mane—those weren’t Adolf’s words, they were the words of his father who marched at the head of the SA on holidays, didn’t attend church any more, and had said to Adolf—who had repeated it to Johann—that when your name was Adolf, it was your duty to be better at everything than everybody else.

  Even before he got to the kitchen, Johann was asking where Tell was. Mother first greeted him, then said she had locked Tell in Johann’s room upstairs because he wouldn’t stop barking at the black buffalo and the ponies. Johann ran upstairs and released Tell, mixed his dinner for him, and as always, put the bowl out on the landing on the west side of the house, from where the back stairs went down into the courtyard. He stayed with Tell until he had emptied his bowl. Tell wouldn’t touch a morsel unless Johann watched him eat. When Tell was done, they went back into the kitchen. Johann slid down the long bench next to the door into the corner and waited for the crepe that Mina brought round the stove and set down in front of Johann. The apple sauce was already on the table. It was there every day, no matter what was for dinner. On Friday there were crepes, and along with them the book that was always waiting for him in the corner. Currently, it was Winnetou I, and with Tell’s muzzle between his knees, Adolf’s mean remarks could vanish into thin air.

  Mother said Josef had called: a torn ligament; he’d be home tomorrow or the day after. While climbing up the Nebelhorn, his whole group had been caught when a snow slab broke loose. It could have turned into an avalanche this time of year, late April. Josef must have a guardian angel, thank God for that. Johann should remember that this afternoon in church. Two boys had broken legs. Josef was lucky it was nothing worse than a torn ligament. Johann said, “Oh no, poor Josef,” and saw in his mind’s eye the dark blue, gold-framed picture as wide as the dresser in which all the shining brightness was concentrated on the angel holding his hand over the head of the child crossing the suspension bridge without a railing. On his back, the angel has a large but folded pair of wings.

  Suddenly, Anita was there in the doorway with a woman behind her. The woman leaned forward and knocked on the open door. The woman said that Anita (she pointed to the girl) would like to take part in the First Communion day after tomorrow, the Sunday after Easter. She’d had the necessary instruction in all the towns they had performed in during the last four weeks. But the best thing would be if Anita could participate in communion class today and tomorrow.

  Clearly, Mother had told the circus people that Johann was going to take his First Communion on Sunday. Frau Wiener—Mother had called her by that name—asked Johann if he would take Anita with him that afternoon. Now that Anita was going to First Communion with him, he realized that he’d thought she was older. She couldn’t be ten or eleven. She must be at least twelve if not thirteen. Maybe in previous years on Low Sunday they had been in the Diaspora, which the priest always talked about in a way that made the Sahara seem an oasis by comparison.

  Johann agreed at once to take Anita along today and tomorrow, and of course on Sunday, too. Frau Wiener said she had already made an appointment with Father Dillmann, whose housekeeper, Fräulein Maria, had said she could speak with the Father at four.

  The two were gone as suddenly as they had come. Tell had growled when Frau Wiener and Anita appeared at the door. “He doesn’t like me because I chased him away from Vishnu,” Frau Wiener said. Frau Wiener was not much taller than Anita. But Anita was taller than Johann. Not a lot taller. A little bit taller. But taller all the same. Johann’s father had been shorter than Johann’s mother. Not much shorter, but shorter all the same. His grandfather, who had died four years ago, had been a giant, but stooped. Father had always held himself erect, especially at the piano. At the piano he even leaned back a little. He played as if someone up above was listening.

  Johann went up to the second floor to watch the circus people from the lavatory window. Luckily, Grandfather had built the house with the lavatory on each floor facing south, so Johann could watch what the circus people were doing from three floors. In the meantime, they had assembled a circus ring from a pile of beams and were just scattering sawdust to give it a soft footing. Three rows of benches were already arranged around the ring. Two shorter poles faced each other with a taller central pole between them. All the wires had been strung. From the wires hung white and red light bulbs, as yet unlit. Over the entrance they had erected inside the courtyard gate stood the words LA PALOMA CIRCUS. Between the courtyard gate and the circus entrance was the ticket booth, painted blue and white and red. Two ponies were just pulling a mini-version of an ancient Roman chariot out into the street that ran down into the village. Johann had seen such a chariot in the book Our Day in the Light of Prophecy. The caption under the picture of the chariot in the book read “Philip and the Eunuch.” The circus chariot was driven by a muscular man whose sun-tanned head was completely bald. Behind him, on a sort of throne, sat the little giant with the fleece of hair, beating a large drum slung from his shoulders. His bluish-red face was shining. Down by the linden tree where all five streets of the village ran together, they came to a stop. The little giant announced today’s program. The fellow with the bald head played “La Paloma” on the trumpet. Johann would have loved to run after them. The music attracted him, but he couldn’t move. The music held him spellbound, too. They would probably make another stop in front of the Bruggers’ house, and then Adolf would already know about the circus when they saw each other at communion class. So Johann wouldn’t have to spend much time explaining who this olive-skinned girl with the round forehead was. And what eyelashes she had, too! Johann resolved to take a good look at other girls and women to see if they had lashes like that. And you could see both of this girl’s incisors. Her lips didn’t close completely. Since the itinerant photographer had taken his picture, Johann knew that his lips didn’t always close completely either. He ran to his room and checked to see in the mirror. His right incisor stuck out shamelessly. Johann’s upper lip, which was too short to begin with, had to constantly be on guard to keep this pushy individual covered up as much as possible. In Anita’s mouth, the same incisor didn’t jut out at all but only emerged a tiny bit, as if to protect the incisor next to it. No unsightly pushing ahead, just gently taking a near relative under its wing. Johann liked standing in front of the mirror for a long time. Now it was something else he’d have to confess and do penance
for. And resolve never to do again. I have been proud. He had broken seven of the Ten Commandments, the first seven. He hadn’t really broken the fifth. He hadn’t killed anyone, just beaten them. It was self-defense. But Jesus didn’t defend himself. Would the priest recognize him? It was dark in the confessional. But the priest could look through a slit in the curtain and see who was just leaving the pew and needed only two or three steps to be kneeling at the priest’s ear in the dark confessional. Johann would have liked it better if the canon had taken confession from the boys. But you never knew ahead of time. I have taken the Lord’s name in vain. I have spoken holy names in anger. That’s how it started. It helped to get you going. Just don’t get stuck. Keep going, plow right on through.

  At four thirty, Johann was standing at the entrance to La Paloma Circus, his hair freshly oiled and carefully styled in a single wave. He didn’t dare go farther in. He knew which trailer Anita would emerge from, because from the lavatory window he had seen her mother and father, the one with the short, red-and-black checked jacket, disappear into it. Anita joined him. Now she had on white stockings, and instead of the loud sweater, she was wearing a dark blue knit dress. She looked too much like Sunday. No village boy or girl would come to communion class in such Sunday clothes. He should have told her, but he was too timid. And besides, he’d put on his own new corduroy knickers and his knee socks were practically new. But over his sport shirt he was wearing the sweater he’d gotten for Christmas five years ago and then immediately burned a hole in while blowing out the candles. The place on the left forearm where Mina had darned it was visible. He’d arranged the sleeve so people couldn’t see the spot. As soon as he caught sight of Anita coming out the door of her trailer, he knew that he shouldn’t have worn this sweater. It was obvious that the bottom edge and the ends of the sleeves had been lengthened.