Anniversaries
Page 204
– If only a person like myself might be a rich man someday, Fru Cresspahl. I say this truly!
The old man’s pants are pulled up to his nipples. His threadbare clothing has been shortened every so often. We thought of cigars, of tobacco—we forgot about fabric for a suit.
– I’ve bequeathed my furniture to a museum in Rostock. If you were related to me, Fru Cresspahl, you could have gotten the table and the wardrobe—they are presents from your father, after all. I have an agreement with my landlord. In the event of my death he will keep the remaining furniture, but he has to arrange for my removal.
Kliefoth kneads his hands, thinking. The pain narrows his pupils.
– I cut myself once and put my foot in Jakob’s hand while standing on the other foot. He looked at it, then let the foot slide down in the same rhythm as my hand on his shoulder; the movement passed through my whole body with no pain. I think that happens to someone only once in their life.
– Må jeg bede om Deres pas? De er nok med Deres underskrift, resten ordner jeg.
– De er meget elskværdig. You’re very kind. Hvor meget bliver det ialt? Det er til Dem.
– My wife had a problem with her . . .
– I’ve had to tell Marie the essentials, Mr. Kliefoth.
– with her nursery. A woman like that has children flocking around her apron, in the kitchen, in the garden. Fundamentally there is only one thing we know about life: that whatever is subject to the law of becoming must perish according to that same law. I certainly shall, don’t worry about that. My Latin has become wobbly; my memory is barely adequate these days. I can only be grateful to destiny for treating me so mercifully. And I thank you, my dear Fru Cresspahl. You’ve helped it.
– Herr Kliefoth, may you live as long you want to.
– Your father granted me the honor of his friendship. One of his opinions went like this: History is a rough draft.
– As for how we’ve been doing, we’ve written it down, up to starting our job in Prague—1,652 pages. We’d like to give them to you, if you don’t mind. All that’s left to add is the two-hour flight south. What could happen to us on a Československé aerolinie plane, ČSA, operating internationally under the letters O and K? We have a confirmed reservation, OK? We’ll call you tonight from Prague.
– Will you take good care of my friend, who is your mother and Mrs. Cresspahl?
– I will, Herr Kliefoth, I promise. My mother and I, we’re good friends.
As we walked by the sea we ended up in the water. Clattering gravel around our ankles. We held one another’s hands: a child, a man on his way to the place where the dead are, and she, the child that I was.
[January 29, 1968, New York, NY–April 17, 1983, Sheerness, Kent]
Translator’s Acknowledgments
MY ENORMOUS thanks to Astrid Köhler and Robert Gillett, Patrick Wright, and Holger Helbig for giving so generously of their time and expertise in reviewing much of this translation; to the organizations listed on the copyright page; and to the many editors and copy editors at NYRB Classics. All remaining errors and stubborn decisions are, of course, my own. I would also like to acknowledge the earlier, partial translation by Leila Vennewitz (Parts 1–3) and Walter Arndt (Part 4) of a heavily abridged version of the original, published as Anniversaries: From the Life of Gesine Cresspahl in 1975 (Part 1 and half of Part 2) and 1987 (the rest of Part 2 through Part 4). I referred to it often and borrowed some of their many inspired solutions to difficult passages.