Brodeck Page 22

  I burned Diodemus’s letter. Of course I burned it. Writing hadn’t cured him of a thing, not him. And it wouldn’t have done me any good to turn over the last page and read the names of the Dörfermesch he’d written there. No good at all. I don’t have the spirit of revenge. Some part of me will always remain Brodeck the Dog, a creature that prefers prostration in the dust to biting, and maybe it’s better that way.

  That evening, I didn’t go directly home. I made a long detour. The night was soft. The stars were like silver nails hammered into the growing blackness of the vanishing sky. There are hours on the earth when everything is unbearably beautiful, with a beauty whose scope and sweetness seem uniquely meant to emphasize the ugliness of our condition. I walked to the bank of the Staubi and then upstream from the Baptisterbrücke until I came to a grove of white willows which Baerensbourg tortures every January by cutting off all their branches. That’s where the three young girls are buried. I know, because Diodemus told me so. He showed me the exact spot. There’s no grave marker, no cross, nothing at all. But I know the three girls are there, under the grass: Marisa, Therne, and Judith. Names are important, and those are their names. The names I’ve given them. Because in addition to having killed them, the Dörfermesch made all trace of them disappear so thoroughly that no one knows what their names were, or where they came from, or who they really were.

  That stretch of the Staubi is so beautiful. Its clear waters roll over a bed of gray pebbles. It murmurs and babbles, almost like a human voice. To those willing to lend an ear and sit for a moment on the grass, the Staubi offers a subtle music.

  The Anderer often sat on that grassy bank, taking notes in his little notebook and drawing. I think some of the people who saw him there persuaded themselves that he wasn’t dallying in that place merely by chance, not precisely there, so close to the young girls’ mute graves. And it was no doubt over the course of his stops by the willow grove that the Anderer’s doom, unbeknownst to him, began to be sealed, and that the Dörfermesch gradually determined on his death. One must never, not even inadvertently, not even against his will, resurrect horror, for then it revives and spreads. It bores into brains; it grows; and it gives birth to itself again.

  Diodemus also found his death not far from there. Found his death—a strange expression, when you think about it, but I think it suits Diodemus’s case: in order to find something, you must seek it, and I really believe that Diodemus sought his end.

  I know he left his room. I know he left the village. I know he walked along the banks of the Staubi, and I know that as he headed upstream, in the opposite direction of the river current, his thoughts flowed backward, against the current of his life. He thought about our long walks, about all the things we’d said to each other, about our friendship. He’d just finished writing his letter, and as he walked along the riverbank, his mind was on what he’d written. He passed by the white willows, he thought about the young girls, he walked on, he kept walking, he tried to drive the ghosts away, he tried to talk to me one last time, I’m sure of it, yes, I’m certain he spoke my name; he climbed up to the top of the Tizenthal rocks, and that very short ascent did him good because the higher he climbed, the lighter he felt. When he reached the summit, he looked at the roofs of the village, he looked at the moon’s reflection on the margins of the river, he looked one last time at his life, he felt the night breeze caressing his beard and his hair. He closed his eyes; he let himself drop. His fall lasted for a while. Maybe, wherever he is now, he still hasn’t stopped falling.

  On the night of the Ereigniës, Diodemus wasn’t in Schloss’s inn. Along with Alfred Wurtzwiller, our harelipped postmaster, Diodemus had gone to S., where Orschwir had sent him with some important papers. I think the mayor gave Diodemus that mission on purpose, to get him out of the way. When he came back to the village three days later, I tried to tell him what had happened, but he quickly cut me off: “I don’t want to hear it, Brodeck. You can keep all that to yourself. Besides, you don’t know anything for sure. Maybe he left without saying anything to anyone. Maybe he tipped his hat and made a bow and went off the way he came. You didn’t see anything, you said so yourself! Did he even exist, this Anderer of yours?”

  His words took my breath away. I said, “But Diodemus, you can’t possibly—”

  “Shut up, Brodeck. Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. Leave me alone! There’s enough trouble in this village!”

  Then he rushed away, leaving me at the corner of Silke Lane. I think it was that very evening when Diodemus started writing his letter to me. The Anderer’s death had stirred up too many things, more things than he could bear.

  I repaired the desk and the broken drawer. I did a good job, I think. Then I rubbed the desk with beeswax, which makes it smell good and gleam in the candlelight. And here I am, sitting at the desk and writing again. It’s cold in the shed, but the pages hold the heat from Amelia’s belly for a long time. I hide all these words I’ve written against Amelia’s belly. Every morning, I wash and dress Amelia, and every evening, I undress her. Every morning, after writing almost all night long, I slip the pages into a finely woven linen pouch and tie it around her stomach, under her shirt. Every night, when I put her to bed, I remove the pouch, which is warm and impregnated with her scent.

  I tell myself that Poupchette grew in Amelia’s belly, and that in a way, the story I’m writing comes out of it, too. I like this encouraging analogy.

  I’ve almost finished the Report that Orschwir and the others are waiting for. I have just a few more things to say, and then it’s done. But I don’t want to give it to them before I finish my own story. I still have certain paths to go down. I still have several pieces to put together. I still have a few doors to open. So they won’t be getting their Report yet, not right away. First I have to continue describing the days that led up to the Ereigniës. Imagine a bowstring being pulled tauter and tauter, every hour a little more. Such an image gives a good idea of the weeks that preceded the Ereigniës because the whole village was drawn like a bow; but no one knew what arrow it would let fly, nor what its true target would be.

  The summer heat was baking us like an oven. Old folks declared that they couldn’t remember such sweltering temperatures. Even in the heart of the forest, among the rocks where in mid-August the cool breath of buried glaciers usually rises up from the depths, the only breezes were searing hot. Insects whirled around madly above the dry mosses, rubbing their elytra together with an unnerving sound like an orchestra of out-of-tune violins and filling woodcutters’ brains with steadily mounting irritation. Springs dried up. The wells were at their lowest level. The Staubi turned into a narrow, feeble stream in which brown trout, brook trout, and char died by the score. Cows panted for air, and their withered teats yielded a small amount of clear, bitter milk. The animals were brought back to their stables and only let out again at nightfall. They lay on their sides, lowering their big eyelids over their shiny eyes and lolling their tongues, which were as white as plaster. Anyone in search of a cool spot had to climb up to the high stubble fields, and the happiest creatures of all were undoubtedly the flocks of sheep and goats, the shepherds, and the goatherds on the heights, heartily drinking the fresh wind. Down below, in the village streets and in the houses, all conversations revolved around the blazing sun, which we watched in despair as it rose every morning and quickly climbed to its zenith in a blue and absolutely empty sky that stayed that way the whole day long. We moved very little. We ruminated. The smallest glasses of wine went to men’s heads, and their owners needed no pretext to fly off the handle. No one’s to blame for a drought. No one can be condemned for it. And so anger builds and must be taken out on something, or someone.

  Let the reader make no mistake. I’m not saying that the Ereigniës occurred because we had scorching weather in the weeks preceding it and heads were on the boil like potatoes in a pot. I think it would have taken place even at the end of a rainy summer. In that case, of course, it would have required m
ore time. There would not have been the haste, the tensed bow I mentioned earlier. The thing would have happened differently, but it would have happened.

  People are afraid of someone who keeps quiet. Someone who says nothing. Someone who looks and says nothing. If he stays mute, how can we know what he’s thinking? No one was pleased about the Anderer’s scant, two-word reply to the mayor’s speech. The next day, once the joy of the celebration—the free wine, the dancing—was past, people talked about the stranger’s attitude, about his smile, his outfits, and the pink cream on his cheeks, about his donkey and his horse, about the various nicknames he’d been given, about why he’d come to our village and why he was still here.

  And it can’t be said that the Anderer made up any lost ground over the course of the following days. I have no doubt that I’m the person he talked to most—apart from Father Peiper, but in that regard I’ve never been able to find out which of them talked more than the other, and about what—and one may judge the Anderer’s verbosity from the fact that I’ve already recorded in these pages every word he ever said to me. A total of about ten lines, hardly more. It’s not that he ignored people. When he passed someone, he raised his hat, inclined his large head (upon which the remaining hair was sparse, but very long and frizzy), and smiled, but he never opened his lips.

  And then, of course, there was his black notebook and all the notes people saw him taking, all the sketches and drawings he made. That conversation I overheard, when Dorcha, Pfimling, Vogel, and Hausorn were talking at the end of a market day—I didn’t make that up! And those four weren’t the only ones aggravated by that notebook! Why was he doing all that scribbling and scratching? What was the purpose of all that? What was it going to lead to?

  We would eventually learn the answers to those questions. On August 24.

  And that day, for him, was really the beginning of the end.

  XXXIV

  ————

  n the morning of August 24, everyone found a little card under his door. The card was fragrant with the essence of roses, and written on it, very elegantly and in violet ink, were the following words:

  This evening, at seven o’clock,

  in Schloss’s Inn,

  portraits and landscapes

  More than one villager examined his card from every angle, turning it over and over, sniffing it, reading and rereading the brief text. By seven in the morning, the inn was already thick with people. With men. Only men, obviously, but some of them had been sent by their wives to see what they could find out. There were so many extended arms and empty glasses that Schloss had trouble keeping everyone served.

  “So, Schloss, tell us what this foolishness is about!”

  Elbow to elbow, they were all knocking back wine, schorick, or beer. Outside, the sun was already beating down hard. Schloss’s customers pressed against one another and pricked up their ears.

  “Did your lodger fall and hit his head?”

  “What’s he up to?”

  “It’s Scheitekliche, right? Or what?”

  “Come on, Schloss, say something! Tell us!”

  “How long is this queer duck going to hang around here?”

  “Where does he think he is, with his smelly little card?”

  “Does he take us for neophytes?”

  “What’s a neophyte?”

  “How should I know? I didn’t say it!”

  “Damn it, Schloss, answer! Tell us something!”

  There was a steady barrage of questions, which Schloss received as if they were inoffensive pellets. His only perceptible response to the general curiosity was the malicious little smile on his thick face. He let the tension mount. It was good for his business, all of it. Talking about it made people thirsty.

  “Come on, Schloss, out with it! Hell, you’re not going to keep quiet until this evening, are you?”

  “Is he upstairs?”

  “Can’t you move over a little?”

  “Well, Schloss?”

  “All right, all right, shut up! Schloss is going to speak!”

  Everyone held his breath. The two or three who hadn’t noticed anything and were continuing their private conversation were quickly called to order. All eyes—some of them already a bit out of focus—converged on the innkeeper, who was enjoying his little show and taking his time. Finally, he said, “Since you insist, I’m going to tell you …”

  A collective sound of happiness and relief greeted these first words.

  “I’m going to tell you everything I know,” Schloss continued.

  Necks were screwed around and stretched as far as possible in his direction. He slapped his towel on the bar, put both hands flat on top of the towel, and stared at the ceiling for a long time, amid absolute silence. Everyone imitated him, and had someone entered the inn at that moment, he would surely have wondered why approximately forty men were standing there mute, their heads tilted back and their eyes fixed on the ceiling, staring feverishly at the filthy, sooty, blackened beams as though asking them an important question.

  “This is what I know,” Schloss went on in a confidential tone. His voice was very low, and everyone drank his words as if they were the finest eau-de-vie. “What I know is—well—it’s that I don’t know very much!”

  A big sound rose from the gathering again, but this time it was full of disappointment and a touch of anger, accompanied by the crash of fists striking the bar, several choice insults, and so forth. Schloss raised his arms in an attempt to calm everyone down, but he had to shout in order to be heard: “He simply asked me for permission to have the whole room to himself, starting at six o’clock, so he can make his preparations.”

  “Preparations for what?”

  “I have no idea! One thing I can tell you is he’s going to pay for everyone’s drinks.”

  The crowd recovered their good humor. The prospect of quenching their thirst at little or no expense sufficed to sweep away all their questions. Slowly but surely, the inn emptied out. I myself was on the point of leaving when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Schloss.

  “Brodeck, you didn’t say anything.”

  “I let the others talk—”

  “But how about you? You have no questions to ask? If you don’t have any questions, maybe that’s because you have the answers. Maybe you’re in on the secret.”

  “Why would I be?”

  “I saw you go up to his room the other day and stay in there for hours. So, obviously, you must have found some things to talk about during all that time, right?”

  Schloss’s face was very close to mine. It was already so hot that his skin was perspiring everywhere, like fat bacon in a hot skillet.

  “Leave me alone, Schloss. I’ve got things to do.”

  “You shouldn’t talk to me like that, Brodeck. You shouldn’t!”

  At the time, I considered his words a threat. But after the other day, when he sat at my table and got weepy talking about his dead infant son, I don’t know anymore. Some men are so maladroit that you take them for the opposite of what they really are.

  The only thing I’d learned at Schloss’s inn that morning was that the Anderer’s little perfumed cards had succeeded in focusing everyone’s attention on him even more closely. Now it wasn’t yet seven o’clock, and the last breath of air was already gone. The swallows in the sky looked exhausted and flew slowly. High aloft, one very small, nearly transparent cloud in the shape of a holly leaf drifted alone. Even the animals were quiet. The cocks hadn’t crowed. Silent and unmoving, trying to stay cool, hens languished in holes dug in the dusty earth of farmyards. Cats dozed in the shadows of carriage entrances, lying on their sides with their limbs outstretched and their pointy tongues lolling out of their half-open mouths.

  When I passed Gott’s forge, I heard a great commotion inside. The diabolical racket was being made by Gott himself, who was tidying up the place a little. He noticed me, gave me a sign to stop, and walked over to me. His forge was at rest. No fire burned in it, and the blacksm
ith was freshly bathed, clean-shaven, and combed. He wasn’t wearing his eternal leather apron, nor were his shoulders bare; he had on a clean shirt, high-waisted pants, and a pair of suspenders.

  “So what do you think about this, Brodeck?”

  Not taking any chances, I shrugged my shoulders, as I really didn’t know what he was talking about: the heat, the Anderer, his little rosewater-scented card, or something else.

  “I say it’s going to blow up, all at once, and it’s going to be violent, believe you me!”

  As he spoke, Gott clenched his fists and his jaws. His cleft lip moved like a muscle, and his red beard made me think of a burning bush. He was three heads taller than I was and had to stoop to speak in my ear.

  “This can’t last, and I’m not the only one who thinks so! You’re educated, you know more about such things than we do. How’s it going to end?”

  “I don’t know, Gott. We just have to wait until this evening. Then we’ll see.”

  “Why this evening?”

  “You got a card like everyone else. We’re all invited at seven o’clock.”

  Gott stepped back and scrutinized me as if I’d gone mad. “Why are you talking to me about a card? I mean this fucking sun! It’s been grilling our skulls for three weeks! I’m practically suffocating, I can’t even work anymore, and you want to talk to me about a card!”

  A moan from the depths of the forge made us turn our heads. It was Ohnmeist, skinnier than a nail, stretching and yawning.

  “He’s still the happiest,” I said to Gott.

  “I don’t know if he’s the happiest, but in any case, he’s surely the idlest!”

  And as if wishing to demonstrate that the blacksmith with whom he’d temporarily chosen to dwell had the correct view of the matter, the dog lay his head on his forepaws and calmly went back to sleep.