Obabakoak, page 23
You have to write the last part in less than forty seconds, time is running out: (If I did not do so it was not because I feared the physical suffering involved nor out of any other fear, but because I understood that a loving relationship that began with such a display of strength would, necessarily, have a far more prosaic ending. On the other hand, I could not let him know my secret, it would have been too cruel. That’s why I went to his house tonight. He too had covered his face with a veil. I offered him my breasts and we made love in silence; he was happy when I plunged this knife into his heart. And now all that remains for me is to weep for my own ill fortune.)
And close the parenthesis—thus ending the story—just as the last grain of sand drops into the bottom of the hourglass.
Klaus Hanhn
IT WAS THE SECOND DAY to dawn in the month of September, a Monday, and Klaus Hanhn opened his eyes surprised to find that the three alarm clocks lined up on the carpet in his bedroom had just gone off, one after another, each one ringing out and demanding, as they always did, that he get up, get up, and go to work, as soon as possible.
The clocks told him that it was five fifteen in the morning. The message was strident and unpleasant.
As soon as he was fully conscious of his situation, Klaus Hanhn gave an angry sigh and closed his eyes again. There was no reason for the clocks to have woken him, not on that Monday, not on that second day of September. For that was the day he had chosen as the day on which he would Change His Life; it was both the day of his forty-seventh birthday and the day on which his Great New Era was to begin. No, the three clocks that he usually needed to rouse him from his leaden slumbers had not gone off because he wanted them to. They had done so only because of some aberration on his part the night before.
He drew his hands out from under the sheets and, without bothering to switch on the light, groped for the clocks on the carpet. But no sooner had he turned the first one off than he gave up and lay back in bed again. In fact, it rather suited him to listen to the clamor. It highlighted this moment he was living through, it made him more intensely aware of the nature—the good nature, of course—of the New Era he had just entered upon. Let them ring and clatter out the warning that it was five fifteen in the morning, that, however sleepy he felt, he had no alternative but to go to work. What did he care? He was no longer in their sway. Let them ring. He was not going to obey, not now or ever again.
“Who’s going to stop you staying in bed, Klaus?” asked his little brother, Alexander, from inside. Alexander was dead, or at least that was what they’d told him: that he’d been dead for many years, that he’d drowned among the reeds of the River Elbe when they’d gone on a trip there with their schoolfellows. But he didn’t believe them. He knew that Alexander had simply changed places. Ever since that day he had been not outside, but inside, and from time to time he spoke to him, especially at moments of importance. It filled him with joy to hear his brother’s childish voice and he almost always followed his advice. Because he loved him very much, very, very much.
“No one, Alexander. No one can,” he replied, smiling. Then he turned over and went back to sleep.
Some hours later, when the sun shone directly into his eyes and woke him from that second sleep, he felt full of contradictory feelings, sudden as the onset of palpitations. He felt excited and happy, because the manner of his waking confirmed the reality of his changed life; but, unfortunately, there was fear there too. A vague, dull fear that might well go on growing throughout the day, little by little, the way a headache grows until it becomes intolerable. What would the future bring? Would it give him everything he needed? He had no way of knowing and his brother, Alexander, didn’t have the answer either. But, despite that, he tended to the belief that all the work of the previous months would bear fruit. The important thing was not to allow himself to succumb to fear. It was the morning of the second of September. Another twenty-four hours and he would be out of danger.
Klaus Hanhn raised the blind and saw that the sky on this his Decisive Day was cloudless. It was a good sign. After white, his favorite color was blue.
“Klaus Hanhn?” he asked, leaving his bedroom and walking into the middle of the living room.
The large mirror there framed him completely, from head to foot. It was oval in shape and could be inclined forward or backward by means of a wooden hinge. That morning it was inclined forward making Klaus look rather smaller than he really was.
The image nodded, smiling.
“Well, in that case, many congratulations,” he said, bowing.
The figure in the mirror hurriedly returned his bow and then stood there looking at him, direct, serious, searching. Yes, there was no doubt about it, he was forty-seven years old. The wrinkles told him he was, the deep lines on his forehead told him, his very expression told him. And, on reflection, it seemed absurd, it was very difficult to fit all those years into the anagram of his life. For where were the events to fill up all that time? He couldn’t find them and even Alexander was not much help in that particular enterprise, since his brother—a mere child, after all—knew nothing of the passing of time. But, despite that, there was no denying the facts. He was forty-seven years old. Perhaps it was too late to change his life.
“Is it too late, Klaus?” he asked the mirror.
But before anyone could answer the question, the mirror emptied and their conversation was interrupted. The noise of hundreds of car horns drifted up from the street.
“A traffic jam, Klaus. A beautiful sight, eh?” Alexander remarked when Klaus opened the window and leaned out.
“It certainly is, Alexander,” he agreed.
Surrounded by cars, the traffic lights on Bulachweg changed vainly from green to red and from red to green. Opposite his front door, a man delivering bread was cursing the traffic jam that had boxed in his van between two buses.
With his gaze fixed on the van, it occurred to Klaus Hanhn that for the third time that morning—the blue sky and the alarm clocks had been the other instances—destiny was taking the trouble to send him signals to help him understand the advantages of his new way of life. For he too, in that past he had only just left behind, had been a humble baker’s delivery man; from six in the morning until five in the afternoon, every day, even on Saturdays. His life had consisted of just that, of delivering bread, ordinary bread, to the shops, speciality and specially ordered bread to the houses of the wealthy in the prosperous parts of the city. He was all too familiar with the traffic jams that held up deliveries and lengthened the working day. That very Monday he could have been in the same situation as the delivery man sitting there shouting and fuming in his van. But the fact was that his clocks said it was ten past ten and he wasn’t out there. No, he wasn’t out in the street, but at home. And what’s more, he’d unplugged the phone. No one could call him, no one could ask him why he hadn’t gone to work.
Destiny smiled on the brave, for he had been brave. He would never go back to the van.
This second of September had to be different in every way from other days, even in its most insignificant details, and so instead of his usual shower Klaus Hanhn took an invigorating bath with the water at 70°F. Then he returned to the living room and breakfasted on tea, toast, and butter, sitting on the sofa, naked, with the sun shining full on him. He wanted to dry in the sun, slowly. From that day forth, he would always live that way, sweetly and slowly, like a sleeping fish letting itself be borne along by the current.
When he’d breakfasted, he plugged in his phone again and called a taxi. He put his clothes on over his still damp skin and went down to the front door.
Half an hour later he was going into one of the plushest department stores on Avenue Kieler. He asked to be shown their most expensive clothes, and the shop assistant, dropping the bored tone she had adopted when greeting him, asked him what sort of clothes he meant.
Klaus explained that he wanted a complete head-to-toe change of outfit. He needed underwear, socks, a shirt, and a pair of shoes all in blue, and then, and this was the most important part, a light summer suit, in white. And he wanted to wear it now. If they wouldn’t mind—he knew they wouldn’t—he would leave the clothes he was wearing with them.
“Are you sure you want a summer suit? Summer won’t last forever,” argued the shop assistant with a look of unexpected complicity. She pointed to the small calendar next to the cash register. Autumn was nearly upon them and it could be very chilly.
“It’s always summer on the island of turtles,” said Klaus with the same complicit smile worn by the shop assistant.
“Whatever made you say that, Klaus?” he heard a voice say. Alexander’s tone was sharp, reproachful.
Klaus’s smile vanished from his face. That remark about the turtles—a travel agent’s slogan—could be seen written in huge letters across a background of palm trees on nearly every advertising billboard in the city. His witty riposte meant that the shop assistant was now in possession of information that could put his whole New Era at risk.
“You’ve acted unwisely, Klaus. This woman will remember the answer you gave. Let’s just hope the information never reaches certain other people’s ears,” whispered Alexander.
His little brother was right. He wanted to live peacefully, like a sleeping fish, letting himself be borne along by the current; but, even when asleep, fishes ensured a happy ending to their dreams by always keeping one part of their brain alert. He should follow their example. He should not forget the existence of other fish, unsleeping, vigilant, more powerful than he; fish that could smell blood and track it down to its source. He must beware of them. Another twenty-four hours and he would be safe. Until then he must act prudently.
“Where are you going?” exclaimed Klaus when he saw the shop assistant making for the telephone installed at the other end of the counter. His expression was one of anguish.
“She’s going to call the police. Kill her, Klaus! Kill her now!” Alexander shouted. Being a child, he could not distinguish between good and bad and sometimes behaved foolishly. Especially when he was frightened.
“Don’t talk nonsense, Alexander!” he shouted back. Then, his hands drenched in sweat, he followed the shop assistant over to the phone. But she was still smiling at him. She seemed to suspect nothing.
“We don’t keep all our stock here in the shop. We have to get some things from the warehouse in the basement,” she said. Then, lowering her eyes and putting her lips to the phone, she asked: “Have we got any blue shoes?”
The shop assistant hung up and at the same time nodded to him. Yes, they did have blue shoes. He would leave the shop dressed just the way he wanted. In a couple of minutes she would return with all the clothes he’d asked for.
Klaus took advantage of the shop assistant’s absence to speak with his younger brother. They must not lose their heads and succumb to fear, because fear was the worst counsellor: It concealed the roads leading to salvation and lit instead those that led straight into the abyss. Moreover, he almost never acted the way he had when he’d made that remark about the island of turtles.
“You’re right, Alexander. I’m usually very prudent. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have reserved tonight’s air ticket six months in advance.”
But the shop assistant was calling him over. Klaus broke off his inner dialogue and went to try on the white suit.
By the time he left the shop it was past midday and the sun’s rays were falling vertically on Avenue Kieler. The pavements were filled with lunchtime office workers making for the park around the Binnenalster Lake.
Choosing the opposite direction, Klaus began walking toward the St. Pauli district, in one of whose streets—Brauerstrasse—was the city’s most famous beauty salon for men, Sebastian.
It was not the first time he’d made that walk but nevertheless he had the impression that, from the moment he set out, everything was completely new and different: what he saw, what he heard, what he felt. Luckily for him, the novelty lay not outside but inside himself. For the Klaus Hanhn of that second day of September had nothing whatsoever to do with the former baker’s deliveryman who, late on Saturday afternoons, would go to the salon and make do with only the cheapest services offered. And that impression grew stronger with every sideways glance at the shop windows he passed, because all the reflections, in all their multiplicity, spoke of the same thing: of a rich man dressed all in white, enjoying a summer stroll.
“Klaus Hanhn?” he asked, stopping on the pavement.
Alexander warned him that talking to a florist’s shop window was a little eccentric and that passersby might begin to ask questions. But he didn’t care about passersby. All that mattered was that new man clasping a bunch of tulips to his chest.
“So you’re Klaus Hanhn!” he exclaimed, putting on a surprised face.
The figure in the reflection nodded and began to laugh. But his laugh was not a guffaw, it was a soft tremor that emerged from some place far from his heart and gradually expanded outward to his skin. That laugh had lain submerged since he was six or seven years old, and now at last it lived again.
“Aren’t you laughing, Alexander?” he asked as he walked on.
“Can’t you see that I am?” replied his brother.
He reached the door of Sebastian’s almost without realizing it. Happiness made distances seem much shorter, there was no room for weariness in a happy heart.
Manicures, French lotions, facial massages using a method imported from the Orient—that’s what the poster said, “imported”—exclusively for you. Klaus read the list with amusement and then firmly pushed open the door. He was prepared to try each and every one of the house’s specialities.
A young woman led him to a room rather like a dressing room.
“Do you think you could make me taller? I’d like to be as tall as you,” he joked. The woman was in fact very tall.
“There are some things I can’t do, at least not yet. But I will leave you looking more handsome,” she replied, rubbing a reddish liquid into his face. Her accent recalled the proximity of the St. Pauli nightclubs.
“That’ll do fine,” Klaus said. In fact, he didn’t need to be any taller. According to the travel brochure, the inhabitants of the island of turtles were all fairly short in stature.
“First I’ll give you a full body massage. Put your nice clothes on those hangers over there and lie down,” ordered the masseuse in decidedly professional tones. She pointed theatrically to the place—to “those hangers”—rather like a stewardess indicating the emergency exits.
Klaus Hanhn recognized the gestures and his thoughts drifted off to the journey he would make that night. He thought about the airport, the suitcases he had checked in the day before, the twenty gift-wrapped belts he’d placed in those suitcases, and the ten-thousand-mark notes—folded and refolded—contained in each of those belts. Twenty belts, two hundred thousand marks. The treasure that was to provide the foundation of this New Era of His Life.
Then he thought of the savings that would allow him to do without that treasure for a sensible period of time. Far off on the island of turtles. Eight hours from now night would fall and the red, winking light of the plane would make its way through the darkness of the sky.
The hands of the masseuse pressed into his flesh, producing tiny spasms of pain that just as suddenly became pleasure. He closed his eyes in order, mentally, to follow the flight path of the plane until it landed on the island. But there was so much joy in his heart that he couldn’t think. It blinded him, the way the sun blinds those who look directly at it.
The objectives he’d set for himself for the morning of his birthday ended there, with the visit to Sebastian’s beauty salon. Out on the pavement of Brauerstrasse again, Klaus hesitated over which direction to take. He looked at his watch. It was two o’clock.
“Which is the best restaurant in this sad city, Alexander?” he asked as he looked up and down the street, completely empty at that hour. But his little brother knew nothing about the banal facts of the world and remained silent. “I’ll go to the Paris restaurant,” Klaus decided after a moment’s thought.
It was a restaurant frequented by all the wealthy inhabitants of the prosperous parts of the city, the ones who ordered speciality breads for their family suppers. It was bound to be excellent. Moreover, it was in the Stadtpark, not far from Brauerstrasse.
Klaus raised an arm and hailed a taxi.
“The Paris restaurant, please,” he said to the driver with feigned tedium. He tried to disguise his normal accent.
“There’s no need to talk like that, Klaus. You’re wearing so much cologne, no one would dare question your high social status,” said Alexander with a little smile he intended to be ironical.
The dining room of the restaurant was broken up by golden columns, and the tables—about twenty at most—were scattered around a huge glass aquarium. Through the restaurant windows you could see the trees in the Stadtpark, their leaves already stained with red. The napkins were blue and the tablecloths white.
Klaus Hanhn sat down at a table near the aquarium, with his back to the other customers. He wanted to dine facing the tropical fish that swam in the aquarium.
“It would be a good idea to get accustomed to what we’ll be seeing on the island of turtles, Alexander,” he remarked.
“What’s your name?” he said in a firm voice. The question was directed at the waiter who’d just approached him bearing the menu.
“Marcel, monsieur,” replied the waiter, rather ruffled.
“Trés bien, Marcel. I want your best advice. Today is my birthday.”
Klaus was looking apprehensively at the menu he held in his hands. Despite the fact that the ingredients of each dish were given in brackets below, in small writing, in a manner he could understand, most of the names written there were utterly incomprehensible to him.
“Our savarin is excellent, monsieur,” the waiter advised him, having murmured a few words of congratulation.
