Across (13 page)
As she spoke, I recovered my eye for her. Years before, in the days of our courtship (yes, I was once capable of courting someone!) I wrote to her in a letter: “We come from two different Earths. I from the planet Carefree and you from the planet Care.” The present visitor also found a refreshing severity in her face. In confronting most people, I first perceive the Gestalt, the overall picture; in her case, what I see first is the eyes, almost black, and below them the whiteness of her throat. (I know there's no point in trying to describe people, however one goes about it; and yet I sometimes feel I have to say something about her.)
Knowing my son would be on his way home from the athletic field, I decided to head him off. We met on the highway where it passes through a cornfield. Once on the meadow, I saw a clubfooted roadworker with his shovel over his shoulder, walking “under the sky”; that was how I now saw my son, carrying a soccer ball in a string bag, walking under the sky; meandering from side to side of the road, yet determined; and at the same time I heard the scraping of his jean-legs.
The visitor then became the cook. The family gathered for dinner in the winter garden, which is on the west side of the house. My daughter's friend sat down
with us; she was to spend the night. The daylight lingered on. Blades of straw glittered in the dung heaps outside the farms; a glow came from the grass under the fruit trees. One could hear the Autobahnâa steady howl. The point where it crosses the border is nearby: a flickering-flaring light as of an oil field between the trees of the semicircular village hill, which with its jagged spruce crowns makes me think of a sleeping boar; the dark hump gives the little white village church on this side of it the dimensions of a cathedral.
with us; she was to spend the night. The daylight lingered on. Blades of straw glittered in the dung heaps outside the farms; a glow came from the grass under the fruit trees. One could hear the Autobahnâa steady howl. The point where it crosses the border is nearby: a flickering-flaring light as of an oil field between the trees of the semicircular village hill, which with its jagged spruce crowns makes me think of a sleeping boar; the dark hump gives the little white village church on this side of it the dimensions of a cathedral.
It was getting cold on the porch. The guest brought logs and made a fire in the veranda stove. A so-called dwarf palm from the Isle of Silenceâa species which allegedly existed only thereâwaved its fan, and a primitive-looking hare sleeping at its feet twitched a nostril. One of the girls said she wanted a house where there would be a room for everything: a room for stones, a room for plants, a room just for school. A roaring in the east, from the direction of the airfield, meant Frankfurt; another, Linz; another, Amsterdam.
The cook washed the dishes. The woman came into the kitchen with a book, and read aloud a passage from the correspondence of a married couple at the turn of the century: “Your constant absence has given me a higher life, a spiritual drive that would otherwise have remained unknown to me.” She added on her own: “One sex says that to another; but mightn't a human being say the same to God?” Then we all watched the television news together, and afterward someone cried out: “But some sort of immortality must be possible!”
I went up to the attic and knocked at my son's door. He said to me in a bass voice: “Don't stand there so respectfully.” It seems he had heard from his schoolmates that I had been wandering aimlessly about the town, “like a lunatic”; one had told him how I'd been seen coming out of a public toilet and the attendant had called after me: “Never let me see your face again.” He himself had once seen me sitting on a bench between two full plastic bags, “like a tramp.”
Only a flashlight was on, and the attic room was in half-darkness. Little knickknacks, mostly metal or glass, gave the wall over the desk the look of a pilot's instrument panel at night. We now had the whole plain outside to ourselves. Green was the last color, then everything turned black, traversed by chains of lights. I sat down on the stool beside my son's desk chair and said: “I have a story to tell you. It's called Threshold Story.”
But before the storyteller began, he paused for a moment and said, addressing himself: “Stop. Everything depends on finding the right order.” While telling the story, he kept his lids lowered; sometimes his eyes flashed, as though in jubilation. He concluded with the words: “I need you as my witness.”
The listener's answer was as follows: “And I thought my father was just a little rebellious off and on.”
The narrator opened his eyes, unfolded his hands, uncrossed his legs, sat up straight, breathed deeply, and then looked imploringly over his shoulder into empty space, as though waiting for someone or remembering someone; or as though collecting himself for a very
different story. (A story meant: it was, it is, it will beâit meant future.) But first he lay down on the floor of his son's room and sleptâsomeone threw a cover over himâa night, a day, and yet another night. And he had a dream: “The storyteller is the threshold. He must therefore stop and collect himself.”
different story. (A story meant: it was, it is, it will beâit meant future.) But first he lay down on the floor of his son's room and sleptâsomeone threw a cover over himâa night, a day, and yet another night. And he had a dream: “The storyteller is the threshold. He must therefore stop and collect himself.”
T
here's a special breeze on the bridge. It's not only the river that creates a breeze of its own; so does the slightly raised canal as it flows across the country. On the surface, the water is so smooth that it seems to stand still, as in a bathtub or a watering trough, while the dark, whirling leaves just below give the impression of a violent current. Both impressions are deceptive; without hurrying, one can keep pace with the birds' nests, paper boats, or chestnut blossoms floating on the surface; if anything, one might have to slow down now and then.
here's a special breeze on the bridge. It's not only the river that creates a breeze of its own; so does the slightly raised canal as it flows across the country. On the surface, the water is so smooth that it seems to stand still, as in a bathtub or a watering trough, while the dark, whirling leaves just below give the impression of a violent current. Both impressions are deceptive; without hurrying, one can keep pace with the birds' nests, paper boats, or chestnut blossoms floating on the surface; if anything, one might have to slow down now and then.
The bridge forms a barely perceptible hump in the plain; still, the moped riders crossing it accelerate, some cyclists stand up to pedal, and the headlights of the cars tilt skyward on the way up. Violet swallows skim the water, in which great bundles of grass drift like uprooted islands. The jagged blackish maple leaves on the bottom look something like bats' wings. The flowing stream seems to be only another form of the stony mountain ridge in the backgroundâits other time form, its dual-aspect picture, its freer manifestation, its lowland self; just as the two frolicking dogs in the meadow to this side of the mountain are only its transposition, its cellular division, its transformation into something infinitesimal but full of life. The two frolicking dogs are transformed into a closely intertwined couple; and the couple in turn into a child with a hood.
On the bank, a lilac bush is in bloom, and toward evening the mountains in the distance take on the color of lilac. An old man is standing on the bridge. His eyes are half closed and he says: “This canal is so quiet, so
unassuming, so modest. This water must conquer.” A girl in a white coverall stops her bicycle for a moment and, resting one foot on the railing, lights a cigarette. The tall grass at the edge of the road, even the stiff thistles, rustle like reeds in the breeze. A blackbird sings in a willow tree, almost hidden by the foliage but instantly recognizable by its iridescent throat, which changes its hue from note to note. The willow moves when the water beneath it moves. And now a whole country murmurs in the solitary spruce; for a moment, indeed, the sky of all Europe shines blue over the empty bridge.
unassuming, so modest. This water must conquer.” A girl in a white coverall stops her bicycle for a moment and, resting one foot on the railing, lights a cigarette. The tall grass at the edge of the road, even the stiff thistles, rustle like reeds in the breeze. A blackbird sings in a willow tree, almost hidden by the foliage but instantly recognizable by its iridescent throat, which changes its hue from note to note. The willow moves when the water beneath it moves. And now a whole country murmurs in the solitary spruce; for a moment, indeed, the sky of all Europe shines blue over the empty bridge.
The first rain dabs circles in the water, which float a little way before losing themselves. The falling snow, however, leaves no trace in the canal; its flakes are instantly expunged by the current. A bright-bellied fish, large for so narrow a stream, leaps high into the air like a dolphin on one side of the bridge, and does it again on the other side. A duck paddles back and forth between the banks like a ferryboat; when a dog comes running, the duck lifts its head and, impassive, lets itself drift downstream. After the rain, steam rises from the bridge and there's a smell of wood in the air.
Whenever a truck drives over the planks, the bridge sways under the feet of the man standing there, as it used to do under peasants' carts; and, at the bottom of the canal, swarms of hitherto invisible little fish scatter. At times, though, there's nothing but water flowing downstream, no objects, no animalsâonly the pure element; now clear, now cloudy; birch-white, sky-yellow, rock-gray, flesh-colored, cloud-colored, iron-blue, earth-brown, grass-green, peat-black, cistern-black, utterly
soundless; only where a branch hangs down into itâor in a narrow placeâthere's a gurgling as from a hidden spring. Sometimes the element is the color of memory; comparable to nothing, just remembering. Toward evening, glittering spirals drift with the otherwise darkened mass.
soundless; only where a branch hangs down into itâor in a narrow placeâthere's a gurgling as from a hidden spring. Sometimes the element is the color of memory; comparable to nothing, just remembering. Toward evening, glittering spirals drift with the otherwise darkened mass.
In the autumn, they drain the canal and keep it dry for a month; during this time, it is cleaned and the banks are reinforced; the fish are moved elsewhere. The muck stinks. In places, the bed is completely dry, like a wadi. But one fine day the water flows again, muddy, gray, full from top to bottom with odds and ends that have accumulated during the dry period. After exclaiming with surprise that the water is back again, an old woman says: “And how filthy it is!” But adds: “As it should be.”
A few of the planks on the bridge have been replaced; for a long while the new planks remain lighter-colored than those around them. Earlier than elsewhere in the vicinity, ice appears in the cracks; later on, it bulges glassy from the clefts in the willow trees. The large, lobed leaf of a plane tree has blown from far off against the trunk of a willow, and there it stays, converted into a special kind of trail marker. One winter's night, seen from the top of one of the “city mountains,” the streetlamps along the twisting, turning canal become the most prominent constellation on the plain. Seen from a distance, the meanders twinkle like stars.
The haze that rises continually from the water makes for a distinct zone on either side of the canal; the houses in the Colony, on this side of the veil, become a separate
community, with, as its emblem, the old-fashioned wooden wheel which sporadically waters the gardens along the bank. On the far side of the bridge, the pedestrians have arrived, so to speak, on their home ground; up until then, they all goose-stepped on one side of the road, whereas now they band together or scatter as in a kraal or a cattle pen. Immediately after the last plank, a youngster on a bicycle lets go the handlebars and rides home with folded arms. The next rider, whose bicycle lurches and rattles as though on the point of falling apart, alights on the bridge, takes a look at the frame, says aloud to himself: “Oh well, it ought to get me home,” and lurches on.
community, with, as its emblem, the old-fashioned wooden wheel which sporadically waters the gardens along the bank. On the far side of the bridge, the pedestrians have arrived, so to speak, on their home ground; up until then, they all goose-stepped on one side of the road, whereas now they band together or scatter as in a kraal or a cattle pen. Immediately after the last plank, a youngster on a bicycle lets go the handlebars and rides home with folded arms. The next rider, whose bicycle lurches and rattles as though on the point of falling apart, alights on the bridge, takes a look at the frame, says aloud to himself: “Oh well, it ought to get me home,” and lurches on.
The “bridgeman,” also known as the “duty officer” or the “census taker,” is inconspicuous; asked what he's doing there, he may answer: “I'm waiting.” Waiting, he walks back and forth over the planks, or leans on the railing, propping one heel on the crossbar behind him. He watches as a student driver practices turning at the edge of the bridge. The engine of a parked bus is revving up. The trees of the plain are thinned by the fog. The many black mistletoe balls in their crowns, and beside them, the resplendent full moon. The icy mountain water in the canal cools the heartbeat. At one moment, as he stands here, he is: “I am.”
This bridge, he thinks, is so small, there will never be any need to blow it up for strategic reasons. A flag will never be unfurled on it. Under the weight of a tank, it would collapse instantly. Nor is nature likely to show its violent aspect here; in case of flood, the sluice gate
on the Acheâwhere the canal beginsâwould just have to be closed.
on the Acheâwhere the canal beginsâwould just have to be closed.
In the Sunday-morning sun, a woman in an advanced state of pregnancy and a young fellow, holding each other by the hand in the middle of the bridge, dance in the presence of the slow current at their feetâdance the pregnancy dance. One night, instead of the usual colored washing in the garden of the lockkeeper's house, where a family of foreigners live, nearly all the washing is white. The viewer finds an unusual word for the activity of the water, the trees, the wind, the bridge: “The canal, the light, the willows, the planks of the bridgeâthey
prevail.”
prevail.”
A chirping in the wires means that a bus is coming. Ordinarily, one of the alighting passengers hurries ahead of the rest and one lags behind. In the summer, when the passengers jump off the running board in their bright-colored clothes, they look like tumbling ninepins or a riotous band of red-, white-, and brown-skins; in the winter, disguised in their dark clothing and lit by the arc lamps at the turnaround, like refugees or pilgrims. (On this score, we are one with the red Indians.) In batches, they hurry across the little bridge. Not all the homecomers swing their bags like that child now. Rarely does one of the walkers stop and look down at the water (at the most, someone will set his burden down for a moment or shift it to the other hand); a few tap their sticks or umbrellas on the planks. Seldom does one of the bridge crossers curse, grumble, or laugh; but once in a while you hear a narrative note: “When my
father ⦔ A squeaky shopping cart; a springy baby carriage; a purring electric wheelchair. Then a little stage business: two schoolboys take advantage of the bridge for an exchange they have just agreed upon in the bus, while an adult, after tossing his coin in the box, takes a newspaper out of the plastic bag fastened to the railing. An old woman doubled up with gout stops on the hump of the bridge and squints up at the weather. “Smarty up there does just what he pleases.”
father ⦔ A squeaky shopping cart; a springy baby carriage; a purring electric wheelchair. Then a little stage business: two schoolboys take advantage of the bridge for an exchange they have just agreed upon in the bus, while an adult, after tossing his coin in the box, takes a newspaper out of the plastic bag fastened to the railing. An old woman doubled up with gout stops on the hump of the bridge and squints up at the weather. “Smarty up there does just what he pleases.”
The laggard is a young woman; the many different-colored clips in her pinned-up hair glitter and sparkle as she crosses the bridge.
For a moment, the empty bridge is suffused with feminine perfume.
After an interval comes a horse-drawn carriage adorned with garlands and crowded with musicians on their way from one performance to another; they have put their clarinets, trumpets, and cymbals aside and look tired; only the accordion player, who is sitting on the back of the shafts with his instrument in the crook of his arm, opens the bellows on the bridge, producing a long-drawn-out tone.
Now from the medieval canalâas from the medieval figures over the doors of the Old City churchesânow peace, mischief, quietness, gravity, slowness, and patience.
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