Epitaph for a Working ManO (3 page)

It would have come in useful now. I could have picked Father up from the home and taken him back again. It would have saved him the bus rides and the hours sitting around in the entrance hall.

*

Sitting at the table watching the people come in, go out, cross the hall, inquire at the desk. No signs of impatience now he'd got it over with again, that quarter of an hour in the basement: to the changing cubicle, remove shirt and vest, lie flat on stomach under the machine, keep still; put on vest and shirt again, exchange a couple of words with the nurse, then back out into the corridor. By half past eight at the latest it was over. And the bus to Breitmoos didn't leave until eleven.

Sitting at the table in the entrance hall. At regular intervals he'd draw a fresh cigarette out of the packet. With a deft flick of his wrist he'd extinguish the match and drop it into the ashtray.

The season recognisable by the flower-boxes, the fresh green leaves on the poplars. Changeable weather, bright one moment, overcast the next. Clouds drew shadows across the carpark. Taxis turned off the road and drove up the ramp. Bunches of tulips were handed in at the desk, ice cream delivered for the shop. Two carpenters were replacing windows in the porch.

*

A chill in the air whenever it had rained the night before. Sometimes I saw his bus arrive at the stop while I was still at the bend at the bottom of the road. By the time I reached the hospital Father would already have crossed the street. He'd be standing on the pavement, leaning on his stick and looking in my direction.

We didn't use the main entrance any more, but went in through the staff door next to the ramp which led straight to the basement.

We couldn't hurry. Ever since his accident twelve years earlier when he'd fallen downstairs in the Traube up in Birchlen and broken his right shin and his ankle, Father had trouble walking.

The automatic doors slid open, then glided shut behind us. Basement corridors. The smell of polish and disinfectants. “Ah, this way. All you have to do is follow the arrows.” And, “It won't be long before I can find it on my own.”

He hung his cap on the hook, and I helped him out of his jacket. We sat down beside each other on the plastic chairs.

“Mr Haller?”

“Coming.”

“Cubicle number three.”

“Number three?”

“Yes, number three, same as ever.”

I continued to hear their voices through the partition.

Over by the X-ray room patients on beds were being wheeled in through the door. Staff clattered by on their wooden clogs. A March copy of the
Schweizer Illustrierte
showed the new trends in swimsuits.

“Goodbye, Nurse. Have a nice day.”

He came down the corridor with his rolling gait.

“Here we are again. It didn't take long.”

I helped him on with his jacket.

“Just a moment, my cap.”

I handed it to him; he pulled it down crookedly over his forehead. He reached out for his stick.

“Shall we go and have a cup of tea in the entrance hall upstairs?”

“We've certainly got enough time.”

“But I need to go for a quick pee first,” he added as we approached the lift. “Otherwise I might wet my pants. Yesterday I had to change my underpants twice. I bet it's because of the radiotherapy. I always have to dash. Oh well, never mind, better that than not being able to go at all.”

The lavatory door closed behind him. I waited in the corridor.

*

He opened the packet of Virginia cigarettes, non-filter, blue and white. The hospital shop didn't stock them; he bought them at the Löwen; Mrs Budmiger, the landlady, got them in for him. He ripped the top off the packet, screwing up the paper wrapping and its inside foil. No need for him to tear only a small hole to reveal just four or five cigarettes to be extracted: he tore the packet wide open. He knew it would soon be empty, that he wouldn't be carrying it around on him for days, the cigarettes wouldn't fall out, and the tobacco wouldn't trickle out into his pocket. He'd been smoking two packets a day for more than fifty years – occasionally more than two packets. It hadn't affected his lungs. He was about to die of something else. He was indeed short of breath, and he did have smoker's cough, but that wasn't what he'd die of, far from it.

People in dressing gowns, tracksuits, bathrobes sat around in the hall. Slippers, sandals, legs in plaster, metal crutches, drip stands. The women had taken the trouble to make themselves up. Some of them looked improbably healthy; some were grey and yellow in the face.

Men in green tunics and trousers stopped awhile for a chat. The girl at the information desk was very busy. In the room behind the partition there was a man sorting mail into pigeonholes.

*

“Take your hands off me, I can manage by myself!” he protested as he pulled himself up on to the examination couch and the male nurse wanted to help him. “My, my, how comfortable it is up here. Wake me up if I fall asleep before you've finished.”

The doctor rummaged around in the plastic box the nurse had placed in front of him. The pincette he needed was missing. The nurse fetched another set of instruments from the room next door.

The doctor fumbled awkwardly with his little knife and the swabs. It looked as if he hadn't done anything like it for years.

“Are you all right, Mr Haller?”

“Any reason why I shouldn't be?”

The nurse smiled at me over the doctor's bent back. Like me, he was just watching and didn't have anything to do.

Father was lying on his stomach, his head twisted toward the window. He was holding on to the couch with his right hand. His left arm hung down. The legs of his trousers had slipped up slightly; one sock was pulled up over his calf, the other had rolled down crookedly around his swollen ankle. From the unworn pattern on the soles of his trainers one could see that they'd been bought only recently.

Taking a tissue sample was what they called it.

A small sticking plaster on the wound, and down from the couch.

“Did it hurt?”

“Not in the least.”

“Come again in a week. Then we'll know more. And by then we'll also see what effect the radiotherapy's had.”

*

A week later, after the skin on Father's back had turned purply red, the doctor prescribed Kamillosan ointment. The radiation dose had been too high.

The treatment was working, said the doctor. He was surprised himself at how well it was working. All those lumps had already subsided very nicely. Things were going as they should. However, at this point it would be best to take a short break. Of course the treatment would have to be resumed later. But the skin needed a chance to recover a little first.

Father cursed. Not in front of the doctor – in front of the doctor he restrained himself. But as soon as we were back in the cubicle he started off, so loudly that he was bound to be overheard in the consultation room.

“That's all right, let him hear! You wait, I'll give him a piece of my mind yet, I'll tell him to his face. It's not his back that's burning, is it? Take a break – what a joke! He could have thought of that earlier. They had my back right there under their noses every other day! They're all the same stupid twits, full of themselves but without a clue. If only they'd admit it! But they don't. They just carry on doctoring. Hurry up, no need to worry, it's not their backs that go under the machine, is it? Well, that's a sunburn I could have got at less expense!”

Keep the flat tidy at all times. If anyone comes by unexpectedly the flat at least should be shipshape. I always went back to bed after breakfast. But before that I did the washing-up, made the beds, and checked that there wasn't any underwear or other clothing lying around, and that there weren't any shoes cluttering up the hallway.

Other people were no better at their jobs than I was. But they still had their jobs, they still went to work every day. Or else they'd found a job shortly after being fired, a job in the trade they'd been trained in, or in some other profession. How come my workmate Fluri managed it? Or Zaugg? How did they pull it off?

Occasionally I felt envious. Why only the others? Why not me? In such a situation all sorts of things cross your mind. Your mind is also unemployed. That's why all kinds of things occur to you.

At the dole office I pretended that I didn't care. Let them think what they wanted. Let them think I wasn't looking hard enough, that I was being inflexible, that I was too picky, a difficult case. There they sat, safe in their jobs behind the reception desk, gazing at you with professional solicitude as they made their inquiries! It didn't take much to make you feel you were being treated unfairly. Merely asking you if you'd already tried here or there was enough. Of course you'd already tried.

Father never asked. Perhaps he was familiar with the situation. He'd been unemployed too; but that was ages ago, before the war, during the Depression. In those days he'd often been unable to find a job in his trade, sometimes for months on end.

*

Polaroid still never fails to amaze. The Estermanns were delighted. Stonemason Haller with his fountain. I used up the whole film. The day before, they had filled the fountain with water to check whether it was completely watertight. The joints only turned dark in two places. “That's nothing,” said Father. “The builder seems to have made a good job of it.”

On my moped through the Brühl district: Hard, Bünten, Bürmatt, Horbach, Tägern. Through fields smelling of hay. Father had asked me to come and see him at Estermann's while he was at work there. I'd promised.

It was four o'clock when I arrived. The place was recognisable from afar as a builder's premises. Three hangar-like outbuildings, a crane, piles of scaffolding, an excavator, stacks of pipes, logs and squared timber, rust-coloured reinforcing bars. A dog yapped, then came toward me wagging its tail.

Father was already clearing away his tools. “I usually stop at four. Don't want to overdo it. – So you've turned up after all. Well, come and have a drink, you must be thirsty too.”

We went over to the house. Geraniums everywhere. Behind the garage door there were some bottles standing in a bucket of water. “There's no one here, they've all gone out. But Mrs Estermann knows what I like. Or would you prefer cider? Apple juice or cider, you can have whichever you want.” He sat down on the bench under the eaves, slid a glass across the table and poured me a drink; then he picked up a bottle of beer for himself and with a practised gesture raised it to his lips.

“I start in the morning between nine and half past,” he said, setting the bottle down on the table, “and I usually stop work around four. In between, I have lunch. Today I had mashed potatoes, beef olive and lettuce. Mrs Estermann's an expert cook.”

The dog lay on the concrete floor snapping at flies. Muggy weather. Clouds swelling in the sky.

A lorry drove up in between the sheds. Mr Estermann climbed out.

He needed something to eat, he said, this evening he'd be coming home late; and where was his wife?

“She's gone to town,” said Father. “She asked me to tell you she'd be back soon.”

Estermann went into the house and came out carrying bread and a piece of bacon, a knife and a plate. He had to get something into his stomach, he said, otherwise he'd be good for nothing. “A few slices of bacon with bread and cider, then I'll feel fine again,” he said, and invited us to join him in his meal.

He ate quickly, his face flushed. Father watched him, the bottle of beer in his hand, a look of derision on his face. The dog sat up on its hind legs and stared at the bacon, at the knife cutting off the slices, at the bacon slices themselves as they quickly disappeared from the plate. Occasionally it was thrown a piece. It gulped it down without chewing.

Estermann told us about the building he was working on, a row of terraced houses in the neighbouring village. He should have got back to it long ago. “They'll work even though you're not there,” said Father. “Yes, of course,” said Estermann, “but it's usually just when you're not there that something happens. Isn't that the case?” He looked at me as if awaiting confirmation. I nodded as though I knew.

We went across to the fountain and I took pictures. Estermann insisted that Father stand beside the basin, then at the spout end and at the foot end too.

Back in the shade under the eaves I laid the photographs out on the table and we watched as shapes and colours gradually emerged: the pattern of the stones, the fountain rim, and the small man standing beside it. Polaroid continues to amaze.

Estermann asked if he could have two or three of the photos.

He picked out the ones he wanted.

“And these here, they're for me,” said Father, drawing them over to his end of the table.

Shortly after Estermann had driven off in his lorry his wife arrived back from town.

“Well, well, Mr Haller has a visitor.” She placed the full shopping bag on the bench and sat down heavily beside it.

Father spread the pictures out on the table again. She looked at them one by one. She, too, asked if she could have one – but not just of the fountain: she wanted one with Haller in it.

She said she liked the fountain. The colours of the stones all matched beautifully.

He'd soon be starting on the next one, said Father.

She told him not to overdo himself.

Father said he liked coming. It meant that once a day, at least, he got something decent to eat.

She remonstrated. You ate whatever appeared on the table, and it wasn't likely to be better than the food at the home.

He insisted that it was better. He praised her beef olive, her bratwurst with onion sauce, her rhubarb tarts, her soufflés, her tripe dishes – nothing that had been simply cooked in boiling water. “Boiled stuff, that's what they're good at at the home. The vegetables are soft all right, and easy to chew, but absolutely tasteless. Tasteless but healthy, so they say. Not to mention their insipid salads!” And he had to pay for it, even had to pay when he wasn't there, when – like now – he was out for lunch every day of the week. “In a decent home they'd deduct the lunch from the bill. But oh no, they can't do that at our place. It would be too much to expect of his honour the manager, the bill would be too complicated for him. I wouldn't say anything if you had to pay when you missed single meals – probably it would be too complicated for the kitchen staff to take that into consideration each time. But a whole week – and when they've been told in advance – you'd think they could make concessions, wouldn't you? No wonder a lot of people can't manage on their old age pensions!”

He'd already complained and he'd complain again. After all he wasn't the only one concerned. For example there was Naef: he had three weeks holiday at his sister's in Langnau every year – and still had to pay full board and lodging for the whole period: they didn't deduct a centime. You couldn't call that doing honest business – a swindle, that's what it was, a rotten swindle. He, Haller, would take action again soon, as he had before. They'd soon see; they needn't think he'd keep quiet. Right was right, and what was rotten needed to be fixed.

We nodded.

A gust of wind stirred up the dust. The sky looked like thunder.

The time had come to get a move on.

The dog took fright when the camera flashed. “You stay here,” said Mrs Estermann as she hooked it to its long chain.

Father climbed into the car. I put on my helmet.

We waved and drove off. Mrs Estermann took Father back to the home. I rode back to town.

The thunderstorm didn't break until evening.

*

Overweight people. When women are fat, they look older than they are.

Is that relevant here?

The first time I saw Mrs Estermann – one morning when she'd come to pick Father up from the hospital – it had been something of a shock. Father had told me before that she was my age; and now, coming toward us from the entrance, this elderly, overweight person in horn-rimmed spectacles, with plump legs, pendulous dewlaps.

Is that relevant?

Beating about the bush: that's what we were doing. All the time. Including the day I went to Tägern and photographed the fountain. What did I care about fountains? Concrete fountains, limestone fountains, or that kitschy combination of both, the Estermann, Haller & Company invention. If Father hadn't had cancer I wouldn't have heard anything about that fountain business until Christmas – if at all. Before his illness I'd seldom visited him. We didn't have much to say to each other and there was no reason for us to meet. If it hadn't been for Sophie, in some years we wouldn't even have met at Christmas. Not that I didn't like him. It was just that I had somehow lost my sense of family somewhere along the line. Sophie still had a strong sense of family.

Beating about the bush.

Why did I go out to Estermann's that afternoon? Because I was afraid that Father wouldn't go back to the hospital of his own accord; that, angered by his burnt back, he'd refuse to see the tall doctor again. Perhaps he wouldn't refuse, he'd just forget the date. And then I'd have all the organisational bother of getting him another appointment. That was the only reason I went out to the Brühl district: to make sure he wouldn't forget.

Was I worried about him?

I wanted to avoid trouble.

He seemed to take it for granted that I'd take charge of things. Just as he'd thought it perfectly normal that for so many years I'd hardly ever gone to see him except at Christmas and on similar occasions.

Moreover I was unemployed. I had plenty of time. I couldn't have used time as an excuse.

*

“To begin with we'll give him an X-ray. We want to make sure that none of the inner organs have been affected. If we don't find anything we'll give him a new course of radiotherapy in four or five weeks. That will be necessary, as I told you from the start. But if it's already invaded his inner organs we won't trouble him any more.”

Very much the circumspect specialist. Father himself didn't hear the remarks: escorted by the male nurse, he'd gone on ahead toward the X-ray room.

I was allowed to be present during the X-ray examination. The female intern took me into a cubicle that was separated from the rest of the room by glass panels.

He was standing bare-torsoed on the platform of the machine, surrounded by chrome steel, and white, and snaking cables. Dr Boren called out instructions: “Okay – and now turn right again – fine – raise your arms – a little higher – yes – and now breathe out.”

On the monitor, grey on grey, his ribcage, his lungs, his heart, working quietly, neither a stakhanovite nor a lazybones.

The woman doctor beside me asked if I was his son. She scrutinised the flickering picture attentively. She made no comments; her face betrayed nothing in particular.

“A little bit to the left,” said the doctor. “Yes, turn, to the left – very good – fine – and bend your arms – breathe gently.” The small man did what he was told, slowly, awkwardly.

“All right, that'll do. You can get dressed now, Mr Haller.”

The male nurse went up to him, supported him by the elbow. Down he came from the platform.

Dr Boren, hurriedly: “That's it then, as agreed; we'll resume the radiotherapy at the end of July. Just register with the nurse over there.”

He shook hands with us.

I helped Father into his vest.

*

As we walked along the Ulmenweg, he said: “Well at least I'll have peace for a while now.” It was hot, he was sweating.

There was no one else on the road. Semi-detached houses with lawns, bushes all around. The sound of shunting trains from the station.

A refuse collection vehicle overtook us. Two orange-trousered men tossed the black plastic sacks into the back.

Clocks struck eleven. We'd had to wait a long time that morning and he'd missed his bus.

“What about coming to our place for lunch today? Sophie'd be happy to see you. She hasn't seen you for weeks.”

But first we stopped at the station café. He needed a short rest.