The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (69 page)

Here, in this kitchen, it smelled of bath water, soap, of peace and fresh bread, of cake; red apples were lying on the table, a newspaper, and half a cucumber, its cut surface pale, green, and watery; closer to the peel the cucumber flesh was darker and firmer.

“I also know,” said the girl, “what they used to do to fight sin. I’ve heard about it.”

“Who?”

“Those saints of yours. The priest told us about it: they whipped themselves, they fasted and prayed, not one killed himself.” She turned toward the boy, afraid again: No, no, I’m not your Jerusalem.

“They weren’t fourteen,” said the boy, “or fifteen.”

“Some of them must have been,” she said.

“No,” he said, “no, it’s not true, most of them weren’t converted till after they’d sinned.” He came closer, pushing himself along the window sill toward her.

“That’s a lie,” she said, “some of them didn’t sin first at all—I don’t believe any of that—if anything, I believe in the Mother of God.”

“If
anything
,” he said scornfully, “but She was the Mother of
God
.”

He looked the girl full in the face, turned aside, and said in an undertone: “Forgive me … yes, yes, I have tried. Prayed.”

“And fasted?”

“Oh, fasting,” he said. “I don’t care what I eat.”

“That’s not fasting. And whipping. I would do that, I would whip myself, if I believed.”

“Doesn’t it bother you really?” he whispered.

“No,” she said, “it doesn’t bother me, to
do
something, to see something, to say something—but it does bother you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.”

“What a pity,” she said, “that you’re so Catholic.”

“Why a pity?”

“Otherwise I’d show you my breasts. I would like so much to show them to you—to you. Everyone talks about them, the boys call out things after me, but no one has ever seen them yet.”

“No one?”

“No,” she said, “no one.”

“Show it to me,” he said.

“It won’t be the same as it was last time, you know when I mean.”

“I know,” he said.

“Was it terrible for you?”

“Only because Mother was so terrible. She was absolutely furious and told everyone about it. It wasn’t so terrible for me. I would have forgotten all about it. Come here,” he said.

Her hair felt smooth and hard; that surprised him, he had thought it would be soft, but it was the way he imagined spun glass.

“Not here,” she said. She pushed him along in front of her, slowly, for he did not let go of her head, he kept his eyes on her face while they moved, as if in some strange dance step invented by themselves, away from the open veranda door across the kitchen; he seemed to be standing on her feet, she seemed to be lifting him with every step.

She opened the kitchen door, pushed him slowly across the hall, opened the door to her room.

“Here,” she said, “in my room, not out there.”

“Mirzova,” he whispered.

“Why do you call me that? My name is Mirzov, and Katharina.”

“Everyone calls you that, and I can’t think of you any other way. Show it to me now.” He blushed, because again he had said “it” and not “them.”

“It makes me sad,” she said, “that for you it’s a sin.”

“I want to see it,” he said.

“Not a soul—” she said. “You’re not to talk to a soul about it.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I promise—but there’s one person I must tell.”

“Who’s that?”

“Think for a moment,” he said softly, “think for a minute, you should know all about that.” She bit her lip, still clutching her coat tightly around her chest, looked thoughtfully at him, and said, “Of course, you can tell him, but no one else.”

“All right,” he said, “now show it to me.”

If she laughs or giggles, he thought, I’ll shoot; but she did not laugh: she was so serious she was trembling, her hands fluttered as she tried to undo the buttons, her fingers were ice-cold and stiff.

“Come here,” he said gently, “I’ll do it.” His hands were calm, his fear lay deeper than hers; down in his ankles was where he felt it, they were like rubber and he thought he was going to fall over. He undid the buttons with his right hand, passed his left hand over the girl’s hair, as if to comfort her.

Her tears came quite suddenly, silently, without warning, without fuss. They simply ran down her cheeks.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m scared,” she said, “aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” he said. “I’m scared too.” He was so nervous he almost tore off the last button, and he took a deep breath when he saw Mirzova’s breasts; he had been scared because he was afraid of being disgusted, afraid of the moment when politeness would force him to pretend, so as to hide this disgust, but he was not disgusted and there was no need to hide anything. He sighed again. As suddenly as they had begun, the girl’s tears stopped flowing. She held her breath as she looked at him: the least movement of his face, the expression in his eyes, she took in every detail, and she already knew that in years to come she would be grateful to him, because he had been the one to undo the buttons.

He looked at them closely, did not touch her, just shook his head, and laughter rose up in him.

“What is it?” she asked, “may I laugh too?”

“Go ahead, laugh,” he said, and she laughed.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, and again he was ashamed because he had said “it” instead of “they,” but he could not bring himself to say “they.”

“Do it up again,” she said.

“No,” he said, “you do it up, but leave it for a moment.” It was very quiet, the sun pierced the yellow curtains, which had dark-green stripes. Dark stripes also lay across the faces of the children. You can’t have a woman, thought the boy, at fourteen.

“Let me do it up,” said the girl.

“All right,” he said, “do it up.” But he held her hands back for a moment, and the girl looked at him and laughed aloud.

“Why are you laughing now?”

“I’m so happy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” he said, “I’m happy because it’s so beautiful.”

He let go her hands, stepped back, and turned aside as she buttoned up her blouse.

He walked round the table, looked at the open suitcase lying on the bed; sweaters lay piled one on top of the other, underwear had been sorted into little heaps, the bed had already been stripped, the suitcase was lying on the blue mattress ticking.

“So you’re really leaving?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He moved on, looked into the open clothes closet: nothing but empty coat hangers, a red hair ribbon dangling from one of them. He shut the closet doors, glanced over to the bookshelf above her bed: empty except for some used blotting paper, and a brochure standing at an angle against the wall: “All About Winegrowing.”

When he looked around, her coat was lying on the floor. He picked it up, threw it on the table, and ran out.

She was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding the binoculars. She winced when he laid his hand on her shoulder, lowered her binoculars, and gave him a frightened look.

“Please go,” she said. “You must go now.”

“Let me see it just once more.”

“No, the regatta will be over soon, my mother’s coming to take me to the train. You know what’ll happen if anyone sees you here.”

He said nothing, leaving his hand on her shoulder. She ran away quickly, round to the other side of the table, took a knife out of the drawer, cut off a piece of the cucumber, took a bite, put down the knife. “Please,” she said, “if you stare at me like that much longer, you’ll look like the pharmacist or that fellow Drönsch.”

“Shut up,” he said. She looked at him in astonishment as he suddenly came over to her, grasped her by the shoulder; she brought her hand up over his arm and put the piece of cucumber in her mouth, and smiled. “Don’t you understand,” she said. “I was so happy.”

He looked at the floor, let go her shoulder, went to the veranda, jumped onto the balustrade, and called out, “Give me a hand.” She laughed, ran over to him, put down the piece of cucumber, and held on to him with both hands, bracing herself against the wall while she slowly lowered him onto the roof of the summerhouse.

“I bet someone has seen us,” he said.

“Probably,” she said. “Can I let go?”

“Not yet. When are you coming back from Vienna?”

“Soon,” she said. “D’you want me to come soon?” He already had both feet on the roof and said, “You can let go now.” But she did not let go, she laughed. “I’ll come back. When d’you want me to come?”

“When I can look at it again.”

“That might be a long time.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know,” she said, looking at him thoughtfully. “First you looked as if you were dreaming, then all of a sudden you looked almost like the pharmacist; I don’t want you to look like that and commit mortal sins and be bound.”

“Let go now,” he said, “or pull me up again.”

She laughed, let go his hands, picked up the piece of cucumber from the balustrade, and bit into it.

“I’ve got to shoot at something,” he said.

“Don’t shoot at anything living,” she said. “Shoot at tennis balls or at—at jam jars.”

“What made you think of jam jars?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I could imagine it might be fun to shoot at jam jars. It’s bound to make a noise, and splash all over the place—wait a minute,” she said hurriedly as he turned away and started to climb down; he turned back and looked at her gravely. “And, you know,” she said softly, “you could stand at the railroad crossing, by the water tower, and fire into the air when my train goes by. I’ll be looking out of the window and waving.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll do that, when does your train go?”

“Ten past seven,” she said, “at seven-thirteen it passes the crossing.”

“Then I’d better get going,” he said. “Goodbye. You’ll be back?”

“I’ll be back,” she said, “for sure.” And she bit her lip and repeated under her breath, “I’ll be back.”

She watched him as he clung to the weathervane, till his feet had reached the trellis. He ran across the lawn, onto the terrace, climbed into the house; she saw him cross the brass strip again, pick up the carton of tennis balls, turn back; she heard the gravel crunching under his feet as, with the carton under his arm, he ran past the garage and out onto the street.

I hope he doesn’t forget to turn round and wave, she thought. There he was, waving, at the corner of the garage, he pulled the pistol out of his pocket, pressed the barrel against the carton, and waved once more before he ran round the corner and disappeared.

Up she went with the binoculars again, punching out circles of blue, medallions of sky; Rhenania and Germania, riverbank with regatta pennants, round horizon of river green with shreds of banner red.

My hair would crackle, she thought, it crackled even when he touched it. And in Vienna there’s wine too.

Vineyard: pale-green, sour grapes, leaves which those fat slobs tied around their bald heads to make them look like Bacchus.

She looked for the streets, the ones she could see into with the binoculars. The streets were all deserted, all she could see was the parked cars; the ice-cream cart was still there, she could not find the boy. I’ll be—she thought with a smile, while she swept the binoculars toward the river again—I’ll be your Jerusalem after all.

She did not turn round as her mother opened the front door and entered the hall. A quarter to seven already, she thought. I hope he makes it to the crossing by thirteen minutes after. She heard the suitcase being snapped shut and the tiny key being turned in the lock, heard the firm footsteps, and she winced as the coat fell over her shoulders: her mother’s hands remained lying on her shoulders.

“Have you got the money?”

“Yes.”

“Your ticket?”

“Yes.”

“The sandwiches?”

“Yes.”

“Did you pack your suitcase properly?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t forgotten anything?”

“No.”

“The address in Vienna?”

“Yes.”

“The phone number?”

“Yes.”

The brief pause was dark, frightening, her mother’s hands slid down her shoulders, over her forearms. “I felt it was better not to be here during your last hours. It’s easier that way, I know it is. I’ve said goodbye so many times—and I did right to lock you in, you know.”

“You did right, I know.”

“Then come along now …” She turned round. It was terrible to see her mother crying, it was almost as if a monument were crying: her mother was still beautiful, but it was a dark beauty, haggard. Her past hung over her like a black halo. Strange words echoed in the legend of Mother’s life: Moscow—Communism—a Red nun, a Russian called Mirzov; her faith lost, escape, and the dogmas of the lost faith continuing to twist and turn in her brain. It was like a loom whose spools go on turning although there is no more yarn: gorgeous patterns woven into a void, only the sound remained, the mechanism. All she needed was an opposite pole: Dulges, the city fathers, the priest, the schoolteachers, the nuns; and if you shut your eyes you could imagine prayer wheels, the prayer wheels of the unbelieving, the restless wind-driven rattle known as
discussion. Occasionally, very rarely, her mother had looked the way she looked now: when she had been drinking wine, and people would say: Ah yes, in spite of everything, she’s still a true daughter of Zischbrunn.

It was a good thing her mother was smoking; trickling down toward the cigarette, wreathed in smoke, her tears looked less serious, more like pretended tears, but tears were the last thing her mother would pretend.

“I’ll pay them back for this,” she said. “I hate to see you go. To have to give in to them.”

“Why don’t you come too?”

“No, no—you’ll be back, a year or two and you’ll be back. Never do what they think you’ve been doing. Never, and now come along.”

She slipped her arms into the sleeves of her coat, buttoned it up, felt for her ticket, for her purse, ran into her bedroom, but her mother shook her head as she went to pick up her suitcase. “Never mind that,” she said, “and hurry—there’s not much time.”

Heat hung in the staircase, wine fumes rose from the cellar, where the pharmacist had been bottling wine: an acrid smell that seemed to go with the hazy magenta of the wallpaper. The narrow lanes: the dark windows, doorways, from which things had been called out after her, things she did not understand. Hurry. The noise from the riverbank was louder now, car engines were being started up: the regatta was over. Hurry.