The Other Side (14 page)

‘Where are you hiding, torturer?’ I shouted at the empty gardens as I ran past. But the leafless bushes and bare trees gave no answer. I ran on, unconcerned at the puddles I was splashing through. Flushed with a slight feverish warmth, I was driven forward, across squares and down alleys where I cannot remember ever having set foot before. I was struck by the sight of a pathetic horse-drawn tram; it seemed to be there more for decoration than practical use. It was new to me that this means of transport existed in Pearl, but I was far too confused to spend much time thinking about this and before I knew where my feet were taking me, I found myself standing outside the Palace. The lamps were just being lit.

Let into one of the corner pillars was a marble plaque which immediately drew my gaze.

Shaking my head, I read it several times, repeating it to myself in a low voice. A silly thought flashed through my mind. ‘It’s just one big joke and we’re all too stupid to understand it.’ I was racked by a fit of laughter, I could have murdered Patera. Leaning against a column, I regained my composure, then I stepped through the open portal as if there were nothing to it. I went up broad staircases–I must have looked tiny beneath the vast expanse of the vaulted ceiling–up and up. Through the arched windows I could see the city far below me. There was a deathly hush all round, broken only by my echoing footsteps. I was so entirely taken up with my own thoughts that I was not conscious of my strange situation. I felt unusually carefree, I can still remember that today. I pushed open some huge white double doors and passed through a suite of large rooms. Each time I opened a door I was met by another rush of cold air. ‘I’m sure no one lives here’, I kept on whispering to myself, as if I were caught up in a dream. Each of the rooms contained some capacious carved wardrobes and upholstered chairs shrouded in dust-sheets. Once I saw a slim, upright figure coming towards me but it was an illusion, a mirror on one of the walls throwing back my own reflection. When I had finally reached the last of the endless suite of rooms and halls I came to an interminable gallery which appeared to be leading back where I had set out from. On the wall were time-darkened, life-size portraits in broad ebony frames, on my right ran a row of arched windows. At the very far end was a low door. I opened it cautiously. I was in a medium-sized, empty room hung with some heavy material of a leaden blue. The half-light meant that everything in the room was unclear. One thing however was certain: there was no other exit, this was the end. Only now did I pause to ask myself what I thought I was doing. There was nothing here, it was as silent as the grave.

I was about to turn back when from all sides there suddenly arose the peculiar odour I kept coming across in this country. It was quite strong and permeated the large room. Then I heard a sound somewhat like a soft, dry laugh. Yes! By the wall opposite I could see the face of someone asleep. As my eyes grew accustomed to the half-light I made out a grey-clad figure sitting on an elevated bed. I took a step towards it. An unusually large head–I recognised my friend Patera. There was no possibility of a mistake. How many times had I looked at his portrait? His face was framed by dark, flowing locks, his eyelids closed tight, only his mouth twitched and moved constantly, as if he were trying to speak. Deeply moved, I marvelled at the wonderfully regular beauty of his head. With his broad, low forehead and the massive bridge of his nose he was more like a Greek god than a living man. His features were overlaid with an expression of profound sorrow. And now I heard words, a soft, hurried whisper. ‘You complain you can never come to see me, but I was with you always. I often saw you curse me and despair of me. What can I do for you? Tell me, what is it you wish?’

He said no more. Silence reigned. My throat was dry and it was only with the greatest effort that I managed to bring out the words, ‘Help my wife!’ The head rose a little, Patera slowly opened his eyes. I was overcome with an alarming weakness. My eyes were compelled to remain steadfastly fixed on that terrible gaze. They weren’t eyes at all, they resembled two bright, shiny metal discs gleaming like two small moons. The whispering voice said,

‘
I will help
.’

He drew himself up to his full height. The head hung over me like a mask of the Medusa. Spellbound, I was incapable of movement, all I could think was, ‘
This is the Lord, this is the Lord
.’

Now I witnessed an indescribable display. The eyes closed and the face came to life, horrible, gruesome life. Its expression changed like a chameleon–unceasingly–a thousand, no, a hundred thousand times. In lightning succession it was the face of a youth–a woman–a child–an old man. It grew fat then thin, acquired growths like a turkeycock, shrank until it was tiny–to be puffed up with arrogance a moment later, swelling, stretching, full of scorn, kindness, malice, hatred–it became covered in wrinkles, then smooth as a stone again–it was like an inexplicable natural phenomenon–I could not turn away from it, it was as if some magic power were keeping me rooted to the spot. I felt shivers of terror. Now animal faces appeared. It was a lion, then it went sharp and sly like a jackal–it changed into a wild stallion with nostrils dilated–took on the appearance of a bird, then of a snake. It was horrible. I wanted to scream out, but couldn’t. I was compelled to look at loathsome faces, scoundrelly, cowardly faces, faces covered in blood. Finally calm slowly returned. An occasional flicker rippled across the surface as the distorted faces disappeared and I was once more looking on the sleeping form of Patera the man. The curved lips were in rapid, feverish motion. Again I heard the strange voice.

‘You see, I am the Lord! I too was in despair, but I built me a realm out of the ruins of my estate. I am the Master!’

I was devastated. I felt profound sympathy for him and, forming the words with difficulty, asked, ‘And are you happy?’

But then the ray struck me and I was paralysed. Right in front of me I could see those fearful eyes. Patera had stepped down and was holding my hands. It was as if I were covered in ice, inside and out. ‘Give me a star’, he cried, ‘give me a star.’

His voice took on a seductive tone, caressing, luring. I could see the gleam of his white teeth, his movements were sluggish and slow. I could hardly understand anything of what he said. The sounds became hoarse, squeezed out–his chest heaved–the veins in his pale neck seemed full to bursting. Suddenly his face turned as grey as the walls around, only his wide-open, bulging eyes still flickered and kept me bound by their inexplicable spell. He must have been racked by an immense pain beyond the experience of mere humans. Patera reached up, his hands clutching at empty space.

A curtain came down between me and the Lord. All I could hear was unarticulated groaning and a dull thud.

When I turned away I had to lean on the window-ledge to support myself as I felt paralysis take hold of me. Starting at my tongue, it gripped the whole of my body. In the Square down below people and animals went stiff as blocks of wood. But only for a moment, then everything was back to normal.

In control of my limbs again, I dashed out, fully convinced I was going mad.

VIII

I arrived back home with my nerves in shreds, completely unable to regain my composure. Lampenbogen was there but looked as if he was about to leave. He had brought one of the Sisters of Charity from the convent with him. When he saw me, he immediately drew me to the window and talked to me earnestly, insistently, but I was incapable of following everything he was saying. His ponderous calm did me good. ‘Don’t give up hope’–I did understand that–‘it’s a nervous fit, a serious one, perhaps the crisis. It’s quite possible your wife will survive this attack. One must never give up hope entirely. If there are any unexpected developments during the night you will, of course, call me. Otherwise I will definitely come tomorrow.’

He left. As I said, I had absolutely no idea what had actually happened, nor why he was speaking to me in that way.

The nurse went silently about her business, bustling in and out with towels and basins. I felt I was only half there, I couldn’t summon up the energy to do anything useful. I just stood around feeling superfluous, with no idea what to do next. My wife couldn’t be that bad? At one point I tiptoed timidly up to her bed. She was lying there asleep; she looked better than she had for weeks, her cheeks were rosy red. Then I talked to the nurse. The patient had had a fit, a kind of cerebral spasm while I had been out. Her answers were monosyllabic, later on in the evening she prayed in a low voice. Slowly I began to realise just how terribly serious the situation was. Into my tangled thoughts, which were still revolving round the Lord of the Dream Realm, flashed images of the shivering fits she had had that night in the omnibus. But I just
couldn’t
believe the worst, I
refused
to believe it.

I curled up for the night on the sofa in the living-room, which also served as my study. No question of sleep. Once, towards dawn, I got up and looked at Patera’s portrait. My wife seemed to be having a restful night, only once did I hear a few words spoken. About nine I went across to her room. It had already been tidied up and aired. My wife gave me an astonished look, it was clear she had difficulty recognising me. Despite the fact that she looked much better, she was still very weak, I could scarcely understand what she said. The nun was pleased with the way the night had gone, the fever had subsided and the patient was rallying. She went out to do some errands and left us alone for a while. I sat down on the edge of the bed and took my wife’s hot hands in mine. Full of opti- misin, and to spare her the effort of speaking, I talked to her about all sorts of things I imagined would cheer her up. Knowing her passion for beautiful jewellery, I told her about the temple by the lake and its marvels, about the jewels and precious stones stored there. I described the glittering watercourses and the secluded park as if I had spent days wandering round it. She looked at me with a fixed, almost serene gaze and even stroked my head a few times. I was happy she liked my stories and gabbled on. As I talked about the gilded ships and snow-white swans on the lake, my images became more and more colourful, colour here in the pale, gloomy Dream country! Fired with enthusiasm I described the many flowers, orchids speckled with all the colours of the rainbow, dark-red roses, lilies on their gently curving stems. I was firmly convinced my words had magic power. I spoke of forests carpeted with blue forget-me-nots, of millions of glittering dew-drops and the morning sun rising over them, I spoke of birdsong and the joyful sound of silver trumpets. That’s where we would go, we would hurry away–flee, if necessary–to that realm of splendour and light. There she would get better. Whilst I was seeking out the most beguiling words and revelling in radiant visions of the future, my wife fell asleep.

I was devastated. I sat there, despondent, prey to all my bleak fears again. My wife was lying on her bed with halfclosed eyes; the deep red of her cheeks no longer looked healthy to me. Tears came to my eyes; I forced them back. The nurse came in.

Then all at once Herr von Brendel was there, asking in a sympathetic voice how my wife was. He had brought some flowers, too, pale yellow tulips. I took him into the livingroom. At last someone healthy to talk to! I literally clung to him.

As promised, the doctor also came. He stayed a long time. Before he left he took Brendel into the kitchen with him where they had a brief discussion before Lampenbogen hastily said farewell and went down the stairs. His last words were, ‘Chin up, and don’t lose hope.’

Brendel proposed I should go with him. ‘We can spend the whole day together. You’ll only be in the way here and won’t get a proper meal either.’

He deliberately avoided bringing the conversation round to my sick wife. We went to the coffee house for some breakfast. I didn’t feel the slightest bit hungry, but I had to go somewhere. I liked Brendel very much, he was a delightful person, always willing to oblige. He only had one failing: he was a Don Juan of the emotions. But that’s nothing, really, there are much worse things. He wasn’t a rake like de Nemi, solely interested in plain, mechanical fornication. Not at all; Hector von Brendel really did fall in love, again and again, and always with a different woman. You would be quite wrong, however, to think of him as a callow youth, too immature, too susceptible to fix his emotions on one woman. He was single-minded in his relentless pursuit of an imagined ideal, an ideal he unfortunately never found fully realised or, rather, never
permanently
realised. Each successive object of his passion–the ‘raw material’ as he called it–had to be refashioned. No trouble, no expense was too great. To achieve this he proceeded according to a decidedly complex system of his own devising, patiently, methodically, step by step. After the question of wardrobe and toilette had been dealt with–this far things always went well, thanks to his ample means–the many intellectual categories were addressed: conduct, favourite expressions etc, etc. Most of the runners fell at this hurdle and retired. Brendel was constantly on the look-out for new ‘raw material’, but hardly any of the candidates for his favours were equal to the subsequent, higher categories (‘genuine trust’, ‘elegance of social intercourse’). He could spend whole nights going into raptures about his latest idol. He was very hard on himself. He would wallow in self-accusation, change and improve his method, but he never succeeded in attaining the stage he called ‘ripeness’. His error lay in false psychology, but he did also suffer genuine disasters. One was unfaithful to him, another turned out to be boring. A veritable Tantalus, condemned to do no more than taste the delights of love!