The first day of September day in Úrkút set in with a gloomy drizzle.
It marked the end of the summer holidays for the Bergmann family. The house became desolate; there was only the cat on the windowsill, daydreaming in her loneliness about titmice singing in the garden – although, of course, she was not exactly longing for their songs. The lawn swarmed with ants hauling their load, in a hurry to salvage the last valuable crumbs of the summer. Squirrels and dormice prepared for the final test, waiting for the cambric-clothed murderer whose lances were the piercing winds and armour the frozen lakes. When winter set in, it would be too late to search for anything on the lifeless ground. Relentless starvation, thirst, and death by frost awaited those who had not provided for themselves, or did not sleep through this dreary period. Now, however, there was no sign of the approaching danger. Crickets chirped in the mild evenings, while tomtits swinging on twigs puffed themselves out contentedly as they spent the cooling nights with food in their crops.
The father usually stayed at home in the daytime. His computer, his only companion, bound him to his desk, although he had to travel to the faraway from time to time. In the morning, the rooms were filled with silence worthy of a cemetery; bats rustled in stuffy corners of the attic and daddy-long-legs romanced on the ceiling. The only real noise was the monotonous purr of the computer’s cooling fan.
Joseph had trouble immersing himself in his usual work, however enthusiastic he was about it. Instead of ideas, scenes from the earlier events kept flitting across his mind. He tried to shoo them away desperately, but all his efforts had been in vain. It was so difficult to believe all he had seen, and all he had heard had happened to his own daughter. He would rather have read about it in a novel created by some talentless artist with a great imagination.
What does God want of my daughter? Why is it so important for Him that she gets to know Him? Smouldering terror held his soul, but he could formulate no exact reason for it. But God is good. Is God good? A sense of his own inadequacy seized him when he thought of Angela, as if he were a diamond cutter about to fashion a special gem. Which facet shall I cut first? Why, it’s hard on all sides, yet so brittle … She’s such a unique child … and I love her so much.
The currents of anxiety parted, and his thoughts drifted back to the distant past of his childhood. Carefree and joyful times appeared vaguely in his memories and the past suddenly came to life: a soft bouquet of scents, feelings and snatches of sound caressed him. He was free again, daydreaming, a child in his imagination …
His eyes closed gradually and his head fell forward. The light from the computer screen shimmered, reflecting his attractive face. His eyes were set in deep sockets separated from his wide forehead by long, arched brows. Joseph had wavy lips – worthy of an artist’s brush – and a soft chin, which had enchanted Edith from the very first moment she saw him. This face was peacefully resting at the moment, and its owner entered more and more deeply into his colourful dream world. His mother appeared before him, lighting candles on the copper candlestick a Jewish acquaintance had given her.
‘My dear son, look how interesting this candlestick is. It’s called a “menorah” where it comes from. It holds eight candles and it symbolizes the burning bush Moses saw in the wilderness. The Father Eternal appeared to him in the fire’, he remembered his mother telling him with a joyous heart.
‘My heart shall also burn for you forever, my dear son, like these candles in the menorah. Never forget this, no matter where life takes you. Always approach the burning bushes others avoid, and take a good look, because life may have sent them to show you something important. Don’t forget that the greatest possibilities in life are always surrounded by fire and suffering, in order to scare away those who aren’t worthy of them.’
The gatebell rang. The dream vanished. Joseph shook his head and looked at his watch. It was already noon. Saliva had dribbled on his wrist.
‘Oh, mighty …! I’ve made no progress whatsoever!’
He growled and made for the gate. It was the podgy, monkey-faced postman. His potty-shaped green hat squatted on his head. His eternal joviality surrounded his countenance, flushed from drinking wine, like a halo.
‘Greetings, Mr Joseph. How are we feeling today?’ he began.
‘Hi, Ricky! Well …’
‘I see we’ve just woken up, haven’t we? No problem. We’ve got a registered one.’
He began to forage in his bottomless leather bag, which had a sizeable strap sewn around it in vain; the pouch strained against it. At last he found the leather-bound register and pulled it out together with an orange envelope.
‘Jesus Christ, Joey, I can’t find my pen. Aunty Ida must have taken it. The devil take it! Is her pension so teeny? Can I borrow a pen?’
‘All right, come in,’ answered Joseph, though he knew very well that Ricky had not left his pen behind. He was the ultimate joker. They walked slowly back towards the house, but the postman assiduously pulled up beside Joseph.
‘Joey, Joey mate, have you heard the latest postman-joke? Hilarious, gonna knock you out!’
‘Nope. Spit it out, Ricky.’
Joseph tried to stay on the stone path that linked the gate to the front door but, given his substantial girth, Ricky pushed him off unawares. At least, Ricky was unaware of it.
‘Well, in goes the postman, he’s bringing a letter, can see the dog’s on the loose. The owner says, “No need to be afraid of him, he’s still drowsy: he’s just been castrated.” To which the postman says, “I’m not afraid he’ll fuck me, but that he’ll bite me.” Good, yes?’
Ricky choked with laughter and slapped his knees. Joseph smiled, flashing his teeth as well, but inside he was hoping there were a few pens on the little phone stand by the door and they would not encounter any more complications. Ricky was trotting beside him faithfully and nearly fell on his belly at the bottom of the stairs. Joseph signed the register but, as the letter was addressed to his wife, he left it on the stand without opening the envelope. He saw the postman out for fear he might sit down somewhere: if he did, he would never leave for his ‘world-conquering’ journey before tossing back two half-decilitre glasses of brandy. Joseph managed to show him out of the gate after a lot of smiling, shaking hands and slapping shoulders. He was just rejoicing at how smoothly he had managed to remove Ricky to this distance from the house when misfortune struck. Ricky looked back and cast a sly glance at him.
‘My dear Joey, I’ve become really tired of so much walking, I’ve grown quite thirsty too. Have you still got some of that home-distilled brandy of yours left? You know, the stuff you’ve nicknamed “hell-water”. You’ve too much to drink it all up yourselves anyway …’
‘Sure, Ricky mate.’
Joseph trudged back into the house like the remnant of a beaten army. All his efforts had been in vain; there seemed to be a little bell hanging on the convolutions of the postman’s brain. If his blood alcohol level was not up to the yearly average, this bell started ringing as soon as his level slumped below a threshold. On some days, he returned to the post office soused, to put it mildly.
‘Bring along two glasses,’ Ricky yelled after Joseph from outside, ‘I’m not in a hurry, my dear Joey! I’ve left you to last.’
Fabulous, Joseph thought. That’s curtains for any work this morning. He reached into the kitchen cupboard mechanically and uncorked the last bottle of brandy. He sniffed it: the permeating plum scent of the hell-water made his nostrils contract. As he was getting out the half-decilitre glasses, he heard mad whooping and a hoarse laugh. He carefully drew the lace curtain aside. This is a real catastrophe! The dustman’s got here just in time to join him. They must’ve collaborated against me.
The lorry puffed, its engine came to a stop with a growl, a door slammed. Joseph began to understand that his afternoon was also lost.
‘Joey dear! Imagine! Zümi is here. Bring out three glasses! D’you hear me?’
Joseph waved from the door and fished out a third small glass.
‘Joey dear, you’re a godsend!’ Zümi thanked him upon seeing the bottle of brandy.
‘I think Rézangyal, the brass angel, has sent him from hell!’ The postman uttered a hoarse neigh and slapped his knees again.
Joseph realized that this was how Ricky rewarded himself for anything he thought was a great punchline, and that was why his trousers were threadbare at the knees.
‘But Zümi, you’re driving.’ Joseph made one more weak attempt to get them on their way.
’C’mon, Joey dear, I only have to roll down to the site; I could do it with my eyes closed.’
‘He’s tried before after half a bottle of rum.’ Ricky was howling with laughter. ‘He only took out a bush.’
Joseph smiled. These honourable citizens of Úrkút were beginning to amuse him.
‘I’ve settled it, Joey dearie, I’ve settled it. I’m gonna drink aaand drive!’
A pheasant squawked in the thicket nearby. Joseph poured the portions equitably, they clicked their glasses and wished each other fabulous wealth. Soon the bottle was empty and, by two in the afternoon, the postman’s reserve flask was also dry. Joseph took much persuading at the beginning but Ricky always took care to divide any hell-water around into three parts in a brotherly fashion.
That evening, three major events took place in Úrkút. The dustman drove into a tree and was killed outright; the postman broke his leg on the slope; and Joseph dozed off on the steps of the veranda.
In his inebriated dream, Joseph cowered on a pew in a fusty chapel. His father sat beside him, stooping slightly, with an intent expression on his face. Joseph could smell the aroma of smoked sausage on him. This pungent smell permeated his clothes, perhaps even his soul. He was a tall, wiry peasant with piercing black pupils. He watched the flock gathered in the church; nothing escaped his penetrating stare. Being tall allowed him to see everybody from above. He was especially fond of sermons about sin, punishment and God’s judgements. At such times he pulled himself up contentedly. He thought he acted properly in all matters and had not the slightest suspicion that his neighbours were afraid of his self-righteousness and obduracy. He often cast looks of disapproval at his son, then turned away with a sigh. As a little boy, Joseph’s heart regularly sank because he guessed his father’s love for him was blowing away like drifting sand. He felt he could never satisfy him. I can never become like him. I don’t know why he doesn’t throw me out, he thought bitterly. He surely doesn’t love me any more.
His soul was always tortured; the feeling wounded him in the way a stray dog’s soles are tortured by a broken thorn. He had no idea that, in spite of the harsh words and high expectations, his parents were proud of him. He felt guilty. He hated going to church, found religious books repugnant and watched people in church with increasing suspicion. Do they succeed in living according to the teachings of the Holy Bible? Do they always act in a perfect way? He wondered, but he never received an answer to these questions: he never dared to actually ask anybody about them. He felt far away from this God he heard about every week. He thought people had only made Him up so that nobody could consider himself good. He imagined God to be similar to his father: strict, consistent and temperate.
‘You’ve got drunk again,’ said his father out of the blue, turning to him. ‘You’ll always be a sot.’
He was taken aback. How does he know I’ve got drunk? He felt dizzy, expecting an enormous slap in the face. He looked around the chapel for a way to escape. The slap failed to come. He began to gaze at the colourful windows in the chapel walls. The rays of sunshine tumbling through them tickled his skin. Oh, I wish you windows could talk. What would you say? Would you cry or laugh? You are as colourful as the human soul. Do you understand these Masses? Have you ever seen even one true man?
The windows did not answer, just went on shading the sunlight coming through them.
Suddenly, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. His pulse accelerated. Now comes the slap, he thought, and shuddered. His skin stretched as the veins throbbed in his temple. Carefully, he looked into his father’s eyes, but he found them neither reproving nor resigned.
‘We’ve got to go, son. The mass has finished. We have to finish the sausages this afternoon. We need fresh shavings in the smoking chamber.’
‘Yes, Father. Could I collect the hymnbooks from the pews? If possible.’
‘Very well,’ his father answered in a soldierly manner. ‘Ordo est anima rerum[1]you know that, don’t you?’
Joseph nodded humbly and stood up with a broken heart. He just loved to put the books in order. He was so intent on his task that when he got to the end of the pew he bumped into a woman. She helped him collect the books lest they bury him. As a farewell, she kissed him on his forehead and told him, ‘God loves you, little boy, you can be sure of that.’
He stood there, grinning inanely for a second, watching the receding woman. She must have been an angel! The nape of his neck itched.
He made after his father but the light coming through the doors disturbed his eyes. Maybe God had come for the woman and was now entering the church door. He wanted to shout after his father, who also walked into the light, but at that moment the door was blown from its iron hinges and the light flowing inside swept him away too. He awoke. He was no longer a little boy and the otherworldly light was coming from the little mirror of Angela’s bicycle, left on the grass. The afternoon sun was dancing in it. He snorted and made for the door at the double. He kicked the brandy bottle, which helplessly rolled along the grass.
A dirty drunkard, right? He remembered his father’s words. He quickly picked up the glasses and threw the bottle over the gate in a fury.
‘Damn! Damn you!’
He felt tears coming. As he returned to his study, the Biedermeier wall clock he had inherited from his grandmother caught his eyes. It had been dependably and steadily ticking time for over a hundred years. The passing of time had not left any mark on its nut-brown carvings and lacquered casing. Its ebony hands were now standing at exactly four o’clock. So the others will be home soon. Oh God! Must get a coffee, a shower, chewing gum – and brush my teeth!
Outside, a crow croaked autumn and the wind rolled acorns on the veranda. Among the trees, the noise of a chainsaw echoed from afar as the fire brigade cleared the trunk of a locust tree away from the road; it had been broken in two when it stopped the garbage truck that had crashed into the ditch.
[1] Order is the soul of things (Latin)
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