A Treatise on Shelling Beans

11

Lost yourself in thought there, did you? What were you thinking about, if I may ask? True, there’s a lot to think about. And there doesn’t have to be any particular reason. There’s just lots of things to think about in general. In one country I once saw a sculpture. This man lost in thought. You’ve seen it too? There you go. I stood in front of it and began to wonder. I really wanted to ask what he was thinking about. But how can you ask a sculpture? If a person really decided to think about themselves so hard, they’d probably become a sculpture too. But in that case, tell me, is it only sculptures and paintings and books and music that can think about themselves, while we can’t?

I don’t mean anything in particular. I was just asking you, as if I were asking that sculpture. Of course I know I won’t get an answer either from you or from the sculpture. Sometimes people ask a question without expecting an answer. You have to agree there are questions that are sufficient in themselves. Especially as no answer would satisfy them anyway. And if you ask me, it has nothing to do with what we’re asking about. It’s a matter of who is asking who. Even when we’re asking ourselves, there’s always one who’s asking and one who’s being asked. It only seems like the person doing the asking is the same one giving the answer. If you think about it though, it’s always a different person asking and a different person answering. Or not answering, because maybe for instance they’re lost in thought. Every question selects an appropriate someone inside us. Even the most trivial question chooses a different person. Not just the person who’s supposed to answer it, but also the one who’s supposed to ask it. And with each question both the one and the other will be different people. After all, inside us there’s a child, and an old man, and a young man, and someone who’s going to die, and someone who doubts, and someone who has hope, and someone who no longer has any. And so on, and so forth.

If things were otherwise, no one would ever have to ask themselves anything, or have to answer anything. Yet no one can say of themselves that that’s me, that’s the way I was and the way I’m going to be in the future. No person can draw the boundaries of their self or establish themselves as themselves. That’s why we keep having to ask ourselves questions, first from one self, then from that one, then from another one still, and ask first one person, then another, then a third person, even though none of the questions is going to be answered anyway.

See — we’re sitting here shelling beans, you could say you’re here, I’m here, and between our hands we feel every pod, and every bean that we shell from it. Yet what’s more important still is how you and I imagine one another, how I imagine myself in relation to you, and how you imagine yourself in relation to me. The fact that we can see each other shelling beans doesn’t prove anything. If all we were doing was shelling beans, that wouldn’t be enough to experience the shelling. It’s only our imaginings of one another that fill out the fact that we’re shelling beans. Just like they fill out everything. Honestly, I even think it’s only what’s imagined that’s actually real.

Why does that surprise you? Then I don’t understand why it was me you came to for beans. I mean, you couldn’t have known I grow them. A few, just enough for myself, like I said. So all the more you couldn’t have expected me to have any to sell. And at this time of year who would come and visit me here? At the most someone from the dead. So I couldn’t have expected you either. Besides, I was going to go to bed soon. I would just have done my rounds of the cabins. I usually go to bed about this time. It’s early, because nightfall’s getting earlier these days. Though I read in bed a bit, listen to music, before I fall asleep, or don’t fall asleep, it varies. If I do get to sleep I’ll wake up after an hour or two, read some more, listen to music again, till I drop back off. Then when I wake again I’ll get up and do the rounds. Sometimes, though, there’ll be a night that’s like daytime, I go to bed but I know I won’t fall asleep. On nights like those I get up and repaint some nameplates. It takes me a long time, as you saw, but I hope to get them all done. If I had the hands I used to have, when I played …

Here there was a knock at the door, and I wondered, who could it be? It was you, and you were asking about beans. I’d understand if you’d been asking for directions, how to get out of here, which way to go. Or which cabin is Mr. Robert’s, because you want to stay there, then I would have shown you, it’s that one over there, and told you where the key is. But you must admit, the fact that you wanted to buy beans from me could have made me suspicious. What if I hadn’t had any? Besides, you were convinced I wouldn’t. You didn’t think you’d be at my place long. Don’t deny it. I even wondered, do I have any or not, because maybe this much life would have been enough. It was just that I’d noticed how you remind me of someone. Especially in that overcoat and hat, we must have met before, even if only by chance. Do I have any or not, yes or no, I started scouring my memory. But memory is like a well, the deeper you go, the darker it gets.

Forgive me for asking, but how would you define chance? Why do I ask? Because one time, when I was living abroad I was on my way to rehearsal one afternoon, and I see someone coming toward me who actually looked a little like you, now that I’ve gotten a good look at you. We hadn’t yet crossed, there were still a few yards between us. I might not have noticed him at all, but all of a sudden he tipped his hat and nodded to me. Or maybe I was the first one to nod, because I’d seen him smile at me and raise his hand to his hat to tip it, and I wanted to beat him to it. Besides, it makes no difference whether it was him or me. And like that, him raising his hat over his head, me raising mine, and smiling at one another in the conviction that we knew each other, we passed.

But the moment we crossed, I turned around to look at him and I saw he was staring at me also. Where we’d met and when, I couldn’t recall. Nor could he, because why would he have looked back at me if he’d remembered when and where. I walked on a few steps and turned again. Believe it or not, he had also turned back again. I decided to go up and ask where we knew each other from. At that exact moment he also started towards me, with the same intention as it transpired. We walked up to one another, raised our hats again, but I see he’s a little embarrassed, and I’m disappointed, because we can both see we don’t know one another.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “I don’t believe we know each other.”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember you,” he replied.

“Oh well, just an unfortunate chance. It happens. Once again I’m very sorry.” I raised my hat again and was about to walk away. But he held me back.

“It isn’t chance, my dear sir,” he said. “There’s no such thing as chance. After all, what is chance? No more than a justification for what we’re unable to understand. So we shouldn’t part like this. Let’s at least go get coffee. On me. See, we’re even standing outside a cafe. They have good coffee here. I stop by sometimes.”

The coffee was indeed good. But the conversation never took off. Especially at the beginning. I barely said anything, I mean, what was I supposed to talk about with a person I’d mistaken for someone else. So I gazed around the cafe, though there wasn’t much to look at. It was just a regular cafe. Not that big, a dozen or so tables, rather dimly lit. I don’t like dark cafes. The lower half of the walls had dark wood paneling, the top half was wallpapered in dark gold. The tables seemed too bulky for a cafe. The backs of the chairs were almost as high as your head, and the chairs themselves weren’t especially comfortable. The only thing I liked were the wall lamps and the chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Each wall lamp was in the form of two female figures holding candlesticks in their outstretched hands, and there was a candle in each one, as if there were no electricity. Each lamp had women from a different historical period. The chandelier also was not electrified, it was filled with real candles and decorated richly with cut glass in different shapes.

He noticed me looking around the cafe, and began to tell me about it. Hardly anything had changed here since the cafe first opened, he said. He mentioned the year, I don’t remember exactly when it was, but the place was almost two hundred years old. The tables, chairs, lamps, chandelier, paneling, even the wallpaper was the same color and pattern as two centuries ago. And the candles were lit at dusk just the same. This wasn’t only known from descriptions, he said, there were photographs, and a number of paintings of the interior. One artist had gathered all the famous personages who had come here over those two hundred years, as if they’d all come by and taken a table on a single day and at the same time. He mentioned some of them by name, though without telling me what they were famous for. He probably assumed I would know. But at that time none of the names meant anything to me.

At some of the names he lit up as if he used to meet with them here himself, though they’d lived fifty or a hundred years before, or even earlier. He knew a lot about them. In many cases he knew who used to sit at which table. And if they’d been alone or with someone. Whether they drank coffee or tea, or if they preferred wine, and what kind. Which cakes they most liked, or if they didn’t like cakes.

There’d also been someone who used to sit at the table we were at. It was the first time I’d heard the name. You knew him? So you know what work he did. That was the only name that stuck in my memory, of all the ones he mentioned. Maybe because, like you just said, he worked on dreams.

Later I bought a book about those dreams of his. We could find ourselves in there too. You, me. Anyone. Supposedly they were just his dreams, but really they were dreams about people. Apparently he would come to the cafe every day. And always at the same time. No more than a minute earlier or later. You could have set your watch by him. Actually, he’d always take out his pocket watch and check whether he’d arrived punctually. And everyone else in the cafe would take out their watches and check they were running right. Some days he’d drink coffee after coffee, especially when he was making notes on a paper napkin. Other times he’d only ask for a glass of water as he sat there lost in thought.

“Was he waiting for someone maybe?” I asked, trying to show I was listening.

Because you have to agree that when you don’t arrange to meet someone but you want to see them, then every day at the same time you’ll go to the place where you usually meet with them. As if the place itself were capable of making them appear. It’s a mistaken belief, that places are more constant than time and death.

“That I don’t know,” he said. “Waiting is a permanent condition within us. You know, often we don’t realize that from birth to death we live in a state of expectation. He’d probably grown attached to the cafe, this table. Those kinds of attachment are often stronger than to other people.”

I didn’t say anything. I simply didn’t understand that anyone could get attached to a cafe, let alone a table.

So when he came into the cafe and saw that his table was occupied, he’d leave right away, even if other tables were free. The proprietor would have to send him an apology and assure him it would never happen again. He was even capable of scolding whoever had taken the table. Once he struck the table with his cane. Two young people were sitting at it, it may have been the first time they’d been in the cafe and they had no idea it was his table. Besides, like all young people, the world still belonged to them, including some table in some cafe or other. So they refused to move to another table, why should they. Everyone knows that cafes are for everyone and that anyone can sit at any table they like. Whoever sits there first, it’s their table. And here someone was claiming they’d occupied his table. If I were them, I’d not have moved. Maybe if he’d asked politely, said that he couldn’t sit at any other table, because the coffee or tea would taste different. That I’d understand. But he evicted them from the table like he was throwing them out of his own apartment.

One time he slapped someone in the face with his glove because they’d had the temerity to sit at his table. It would surely have ended in a duel, because the other man responded by throwing down his own glove, which meant he was demanding satisfaction. Fortunately the proprietor of the cafe picked the glove up and somehow managed to smooth things over.

After that incident a card was stuck in the napkin holder saying the table was reserved. But he never came back.

Then suddenly the other man said something that made me think:

“The proprietor of the cafe died. His son took over the place. Then his son after him. But on that table, in the napkin holder, the whole time there was a card to say the table was reserved. Perhaps if he’d known it was reserved, that it was waiting for him … Then war broke out, and before it ended the cafe was taken over by soldiers. They didn’t care whose table was whose, if one of them was reserved or not, because all the tables were theirs. They sat wherever they flopped down, they’d even put their feet up on the tables.”

All at once he asked me if I’d like some cake.

“Gladly,” I said, though I avoided cakes, just like I wasn’t supposed to drink coffee. At that time I had a duodenal ulcer. He beckoned the waitress. She brought over a tray with various cakes, she smiled at him, she evidently knew him, because it wasn’t the usual smile you get from a waitress. He looked the tray over and said:

“You should take one of those. They don’t have them anywhere else.”

I nodded to say that was fine. He chose the same thing for himself. When the waitress took the tongs and was about to put the cake on his plate first, he directed her to my plate and only then let her serve him.

“Delicious, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed, though I didn’t really like it, it had too much cream.

But what else can be said about a cake … So we both fell silent. It was my turn to say something. He’d told me all about the cafe, and I hadn’t spoken a word. But I didn’t know what to talk about. I wasn’t particularly disposed toward conversation. Maybe I was overwhelmed by the fact that after greeting each other by mistake on the street, now we were sitting together like old friends, but in fact we didn’t know one another. Besides, I was starting to feel a slight pain in my right side, below the ribs, which was a clear consequence of the coffee I’d had, and perhaps also of the cake. I was afraid that the pain would flare up for real, because if that happened I’d be in no state to come up with anything at all to say. Normally when the pain would get worse and worse, all I could ever do was remain silent. Though at moments like that even silence cost me dearly. True, I had my tablets with me, but I wasn’t going to start swallowing tablets in front of a stranger. He might ask what was wrong with me. And the conversation would move to duodenal ulcers. Then if he had some illness too, we’d spend the whole of the rest of the time talking about illnesses. Illnesses help out any conversation, as you know. But had we really greeted one another on the street by mistake just so we could talk about illnesses? He’d even claimed it wasn’t chance. I preferred not to say anything at all. I put in a word from time to time, but it was more to agree with what he was saying, like with the cake, when he said it was delicious and I said absolutely.

“You know,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “they make the cakes here according to recipes that are as old as the cafe itself. Don’t you think the coffee tastes differently here than in other cafes?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed.

“Yes, the way coffee used to taste,” he said, yielding to some kind of nostalgia.

I didn’t know what he meant by “the way coffee used to taste,” because from my own childhood I only ever remembered ersatz coffee with milk. And then the coffee at school after the war, without milk or sugar, it had the taste of bitter water.

“That’s why I come here from time to time,” he said. “I wonder how they make it? I asked the owner once, he only said he was glad I liked it. Funny that even cafes have their secrets. The way coffee used to taste …” He grew pensive. Then he suddenly snapped out of it: “Have you ever thought about how powerfully we’re bound to the past? Not necessarily our own. Besides, what’s our past? Where are its boundaries? It’s something like an undefined longing, but for what? Is it not for something that never was, but nevertheless has passed? The past is just our imagination, and the imagination needs longing, it actually feeds on longing. The past, my dear sir, has nothing to do with time, despite what people think. Besides, what is time anyway? Does something like time even exist outside of calendars and clocks? We use ourselves up, that’s all it boils down to. Like everything else around us. Life is energy, not survival, and energy gets consumed. As for the past, it never goes away, since we’re constantly making it anew. It’s created by our imagination, that’s what determines our memory, gives it its characteristics, dictates its choices, not the other way around. Imagination is the ground of our existence. Memory is no more than a function of our imagination. Imagination is the one place we feel connected to, where we can be certain that that’s where we actually live. Then when we come to die, we also die in it. Along with all those who have ever died before, and who help us die in turn.”

He abruptly reached into the inside pocket of his coat and took out his wallet.

“Will you let me take care of this?” I said, thinking that he meant to settle the bill, and that by the same token he was indicating that our meeting was over.

“Out of the question,” he said. “It was me who invited you. You’re my guest, remember? But actually I was going to show you something.”

He began rummaging through the compartments of his wallet, taking out various photos, business cards, documents, folded pieces of paper, tickets. He tossed it all on the table and something fell on the floor, but before I could reach down he swooped like a hawk and got there before me.

“Could it be that it’s not there? How could that have happened? I always have it on me,” he said with worried self-reproach. “I don’t have it. I actually don’t have it. I don’t understand. I’m terribly sorry.” He replaced the wallet here, in his breast pocket. “Would you like a glass of liqueur?” he asked suddenly, as if forgetting what he had meant to show me. “They have an excellent almond liqueur. Then wine, perhaps? Too bad. No, I won’t take any on my own. If I were alone it would be a different matter. Though I don’t know whether in that case I’d feel like drinking anything. You have to have some purpose to also have the desire. That applies just as much to the desire for life. Where are you from?” he asked out of the blue.

I was taken aback. We’d been sitting there quite a while, our cups were empty, there were nothing but crumbs on the plates. In such situations I was usually asked at the very beginning where I was from. That was understandable, you could tell from the way I talked. The moment I opened my mouth it became natural to ask where I was from.

“I thought so,” he said. “Actually, I was certain of it. Right back then, on the street, when you apologized. But I was the one who greeted you first. Who knows if I wasn’t sure of it the moment I saw you reaching for your hat. My face couldn’t have looked familiar to you, but yours could to me. It appeared to me in a brief flash. I immediately started asking myself where and when. Then all of a sudden it came to me — of course!”

“You’ve been there?” I asked, though it may have been rude on my part to interrupt. Yet I had the impression it was expected, he might even have been intending for me to do so.

“No, never,” he responded brusquely, almost as if he were brushing my question away. “Pity they don’t allow smoking in here,” he said. “I don’t smoke, but there are moments when I feel like a cigarette. Do you smoke?”

“No,” I said. “I used to. Gave it up.”

“Good for you. Really. It’s not good for your health.” He suddenly stared at something with a fixed gaze.

I wondered if maybe he’d seen one of those people who’d come there over the previous two hundred years. Maybe he’d even seen the man who used to sit at our table, standing in the doorway. I expected him to jump up in a moment and say, excuse us, we’re just leaving. Then, in a quiet, blank voice he said:

“My father was there.”

“Oh, then maybe you went with your father one time,” I put in encouragingly, pleased at the chance to contribute more to the conversation.

“During the war,” he said, breaking in.

His words had a strange effect on me. Perhaps because I was already immersed in what I’d been planning to say, since I had the opportunity, and as if speaking over his words I said:

“It’s always nicer to go with someone who’s been there before. Especially your own father.”

“My father is dead,” he said, cutting short my enthusiasm.

“I’m sorry. I had no idea. Please accept my condolences.”

“But you didn’t know my father,” he said, almost bridling. “Still, thank you.”

I felt uncomfortable. I sensed a slight pressure beneath my ribs on the right side, the pain in my duodenum was showing signs of flaring up again. That was how it usually began, initially just a faint pressure under the ribs on the right. Sometimes it went away, like a moment ago after the coffee and cake. But now it seemed more substantial, it was starting to spread around my side to my lower back. I began to worry that if it kept increasing, in a short while it would be unbearable. I’d turn pale, start sweating, and it would be hard for him not to notice.

“Are you not feeling well?” he’d ask. And what on earth could I say to him then? That it was because of the coffee and cake? The coffee was excellent, the cake was delicious, I’d said so myself. No, no, please continue, it wouldn’t have been right to say that either, because it wouldn’t have been right in general to admit I was ill. Especially at such a moment, he starts telling me about his father, and I respond that I have a duodenal ulcer? You have to admit it would be awkward to say the least. One pain should never be pitted against another. Each pain is unique to itself.

I was wondering how I could slip my hand under my jacket without him noticing, so I could put some pressure on the rising pain, because that sometimes helped. I often saved myself in company in such a way. Or in the night, for instance. The worst pain would usually come in the night. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I’d get out of bed, squat down, and kind of push the pain into myself with my hand, pressing on it with my whole being, my chin doubled over to my knees. Sometimes I spent all night like that, it was the only thing that brought relief. And that was how I lived with it. Since when? It started on one of the building sites. At first it was only in spring and fall. Once in a while I thought about going to a doctor. But in summer or in winter it would pass and I’d forget. I got skinny as a rake. Everyone kept asking me, what’s up, you look awful. Are you sick? No, I’m not sick, this is just how I look.

I couldn’t stand anyone’s sympathy. If I happened not to be in pain, and someone expressed sympathy, it would start to hurt right away. I did take flaxseed oil, you bet. I did just like you said. I’d dissolve a tablespoon of it in lukewarm water in the evening, then drink it on an empty stomach in the morning. It helped a little. I hardly ever drank vodka anymore. And I tried to eat only boiled food, nothing greasy. Later I went on a very restricted diet. On the advice of a buddy, the pianist in the band. He’d had the same thing. Though he’d gone to the doctor.

You’ll find this hard to believe, but when I played it never hurt. We’d play till late at night, often into morning, and it never hurt. Can you imagine, for a guy of my height I weighed forty-five pounds less than I should have. My jawbone jutted out from my face like it had no flesh on it, my cheeks were hollow, my nose grew longer. Later, much later, when I got over it and put on some weight, my wife confessed to me one time that as she looked at me she thought there’d come a time when my jaw and my cheekbones would grow level with each other.

When I had a tuxedo made for my wedding, the tailor took all my measurements and after a pause said:

“Pardon the comment, but you’re awfully slim. Oh well, I’ll leave some room in the seams if you should ever want to alter it. When you make a tuxedo it’s not just for a single occasion.”

I guessed that he’d been going to say “skinny,” but used the word “slim” out of professional courtesy. Besides, how could I not be skinny given how little I ate. Whenever I ate anything at all, right away it hurt. I’d already stopped drinking wine and beer. At a party for instance, everyone else would be eating and drinking and I’d ask for a glass of milk. Milk was the only thing I could still drink. No one could understand. He’s healthy, there’s nothing wrong with him, and here he’s drinking milk. They’d try to persuade me, give me advice, they made jokes at my expense, raised a toast to me, and I’d raise my glass of milk in return. All I wanted was for them to leave me alone, forget I was there.

It was through the milk that I met my future wife. The double bass player in the band was having a birthday party, and I asked for my usual glass of milk. The milk attracted her attention. I hadn’t noticed her till that point. Besides, when you’re in pain you don’t even see beautiful women. It was another matter that there was a big crowd at the party. I was standing to one side, and she emerged out of the mass of people and came up to me.

“You like milk? Me too.”

“I can ask for another glass,” I said.

“No,” she said. “I’ll have a sip from yours. Can I?” After that we danced together.

Subsequently I went to various doctors, I spent six months in the hospital, they examined me and in the end they declared that an operation was the only thing. I refused. So they gave me injections and tablets. I still remember one of the medications was called “Robuden.” For a year I felt better. But then I had a relapse, it was worse than before. I thought it was all over for me. My wife cried, in secret, though from her eyes I knew right away she’d been crying. With some eyes, you can’t tell they’ve been crying. You just need to wipe them. But with others, the tears linger long after the crying. Hers were like that.

I pretended not to have seen anything. But one day I came home late from the club and she was still awake. She looked at me, and I had a suspicion.

“You’ve been crying,” I said.

“No I haven’t. Why do you say that? I have no reason to.”

“With me you’ll always have a reason,” I said. “You made a bad choice. That glass of milk let you down.”

“Don’t make jokes.” She burst into tears.

A short while later she took me to an herbalist. He was a doctor, but he treated people with herbs. In those days doctors didn’t believe in herbs. I don’t know how she found him. She made an appointment and went with me. He was an old man, when I told him my symptoms and how long I’d had them he mumbled to himself. Then he gave me a big sack of herbs. My wife prepared infusions and made sure I drank them regularly, three times a day at the same times, morning and midday twenty minutes before eating, in the evening twenty minutes after eating supper. Though the evening one she’d put into a thermos for me to take to the club.

And would you believe it, within a month I’d already begun to feel better, it hurt a lot less, I started to put on weight. In four months I was already back to my regular weight. I could eat anything, I even had a glass of alcohol from time to time, with no ill effects. I drank the herbs for a whole year, then after that only in spring and fall. And since then I’ve been fine.

Would you like to write them down? I’d just need to find you a slip of paper and something to write with. Well, maybe later. I remember what they were, I’ve not forgotten. If only I could remember everything like that. Though could anyone live in such a way? Actually, I don’t think that sort of memory would be any more real.

No, my wife and I broke up for a different reason. I didn’t want to have children, as I mentioned, and she very much did. I liked children, I still do, as I said. But I didn’t want any of my own. Why not? I’ll leave it to you to figure out. Me, I might not tell you the truth. Do I regret it now? Maybe yes, maybe no. We broke up when I was already well again, I’d almost forgotten about being sick. Wives don’t leave you when you’re sick. Especially her, she’d never have left for a reason like that. True, for a long time I hadn’t let on I was ill. When she found out, she even said to me one time:

“I’ll leave you if you don’t get treatment.”

I didn’t want to worry her with my illness. I’d never presume to worry anyone with my own ill health, especially my wife. It hurt and that was all there was to it. You can get used to any pain if it hurts constantly. Like back then in the cafe, it hurt, but I kept listening to the man. And maybe it was under the influence of the worsening pain in my right side, under the ribs, that I asked:

“Was he unwell?”

You should never ask questions based on your own pain, as I realized immediately.

“No,” he said. “He committed suicide.” He spoke calmly, you might say, but at the same time he lifted his cup to his lips even though it was empty. And he added: “It was years and years ago, but I still find it painful. More and more painful. So thank you for letting me buy you coffee.”

That I did not understand, let me tell you. We’d nodded to each other by mistake, and here he was thanking me. Out of the blue he asked:

“What year were you born in? That’s what I thought. I was more or less your age when my father came back from the war. Luckily, or unluckily, he wasn’t taken prisoner. He was in hiding for some time, so he didn’t come back right away. We didn’t think we’d see him again. Then one day, unexpectedly, he showed up, dressed in civilian clothing, unshaven, gaunt. You’d think all the more that there couldn’t be anything more joyful. That’s what people usually think when someone comes back from the war … And rightly so. Any return from the war has joy written into its very nature. Unless it’s someone coming back to an empty house, to ruins. Think about what a return from the war always meant. Someone came back, someone else didn’t, that alone is a measure of our experience. Someone cames back, someone else doesn’t — that pretty much sums up our own predicament. As if human fate were forever vacillating between joy and pain. If you look at war from such an angle, it might seem to be exclusively for homecomings of that kind that wars are fought. As if there were no greater measure of a person’s happiness. Or greater pain when someone doesn’t come back. Coming back from the war might be the clearest proof that life can triumph over death. Yet it’s a triumph for which we need constant evidence. Because it’s like a return from another world. So even when someone comes back a cripple, armless, legless, eyeless, the very nature of the situation means we should greet them with joy. They bring joy across the threshold of the house along with their saved life.

“Too bad we didn’t even have time to express our joy at father’s return. As he walked in he glanced at us with cold eyes. Then, when mother burst into tears and tried to throw herself into his arms, he held her back. The same went for me and my little brother, when we hugged him he moved us away from him. He at least ought to have picked my brother up and said, My, how you’ve grown, son.

“I mean, that’s one of the basic principles of homecoming. Especially since when he went to war, my brother had just been learning to walk. He asked mother for a glass of water. As he drank it we both looked at him almost greedily, as if it was us who were thirsty. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in this funny way. To give vent to the joy he’d dampened in us, we laughed at his Adam’s apple. Mother made the best of our laughter, she evidently had a premonition, and she said:

“ ‘See how happy the boys are.’

“He didn’t say a thing. He just looked at us with those cold eyes, and the laughter died inside us. He handed the glass back to mother and walked into the living room without a word. He dropped heavily into an armchair. Mother started to ask him if he wasn’t tired, maybe he should lie down, or perhaps he’d like to take a bath and change his clothes. She had everything ready. All his shirts and pajamas were washed and ironed, his suits were cleaned. She’d borrowed a razor and had the neighbor hone it, he could shave. She’d even managed to get hold of some shaving cream. Or maybe he’d rather have something to eat first. There were a few eggs, she’d gotten hold of them by some miracle. Would he like them fried, or would he prefer soft-boiled?

“But nothing she said had any effect on those cold eyes. He sat there without a word, lost somewhere deep inside himself. Perhaps he didn’t believe he was home, that he’d come back. Mother was helpless, she didn’t know what to do or say anymore. She smiled and cried. She kept hurrying out to get something as if she’d just remembered about it, then she came back empty-handed. I felt sorry for her. I thought to myself, I’ll go and play something for him on the piano, maybe that’ll convince him that he’s home, that he’s back.

“Whenever he used to hear me playing, however busy he was he’d always come into the living room, sit down and listen. He never asked me to play any particular piece, he just listened. I knew he wanted me to carry out his own unfulfilled ambition. He’d wanted to be a pianist, apparently he had ability, but it all came to nothing after his father, my grandfather, died in the previous war. Every generation has to have its war, as you see.”

I didn’t know if he expected me to agree, or to offer a different opinion, because he broke off and became pensive, he was gazing off somewhere. Though I hadn’t caused his outpouring in any way, I somehow felt as if I’d intruded into his life. And it was making me more and more uncomfortable. I decided it was time to look at my watch and say, I’m really sorry but I ought to be at my rehearsal by now, which as it happened was true. Till next time maybe if you feel like it. The next coffee’s on me. We can even meet here, in this cafe, tomorrow, the day after? At the same time? Here’s my card.

He spoke before I’d had a chance to say anything:

“What’s your instrument?”

I was shocked, because I hadn’t yet told him I was supposed to be at rehearsal.

“The saxophone,” I said. I was about to seize the opportunity to say I had to be getting to my practice, since I was running late as it was, I was very sorry.

With what seemed to me a hint of scorn he repeated:

“The saxophone.” And again: “The saxophone.” He drifted into thought once again. “It makes no difference what a person plays. What’s unfulfilled remains unfulfilled. So I had good reason to think that if I played for him … and for our sake too. Because we also found it hard to believe he was with us, he was back. Mother had cried her eyes out all through the war. All through the war we’d prayed for him. Hope faded as the war dragged on. His letters came less and less frequently, then in the end they stopped altogether. Mother wrote him, he didn’t reply. So she started getting us used to the idea that we’d have to live without a father. The war ended and he still hadn’t come home, so our hopes were almost extinguished. And now, out of the blue here he was, he’d returned. You must admit that in such instances it’s easier to come to terms with the fact that someone will never come back than to believe that he’s here, he’s returned. Tears may be more in place at those moments than joy. Tears seem more appropriate in a situation where you don’t know what to do with yourself. But we kept our tears in check, and we couldn’t imagine tears appearing in those cold eyes of his. If there weren’t to be any tears, music was the only thing. When hearts are bursting, music is the only thing.

“My fingers were already over the keys when he raised himself from the armchair and said:

“ ‘I’m going to go get some sleep.’

“Mother tried to hold him back, have him wait a moment, she’d make the bed, in the meantime he could have something to eat, take a bath. It was like he didn’t hear her. With a heavy step, almost as if he were hauling his own body, he dragged himself to his study, not to the bedroom. Mother took out a blanket and pillow and hurried after him. For a long time she didn’t reappear. My brother and I waited for her just outside the door of the study. As she came out she led us away from there, then she told us God forbid never to go in to where father was. Not even to go near, to stay away from the door. And in general to keep quiet. Me, I shouldn’t try to play the piano under any circumstances.

“From that moment on he slept in the study on the sofa. He only left to go to the bathroom. Even then he’d first crack open the door, and if he saw me or my brother nearby, he’d close it again at once. Besides, mother kept an eye on us and made sure we didn’t hang around the hallway needlessly. One time I asked mother why father didn’t want to see us.

“ ‘Not for the moment, son,’ she replied. ‘He needs to rest. You understand how exhausted he must be.’

“He didn’t eat with us either. Mother took his food to him in the study. Three times a day. Always on a silver tray. The same one the maid had once brought our meals on. Because of the war we’d learned to eat without niceties, and we’d completely forgotten ab out the silver tray. We’d not had a maid for a long time either. Plus, what we ate didn’t merit a silver tray or a maid. Often there was nothing to eat at all. Mother sold various valuables to buy food. She’d even thought about selling the silver tray, because if father didn’t come back it wouldn’t have been any use to us. Once she took the tray from the dresser intending to finally sell it, but then suddenly, as if she had a presentiment she said:

“ ‘What if he comes back, what will I serve him his meals on?’

“And instead of the tray, she sold their wedding rings.

“When she was taking him his food, even though she carried the tray in both hands she wouldn’t let my brother or me open the door for her. The tray would be loaded, there was a tureen of soup, a dish with the main course, a plate, a bowl, the teapot, cup and saucer, sugar bowl, silverware. She would place the tray on the floor, check that neither of us were about, and only then knock at his door. She was taking food to her own husband, but still she’d knock. It’s hard to imagine a more bizarre situation. Not that he ever opened the door for her. She would always open it herself. She’d pick the tray up from the ground and only then go in.

“She usually sat with him till he was done eating. Sometimes, though, she was there much longer. I was often tempted to sneak up to the door and listen in to see what they were talking about, and in general if they were talking at all or if they were just silent all that time. Of course, we’d been taught that eavesdropping was wrong. But the war made us unlearn a lot of things we’d been taught. It wasn’t that that held me back, but rather the fear of what I might hear. Especially because when he didn’t feel like eating, which sometimes happened, my mother’s eyes would be brimming with tears as she came out of his study. And that was how hatred toward my father began to grow in me. I hated him so much sometimes for those tears of my mother’s. Nowadays, yes, nowadays I can guess what went on between them.

“With every meal my mother took to him it became more and more important whether she’d leave there tearful again, or whether her expression would be calm. Even when I was in the furthest room I’d be listening for her coming out of his study, and I’d run to meet her to see if there were tears in her eyes or whether there was even the least hint of a smile on her face. I even tried to guess if it would happen when she took him breakfast or lunch or dinner. It was then that I first became aware of how much I loved my mother. While my father, every time she left his study crying I hated him more, never mind that he’d come back. I actually felt that it was my job to protect my mother from him. I had the feeling that every time my mother brought him a meal, he was taking her away from me. In fact, my love for my mother also protected me from him. It still protects me today, even though my mother is no longer alive either. If it hadn’t been for that, he may well have pulled me along after him. Because I inherited his bad conscience. I often feel as tormented as he must have been. You seem surprised that a bad conscience can be inherited. Everything can, everything can, my dear sir. We have to inherit it all, otherwise what happened will keep repeating itself. We can’t simply select from our inheritance only the things that won’t weigh us down. That way we’d be utterly entangled in hypocrisy. As it is we wallow in falsehood. Have you not noticed that lies have taken on the appearance of truth? They’ve become our daily bread. A way of life. Almost a faith. We absolve ourselves of our sins with lies, convince ourselves with lies, justify accepted truths with lies. Just take a good look at the world. In any case, I’ve inherited that from him. And I want it that way. Otherwise I might not have become as aware of the undying love I felt toward my mother.

“One day, as mother came out of the study carrying yet another uneaten meal, her eyes filled with tears, she looked in my direction and said abruptly:

“ ‘Your father wants to see you.’

“I felt no joy, believe me. Not even relief. I knocked at the door, my heart pounding. He was sitting on the sofa, in his pajamas, in rumpled bedding, wearing house slippers. He was hunched over, as if the simple act of sitting were agony for him.

“ ‘Come here,’ he said.

“His voice seemed alien to me. I wouldn’t have recognized it.”

“ ‘Closer,’ he said. At that moment I noticed that his face was even thinner and more sallow than when he’d first appeared. His cold eyes seemed almost lifeless. They were turned in my direction, but I couldn’t tell if he actually saw me. My heart was thumping ever more loudly in my chest, though all I was doing was standing in front of my own father. He was a good father, please believe me. He was exceptionally mild-tempered, he never got angry. He never so much as laid a finger on me, unlike my mother. I’d get up to mischief sometimes, and he’d always go easy on me. Now, for the first time I was afraid in his presence.

“ ‘I want to make my confession to you, son,’ he said. ‘To you, not to God.’ A shiver ran down my spine, though I didn’t really understand these opening words. ‘God forgives too easily.’ It was as if he was wrenching the words out of himself. I had the impression he was speaking not with his mouth but with his entire body that had been exhausted by the war, that was so skinny his bones poked through his pajamas. I felt like I could hear them rubbing against each other at every word. ‘Fathers should confess to their sons if memory is to survive. I don’t need you to forgive me. I need you to remember. Your memory will be my penance.’ He had tired himself, he lowered his head and for a long time we remained like that, me standing stiffly in front of him as if I were at attention, him on the sofa like he might come crashing head first to the floor. With a great effort he raised his eyes to me. They were no longer cold and lifeless. It was more as if they didn’t believe it was me standing there. He looked at me for a long time. He looked and looked, and still he didn’t seem to believe it was me. ‘I was ordered to check whether anyone else was still hiding there. In the orchard between the farmhouse and the barn there was a potato clamp. In those parts they dig pits, a bit like a cellar. I ran up to it, yanked open the door, and I saw you. Now that you’re standing here in front of me I’m even more sure it was you. I saw the terror in your eyes. Come closer.’ He stared into my eyes for a long, long time, from so close up I could almost feel our eyes touching. ‘Yes, these are the same eyes. They didn’t believe that the soldier with the smoking gun barrel, who could pull the trigger again at any moment, was your father. I hesitated for a second. That second made me realize that I have no right to live. Me, your father, I felt disappointed that it was you. I slammed the door, furious, and shouted back that there was no one there.’ He’d grown tired, he was clearly short of breath, but a moment later he took my head in both his hands and laid it on his shoulder. His body was shaking. ‘It would have been better for all of us if I’d not survived,’ I heard him whisper by my ear. ‘But I so wanted to see you all before I died. So very much. I love you, son. But that’s not enough to live. Go now.’ He pushed me away from himself.”

We sat there, both silently immersed in those last words of his father, because what can you say after all that, I’m sure you understand. The cafe was slowly filling up, it was getting more and more crowded and noisy. At some point he nodded to someone, or returned a nod. I didn’t look, thinking that at such a moment it would have been wrong even to show curiosity. Then, greeting someone again, he said:

“But no one could have predicted what would happen soon after. And while he was shaving, with a razor.”

After these words it was as if the life went out of him. Or perhaps he’d come to the conclusion that after what he had said, our meeting could return to being pure chance. And he no longer felt like talking. As for me, nothing came to mind to keep up the conversation. I only noticed to my own amazement that the pain in my right side under the ribs had gone away. I hadn’t even noticed when. It had ceased, just like that. So I’d have gladly had another slice of cake and another coffee. I was about to ask him if he felt like having more, but at that moment he glanced at his watch and said:

“I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m deeply grateful to you. Unfortunately I have to be going.”

He brought out his wallet, counted out the money and stuck it under the sugar bowl. As he was putting the wallet back in his pocket he suddenly hesitated and took it out again.

“Just a minute, maybe it’s in here somewhere.”

He began rummaging through the compartments as before. I thought that maybe this time he wanted to give me his business card. I put my hand inside my coat to get my own wallet and give him mine.

“No, don’t bother looking, you won’t find it in your wallet. It ought to be somewhere in here. I’m certain I have it.” He was rifling ever more anxiously through the wallet. “I wanted to show you a really interesting photograph. Extremely interesting. The person who took the picture captured the exact moment when my father was standing in front of me. Where on earth is it? I refuse to believe it’s not here. The most extraordinary thing about it is that we’re looking into each other’s eyes. My terrified eyes looking at my father, and father’s face fixed in a grimace, his eyes staring at me. Both our faces can be seen together en face. It’s hard to credit, but you must believe me, both faces are opposite one another and both are en face. The place the picture was taken from seems physically impossible, to have two faces opposite one another and both at the same time looking at the camera. I’ve tried to figure out where that point must have been — so far without success. Because it was somewhere, the picture itself is the best proof of that. If I manage to find it it’ll be quite a discovery. Who can say if it won’t be a new dimension of space that for the moment is inaccessible to our senses, our imaginations, our consciences.”

His hands were trembling, again he began tipping out the contents of the various sections of his wallet, emptying them to the last slip of paper.

“Take a look.” He handed me a photograph. I thought it would be the one he was looking for. “My mother.”

“A beautiful woman,” I said. She really was beautiful. But he didn’t take after her. Except perhaps for something in the eyes, the mouth.

“That was how she looked before father came back from the war,” he said absentmindedly, busy looking for the other picture. Now he was searching for it among all the things he’d tossed out onto the tabletop. “Perhaps it isn’t possible to find that point in our everyday space. Especially as we’re overly used to it, we’ve become one of its dimensions. But after all it’s space that determines who we truly are. Just as it determines everything else. Not only in the physical meaning of the word. To judge from the photograph it may not be a physical space. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Sometimes, indications of that space can be seen in the old masters, in their most perfect paintings. The usual laws of physics would never have allowed such a place. But that’s the thing with great art. I mean art as a world, unfortunately one that includes humans. Oh, if only I could find that point. Too bad, I don’t seem to have the photograph,” he said resignedly, as if he’d let himself down. “I’m sorry.” He began gathering up all the things he’d scattered from the wallet and putting them back unthinkingly, without worrying what had been in which compartment. “I’m really sorry,” he repeated. “I was certain.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You can show me the next time.”

“You’d like to meet again?” he said, surprised.

“Of course. It could even be here, in this cafe. And if this particular table happened to be free …,” I added hurriedly, to assure him I wasn’t just being polite.

“The thing is, though,” he said as he put his wallet back in his pocket, “I’m not sure that would be possible. In fact, I don’t think it would be,” he repeated emphatically. “We’d have to not know each other again, and again say hello to one another by mistake on the street, convinced that we’d already met someplace, some time before. But where, when? Otherwise you’d be right in saying it was just an unfortunate chance.”