A Treatise on Shelling Beans (11 page)

Though to tell you the truth, I suspect she must have known the meaning of
a gap in the night like that. Perhaps she simply didn’t want to make grandfather worry, because she always looked for something comforting in a dream, even if it was a frightening one. With all those dreams she carried inside her, she couldn’t have not known. So grandfather held it against her. But he also held it against God for not granting him the grace of dreams, when other people are given great grace. Could it be that He was angry with him for the three men he’d killed? He was God, surely He knew that in wars people kill each other. He ought to understand. So many wars had passed through the world since He created it, and He hadn’t stopped a single one with His almighty powers, so why would grandfather’s one war and those three killed men be of any importance? Plus, if He ruled the world then He also ruled wars, and grandfather wouldn’t have killed without His having willed it. Why was he being punished?

During the bean-shelling, when he started talking about wars it never ended till we ran out of beans. One time, I remember, he told about how he’d met a philosopher. No, it wasn’t one of the three men he killed. If it had been one of those, he wouldn’t have known he’d killed a philosopher. When you kill someone, no one introduces themselves. Especially when it’s one extended line against another, one bayonet against another. And in that war most of the killing was done by bayonet. They’d all jump out from the trenches and rush at each other with a Hurrah! Then they’d go back to their trenches, and between the trenches there’d be a growing mountain of bodies. At times the war would stand in one place for weeks on end, so when they weren’t killing each other they’d often even get to know one another. That I can’t tell you. You’d have to have asked grandfather. I was a child when I heard all this. And children believe everything. Why would I not have believed it. You’ve never lived through a war? You’re lucky, though I also feel sorry for you. In wartime all kinds of things can happen. War mixes things up, levels them out. Farmers or philosophers, they’re all good for dying. So anyone can meet anyone. Where else could a farmer meet a philosopher?

So when they weren’t fighting, especially at night, because obviously you
can’t fight with bayonets at night, and there were days on end when they didn’t fight because there were no orders, the men from the two lots of trenches would go out and meet up with each other. They’d sit around among all those bayoneted bodies, share their tobacco and vodka, swap various things, sometimes play cards. Why not? Blackjack, for example, you can play that in the dark. All you need is to take a drag on your cigarette, the tip lights up and you can see your cards. Other times they’d sing songs, sometimes the men on both sides would sing in the same language.

So anyway one time, this was also at night, it was raining on and off, everyone was squatting under their waterproof capes in their trenches. All of a sudden grandfather sees someone leave the enemy trench, stand among the bodies and turn his face up to the sky, as if he was trying to gather all the rain on his face. So grandfather went out there, and turned his face upward into the rain the same way. The other guy asked if grandfather maybe wanted something to eat. Grandfather’s belly was rumbling, because they’d even run out of hard tack. So the other man went back to his trench and brought a can. They sat down together, opened the can, and set about eating. With the same bayonets they’d been sticking each other with, of course.

Grandfather was too shy to ask who he was eating with. Besides, what difference did it make? All that mattered was that the other guy had brought the can. And since he was also in uniform, though it was an enemy uniform, there’s no way grandfather could have known he was eating with a philosopher. So they sat there eating, leaning towards each other to shelter the can from the rain. The other man didn’t say anything. As for grandfather, it was true he liked to talk, though mostly about wars, like I said. But how could he talk about war since they were actually at the war, and they were sitting and eating amid the bodies of men who’d been killed. They did take the casualties away, but only the wounded ones, the dead weren’t cleared till the front moved.

So grandfather started singing the praises of the canned food, he said it was really tasty, and not just because his belly had been growling, but in general he
liked to say nice things about everything. The day, the night, life, people, God. That’s the kind of person he was. So the other man told grandfather to finish off the whole of the rest of the can. Out of gratitude grandfather got to talking about himself. That he’d left a young wife behind at home. That he hoped to go back to her. That he had three cows, two horses, this many acres, some meadow-land, some woodland. That he sowed and plowed, day after day. And in the fall and winter they mostly shelled beans, because they planted enough of them so there’d be sufficient for the shelling all fall and winter. They’d all sit down, the lamp would be lit, they’d be shelling beans and telling stories. When he got back he’d tell stories about the war, and about how the two of them had eaten a can of food together.

The other man said he envied grandfather. True, he didn’t know how to shell beans, but he’d rather shell beans than do what he did for a living, especially as it didn’t serve any purpose for people. So grandfather asked him what he did. The other man introduced himself to grandfather, saying he was a philosopher. He gave his name. Grandfather repeated the name to himself all through the war, so as not to forget it when he got home. He wanted to at least repay the man with his memory, for the can of food he’d shared. Unfortunately though, he forgot. Who do you say that was? Are you sure? Did you know him? It’s too bad grandfather’s no longer with us, you could have reminded him.

In any case, grandfather could talk forever about wars. And especially during bean-shelling, it was like his memory opened up completely. I don’t know if it was the wars that had that power, or whether it was the beans that could open any memory right to the bottom. You actually had the impression that war and beans got along together.

You know, I sometimes wonder whether grandfather really did kill those three men. Maybe he just imagined he’d killed them, hoping that because of that at least they’d appear to him in dreams. It could have been his way of doing something about the fact that he never had dreams. Like I said, in everything he nearly always turned to wars for support. Even when he wanted to offer
comfort to himself or other people. He’d always bring up something from one of the wars. Not necessarily the one he’d been in. Sometimes it was another one, a more recent one or an older one, one when he hadn’t yet been born.

One time when we were grazing the cows on the meadow, I heard the other boys whispering that Uncle Jan wasn’t grandfather’s son, because he’d been born too soon after grandfather got back from the war. Though I never noticed grandfather treating his two sons differently in any way. And Uncle Jan never gave any indication he didn’t feel like grandfather’s son either. When he hung himself, it affected grandfather more than anyone.

“How was he not my son, how?” he kept repeating. Then another time he said: “No one can even imagine their son might hang himself. It’s too bad I had that burst of strength back then and didn’t let those three guys stick their bayonets in me. Three bayonets, I wouldn’t have had to live to see this. Oh, son, son. If you’d at least died in wartime it wouldn’t be so sad.”

Who knows how it actually was. Grandfather’s gone, grandmother’s gone, Uncle Jan’s gone. At times it seems to me that everyone’s gone. Maybe I’ve gone too? I sometimes try and figure out whether I’m here or not. Except you can’t be a witness to yourself. Someone else has to testify on your behalf. People are too easy on themselves. When they can, they protect themselves from themselves. They dodge and twist, anything so they don’t have to go further, deeper, to where they have something hidden. Everyone wants to appear to themselves the way they look in their wedding picture. Neatly combed and shaved, in a suit and tie, well-fed and smiling, looking like a decent guy. And as young as possible, of course. And they believe that’s them. Though if they really took an honest look …

Every wedding photo is a happy one, as you know. Heads close, shoulder to shoulder, like two poppy seeds that found each other in a tub. If you believed in destiny you might think this was a photograph of destiny. But what happens afterwards, that you won’t see in any photograph. The camera doesn’t exist that can do that job, or the photographer. Maybe one day there will be one,
who knows. But so far, all wedding photos are always happy. Think how many happy pictures there are like that hanging in people’s homes. Though honestly, I sometimes wonder if happiness can only ever be found in a wedding picture.

There was a wedding photograph in that guy’s cabin too. Oh, I never finished the story. So when I got woken in the night by that shout, I decided to go see what was up. It was a dark night, the stars were hidden behind clouds. It was so quiet that my own steps sounded like I don’t know how many pairs of feet walking. I could even hear the dogs’ footsteps. I went between the cabins, put my ear to various walls, stuck my head in where there was an open window. But everyone was sound asleep, some of them I could hear snoring. I was starting to think I must have dreamed it. Then all of sudden the dogs start pulling me. What is it? But I let them lead me. And by one of the cabins I see a white body. A woman. Naked as the day she was born. I lean down, there’s no sign of life. When I shine my flashlight on her face I see it’s all bloody.

I picked her up and brought her back to my place. I laid her down through there in the living room and cleaned her up. She had so many bruises that even today, telling you about it makes me mad. I wrapped her in a blanket and held her, because she was shivering all over. I made tea for her but she couldn’t drink, her lips were too swollen. I had to feed her the tea on a little spoon, propping her head up with my other hand because she couldn’t hold it up by herself. When she opened her eyes she looked semi-conscious. She started to talk, I leaned over her but the only thing I could make out was a frightened whisper:

“Who are you?”

“Get some sleep,” I said. “Sleep’ll do you good.”

But I don’t think she slept, because I kept being woken by a sobbing sound through the wall. Or maybe I was just dreaming she was crying through there, and the dream kept waking me up. Early in the morning I went to get her clothes from the guy whose cabin I found her by. To begin with he denied it, swore blind it was nothing to do with him. No way. I mean, I’d often seen his wife. She hadn’t come with him this time because she wasn’t feeling well. Here,
that’s our wedding picture, you recognize her, right? He had no idea who the other woman was. Plus he took a sleeping pill last night, he hadn’t even heard any shouting. Must have been one of the other cabins, you must be mistaken. I found her outside your cabin, I say. Then someone must have dumped her there out of spite. You ought to know the people that come here, what they get up to, he says, you’re the one keeping an eye on it all.

If it hadn’t been for the dogs he’d have kept denying it. But the dogs dragged some women’s clothes from under the bed, underwear, blouse, skirt, house slippers. And can you imagine, he wasn’t at all shamefaced about it. All he did was laugh.

“Come on, buddy, what kind of world are you living in? Don’t be so old-fashioned. If you feel so sorry for her you can have her. I was going to get someone else anyway.”

He tried to offer me a beer. The dogs had their hackles up, I had to quiet them down, easy Paws, easy Rex. They were only waiting for me to give them a sign.

“Maybe I am old-fashioned,” I said. “But if anything like this ever happens again I’ll burn this place down. And you’ll never know who did it because you’ll be inside.”

“Keep your nose out of things that aren’t your business, mister!” he said, getting angry.

“Everything’s my business,” I said evenly.

“We pay you to keep an eye on things!”

“Exactly.”

This time of year, the off-season, one day is pretty much like all the rest. In the morning, like anyone getting up, I wash and I put my clothes on. Though I’ll be honest with you, when I think about the fact that the whole world is getting up with me, washing, getting dressed, I sometimes feel like going back to bed and just this once not getting up, or not getting up ever again. It’s like some curse hanging over you, making you get out of bed, wash, dress every day. From all that you’d be justified in losing interest in the whole day, even though it’s only beginning, losing interest in anything that may or may not happen that day. Now imagine feeling that through your whole life. How many times have we gotten up, washed, gotten dressed – and for what?

It goes without saying that I’m talking about this side of the world, the day that’s just beginning. Because on the other side, when we’re getting up, washing, dressing, they’re undressing and washing and going to bed, which we’ll only do at the end of the day, when they’ll be doing what we did in the morning. And that’s the clearest indication the world is turning and not going anywhere.

I divide the world into two sides, but only for the morning, because by evening there aren’t any sides anymore. By evening people are all broken into little pieces, the same everywhere. Whereas in the morning people are still whole.

No, first I have to feed the dogs. They have to get their food on time. Especially in the morning. Even if I couldn’t get out of bed they’d still need to be fed. Whether I’m sick or not. They get it once in the morning then a second time in the late afternoon. When it comes time they let me know. They lie down flat and stare at me. When I wake up in the morning they’re already lying there staring.

So how can you not get up, however much you don’t feel like it or you don’t see the point. Their eyes are shining, not because they’re starving but because they’re certain they’re going to get fed. How can you not get up? Let me tell you, these days I couldn’t exist without them. I often have the feeling that without them the day would refuse to begin and refuse to end.