Amberville (26 page)

Eric helped out in my place.

We had an agreement.

Eric had no misgivings regarding advertising photog
raphy. He was the evil one. I was the good. It was a few months before the wedding with Emma Rabbit. Or a few months after. It was the start of something or a natural continuation. Eric and I got the job as head of accounting. Possibly we became head of marketing, or some other kind of manager. I have a hard time committing titles to memory.

Together we made a successful career at Wolle & Wolle.

The advertising world suited my twin brother perfectly. He surprised the trend-sensitive designers with his self-promoting attitude and his unexpected leaps of thought. He had nothing to lose. I don’t know exactly what he said or did. For obvious reasons we were never at the agency at the same time. But I’m sure that it wasn’t a matter of anything remarkable.

I was, without a doubt, the one between us who had the intellectual capacity.

Eric turned his shortcomings into advantages.

He never expressed a definite opinion about anything.

Things went fast. I was at the office one day a week. Two or three days a week. The rest of the time Eric was there. He is an extroverted animal. Seeks contact. I’m not like that at all. He found out things I’d never heard discussed. He ended up in the management group. I did, too. It became our platform.

We became good friends with Wolle Hare.

It was incomprehensible.

The hare was an animal who was certifiably hard to get close to. Nevertheless, Eric picked open his defenses as though Wolle were a cheap bicycle lock. After a few months, Eric was his closest ally.

These are not profundities we’re talking about.

The hare was convinced that the agency would go under if it didn’t expand. Eric knew nothing about business. Nevertheless he expressed his opinions. I could hear when they were talking on the phone. My ignorant twin was using
words like “synergies” and “fusions.” One day he would enthusiastically promote the idea of opening a casino. The next day it might just as well be a real estate holding company.

It was pure madness.

I witnessed a careening carriage en route to the precipice. Personally I dutifully sorted the papers that came my way. I watered the flowers. I refilled the coffee in the coffee machine.

I waited for our bluff to be exposed.

Eric’s behavior became less and less acceptable. When Wolle Hare called us into the office one day after less than a year as head of accounting, I thought it was all over.

It was Eric who was at the office that day.

He wasn’t even surprised at being named assistant managing director. It was a natural development of his collaboration with Wolle Hare, said Eric.

A natural development.

I won’t fatigue the reader by describing the astonishment that subsequently struck me, time and time again through the years. My time at the advertising agency lessened. Eric’s increased correspondingly.

His successes increased as well. I stopped seeing them as ours together. I followed his career from a distance. A distance that Lakestead House provided me. Eric was not reticent about what he was occupied with. On the contrary. He told me everything. As if he were atoning for guilt.

The job dealt with communication and manipulation. He was cunning where any type of marketing was concerned. The explanation was simple. He wasn’t afraid to lie. To assert that one dish soap was more economical than the others. One car safer than the others. One type of insurance more comprehensive than another.

Even if that wasn’t the case.

He treated the personnel the same way. He promoted or slandered them on the basis of his own shortsighted purposes. He didn’t reflect on whether his judgments were objective or not. When I pointed this out, he didn’t understand what I was talking about.

Eric achieved one success after another. At the beginning it was about Wolle & Wolle. Later this continued up and through all of the city’s power elites. Sooner or later, I was certain, someone would expose him.

I didn’t look forward to that day for myself;
Schadenfreude
is for the envious. On the other hand, I did look forward to that day for the sake of justice. It was a matter of balance. Eric’s life had capsized long ago, and the waves that struck against the pier below Lakestead House during the Evening Storm always struck again.

But the years passed, and nothing happened.

I became less and less interested in Eric’s professional life. I lost track of how many boards he sat on and how many commissions he was elected to.

Sometimes I felt ashamed that he used my name.

Sometimes I wished that he would leave me in peace with his stories.

I was unspeakably naïve.

This is not soul-searching. This is about pride. Naïveté is something I cultivate; to me, naïveté represents a pure conscience, good intentions, and the genuine trust in the outside world which is the basis for having the strength to carry on the struggle against cynicism.

I was unspeakably naïve. I believed I could take over when Eric had sworn the marital vows that I myself wasn’t able to swear.

The wedding reception became a taste of what was to come.

I sat in a café across from the reception venue and
watched how the stuffed animals Emma and I had invited passed by on the sidewalk. I watched them through the illuminated windows, how they toasted the bride and groom. I could hear music carrying faintly out onto the street. Music I myself had chosen. Along with my mother I’d planned the napkin folding and what sort of flat-bread would be served with the appetizers. I knew what was going on without being there.

I presumed that the bride and groom were very happy.

I was happy.

I didn’t understand what was about to happen.

When I slipped up the stairwell on Uxbridge Street the next morning, ready to change places with Eric, a surprise was waiting.

As we’d decided, I stood and waited out on the stairway. The rain had just ceased and the Forenoon Weather had begun. I wasn’t thinking anything in particular. My senses were wide open. It didn’t bother me that Eric had woken up with my Emma that same morning. Eric and I were each other’s opposites. We were one and the same. I stood in the stairwell and waited. My heart was wide open and my mind was pure.

I would replace Eric and reinstate order.

The door opened, and there stood my twin brother.

“You are a very fortunate bear,” he said and smiled.

“I know,” I said.

“And if you need my help again, you only have to call,” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied.

“See you,” he said.

I nodded.

I slipped into the apartment and left Eric on the stairway.

The apartment was larger than I’d thought. Lots of rooms and corridors. Closets and corners. Finally I found Emma
Rabbit in the bathroom where she was brushing her fur. She was humming one of the songs the orchestra had played last evening.

“As if November were too late,” she said as I stepped in.

“No,” I answered, then changed my mind. “Yes?”

I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“But Alexi is going to see what a green bicycle can mean,” she said.

“Sure,” I answered.

I didn’t know who she was talking about.

“Despite the fact that you realize that it’s going to hurt?” she asked.

I nodded.

I didn’t know why it should hurt.

“Darling,” I said, “excuse me a moment.”

I ran out of the bathroom. I ran out into the hall. I ran out into the stairway and down onto the street where I ran as fast as I could in the direction I assumed Eric had gone.

I caught up with him before Wright’s Lane.

“It didn’t work,” I panted. “You have to go back. We have to plan better.”

But it wasn’t a matter of planning.

Every day that Eric spent in my stead with my wife, they created common memories. Every memory created references, solidarity, and a communion into which I had no entry.

For another eleven months I continued to arrange meetings with Eric on the stairwell outside the apartment. Full of hope, I went in to Emma Rabbit and tried to take over the life that was going on without me. In the best cases I managed for two hours. In the worst cases, for less than a minute.

My will remained unbroken. My love for Emma conquered my good sense. During these months I constantly
laid out new strategies. I left no idea untested. However absurd it might appear.

It became clear to me that I was forced to copy my brother’s life down to the smallest detail so as to be able to take his place.

I subjected my twin to intensive interviews that I prepared for several days. I carried out regular interrogations where I demanded complete openness. I observed Emma during all hours of the day. I sat at Nick’s Café and stared at their doorway, ready to get up and follow her at any moment. I tried to live and breathe their life without them noticing it. Walk along the streets where they walked, visit the department stores or restaurants that they visited. The idea was simple. If I got the same stimuli as Eric, my reactions ought to be rather like his.

During this year of painful desperation I continued working at Wolle & Wolle. Work was my salvation, a place of clear demands and monotonous routines in a chaotic life of pain and degradation. I commuted back and forth from Lakestead House. I was en route to the office or to Emma and Eric’s apartment. Then I was on my way back again. Lakestead was strict where time was concerned. I was always in a hurry. I was always short on time.

I had a hard time keeping certain days under control. I stood outside Wolle & Wolle, wondering if Eric was there. I stood outside Uxbridge Street, wondering if Eric was there. I stood outside Lakestead House, wondering why I was there. I stood outside Hillville Road, wondering if Father was there. I stood alongside myself, wondering if Eric was there.

The pain of failure receded. I knew what to expect from my encounters with Emma. My hopes overcame my clear-sightedness. My hopes invited self-deception. I was balancing on the brink of the dishonorable.

Finally a day arrived when reality overcame fantasy.

It’s so simple to write.

Finally reality conquered fantasy.

But these fantasies had been my lifeblood. The castles in the air I’d erected every time I ran after Eric in desperation and induced him to turn around. When reality caught up with me, it took the dreams out of my life, and what was left was almost nothing.

I retreated. I left it to Eric to uphold my life. I don’t think anyone noticed.

I retreated.

There are occasions—for some, several times during a normal day, and for others a few times during a lifetime—when you feel impatient with your situation in life.

A kind of existential vacuum.

A thought loop that arises when the majority of physical and emotional needs are met. You feel boredom, despite the fact that you ought to be happy. You lack connection, a sense of belonging, and ask yourself if life really is no more than this.

I never experience such a vacuum.

I wake up in the morning when it’s time to get up, approximately when the Morning Rain starts to fall. I’m not a morning person, but I force myself to get up and do my morning toilet. After that I carry out a simple exercise program, then I go down to breakfast. After having carefully read the newspaper, I go back up to my room. Take care of my things. I have time for a walk in the garden before lunch.

In the afternoons I sometimes still go into the city. Especially on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I go to Nick’s, have a coffee, and look over at the doorway to 32 Uxbridge Street.

If Emma Rabbit comes, I follow her. Not always, but it does happen.

Eric comes to see me at Lakestead House. More often than he needs to. I don’t want to forbid him. He does it for his own sake.

I can’t tell him that Emma Rabbit has lied to us. That she’s not fatherless at all, but rather that she has a father who’s a dove.

There are situations where what is good isn’t obvious.

Not to tell is to withhold. To withhold is to betray. To tell is to tear down something that has been built up for a long time. If Eric knew that his Emma had long been keeping a secret from him, it would crush him.

Why has she chosen to keep her father secret? I don’t know. Is the reason perhaps reasonable? Perhaps there’s a simple explanation? In order to set yourself in judgment over another animal, you have to close your eyes to the whole truth.

I never close my eyes.

I know that my life isn’t Eric’s. That his life isn’t mine. We have become two individuals for certain reasons. There are reasons in the background. The truth, which for me is a part of goodness, means nothing to him. Emma Rabbit means everything to him. She has become who she is through a long series of events which, thanks to their definite sequence, have defined her character. She has her reasons to conceal her father. I don’t know them, I can’t set myself in judgment over them.

I keep silent.

Not a word passes my lips.

This is how I might think, in the afternoons as I walk along the coast.

This is how I was thinking today, as I was walking along the coast.

I spoke every third or fourth idea out loud to myself. When the black clouds drew in over the mainland in the
afternoon, I got raindrops on my tongue. Then, as usual, the gates of heaven opened. I hurried back home. For those who wish, rusks and tea are served in the afternoon. I myself waited until dinner, which I ate early.

In the evenings, I reflected.

At night, I slept.

E
ric, what a surprise!” said Archdeacon Odenrick, but there was no joy in his voice.

Eric was standing one step inside the threshold to the archdeacon’s office, not knowing what he should do. Outside the small, aperture-like windows he glimpsed reality in the form of buildings and streetlights, but he had a strong, unpleasant feeling that he would never return out there again. He closed the door behind him and tried to gather his courage.

“Come in, come in,” the archdeacon invited with a smile that was broad and warm.

Eric tried to smile back, but was unsure whether he succeeded. Slowly he walked over to the ample visitor’s armchair that stood in front of the archdeacon’s massive desk, and which he’d never dared sit in when he was little. Now he sat down, but he sat on the edge of the armchair, straight-backed, and with his paws in his lap. He still hadn’t said anything.

“Eric, that you come to visit this late…” said Odenrick.

“Yes,” the bear finally forced out.

“You were passing this way, or…?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“But no one visits a deacon so late in the evening without some purpose, do they?” said Odenrick.

Eric nodded in shame, found out.

“There’s no problem, no hurry. How are your parents? I see them all too seldom nowadays.”

Mother and Father. That was a topic of conversation to dwell on. It was solid ground. Eric told what he knew about his mother and her hardships at the ministry, and for a few minutes they helped each other choose the best desserts she’d served over the years. For once Penguin Odenrick, who was also close to Eric’s father, asked whether Eric had reconciled yet with Boxer Bloom. Eric shook his head. No, they still hadn’t spoken since…for a long time.

“That grieves your father, you should know,” Odenrick said seriously. “Even if you don’t believe it, for I know you don’t. If you knew how much pain you cause him, I’m certain you would call and put things right. You’re not a bad bear, Eric.”

The thought of Boxer Bloom irritated Eric as always, and even now, in the archdeacon’s office, where so much was at stake and so much had to be said, he had a hard time letting Odenrick’s words pass by without comment.

“As if he couldn’t call,” muttered Eric Bear.

“The two of you are equally stubborn,” smiled Odenrick mildly. “It’s terrible. It’s inherited, and that makes it doubly painful for your father. It’s his own stubbornness he encounters in you.”

“That is not at all…” said Eric with a scornful tone of voice, and immediately regretted it. Of the church’s theoretical foundations, he’d always considered the idea of genetic inheritance to be one of the most hard-to-swallow bits.

“We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we?” said the archdeacon, recognizing the bear’s hesitation.

Eric nodded.

“And if I don’t misremember, I placed the rhetorical question whether you truly believe that the Deliverymen bring the cubs out by chance. Do you believe that it was fate alone that made it that just you and Teddy ended up with Bloom and his rhinoceros? Or was it somebody’s intention? Sounds more likely, don’t you think?”

Eric wanted to nod but didn’t dare. He knew that was how the archdeacon always handled the question of original sin.

“But aren’t we all born good?” protested Eric somewhat lamely, leaping over several trains of thought to get to the point.

“We are all born with the possibility of doing good,” said the archdeacon diplomatically.

“But, Archdeacon, do you really think that stuffed animals come directly from the factory that are evil? Evil, because the animals that will become their parents, or their ancestors, had done wrong at some time in their lives?”

Eric couldn’t hold back his acid irony, and involuntarily he leaned forward a little.

“The sin which has been committed through the ages we all carry with us, collectively. Then it is the church’s task to forgive. That’s just how our roles have been assigned to us,” said the archdeacon, adding, “You take this all too literally, all too personally.”

“Is it the church’s task to forgive?” Eric repeated. “How often should that happen? How soon after my evil action does forgiveness apply? And after I’ve been forgiven, has a deacon then transformed me from evil to good?”

Eric spoke quickly, stumbling over the syllables; he had to make his way past this side track in order to get to his actual business.

“Whether you regret the evil you’ve done,” the archdeacon replied without raising his voice, “is more important than anything else.”

“Anxiety is the answer,” clarified Eric.

“Remorse,” corrected the archdeacon.

Eric got up from the large chair. His frustration over the conversation and the dogmatic penguin was so great that he could not possibly sit still.

The archdeacon misunderstood the gesture.

“Is that why you’re here?” asked Odenrick, thereby giving Eric an opportunity to refrain from asking what the archdeacon knew he was thinking about asking. “For something you’ve done? To ask for forgiveness? That’s far from—”

“No,” interrupted Eric, making a gesture with his arm as if the archdeacon were some kind of porter. “I’m not here to beg pardon.”

The archdeacon leaned over the desk, carefully observing his visitor. The humble tone that had previously concealed the bear’s actual state of mind fell to the floor like the drapery from a sprawling work of art, and here stood his true self.

“I’m here to appeal for help,” said Eric Bear without the hint of an appeal.

“I’ll naturally do everything in my power to—” began the archdeacon, but once again he was interrupted.

“That remains to be seen,” said Bear. “This is about the Death List.”

Whatever expectations Eric had had, they came to naught. The penguin behind the desk didn’t bat an eyelid. No surprise or rage, no fear or even lack of understanding. Penguin Odenrick looked just as pious as ever.

“The Death List?”

“I know how it fits together,” said Eric. “I know that it’s your list.”

“My list?”

“That it’s you who writes it, you who chooses the animals who will die.”

“You know that?”

“And I need help,” repeated the bear.

“Sit down,” said the archdeacon.

It was an order, the tone of voice was sharp, and no more than what was required to transform the self-assured bear into a former confirmand.

Eric sat down and tried to encounter the archdeacon’s gaze. It could no longer be described as mild.

“You should think carefully about what you’re planning to accuse me of,” said Odenrick, “because when the words are spoken it’s going to be difficult to take them back. I’ve learned to forgive, but I have a hard time forgetting.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” replied Eric.

And in the same moment as he said that, he knew that it was true. He was not afraid. Here sat an idiotic penguin with the power to let his beloved wife and his biological twin live. And the power to force them to die. What did Eric have to be afraid of, what more was there to lose?

“I’m not afraid,” repeated Eric, “because I know who you are, and your power consists of your secrets.”

“You think you know what power is,” said the archdeacon, “but you know nothing.”

The penguin got up from his chair, and Eric was happy that the large desk stood between them.

“The worlds where you move, where the struggle for material advantages is carried on with more or less criminal methods,” said Archdeacon Odenrick with all of his breath support, “and here I include your fancy corporate directors; that’s only the lobby. You’re so occupied with comparing yourselves with each other that you don’t see it. That someone has granted you the arena in which you fight, and that as long as you restrict yourselves to it you’re left in peace. But if you start searching for doors that lead out of there, then comes the punishment. Hard and merciless. And that, my upright friend, is power. Which you’ll continue to experience, but never taste.”

The penguin remained standing behind the desk. He looked down at the bear, and his breathing was excited. Just then he was a demonic figure, but Eric Bear still felt no fear.

“Power,” repeated the bear, nodding to himself as if he’d understood something. “Of course. That is a motivating force.”

The penguin didn’t let himself be provoked. “It’s a matter of managing it. I’ve striven for it, I’ll gladly admit that. And the reason is that I want to make use of it. Otherwise it would be meaningless. And I’m good at making use of it. Because I understand that I am a temporary servant.”

“I know what you can do,” said Eric, nodding.

“You know nothing,” answered Odenrick slowly and with such contempt that it surprised Eric.

“You’re wrong there. I know a great deal. And I won’t hesitate to make use of it.”

“I certainly believe that,” replied Odenrick, sitting down in his chair again. “You’re good at that. That’s the way you got yourself a wife.”

That was a punch below the belt, and it was just as intentional as it was painful. Eric had intended to follow through his train of thought, but completely lost the thread. The past returned to the present with violent force, and Eric was unprepared. Despite the fact that the archdeacon’s provocation was completely obvious, he couldn’t refrain from reacting to it.

“That’s bullshit,” he said in a loud voice, “and you know it.”

“Oh,” the archdeacon smiled, “there seem to be several of us here who know a few things, and who should be able to make use of that.”

“Teddy knows,” said Eric. “He’s always known.”

“And your lovely wife?” asked Odenrick amiably. “What, exactly, does she know about how the whole thing happened those days before you got married?”

“She certainly recalls that the esteemed Archdeacon Odenrick conducted the ceremony,” said Eric. “I’m sure of that. And she recalls how the archdeacon spoke with us the day before. She can probably recall the entire conversation, she has a good memory.”

This didn’t make the archdeacon’s smile any less condescending.

“But does she know that it was your idea? Does she understand that Teddy—”

“Teddy was the one I was thinking about the whole time, and you know it!” screamed Eric.

“Do I know?” sneered Odenrick. “Do I know?”

“And I know that the clothes you send to the Garbage Dump are actually the Death List!” continued Eric in the same overexcited tone of voice.

He was still sitting on the very edge of the armchair. But the reason was not respect or humility. The bear was like a pumped-up muscle only waiting the chance to be used. By revealing that he knew how the Death List was sent to the dump, he had gotten the archdeacon to fall silent. Without himself being aware of it, Eric’s upper body slowly started to rock back and forth.

“I want you to remove two names from the list,” Eric said with suppressed rage. “That’s my purpose, that’s why I came this evening. I want you to remove two of the names.”

“You’re crazy,” said the archdeacon with his gaze aimed down at the desk. “You’re completely crazy. What you’re asking for is impossible.”