An Offering for the Dead (6 page)

I have not heard him again since the thing that happened. I have listened closely; for I cannot imagine that his voice could have been lost. Perhaps it signifies that I am now to speak like him, and then his voice will be here again. But who could manage to do so?

At the table now, where they thought I was sitting, the question that my so-called friend had asked me was answered by the hostess in my stead.

"Why do you think that we ought to know more about it?" she asked.

I do not mean to claim that he was rattled by her response; he had too much control over his facial features. He stared unswervingly at the hostess next to me, but it took him a remarkably long time to ask: "We?"

It may be that this small word was not spoken aloud, and that the other diners failed to notice anything; why, it may even be that I was the only one who thought that word. I have already said that he knew my thoughts and used to voice them. Very slowly, he shifted his eyes towards me, so slowly that the image of the woman by my side, whom he had been watching so attentively, did not evaporate from his face, and I could still make out her barely perceptible nodding. Then he began to speak in his normal way:

"There are only two explanations for what we have seen today," he said in a glass-hard voice, as if pronouncing an unappealable court verdict. "Either those two ridiculous birds were really here, and (no matter where they come from, however many of them there are, and whatever they can do to us) that would mean that things are possible that, so far as we know, could not be possible. In other words: these would not be things that we see unclearly only for now, but that we will have undoubtedly researched, with gradually increasing knowledge, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow; rather, these would be unknown things that have never been and never will be calculated. And, like those birds, they can erupt into our lives at any time; and all we can do is admit that our knowledge is null and utterly useless. Or else: Those birds were not here in the first place; but everyone imagined seeing them. In effect, the two are practically one and the same; the second possibility may perhaps be somewhat worse. For it would mean that we can rely neither on ourselves nor on that which surrounds us — I mean that which we created, and believe we control, by virtue of our minds; for if we accepted our hallucinations as real, we would devaluate everything that we have previously considered reality. To speak even more clearly: We would then scarcely have the right to call ourselves human beings in the sense that we have previously understood the term; instead, we would be creatures that can transform themselves into one thing today and another tomorrow, all according to the urges of their imaginations. `Creatures' is already saying too much; we would be merely changing manifestations of that boundless drive."

No one interrupted him; yet, although everyone was listening intently, they seemed to be regarding his statements purely as an interesting dinner conversation and waiting for a witty conclusion. Otherwise they would have had to be frightened.

"And toward which view do
you
lean?" the hostess asked, and her words were like a warm breath.

"As bizarre as it may sound, my dear ... " he replied. But the name? He must have used a name? "I believe that we are dealing with a hallucination. What puzzles me most is that, according to the clocks, this event can have lasted barely a second. My watch is still running. I wound it last night before going to bed. The timepieces of our male and female friends are still running steadfastly. The same holds for the church clocks. And they all tell the same time. What can be more conscientious than a clock? How praiseworthy of us to have invented and constructed the clock! And now we are supposed to assume that clocks, the sun, and our heartbeat came to a pause, during which the notion of time was suspended? A pause? A moment of unconsciousness? And how long did that pause go on, we must instantly ask. We have no choice. What if this pause lasted longer than time? But that is unthinkable. And how are we to behave after that pause? Why, that would spell despair for many people. I said 'bizarre,' and I mean it as follows" (all at once, there was something tender in his words): "I do not consider myself infallible; but the thing for which I can least reproach myself is that I am easily seduced into self-deception by my feelings and the moods of my blood."

He now raised his glass, in which the evening sun was glowing through the red wine, and he drank to the hostess's health.

But then he continued in an ominous tone: "If I therefore have to admit that I too am prey to hallucinations, then this should alter nothing in my conduct. Instead of pursuing the unknown and thereby confirming it, it is better to explore ourselves, which compels us to assume that unknown things exist. The behavior of that old scientist who, upon hearing the news of the eruption of a volcano, promptly hurried over to observe this rare event and thereby lost his life, is, for me, the only conduct worthy of a human being. And I do not wish to discard my habit of being human. If, therefore, a natural catastrophe were to erupt tomorrow — whether a deluge or a collision in space or a disintegration of all solid things, or the transformation of human beings into animals, nay, perhaps into such dream birds as we thought we perceived today — not because I consider it my duty to salvage some of our present knowledge for a future mankind — how would I arrive at such nobility? — but because it is interesting to study the law of the progression of such a deluge and my own concomitant behavior — indeed, that is the sole reason why I wish to survive as the last and only human being. I am ready."

That was a declaration of war. We exchanged looks. How clear and transparent were his eyes, without the slightest warm tinge or dark uncertainty. I was dazzled, and I probed deeper and deeper into his gaze, seeking the bottom of so much clarity. For a long time, I found myself in a vacuum. But at last, I came upon ice. He hated me.

It saddened me greatly. Perhaps I should have avoided it; my father would certainly have avoided it; but I said: "You have forgotten about fear."

"Fear?"

"Yes."

"Are you trying to feign courage by mentioning fear?"

"I simply mentioned it. I do not know why."

"And what is the consequence of your fear?"

"I do not know," I said.

"Could this be possible?" he turned to my neighbor. And then back to me "Very well, my friend. I will tell you — I, who am not chosen and therefore probably need to be alert, but not afraid of what the choosing has in store for me. The consequence is that it is a lie — the way we sit around this well-set table and act so certain, as if nothing had happened. And the way we are together today for the last time."

After these words, one might have expected everyone to jump up from the table in order to start out immediately and prepare themselves. But nothing of the sort happened. The hand with the opal settled on my hand, and everything remained calm. They joked back and forth about what everyone would do if the Deluge came tomorrow. And eventually, one of the young women said amid general concurrence: "Tonight, I will fix some sandwiches and pack my new dress. After all, we want to look attractive when the time comes."

We had gotten together to be happy.

I often had such conversations with the man who was my friend. Usually, he talked away at me, and I held my tongue. I held my tongue because I always felt that he was right. Often I thought: Why am I not like him? It might be better now too. Yes, I am astonished that he is not here instead of me. After all, everything pointed to his future success. He was bolder and prouder and always stuck to his purpose, while I frequently had no idea what I would be doing from one moment to the next, and I then had an endless amount of trouble orienting myself. Granted, he would not speak like me now, he would find himself ridiculous and poke fun at himself; but, in the same situation, he would not for an instant hesitate or doubt what step he must promptly take as the most necessary.

However,
he
perished, and I stand here. I probably always knew that he would perish. That was why I loved him, and he hated me.

For when I held my tongue while he spoke, he mistook my silence for scorn and grew even sharper in his formulations. He simply would not believe me when I agreed with him. He thought I was merely trying to silence him. He viewed me as more intelligent than I am, but he would never have admitted it.

For example, I would never have talked to him about my father, or about the others who sometimes visited me. At the very start, I must have betrayed myself. "How can that be?

The man is dead!" he instantly retorted to my allusion. And when I told him that my father was not dead, he irately flared up: "He died on such and such a date. That can be proved at any time." And he named a precise year. Naturally, I held my tongue; for it was painful arguing about my father in this way. But my friend thought I was making fun of him, and he angrily stormed out.

Although I henceforth kept silent about my father, my friend did not hold back with concealed attacks; I often got to hear: "What does your father say, your father, who is moldering in the grave and, incidentally, is not your father?" Yet I am firmly convinced that he knew my father as well as I did. Why else would he have fought so hard against him? After all, he would not have had to do so if my father had really been dead. Also, my father often sat there when my friend was in the room with me, and he listened to him silently as was his wont. At times he sat quite near him, and my friend was undoubtedly talking not to me, but to my father. Yet always as if trying to prove to my father that my father was not there. Even if my friend did not really see my father — which is possible; for his movements towards him were those of a blind man — he must nonetheless have constantly sensed that my father could hear him.

My father and I had a tacit agreement not to speak about my friend. We treated him like a sleepwalker, at whom one should not shout if one does not wish to make him fall. And indeed, he lived in a very fragile glass envelope. Everything was always bright and clear and orderly. But no light shone on the outside, and that was why when anyone who lived inside bumped into the envelope, he believed there was no outside, and he was glad that he could survey the entire world. Every
thing is correct here they said delightedly, and there was no denying it. But if an alien shadow fell across their world, they quickly altered the numbers until it was all correct again. What an effort it cost them.

It was not until the very end that I discussed women with my friend. Actually, it began at dinner, and it could no longer be avoided after that. We should have started earlier; perhaps certain things might then have been avoided. In this respect, we were both dishonest. I do not know what prevented him from speaking about that topic and acting as if women did not matter. I, for my part, held my tongue, because I would have been embarrassed if he had categorized them under numbers and concepts or even as the object of a physical need. On the other hand, I was not so certain of my opinion as to risk arguing the point.

But not once, even at the end, did I ever mention my mother to him. He would have instantly replied: "That woman does not exist. She is merely the figment of a milksop's imagination!" And I must confess that I tried to believe him.

My mother never came to my room. I do not believe that she even stood outside the door, holding the knob in order then to turn around because I did not allow her to enter. I simply refused to admit it to myself. In this respect, I resembled my friend. I acted as if my mother did not exist.

And therefore, of course, no childhood existed for me. I heard others talk about their childhoods, and I wondered if something like that had not existed for me too. I tried to go back, but never got any further than that wooden arbor which I have spoken about; and by then, I was already a rather fully developed adolescent. My name was already lurking for me in the bushes. But — curious whether I could make as cheerful a fuss about it as others — if I tried to open the door beyond which I suspected the presence of childhood, it was as if people were sitting on the other side, having supper. A female voice whispered: "Quick, put everything away." Someone choked down the final morsel. An astonished male voice asked: "What is wrong?" And the female voice hissed back: "Someone is coming." And then, apparently speaking to me: "Ah, how nice of you to come. Unfortunately we have just finished supper. Perhaps there is a cup of tea left in the pot."

I found this unpleasant; that was why I refused to probe any further. After all, it was possible that they had neglected to give birth to me, and the people found it unpleasant being reminded of this omission. So far, I had gotten along quite well without a childhood, and should it prove necessary, I might be able to make up for it.

It was only that afternoon that everything changed. It was almost too late.

But first, I wish to report a conversation that I had recently had with my friend. I was reminded of it after dinner. Someone had just come up with an invention that people were afraid of. I have forgotten what it was; even back then, I did not take it as seriously as the others did. Like all inventions that people came up with, this one too was suitable for both preserving life and destroying it. One day, when my friend entered my room, he could speak of nothing else. My father too was present.

"You will see," my friend cried, "we will be able to wipe out everything with one stroke." As if he were proud of it. And he actually
was
proud of the power that he thought he held in his hands. Perhaps he had something to do with it, for he had such precise knowledge about it. His habitual coolness abandoned him, and he went so far as to say: "The earth will blaze up. The inhabitants of other worlds will say: Look, a new star!" And he beamed at me in triumph.