Extinction (52 page)

There were several people I ought to shake hands with, I thought, but I shook hands with nobody. Why should I shake hands with these people, I thought, why should I play the hypocrite? I had no intention of doing so. I had a cup of coffee and a slice of bread, then went out into the hall. My sisters were standing with the mayor, who had just arrived to offer his condolences, as I could see. He went through the familiar routine, and my sisters behaved in the manner expected of them. Quite unlike me. True to my nature, I did not behave as I was expected to behave. My sisters stood in the entrance hall, receiving condolences from all sorts of important people, dignitaries of various kinds. I stood aloof in the dark corner by the door of the chapel, where I would not be recognized. Nobody will recognize me if I stand here, I thought, and nobody did. Otherwise they would all have made a beeline for me, I thought, and not for my sisters—they would quite properly have made a beeline for the son, not for the daughters. As it was, they all made for the daughters and left me in peace. Time and again they inquired after me, but my sisters, fearing that I would
take them to task after the funeral
, did not reply, although—
or because
—they knew I was standing by the chapel door. At first I counted the guests, but I soon gave up because there were too many. In the end they came swarming in, and from my secret vantage point I was able to observe them all at my leisure. The crowd suddenly parted as the bishop of Innsbruck arrived. I must go and greet him, I thought—I have no choice. I went over and greeted the bishop. Behind him stood the archbishop of Salzburg. It fell to me to keep the bishops company and escort them to the second floor. Spadolini is so smart that he won’t make his appearance until the last moment, I thought. And so it was. I spent at least half an hour talking to the bishops before Spadolini entered, escorted by Caecilia. The bishops greeted him as if he were much superior to them in rank: they did not stand up to greet him, they
jumped
up.
A sad occasion
, said the bishop of Innsbruck, to which Spadolini replied,
A terrible tragedy
. Then they all sat down. They talked among themselves, and there was no need for me to join in their conversation. They talked about Rome, and the Austrian bishops were impressed by everything Spadolini told them, all of which was new to them; he knew exactly what to say in order to astonish them. Meanwhile the abbot of Kremsmünster appeared. He did not stand on ceremony but silently went and sat with the bishops. He was a fat man with the air of a
prosperous innkeeper. For half an hour Spadolini talked about Rome and the Vatican—about everything and nothing, as it were. Then Caecilia asked the bishops to go downstairs. In the hall the bishops, foremost among them the elegant Spadolini, waited for Caecilia to signal that it was time to go across to the Orangery for the start of the funeral proper. Aside from the bishops there was no longer anyone in the hall. The crowd had moved to the Orangery and spread out far beyond the gateway, probably all the way down to the village, I thought, so that one could no longer speak of a cortege, since the row of mourners probably extended as far as the cemetery already. It was laid down that the funeral service should take place in the village church, not in the chapel. The bishops, having talked about Rome, then about Wolfsegg, finally turned to me, whereupon Spadolini told them that he was one of my best friends,
my very first friend in Rome
, as he put it. He had been a great friend of the family for many years, he said. He had often stayed at Wolfsegg and always loved the place—such a
splendid landscape
, such a
splendid house
, such a
splendid lifestyle
, he said. The bishops could not take their eyes off him. His clothes were probably the most elegant they had ever seen. My role was to pretend to be in shock. This seemed to me the most advantageous, as I hardly needed to say anything but simply had to make sure that I lowered my head whenever I was being observed. This does not mean that the whole thing left me cold, but I felt no more than I had felt at other funerals; I was not shattered by the fact that it was my family that was being
borne to the grave
, for the spectacle was too grandiose to admit of such feelings. The real shock will come later, I told myself, when it’s all over. The initial shock’s over, but the real shock’s still to come, I thought as I stood in the hall with the bishops. They admired my composure, but it was not, as they thought, the composure of one who had come to terms with a great tragedy. I chose to appear composed—it was part of my act. I felt that I had so far performed my role to perfection, repugnant though I found it. An actor knows when he’s giving a good performance—he doesn’t need to be told, I thought. More than once Spadolini had the effrontery to draw the bishops’ attention to my
admirable composure
—Spadolini of all people, who must have seen through me, yet repeatedly remarked to them, in a manner that I found somewhat distasteful, how admirably I was conducting myself, in view
of the fact that my parents and my brother were being buried. I was simply conducting myself in accordance with my role. Caecilia now asked the bishops to go across to the Orangery. The coffins had been sealed and each had been loaded onto a separate hearse, drawn by two horses. The hearses, devoid of any floral decoration, were of the austere simplicity laid down in the funeral plan. They moved off slowly, followed by the bishops, then by my sisters and me. Behind us were the other relatives, led of course by Alexander. After these, just as I had feared, came the former Gauleiters and other National Socialist grandees, who filled me with the greatest revulsion and, I must say, the greatest fear, sporting their National Socialist decorations on their breasts. Formed up behind them was the League of Comrades, a veterans’ association of a decidedly National Socialist complexion, followed by various other groups. A procession of many hundreds gradually formed but could hardly get into motion, as its length equaled the distance it had to cover. It was only Caecilia’s organizing skill that made it possible for the procession to take shape at all: she had arranged for the crowd to assemble behind the Farm and in front of the Children’s Villa. Naturally the hearses could only make their way slowly down to the village, not leading the cortege but passing it, as no other procedure was practicable. Those lining the route drew back as far as possible on each side of the gravel road leading to the village, in order to make way for the hearses and ourselves. Caecilia’s plan worked—it was a total success. The cortege had taken shape and was on the move. She walked beside me, highly agitated and trembling all over, because she was now walking in the cortege and no longer in charge. She need not have worried: everything went according to plan, despite the hundreds of mourners. An ordinary country funeral is attended by at least a hundred people, but I estimate that the numbers attending ours probably ran into thousands, though I do not know for sure. As arranged, the archbishop of Salzburg celebrated the requiem mass. Watching him read the mass, with the coffins on trestles in front of the altar, I recalled that I had abandoned the Church, as they say, thirty years earlier. I could therefore allow myself to take a detached view of this church ceremony. My family never forgave me for leaving the Church, and this may have been their main reason for condemning me, I thought. The fact that I had left the Church so early
and no longer had any links with it made me feel pleasantly detached throughout the mass. You’re a witness of this splendid spectacle, but it doesn’t concern you, I reflected more than once. You smell the incense, but it doesn’t dull your senses. You hear the words, but they have no destructive effect on you. For decades, throughout your childhood and early youth, you feared the Catholic clergy, but now you don’t. You no longer need to fear them. The spectacle is magnificent, I thought, and even if its magnificence grates on your nerves, it isn’t in the least menacing. In any case you’ve already taken leave of your parents and your brother. You took leave of them, briefly but definitively, when you got the telegram. The funeral is only a drama that’s been forced on you, the title of which—
Paying the Last Respects
—repels you with its mendacity. Every drama is mendacious, I thought, but this is more mendacious than any other. A funeral like this is the most superb drama imaginable, I thought. No dramatist, not even Shakespeare, ever wrote one to match it. Compared with this, the whole of secular drama is a joke, I thought as the archbishop of Salzburg read the requiem mass before this great concourse of people. What a good thing, I thought, that I withdrew from the Catholic Church so early! I was sitting in the front pew, with Caecilia on my left and Amalia on my right, exactly as laid down in the plan. Next to Amalia was Alexander. Spadolini, the abbot of Kremsmünster, and the bishop of Innsbruck sat in an elevated position beside the altar, set apart from the common people. Spadolini’s the chief actor in this whole performance, I thought, not the celebrant, the archbishop of Salzburg. Toward the end of the service the archbishop delivered a short address, in which he spoke of the
dear departed friend who had died so tragically
, of the
devoted mother
and the equally
devoted son
. Archbishops have a style of delivery all their own, I thought: they chant everything. The priests’ seminary is actually the ecclesiastical equivalent of a drama school, I thought. Even the simple souls among them, like the archbishop of Salzburg and the bishop of Innsbruck, don’t just speak, they chant, as if they were trained actors. True, they perform like popular and respected provincial actors, unlike Spadolini, who reveals himself in his every word and his every gesture as a theatrical genius, far excelling all these provincial actors and embodying the ultimate in Catholic histrionics. Spadolini has immersed himself in his silent role, I thought. Sitting
with his head bowed, in a row reserved solely for him, he’s aware of his theatrical genius, I thought, his archiepiscopal genius. The fact that he had come from Rome lent his presence an additional aura, a tremendous aura, in our village church. The congregation was amazed by the sight of an archbishop from Rome, much more than by that of the celebrant, the archbishop of Salzburg, who was bound to appear by comparison more simpleminded, more primitive, than he really was. After the mass the village choir, accompanied by the village band, performed the Haydn piece rehearsed the previous day, very quietly and, it seemed to me, flawlessly. During the requiem Spadolini gave the impression of having withdrawn completely into himself. Not once did he permit himself to look up. His hands folded, he was completely immersed in his mourning, as it were, and when Mother was mentioned I had the impression that this mourning was not even simulated, but real. Yet this was a fleeting impression; a moment later he seemed once more to be playing his part to perfection. Seeing him in this attitude, I actually loved him. What I loved in him was Spadolini the great actor, for I know none greater, none with greater audience appeal, as they say. The many journeys he made with Mother and those that the three of us made together suddenly came back to me. Spadolini, who made these journeys such a delight and cast his spell over them all, as they say. Suddenly I saw Spadolini the charmer, the man of the world with whom my mother fell hopelessly in love. Sitting there, I had eyes only for him, not for the archbishop of Salzburg. I pictured him in Rome, visiting the finest shops and the most expensive restaurants, and his bearing on entering these shops and visiting these restaurants. I saw him on the Pincio and in the Borghese Gardens. I saw him at diplomatic receptions and private views, always scintillating, as they say, surrounded by a throng of admirers, the elegant man of the world who could call himself both archbishop and nuncio and boast many hundreds of friends. Spadolini, who not only had all these journeys paid for by my mother, not to mention two trips to America, a vacation in Cairo that he had set his heart on, a trip to Persepolis, and a visit to Tunisia—because he specially wanted to see Carthage—but for whom she bought the greater part of his wardrobe and furnished a whole library. Spadolini, who can pick up a book or drink a glass of wine with matchless elegance, who is mobbed by the ladies of
high society no less than by the Communist officials of Rome, and who is cordially received every few weeks by the city’s Communist mayor. Spadolini, who corresponds with people from all walks of life, who knows the Vatican inside out, just as he knows the city of Rome, where he is revered, indeed loved, by everyone. I watched him from the side as one watches a great actor and concentrated on his every movement. His performance is a work of art, I thought—he displays no weakness and does not permit himself the slightest inadvertency. In the theater it’s the silent, not the wordy, roles that are the most demanding, I thought, and Spadolini has undoubtedly taken on the most demanding role in the present drama. What’s more, he’s chosen the ideal costume. It’s impossible to see Spadolini without instantly feeling respect for him, I thought, though not necessarily affection. All who see him fall under his spell, I thought. Gambetti once said that of all the actors he knew, Spadolini was the most extraordinary and the most enthralling. It was a pity, he thought, that he performed only in the Church and not in one of our foremost theaters. No producer could teach this man anything, said Gambetti—he already knows everything, can do everything, is everything. I was reminded of Gambetti’s remark as I observed Spadolini from the side. I felt no embarrassment, I have to say, and paid no heed to my immediate surroundings. I automatically stood up with the rest of the congregation when the ritual required it, and sat down again when they sat down, but all the time I did nothing but marvel at Spadolini’s artistry. I seemed to have fallen under its spell once again, as so often before. It’s as though the greatest actor of the age had come to some unknown and quite insignificant small town to give an arch-Catholic performance of
Hamlet
, I thought. When the mass was over, the coffins were carried out of the church, first my father’s, then my mother’s, and lastly my brother’s. My knees suddenly trembled as the gardeners bore Johannes’s coffin past me. They shouldered it with great skill, I thought, as if they were accustomed to shouldering a coffin every day. The huntsmen carried my parents’ coffins out of the church, but at my express wish Johannes was carried by the gardeners. Caecilia did not weep. I had the chance to look into Amalia’s eyes, and our brother-in-law the wine cork manufacturer, in his clumsy way, put on a brave face and made the best of a bad job. He was the one figure who was really out of place—this was more obvious than ever. All eyes were fixed on either me or Spadolini.