I'm Not Stiller (6 page)

No answer came to the telegram, so we had to take steps to save ourselves. Fire glowed through the smoke that clouded the moon. And then came the lava, slowly, but irresistibly, cooling and setting in the air, a black broth giving off swirling white steam; only during the night could you see the glow inside the stone broth that came nearer and nearer, as high as a house, nearer and nearer—thirty yards a day. Birds flitted about in bewilderment because they could not find their nests, and forests disappeared under the red hot lava, mile by mile. The village was evacuated. I don't believe a single human life was lost. Carrying their weeping children in their arms or on their backs, laden with bundles containing little of value, they drove their distracted beasts in front of them, the donkeys braying and becoming more stubborn the more despairingly they were beaten. The lava flowed casually between the houses, filling them and swallowing them up. Being one of those who had no animal to save, I stood on a hill and watched the lava advancing: it hissed like a snake, turning every drop of water it came upon into steam, and it had a skin like certain snakes, a metallic grey skin, crusty over a soft, hot, and mobile interior. Finally it reached the church; the first tower fell to its knees and was swallowed up with all its hurtling debris; the other stood fast and is still standing today, a tower with a little Spanish dome, the only thing left out of the whole village...

'The village was called Paricutin. Now that is the name of the new volcano,' I finished my story, 'and if you ever go to Mexico, my dear Doktor, drive out to this Paricutin. The roads are terrible, but it's worth while, especially at night; glowing stones fly fifteen hundred feet into the air, and there is a rumbling like the rumbling of an avalanche, and just before it begins smoke always billows up from the crater like a giant cauliflower, but black and red, red underneath where it catches the light from the flames below. Not so long ago the eruptions succeeded one another at pretty short intervals—six minutes, ten minutes, three minutes, each eruption throwing up a cascade of glowing stones, most of which were extinguished before they struck the ground. It's a first-class firework, believe me. Especially the lava. From the middle of a dark heap of dead slag, on which the moon shines without detracting from its blackness, the lava shoots out bright crimson, in spurts, like blood from a black bull. It must be very thin and runny, this lava, it sweeps down over the hillside almost as quick as lightning, gradually losing its brightness, until the next eruption comes glowing like a blast furnace, gleaming like the sun, lighting up the night with the deadly heat to which all life is due, with the molten heart of our planet. That's a sight you must see. I remember that our souls were filled with a jubilation that could only find an outlet in dancing, in the wildest of all dances, an outpouring of horror and delight, such as the incomprehensible people who cut the warm heart out of the living breast might have understood.'

My counsel made notes.

'Paricutin?' he asked. 'How do you spell that?'

'As it's pronounced.'

We chatted about this, that, and the other. The cigar was new to me, but very good of its kind. Once more we never got down to business (as he calls his heap of papers).

'Herr Doktor,' I shouted after him down the corridor, 'you needn't bother to inquire about my working on that plantation, Herr Doktor, you can save yourself the trouble. Even your Swiss Embassy won't be able to find anything.'

'Why not?'

'Because of the lava.'

He'll telegraph just the same.

***

I'm not their Stiller. What do they want with me? I'm an unfortunate, insignificant, unimportant person with no life behind him, none at all. Why am I lying to them? Just so that they should leave me my emptiness, my insignificance, my reality; it's no good running away, and what they are offering me is flight, not freedom, flight means acting a part. Why don't they stop it?

***

Herr Dr Bohnenblust (that's my counsel's name) has fetched the lady from Paris, who thinks she is my wife, from the airport and seems to be very charmed with her.

'I just wanted to let you know,' said my counsel, 'that the lady has landed safely. Of course she sends her love—'

'Thank you.'

'She's now at the hotel.'

My counsel was incapable of sitting down, he could only rub his hands triumphantly, as though the lady from Paris were the big gun that was going to force me to surrender.

'Herr Doktor,' I said, 'I have no objection to visits from ladies, I merely repeat the warning I gave you before: I'm a hot-blooded man, unrestrained, as I told you, especially at this time of the year.'

'So I told her.'

'Well?'

'The lady insists,' he said, 'on seeing you
tête à tête.
She'll be here on Monday at ten o'clock. She is convinced that she knows her husband better than he knows himself, and there's no question of his being unrestrained, she says, that was always a wish-dream of her husband, says the lady, and she's quite sure she can manage him on her own.'

Then he offered me another cigar.

'Monday at ten o'clock?' I said. 'All right.'

***

Knobel, my warder, is beginning to get annoyed with my questions about the lady from Paris who claims to be married to me.

'I told you,' he grumbled, 'she looks smart. And her scent fills the whole corridor.'

'What about her hair?'

'Red,' he said, 'like rose-hip jam.'

He is incapable of giving a real description, even when he answers my questions one by one; the more I hear the less I am able to visualize her.

'Now cat your dinner,' he said. 'You'll see her for yourself. Perhaps the lady isn't your type at all, although she swears she's your wife.'

'My type,' I laughed. 'Did I ever tell you the story about the little mulatto girl?'

'No.'

'She was my type,' I said.

'A mulatto girl?'

'It was on the Rio Grande,' I began in a tone of voice that made Knobel sit down. 'Suddenly—haven't you got any bread?' I interrupted myself, whereupon Knobel jumped to his feet and placed half a loaf on the table; I cut a thick slice and took a bite, while Knobel sat down again and waited till my mouth was a little less full. Then I went on. 'Suddenly—we were just crouching round our fire, for evenings in the desert are bitterly cold, naturally there was no wood anywhere around, we were burning cotton waste, which gives out more stench than heat, discussing with the smugglers how they could smuggle us over the frontier during the night, because there was another warrant out for my arrest—suddenly, he came round the red rocks.'

'Who?'

Of course you can't talk with a mouth full of bread, not to mention the
minestra
I had to get down while it was still hot.

'Who?' asked Knobel. 'Who came round the rocks?'

'A limousine,' I said at last and could not restrain myself from taking another bite of the magnificent bread, 'stolen of course. A splendid sight, by the way, like a banner of gold dust. Because of the last rays of the setting sun. A limousine streaking across the desert, pitching like a yawl, naturally, up and down over the waves of sand.' 'Naturally.'

'Of course he had seen our little fire.'

'What happened?'

'Bang!' I said. 'But the fellow drove straight on, and of course we thought it was the American police. So bang! bang! and again bang!—and who do you think was inside?'

'Who?'

'Joe.'

I took a spoonful of my
minestra.

'Who's Joe?'

'Her husband.'

'The mulatto's?'

'Of course.'

'Well I'm blowed!'

'A Negro,' I added, 'a thoroughly nice chap, but not when you'd abducted his wife. So in the dark, when you could see the dazzling whiteness of his teeth—cheers!' I said, breaking off to take a drink.

'Go on.'

'We were in love.'

'You and the mulatto?'

'I asked her: "Do you love me or him?" She knew exactly what I meant. And nodded. And bang. And not another sound from Joe.'

'Dead?' he asked.

'On the spot.'

'Well I'm blowed!'

'She kissed me,' I said. 'That's my type.'

Thereupon Knobel ladled me out another plateful
of minestra;
he's as attentive as a waiter serving wealthy customers.

'I like Negroes,' I said, 'but I can't stand married men, even if they're Negroes. They expect you to lay off their wives, and that doesn't suit me. Of course we drove straight across the frontier—'

'To Mexico?'

'Without lights. To the left, the Rio Grande. To the right, the full moon.'

'That was your third murder?'

'I believe so...'

It really wasn't right for Knobel to spend so long in my cell; the others always got cold food. My warder had already picked up the pail; I don't know what he was waiting for.

'Man is a beast of prey,' I said in a general sort of way. 'That's the truth, Knobel, and all the rest is humbug.'

But he still waited.

'When I think how I first met Florence,' I said, '—in the burning sawmill.'

'Who's Florence?'

'My mulatto.'

'1 see.'

'That was up north in Oregon,' I said. 'When I was fishing on the coast. I had no money for any other sort of food, and I hadn't yet sunk to stealing. I still thought I was an honest man, even when I didn't catch anything for days, not a thing; it's no easy matter fishing in the ocean, from the rocky shore, with the breakers splashing. It's a tricky business. You stand for hours on your reef, in the dry; the spray from the surf flies up and falls, but it never rises beyond a certain point, it never comes up over your reef; you feel as safe as a solid citizen, and suddenly a wave comes along that is higher than the rest, God knows why, fifteen feet higher; if you don't spot it in time, that wave, as it foams over the reef full of seals, then you're drowned, honest man or no, smashed against the rocks, a drifting corpse that is never identified...

'There was a cloudless moon as I stood there, deafened by the breakers, when suddenly I saw smoke billowing up over the shore behind me, so much smoke that it looked like an eclipse of the sun. That can only be the big sawmill, I thought at once, in this lonely neighbourhood. You must imagine what it was like: not a single house within a radius of twenty miles, nothing but rocks and sheep and a wire-rope with which they lowered the logs from the wild forest, and when I looked up at the hill the sky was full of flying sparks; I've never seen such a fire and you should have heard it crackle; and not a trace of a fire-engine, naturally, only the women standing round sobbing and biting their fingers, and praying to God to stop blowing with his wind; no water to put it out with and it was Sunday, so the men were off somewhere playing bowls, and here there was a flapping and slapping in the air like crimson banners—a glorious sight—flames flickered out of every window, there was nothing to be done; outside lay a whole ocean full of wind, and as it blew into the huge stack of dry timber the heat was so terrific it was unbearable at a hundred paces; and right in the middle stood a tank full of petrol.'

'Well I'm blowed!'

'I asked her if she was crazy. The tank might go up at any moment. But just the same she rushed into her hut—'

'Who?'

'Right in the middle of all the clouds of smoke,' I said. 'The mulatto girl.'

'Well I'm blowed.'

'And I—ran after her.'

'Naturally.'

'What do you mean, naturally?' I said. 'It was absolutely crazy, but I suddenly thought, perhaps she wants to save a child—I shall never forget how I stood there in the hut, a few roof shingles were already on fire, an old Negro was running up and down on the roof like a monkey trying to put out the burning shingles with a ridiculous garden hose, one at a time, for his jet of water wasn't enough for any more, it was a joke, and inside the smoke was so thick I thought I should suffocate. "Hallo," I yelled, "hallo." And there she stood, motionless and weeping, her hands on her hips, helpless, a young mulatto, a lovely creature, my dear Knobel, as beautiful as an animal, eighteen years old, a lovely creature—! Everything else was sheer rubbish, not worth saving, nothing but crockery and mattresses. I was so furious I just grabbed hold of her and shook her.'

'Why?' asked Knobel.

'She wanted me to save the refrigerator. "Like hell," I shouted. And outside the old Negro was still squirting with his thin garden hose so that drops fell on us. "What do you want then?" she asked. "You," I yelled. And when I took hold of her she laughed so that all her white teeth showed. "I've got a husband," she said. "Come on," I told her. "Have you a car?" she asked. There are plenty of cars about, I thought, and as she put her arms round me so that I could carry her better, the roof began to crack and set the sparks dancing. I carried her out like a casualty, dumped her in the first car I came on standing in the street, and off we went. It was a Plymouth. The owner, probably a commercial traveller, never noticed as I drove past him, everyone was staring at the petrol tank that was going to explode at any moment.'

'So you were off and away, Mr White.'

It's wonderful how delighted Knobel is by other people's successes; he positively beams.

'Four hours later,' I went on, 'we were sitting in a quiet bay which is already inside California, fishing, where not a soul could see us. "By the way, what's your name?" I asked her. "Florence," she said, and her eyes were like deadly nightshade berries, her skin like coffee. "Joe will kill you," she said, "if he catches us." I just laughed. "We've got a car," I said, and showed her how to open shellfish to get bait for fishing.'

In the end Knobel was called from outside and had to leave me. With his bunch of keys in his hand he asked me; 'Did you catch anything?'

'And how!' I said, showing him the size with outstretched arms. 'This big.'

***

My public prosecutor, at the moment the only person to whom I can disclose my real wretchedness almost undisguised, has said good-bye; he is going to Pontresina for ten days' holiday with his wife (who again sent her regards). We wish one another 'All the best'.