Lanceheim (13 page)

“This is a confession!” Rothman called out contemptuously, and one of the suit-clad stuffed animals took notes.

“Perhaps I can explain…,” I began, but no one heard me.

Both Chaffinch and Maximilian have forgiven me many times since then, but I still carry something of the stigma of a traitor after that afternoon; my attempts to stand behind my master were lame.

“During the sabbath,” continued Rothman, “this animal has violated the peace of the church, and—”

“I don't believe that Magnus is offended,” said Maximilian calmly.

Rothman lost his train of thought. This was the first time in many years that anyone had interrupted him. He tried to hold back his anger, but with little success. Without actually thinking about it, the all-deacons who had been standing next to Rothman up until then took a few steps to the side, as if they feared that the prodeacon might explode at any moment.

“You believe?” said Prodeacon Rothman at last. “You believe?”

Maximilian nodded. The calm, or more correctly stated, the assuredness that he radiated influenced all of us, and Rothman lost his composure.

“Your pitiful belief,” hissed the prodeacon contemptuously, “is like a seed that has not come out of the ground.”

“Excuse me, but I…,” said Adam Chaffinch unexpectedly, and everyone turned toward him, “I am certain that Maximilian's intention never could have been to…I have never met anyone whose goodness is so genuine, someone whose faith is…”

Adam lost the thread. Rothman's fiery gaze was now directed at him, and I could see that the stern, straight-backed Adam Chaffinch who stood beside Maximilian was only a splinter of the deacon I had come to know. Rothman was not only Chaffinch's superior, I found out later; he had also been Chaffinch's adviser through his entire theological education. What Rothman didn't know about Chaffinch's weaknesses wasn't worth knowing.

“Shall you talk about faith?” exclaimed Rothman contemptuously; he almost spit out the words. “
You?
”

I do not know what was worse, his tone of voice or Adam's facial expression.

“So your own faith is strong?” asked Maximilian.

Rothman twirled around and stared with a blazing look up toward the strange animal at the altar.

“My faith, young stuffed animal, can set a stone on fire.”

“And Adam's faith…wobbles?” asked Maximilian.

“I do as well as I can,” mumbled Chaffinch from his direction.

“Let me say this: Only when the bark boat sails do the cubs laugh happily,” said Maximilian and turned toward Adam Chaffinch.

No one, not even Rothman, dared to disturb the mute concentration that had formed between them. In a gentle voice Maximilian asked Adam, “The almighty Magnus, do you see him in me?”

The words were no more than a whisper, and Adam was staring at him.

“Do you see Magnus in my soul?” he repeated.

“I…I believe so,” said Adam.

“And you?” said Maximilian, turning toward Prodeacon Rothman. “Do you also see Magnus in me?”

“Magnus dwells in all of us. I see him even in you, my son,” replied Rothman with all the superior condescension of which he was capable.

“Adam,” continued Maximilian, turning back again, “do you see the image there, of Malitte? Do you see Magnus in Malitte?”

On the last pillar next to the altar the lord of evil Malitte was depicted. It was typical for the church that the pious stuffed animals' worst nightmare observed them sideways during the entire service. Malitte was painted right on the stone pillar, with his narrow black body full of knots and tassels, the long tail coiled around a stone, and one of his fangs bared in a malicious smile.

Adam did not reply. He was pale, and he shook his head slightly.

“And you?” asked Maximilian, turning again toward Prodeacon Rothman. “Can you see anything of Magnus in Malitte?”

“Obviously,” said Rothman. “Malitte is a part of Magnus, just as we all are a part of him.”

Then something happened that even today I hardly dare think about. The whole thing lasted no more than a few seconds, yet I know that we all saw it. The painted image of Malitte came to life. The bestial stuffed animal curled his
upper lip and showed more of his razor-sharp teeth, and in the distance laughter was heard.

Prodeacon Rothman winced. His beak was open, but he could not get out a word.

“Without doubt, faith is worth nothing,” said Maximilian.

The silence around the prodeacon was dense. He stared at Maximilian, and then looked again at the painting of Malitte. Suddenly what had happened was unbelievable.

“Get out!” hissed Rothman.

The silence remained undisturbed.

“Get out!” screamed the prodeacon, turning to the official animals and the all-deacons. “Throw out the sorcerer, throw out the heretic! Never again may this animal set his paw in any of the churches in Mollisan Town!”

It continued as if time stood still; no one moved.

“Now!” screamed Rothman. “Now! Now!”

And finally they came to life, all of Rothman's entourage. But Maximilian had already started walking toward the exit, and it was then that the first drops fell. Reality, as we knew it, was already out of commission; we had not managed to recover from the previous shock. At the same moment as the church door shut behind Maximilian, the rain began to quietly fall over us.

We felt it all together, and we reacted similarly. We twisted our necks and looked upward.

It was the angels in the ceiling who were weeping.

H
e listened from outside the control room, trying to concentrate on the cello, because the cello was the key to the piece. To start with it was concealed behind the violins, then changing into an open struggle with the viola for attention. Its dominance in the last half of the work was thus heralded from the very first measure, and here the interpreters of Walrus's String Quartet in E Minor often made a mistake. More often than not they emphasized the struggle between the introductory viola and the concluding cello.

The idea with this series of recordings had been to let Reuben himself interpret and produce some of his most classic works. Not, perhaps, to correct so much as to comment on the sort of thing he, startled and paralyzed, had seen happen to his intentions over the years.

He knew the musicians well; he had chosen them from among many applicants, and the feeling of being chosen elevated their abilities this morning. Reuben listened and tried to be constructive. But just as during the rehearsals with the philharmonic string section yesterday afternoon, he realized that the illness was reducing his capability.

“It sounds fantastic, Daddy,” said Josephine.

“Do you think so?” said Reuben without feeling, concentrating on the cello.

Like that, he thought. Not too carefully. He mustn't be too careful, not even in the beginning.

“Fantastic,” repeated Josephine.

“Honey, be quiet now, please?” asked Walrus.

Walrus had not been able to sleep that morning. He had woken up long before dawn, felt the anxiety sitting like a damp blanket between his body and the sheets, and been forced to get up. He splashed water on his face and then sat in the drying cabinet a while. The sound of the fan drowned out the buzzing in his ears, which meant that he could fantasize that everything was as usual. But self-deception could not be maintained for any length of time. He got out, dressed, and left the house. The sun was on its way up over the horizon, and slowly he walked through a Lanceheim that was still resting in the approaching morning. The families that occupied the heavy, well-renovated buildings in his neighborhood would soon awaken; the apartments would be filled with stress and shouting, bathrooms occupied by teenagers and kitchen tables stained by the younger ones. Fathers and mothers would dress for the day's work and at the same time fill schoolbags with books and schoolchildren with admonitions.

He himself had been a lousy father. He regretted this, without doing anything about it. Josephine's birthday had been a few months ago, and he had not even made it by with a present. That was unusually lousy. And as always, when he thought about his daughter, he was seized by feelings of guilt that cut into his heart. The helpless cub who twenty-one years ago was delivered to pepper red Mooshütter Weg had not chosen her family. On the contrary, it was Reuben who had applied for a cub, only to initiate a long series of betrayals and shortcomings.

But it's not too late, thought Reuben Walrus, hurrying home through the deserted streets to call and wake his daughter and ask if she would like to go along to the recording studio that same morning. As soon as she, drowsy but happy, asked on the phone if she could bring her tuba and play for him, he regretted it. Her audition to get into the Music Academy was on Monday, and she needed all the advice she could get. He said yes, of course, and now they were here.

She was a sweet lamb with woolly ears and a pink cloth nose, but to be completely honest, he did not know her.

“She wants your acknowledgment,” Fox had explained to the languid Walrus. “She wants to be seen and loved by you, and she thinks that the best way is by playing.”

“But have I ever—”

“It is rather logical, isn't it?”

“Well, yes, but I—”

“You were perhaps going to say that you don't see anyone other than yourself, and that it's yourself you love the most?” asked Fox sarcastically. “Oldster, that is something I and all your friends have understood and accepted. But for Josephine's sake, you must exert yourself a little more.”

He did that. It did not work.

“Your string quartets are what I like the very best,” said Josephine from her corner in the studio control room, and Reuben sighed again.

The cello, he reminded himself. The touch of the bow. Quiet, not hesitant. The tone bides its time, it doesn't hesitate, it waits.

But Reuben Walrus was not feeling well, and to reveal this type of subtlety demanded acuity of which he was not capable. The recording studio was a claustrophobic place, cramped with a low ceiling and no windows. All the technology, the mixing board and cables and speakers and computers, smelled of plastic and oil. As usual the oxygen
was about to run out after a few hours of work, and in the control room the thoughtful Sripen Dragon, the recording technician, turned down the lights. Still the headache crept in. Anxiety did not leave his body. Reuben was sweating, and restlessness made the slow middle section of the piece unendurably boring. Judging by how it sounded, the composer of this piece must have felt immortal when he wrote it, with oceans of time to swim around in. How naive could an artist be? Reuben asked himself, sitting heavily in the chair beside Sripen Dragon. He had worked with Sripen off and on for over thirty years, and he was ashamed. Never had he shown her this decrepit side before; never before had he felt so dejected. He leaned back in the rocking chair. Josephine sat on the leather couch that was on the short wall.

“Daddy, can we take a little break soon?” she asked. “I've been practicing what you asked me to, and I'd like to show you.”

He did not remember what he had asked her to practice, and he realized that the risk of repeating himself was thereby imminent.

“Honey, can't we…,” he began, but reconsidered.

Why not exploit the opportunity for a break? He whispered to Sripen to take fifteen minutes, and then disappeared out into the corridor with Josephine. There were several empty studios on the same level, and they went into the nearest one.

While Josephine took out her instrument and got ready, Reuben thought about his unfinished symphony and the final stanzas that remained, just as unapproachable as they had ever been. On one level it was easy to emotionally imagine what ought to follow the introduction, but he could not possibly transform that feeling into notes and arrangements. He sat at home at his grand piano and plunked—that was the word, plunked—all through the night. But…nothing.

“Now, Daddy,” said Josephine.

When she started playing, he strived to connect with her. He listened carefully to her youthful eagerness, her unfeeling clomping in the corridors of musicality, her practiced phrasing, and he tried for the life of him to think of something to say. He could not be too hard, but he wanted to be fair, he had to remain loving but still professional. And exactly like everything else that had to do with fatherhood, the moment became a task, and he himself was transformed from a stuffed animal of cloth and blood to a cliché.

Josephine stopped playing, lowered the instrument, and looked at him with ingenuous eyes. It was a look he defended himself against, because it hurt to encounter it. There was only hope and love, no dissimulation and no reservation.

“Yes, dear,” he began, “that was not bad at all.”

“You didn't think it was bad?” she repeated.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you like it? I've been practicing especially on the change to minor. Was it better now? I was thinking that I could play it on Monday. What do you think?”

“It's going to go fine,” he said. “It's clear that it will go fine. And the change to minor…just take that as carefully as you possibly can.”

“I'll do that, Daddy,” she said, and she was radiant. “So you think I can manage it?”

What could he answer? He was her father; there was only one answer to give.

“I'm sure it will all work out.”

“Oh, Daddy,” she said, spontaneously giving him a big hug.

He felt lousy.

 

Back in the studio
with the string quartet, Reuben Walrus was drained of energy. Josephine had left, but she left behind the love he could never accept, and he needed energy
to repress this miserable performance. The frustration over the unfinished symphony was festering as he listened, yet another time, to the cello.

Then he realized that the moment had passed, that the string quartet inside the studio on the other side of the glass window was in the midst of one of the final passages. He rose, surprised, from the chair, saw that Sripen gave a start and the violist on the other side stopped playing.

“Was there…something wrong?” asked Sripen.

The three other musicians had also set down their instruments, and looked at him uneasily.

“I…was thinking about something…,” he stammered, “there…was nothing wrong. Not wrong at all.”

He continued to shake his head; he had a hard time collecting his thoughts, and realized with astonishment that all the expectations being directed at him at this moment did not concern him in the least.

“I…have to leave to go to a…,” he said. “I have a meeting that…but I suggest that you play through the piece from beginning to end one more time, and if Sripen could record…then I'll listen to it this evening.”

He held out his fins, realizing how he had disappointed them. Without waiting to reconsider, he was already on his way to the door.

“Sripen…I'll call,” he mumbled over his shoulder.

He was out in the corridor before the dragon had time to answer, and he walked as quickly as he could without running.