Slow Homecoming (22 page)
On the hilltop the village children are about the only passersby. With their varied costumes, they are the bright color in the forest. The forest is their big playground, and they are bursting with information about it. Question: “Do you know the forest well?” Answer: “Sure do!” Even if you don't hear a thing and there's no one in sight, the hill is certain to be full of them. At the first peal of thunder, figures can be seen running homeward between the trees.
The pale-gray crest road running straight westward looks something like a military highway. Bare saplings
screech as they rub together in the wind, or send out muffled messages in Morse code. The resinous spots on the bark of the trees mark bullet holes. Lightning has struck off the main branch of a solitary beech, and the bare trunk shows three bright patches of color: white where the limb broke off, the blue-gray of the southern lee side, the rust-yellow of the windward side (black in the rain). The white flowers in the grass turn out to be animal teeth. And maybe a dog will come running out of the thicket, his tongue flapping from side to side like a whiplash, and silently sniff at the hollows of your knees from behind. The sharp-edged nagelfluh niches along the road repeat the pattern of the ancient cliff tombs. But they are empty. Light-brown beech leaves have blown in. With their ovals and parallel lines, they radiate eternal peace.
screech as they rub together in the wind, or send out muffled messages in Morse code. The resinous spots on the bark of the trees mark bullet holes. Lightning has struck off the main branch of a solitary beech, and the bare trunk shows three bright patches of color: white where the limb broke off, the blue-gray of the southern lee side, the rust-yellow of the windward side (black in the rain). The white flowers in the grass turn out to be animal teeth. And maybe a dog will come running out of the thicket, his tongue flapping from side to side like a whiplash, and silently sniff at the hollows of your knees from behind. The sharp-edged nagelfluh niches along the road repeat the pattern of the ancient cliff tombs. But they are empty. Light-brown beech leaves have blown in. With their ovals and parallel lines, they radiate eternal peace.
Then comes the slope, where the only perpetual spring in the forest has its source (today a trickle, tomorrow a torrent). Farther down, it has formed a little valley, with the three classical terraced steps. Now, at the eastern foot of the hill, the long-awaited cave, sealed by an iron door. Dripping is heard from within, mingled with vibrant sounds, as of someone beating a drumskin lightly. Again the children provide information: they've been in there “lots of times”; no bats; mushrooms are grown in there.
Here, on the level stretch just before the village (already its houses can be seen through the trees), lies the pond the wanderer has been looking forward to. The spring runs into it, and the road widens. Until early spring, the pond is sheeted in whitish-gray ice. My progress is deliberately slow. The remains of a corduroy road under my feet are another vague memory. One is struck by the contrast between the numerous elder bushes and
the towering spruces. Early in the year, the branches put forth shadowy-green leaves, often bluish at the tips. It is only here in the vicinity of the village that birds gather. Their complicated calls turn the forest into a railroad station. Some sound like call signs: a long-drawn-out whistle like the swishing of a cowboy's lasso. The songs change with the seasons, and one is reminded of the slowly revolving sky in a planetarium. At dusk in the bright, intricately twining elder thicket a glow appears, as though rising from the ground. The last children pass, many of them barefoot. The pattern of a spruce bough suggests a palm frond.
the towering spruces. Early in the year, the branches put forth shadowy-green leaves, often bluish at the tips. It is only here in the vicinity of the village that birds gather. Their complicated calls turn the forest into a railroad station. Some sound like call signs: a long-drawn-out whistle like the swishing of a cowboy's lasso. The songs change with the seasons, and one is reminded of the slowly revolving sky in a planetarium. At dusk in the bright, intricately twining elder thicket a glow appears, as though rising from the ground. The last children pass, many of them barefoot. The pattern of a spruce bough suggests a palm frond.
In the round pond, now free of ice, the water circles almost imperceptibly. It teems with fish. Pieces of something that looks like volcanic tufa, but is actually polystyrene, are floating on the surface. At the edge of the pond, a raft hammered together from doors is rocked by a sudden wind squall as on an ocean wave. An evening shower taps lightly, kindly, on the wanderer's forehead.
On the threshold between forest and village, the cobbles of the Roman road reappear. Here there's another woodpile, covered with a plastic tarp. The rectangular pile with the sawed circles is the only brightness against a darkening background. You stand there and look at it until nothing remains but colors: the forms come later. They are gun barrels pointed at the beholder, but each of them individually is aimed at something else. Exhale. Looked at in a certain wayâextreme immersion and extreme attentionâthe interstices in the wood darken, and something starts spinning in the pile. At first it looks like a scarred piece of malachite. Then the numbers of color charts appear. Then night falls on it and then it is day again. After a while the quivering of unicellular organisms; an unknown solar system; a stone wall in
Babylon. World-spanning flight, a concentration of vapor trails, and finally, a unique blaze of colors, taking in the entire woodpile, reveals the footprint of the first man.
Babylon. World-spanning flight, a concentration of vapor trails, and finally, a unique blaze of colors, taking in the entire woodpile, reveals the footprint of the first man.
Then inhale. And away from the forest. Back to the people of the present; back to bridges and squares; back to streets and boulevards; back to stadiums and newscasts; back to bells and department stores; back to drapery and glittering gold. And the pair of eyes at home?
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ften, in adolescence, he thought of living with a child later on. He looked forward to an unspoken sense of community, to quickly exchanged glances, to sitting down with the child, to irregularly parted hair, to being close together and far apart in happy unity. The light of this recurrent image was the darkening just before the onset of rain in a courtyard strewn with coarse sand, bordered with grass, outside a house that was never clearly seen but only sensed behind his back, under a dense cover of wide-spreading, sporadically murmuring trees. The thought of a child was taken as much for granted as his two other great expectationsâthe woman who, he felt sure, was destined for him and had long been moving toward him over secret pathways, and the professional life, which alone, he held, could offer him the freedom worthy of a human being. But these three yearnings had never once appeared to him together, joined in a single image.
ften, in adolescence, he thought of living with a child later on. He looked forward to an unspoken sense of community, to quickly exchanged glances, to sitting down with the child, to irregularly parted hair, to being close together and far apart in happy unity. The light of this recurrent image was the darkening just before the onset of rain in a courtyard strewn with coarse sand, bordered with grass, outside a house that was never clearly seen but only sensed behind his back, under a dense cover of wide-spreading, sporadically murmuring trees. The thought of a child was taken as much for granted as his two other great expectationsâthe woman who, he felt sure, was destined for him and had long been moving toward him over secret pathways, and the professional life, which alone, he held, could offer him the freedom worthy of a human being. But these three yearnings had never once appeared to him together, joined in a single image.
On the day when the longed-for child was born, the adult stood in a football field not far from the hospital. It was a bright Sunday morning in spring; in the course of the game the puddles in the grassless space between the goalposts had been churned into mud, which sent
up swirls of vapor. At the hospital he learned that he was too late; the child had already been born. (He had probably been none too eager to witness the obstetric proceedings.) His wife was rolled past him down the corridor; her lips were white and dry. The preceding night she had waited alone in the little-used labor room, on a very high rolling bed; when he brought something she had forgotten at home, there was a moment of profound gentleness between them, the man standing in the doorway with a plastic bag and the woman stretched out on the high metal bed in the middle of the bare room. It's a fairly large room. They are at an unaccustomed distance from each other. On the way from door to bed, the bare linoleum floor gleams in the whitish, humming fluorescent light. In the flickering glow as he switched it on, the woman's face had turned to him without surprise or fear. Behind himâit was long after midnightâthe spacious, half-darkened corridors and stairways of the building were bathed in an aura of unique, inalienable peace, which carried over to the deserted city streets outside.
up swirls of vapor. At the hospital he learned that he was too late; the child had already been born. (He had probably been none too eager to witness the obstetric proceedings.) His wife was rolled past him down the corridor; her lips were white and dry. The preceding night she had waited alone in the little-used labor room, on a very high rolling bed; when he brought something she had forgotten at home, there was a moment of profound gentleness between them, the man standing in the doorway with a plastic bag and the woman stretched out on the high metal bed in the middle of the bare room. It's a fairly large room. They are at an unaccustomed distance from each other. On the way from door to bed, the bare linoleum floor gleams in the whitish, humming fluorescent light. In the flickering glow as he switched it on, the woman's face had turned to him without surprise or fear. Behind himâit was long after midnightâthe spacious, half-darkened corridors and stairways of the building were bathed in an aura of unique, inalienable peace, which carried over to the deserted city streets outside.
When the child was shown to the adult through the glass partition, what he saw was not a newborn babe but a complete human being. (The usual baby face made its appearance only in the photo taken later on.)
He was glad when it turned out to be a girl; butâas he later realizedâhis joy would have been the same either way. The creature held out to him behind the glass was not a “daughter,” let alone “progeny,” but a child. The man's thought was: It's happy. It's glad to be in the world. The mere fact of being a baby, without particular characteristics, was a source of good cheerâinnocence was a form of the spirit!âwhich passed by stealth to the adult outside: those two, once and for all, have become a pair of conspirators. The sun shines into the room, they are
on a hilltop. What the man felt at the sight of the child was something more than responsibility; it was also the urge to defend it, the primitive feeling of standing on two legs and of having suddenly grown strong.
on a hilltop. What the man felt at the sight of the child was something more than responsibility; it was also the urge to defend it, the primitive feeling of standing on two legs and of having suddenly grown strong.
At home in the empty apartment, where everything had been made ready for the newborn babe's arrival, the adult took a bath, more copious than ever before, as though he had just gone through the hardship of his life. And true enough, he had just finished a piece of work in which he thought he had attained to the self-evident, casual, yet reliable law he had been aiming at. The newborn babe; the satisfactory completed work; the fabulous midnight moment of oneness with his wife; for the first time in his life, the man reclining in the steaming hot water considered himself and saw a kind of perfection, small, unimpressive perhaps, but just right for him. He felt an urge to go out. The streets, for once, were those of a hospitable metropolis; to walk them alone that night was a feast. But on one condition: that no one should know exactly who I am.
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That was the last oneness for a long time. When the child came into the house, it seemed to him, the adult, that he was falling back into a cramped childhood, when he had done little else but keep an eye on his younger brothers and sisters. In past years, movie houses, open streets, and the footlooseness that went with them had passed into his flesh and blood; these alone, he felt, left room for the daydreams that made life look like something adventurous and worth mentioning. But in all those footloose years, the handwriting on the wall said to him time and again, “You must change your way of life.” Now, inevitably, his life underwent a radical change. He who had been prepared at the most for a few minor
adjustments found himself a prisoner in the house, and all he could think, while pushing the crying baby around the apartment for hours, was, unimaginatively, that his life was over for a long time to come.
adjustments found himself a prisoner in the house, and all he could think, while pushing the crying baby around the apartment for hours, was, unimaginatively, that his life was over for a long time to come.
In the preceding years he had often been at odds with his wife. He respected the enthusiasm and conscientiousness she devoted to her craftâit was more magic than work, an outsider could detect no sign of exertion. And on the whole he considered himself responsible for her; yet often, in his secret heart, he was convinced that they were not right for each other, that their life together was a lie and, measured by the dream he had had of himself and a woman, utterly trivial. There were times when he cursed this marriage as the mistake of his life. But it was with the coming of the child that this episodic disunity became a definitive breach. Just as they had never been really man and wife, they were never, from the very start, real parents. He took it for granted that you went in to the child when it was restless at night; in her opinion this was wrong, and that in itself could provoke her to sullen, almost hostile silences. She went by the specialists' books and precepts, all of which, however grounded in experience, he despised. They infuriated him as presumptuous violations of the secret between him and the child. Hadn't the child, in its first appearanceâthe little face behind the glass partition, scratched by its own fingernails and yet so peacefulâbeen so world-shatteringly real that anyone who had even glimpsed it would surely know what was to be done? Just this was the woman's recurrent complaint: in the hospital she had been cheated out of that guiding vision. Through the fault of others, she had missed the moment of birth, something had been forever lost to her. The child, she said, was unreal to her; that was why she was afraid of doing something
wrong, why she observed other people's rules. This the man failed to understand: hadn't the child been put into her arms practically the moment it was born? And besides, he couldn't help seeing that she handled it not only more skillfully than he but more patiently as well. Didn't she concentrate on what she was doing and follow through, whereas he, no sooner had he achieved the brief moment of bliss in which it seemed that with a stroke of the hand, thanks to the one crucial pulsebeat that was still needed, he had imparted the soothing, life-giving magic of his own self to a sleepless or sick little being, than as often as not he ran out of energy and the best he could do, bored and positively yearning to escape into the open, was to sit out his stint with the baby.
wrong, why she observed other people's rules. This the man failed to understand: hadn't the child been put into her arms practically the moment it was born? And besides, he couldn't help seeing that she handled it not only more skillfully than he but more patiently as well. Didn't she concentrate on what she was doing and follow through, whereas he, no sooner had he achieved the brief moment of bliss in which it seemed that with a stroke of the hand, thanks to the one crucial pulsebeat that was still needed, he had imparted the soothing, life-giving magic of his own self to a sleepless or sick little being, than as often as not he ran out of energy and the best he could do, bored and positively yearning to escape into the open, was to sit out his stint with the baby.
To make matters worse, the hostility of the outside world seems inevitable in such situations. No sooner was the child brought home, for instance, than ground was cleared for a high-rise building directly across the street; the days and nights resounded with jackhammers, and most of the adult's time was spent in writing letters to the builders, who reacted with expressions of surprise, alleging that “this is the first time,” etc. etc.
Still, it takes an effort to recall such moments of unpleasantness or even depression. What preserved its reality and importance was in every case an image to which the memory, with no attempt to transfigure it but with the certainty that “This is my life,” returned in grateful triumph; and even in connection with that period which, to judge by the dates, was one of apathy more than anything else, these flashes of memory revealed a vital energy, which nevertheless endured and gave promise for the future. The woman soon went back to her work, and the man took the child for long walks around the city. Avoiding his accustomed busy boulevard, he went the
other way, exploring those old, uniformly dark districts where, more than in any other part of the city he had known, the pavement takes on the coloration of the earth below it and the sky above. Thus, as the adult maneuvered the baby carriage from roadway to sidewalk and back, the city became the child's native place. Leaf shadows, rain puddles, and snow-fraught air stand for the seasons, which were never before so distinct. The all-night pharmacy, where, after a race through driving snow in a spacious, festive light, the needed medicine is procured, becomes a new sort of landmark. On another winter evening, the television is switched on in the apartment; there sits the man with the child, who after crawling all over him finally falls asleep on top of him; with that warming little burden on his stomach, the TV becomes for once a pure joy. A late afternoon in a deserted S-Bahn station far out of town even leaves him with a Christmas Eve feeling (Christmas was indeed imminent): though alone on the platform, the adult is not the lonely young man or curiosity-propelled gadabout of old, but a prospector in search of lodgings for those entrusted to his care (yes, they were planning to move). The unusually large, glass-bright waiting room; the closed but well-stocked newsstand; the snowy air in the hollow below, where the curving tracks glistened in the beams of oncoming trains: all these are good tidings, which he will take home with him.
other way, exploring those old, uniformly dark districts where, more than in any other part of the city he had known, the pavement takes on the coloration of the earth below it and the sky above. Thus, as the adult maneuvered the baby carriage from roadway to sidewalk and back, the city became the child's native place. Leaf shadows, rain puddles, and snow-fraught air stand for the seasons, which were never before so distinct. The all-night pharmacy, where, after a race through driving snow in a spacious, festive light, the needed medicine is procured, becomes a new sort of landmark. On another winter evening, the television is switched on in the apartment; there sits the man with the child, who after crawling all over him finally falls asleep on top of him; with that warming little burden on his stomach, the TV becomes for once a pure joy. A late afternoon in a deserted S-Bahn station far out of town even leaves him with a Christmas Eve feeling (Christmas was indeed imminent): though alone on the platform, the adult is not the lonely young man or curiosity-propelled gadabout of old, but a prospector in search of lodgings for those entrusted to his care (yes, they were planning to move). The unusually large, glass-bright waiting room; the closed but well-stocked newsstand; the snowy air in the hollow below, where the curving tracks glistened in the beams of oncoming trains: all these are good tidings, which he will take home with him.
All his images of the life of that first year relate to the childâwho, however, is physically present in few of them. Indifferent reminiscence might prompt the question: “Where actually was the child just then?” But when memory is warmth and its content is a dark color feeling outlasting the times of day as in an arcade, it can be assumed that the child is nearby, safe and warm. One
such glance passes through the concrete gateway deep down into the still-empty grass of a giant stadium, blooming an unseasonable fresh green in the floodlightâwhite breath-clouds over every row of seatsâwhere a famous foreign team will soon come running in for a friendship match; or from the top deck of a city bus through the rain-sprinkled windshield onto the urban colors which, reduplicated in the course of the ride, end by transforming little by little a chaotic jumble of streets into something like a hospitable city. In retrospect, the period when man and wife were still living alone became the time before the child. His vision of the two of them resembled one of the painter's pictures, showing a young man standing with bowed head at the seashore, hands propped on hips, waiting; behind him, only a bright sky, marked, however, around the bent arms, with distinct whorls and rays, which one viewer has likened to the winged spirits that hovered around the central figure in the art of former timesâand true enough, when later the man looked at a photograph of himself and the woman, it seemed to him that the unborn child was winging its way through the empty air between them.
such glance passes through the concrete gateway deep down into the still-empty grass of a giant stadium, blooming an unseasonable fresh green in the floodlightâwhite breath-clouds over every row of seatsâwhere a famous foreign team will soon come running in for a friendship match; or from the top deck of a city bus through the rain-sprinkled windshield onto the urban colors which, reduplicated in the course of the ride, end by transforming little by little a chaotic jumble of streets into something like a hospitable city. In retrospect, the period when man and wife were still living alone became the time before the child. His vision of the two of them resembled one of the painter's pictures, showing a young man standing with bowed head at the seashore, hands propped on hips, waiting; behind him, only a bright sky, marked, however, around the bent arms, with distinct whorls and rays, which one viewer has likened to the winged spirits that hovered around the central figure in the art of former timesâand true enough, when later the man looked at a photograph of himself and the woman, it seemed to him that the unborn child was winging its way through the empty air between them.
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What determined the course of events in that first year was not harmony but a conflict exacerbated by the spirit of the times. For most members of their generation the traditional social forms had become “death,” and the new forms, though not ordained by any external authority, imposed themselves with the power of a universal law. Their closest friend, whom until then one could picture only resolutely alone in his room, on the street, or at the movies (and who possibly was so close to them for that very reason), suddenly took to living with a group, and to strolling down the boulevard arm in arm with any
number of people; now he who had often been embarrassingly mute spoke with uncanny ease in the name of all; he, who for a time had actually thought of himself as the preposterous “last of his kind,” seemed justified in his opposition to the lone individual. The adult then began to look on the child as his work, as a pretext for turning his back on history. A pretext, because he knew that, even without a child and without work, he would never have been willing or able to play an active part in the manifestations of “history.” He halfheartedly attended a few meetings, at which every sentence uttered was a spirit-deadening crime, and regularly delivered a flaming speech forbidding these people, once and for all, ever to open their mouths againâto himself on the way downstairs. Once, he even attached himself to a demonstration, but vanished after the first few steps. His main feeling in the new social groupings was one of unreality, more painful than before in the old ones. In the old ones, it had been possible to imagine a futureâthe new ones set themselves up as the sole possibility, as a compulsory future. And since the transvaluation was taking place mostly in the city, there was no getting away from the innovators. Perhaps because of his indecision, he became an address for these people. He had long recognized them as one more hostile power, and his only reason for not expressly repudiating them was that the enemies they were combating had always been his own sworn enemies. Be that as it may, he soon drew away from them. But in their daily forays through the city, groups were always dropping in on him. He will never forget the look which his intruders from the hostile system (as he then saw them) cast on the childâif they so much as noticed it; though without particular intent, that look was an insult to the creature lying there, to its meaningless sounds and
movements, and signified contemptâas palpable as it was infuriatingâfor the trivia of everyday life. He was in a quandary; instead of showing these utter strangers the door, he usually went out with themâtheir presence in the apartment would impinge on the child's air supplyâand spent the evening in their “pads,” either, like them, sitting with earphones in front of the soundless television screen or witnessing in polite silence their mildly conspiratorial but in a way official deliberations, in which the slightest candid, spontaneous utterance would have been a source of embarrassment; in either case, feeling guilty and depraved, because, convinced as he was that he sometimes knew the truth and was in duty bound to transmit it, he was by his mere presence giving aid and comfort to these phonies.
number of people; now he who had often been embarrassingly mute spoke with uncanny ease in the name of all; he, who for a time had actually thought of himself as the preposterous “last of his kind,” seemed justified in his opposition to the lone individual. The adult then began to look on the child as his work, as a pretext for turning his back on history. A pretext, because he knew that, even without a child and without work, he would never have been willing or able to play an active part in the manifestations of “history.” He halfheartedly attended a few meetings, at which every sentence uttered was a spirit-deadening crime, and regularly delivered a flaming speech forbidding these people, once and for all, ever to open their mouths againâto himself on the way downstairs. Once, he even attached himself to a demonstration, but vanished after the first few steps. His main feeling in the new social groupings was one of unreality, more painful than before in the old ones. In the old ones, it had been possible to imagine a futureâthe new ones set themselves up as the sole possibility, as a compulsory future. And since the transvaluation was taking place mostly in the city, there was no getting away from the innovators. Perhaps because of his indecision, he became an address for these people. He had long recognized them as one more hostile power, and his only reason for not expressly repudiating them was that the enemies they were combating had always been his own sworn enemies. Be that as it may, he soon drew away from them. But in their daily forays through the city, groups were always dropping in on him. He will never forget the look which his intruders from the hostile system (as he then saw them) cast on the childâif they so much as noticed it; though without particular intent, that look was an insult to the creature lying there, to its meaningless sounds and
movements, and signified contemptâas palpable as it was infuriatingâfor the trivia of everyday life. He was in a quandary; instead of showing these utter strangers the door, he usually went out with themâtheir presence in the apartment would impinge on the child's air supplyâand spent the evening in their “pads,” either, like them, sitting with earphones in front of the soundless television screen or witnessing in polite silence their mildly conspiratorial but in a way official deliberations, in which the slightest candid, spontaneous utterance would have been a source of embarrassment; in either case, feeling guilty and depraved, because, convinced as he was that he sometimes knew the truth and was in duty bound to transmit it, he was by his mere presence giving aid and comfort to these phonies.
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