Slow Homecoming (9 page)
The husband came of a wealthy family but never learned to show it (even in counter-gestures). He was willing, but inept. He was willing and inept in many things, but then unexpectedly he would “enchant” one, if only with a glance or a word. His wife was a “villager”; at first sight she seemed a type from the “cottagy” zones that have sprung up around old-time villages, where people banished forever behind windowpanes have nothing else to do but cast unforgiving glances at the idle tourists who pass by. But it soon became impossible to see her in this light; only in her moments of stubbornness was she “petty” or “malignant”âand she grew stubborn whenever someone concealed his true nature from her. Sorger often saw her “at the window,” but her look was always one of friendly sympathy; she felt a patient love for all human frailty, but quickly turned away from anyone in whom she found no weakness. Her way of looking at people (so Sorger found out over the years) was not angry but disillusioned and offended. Once again a man who had seen himself as the lord of creation had rebuffed her. Though she found fault with her husband, she looked upon him
and him alone with unflagging compassion, and sometimes Sorger saw this same look (more polite to be sure, and not quite so candid, but for that reason all the more effective) directed toward himself.
and him alone with unflagging compassion, and sometimes Sorger saw this same look (more polite to be sure, and not quite so candid, but for that reason all the more effective) directed toward himself.
Unassuming, awkward and slow in everything she didâothers would be frantically waiting for her, while she was still absorbed in something they had begun togetherâshe was nevertheless the exemplary one of the two, and it was only through her that the husband could be recognized as a person in his own right. This (to his own chagrin) mediocre, often impersonal man had once been discovered by her who was more, and even now it was only her presence that gave him a character of his own. His wife did not flatter him, but, herself a proud woman, she could admire him so completely that he forgot his inner contradictions and, deeply moved, believed her as a man believes “one of his own people.” She was also moved by him, but for the sole reason that the two of them had once been pronounced man and wife. To her, who seemed free from servitude to all current opinions, marriage remained a sacrament, in which “the dispersed senses” were gathered together and made one, in which sympathy for others was greatly enhanced and made into an inexhaustible source of life. But what made her exemplary to Sorger's mind was that, for her, “others” were not confined to her husband (though he remained the man of her life), but included everyone, even a stranger. For her, marriage had become a form which preserved her childlike openness and expanded it into a sense of unconstrained fellowship, very different from a mere adult's sense of duty. (Sorger often saw her inactive; she liked to be waited on, and the children called her “lazybones.”)
There was nothing oppressive about this couple. They
showed no sign of worrying about each other. It was simply unthinkable that they would ever die. Altogether, were they anything more to Sorger than convenient next-door neighbors? (The husband sometimes took him to town with him, and the wife had often quietly attended to little household chores that he was just about to undertake.) Their relationship had grown with living together and had developed without abrupt mutations. There had never been any confidences; for instance, one had never told the other what he had thought of him at the beginning of their acquaintance. Sorger didn't even know exactly what the husband did for a livingâonly that he had an “office” in town. They were simply “the neighbors,” and yet at heart Sorger counted them as friends; like letters, his thoughts of them often ended with good wishes, and he would not have wanted them to go out of his life.
showed no sign of worrying about each other. It was simply unthinkable that they would ever die. Altogether, were they anything more to Sorger than convenient next-door neighbors? (The husband sometimes took him to town with him, and the wife had often quietly attended to little household chores that he was just about to undertake.) Their relationship had grown with living together and had developed without abrupt mutations. There had never been any confidences; for instance, one had never told the other what he had thought of him at the beginning of their acquaintance. Sorger didn't even know exactly what the husband did for a livingâonly that he had an “office” in town. They were simply “the neighbors,” and yet at heart Sorger counted them as friends; like letters, his thoughts of them often ended with good wishes, and he would not have wanted them to go out of his life.
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Thus far, Sorger had written a few papers, for the most part general descriptions of a limited territory or comparative studies of similar phenomena in different parts of the world. In his projected essay “On Spatial Configurations” he would have to abandon the conventions of his science, which at the most might occasionally help him to structure his imagination.
He had long been preoccupied by the fact that in every landscape consciousness gradually creates its own configurations, even when there seem to be no delimiting features as far as the eye can see. A person who lives for some time in a region seems to find a variety of distinct configurations in what on his arrival had looked like an endless plain surface. But even in a hilly or mountainous region the articulations of which were evident at first
sight, quite different configurations arose (in Sorger's experience) from those discernible in the obvious monumental features.
sight, quite different configurations arose (in Sorger's experience) from those discernible in the obvious monumental features.
His point of departure was that in any countryside whatever, if only the mind has time to form ties with it, characteristic forms reveal themselves; and, above all, that these forms are created not by the immediately evident, dominant features of the landscape but by inconspicuous elements which no scientific insight can lay bare (and which can be discovered only in the course of time lived day after day in these surroundings, perhaps only through repeated stumbling over the same piece of ground, through the involuntary change of gait caused by a spongyâonce swampyâbit of meadow, the change of acoustic horizon in a gully, or the suddenly modified view from the vestiges, however tiny, of a morainic mound in a wheat field).
Another thing that stimulated Sorger's scientific curiosity was that most of these localities were not the mere fantasies of an individual, but bore traditional names. Rediscovered by an individual, they proved to have long been known to the local community, to figure in land registers and geological surveys with names that were often centuries old. The question then arose: which of these unimpressive forms could achieve autonomy (as such and such “meadow” or “hill” or “glen”) and take its place in the daily life of a remote settlement, or of a big city, for that matter? What colors conspired, what substancesâwhat special features? Here Sorger could still use the approved methods, but all the rest (his motivation as well as his dream of confining himself to the pure, unexplained description of these forms) was, in a manner of speaking, the geography of childhood.
And, indeed, that had been Sorger's original idea: to
describe the shapes of fields in (his) childhood; to draw plans of very different “points of interest”; to prepare cross and longitudinal sections of all these seemingly impenetrable configurations of childhood, which in retrospect added up to the feeling of being at homeânot only for children but for himself as well. He wished, in the year of freedom that was to begin for him in a few weeks, to explore such spots all over Europe, especially in regions where he himself had known them. He knew, of course, that such “play” (or whatever it might be) could be of no use, but he often dreamed of it, anticipated it with joy or trepidation, as though everything depended on it. And when it was with joy, he was conscious of a new daring, he felt almost invulnerable. He would be making a leap, possibly to nowhere, but at least away from something.
describe the shapes of fields in (his) childhood; to draw plans of very different “points of interest”; to prepare cross and longitudinal sections of all these seemingly impenetrable configurations of childhood, which in retrospect added up to the feeling of being at homeânot only for children but for himself as well. He wished, in the year of freedom that was to begin for him in a few weeks, to explore such spots all over Europe, especially in regions where he himself had known them. He knew, of course, that such “play” (or whatever it might be) could be of no use, but he often dreamed of it, anticipated it with joy or trepidation, as though everything depended on it. And when it was with joy, he was conscious of a new daring, he felt almost invulnerable. He would be making a leap, possibly to nowhere, but at least away from something.
He had never thought of himself as a scientist, but at the most (occasionally) as a conscientious describer of landscapes. As such, to be sure, he sometimes felt as excited as if he had invented the landscapeâand as an inventor he knew that he could not possibly be wicked or selflessly good but was, in his work, an ideal human being. But then it might occur to him that perhaps he was doing good after all, not by giving something to others but by not betraying them. And this non-betrayal was not a failure to do something; it was a strenuous activity. At times he felt that his study of landscape was a science of peace.
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“To bring peace to life.” On the very day of his return, he had set out with a camp chair under his arm. Beneath the afternoon sun, he walked along the shore to the bay where Earthquake Park was situated. (His walk brought it home to him that the city was on the sea.) There he
sat down on a hillock to sketch a profile of the terrain.
sat down on a hillock to sketch a profile of the terrain.
This park had not been landscaped. It was just a piece of land that had been torn loose by the earthquake and subsequently labeled “park.” At first sight, there was nothing very striking about it. A broad expanse sloping gently toward the ocean, covered sparsely with bushes rather than the pine woods usual in the region; no vestiges of houses or cars jutting out of the clay soil, which had become quite firm again, forming a humped terrain, bare except for the bushes, and crisscrossed with paths made by hikers. The old fissures had formed small valleys or gullies, which zigzagged between the humps. Sorger had the impression that the walkers he saw there emerged from the alleys of a strange clay city and quickly vanished into other hidden byways; but for a long while their voices remained audible behind the walls, a phenomenon otherwise known to him only from Europe.
Sketching made him feel warm, and the water of the bay in the background came closer. Nothing distracted his attention, and he had plenty of time. His “subject” began to answer his gaze. Himself expressionless, he waited in the landscape for a “figure” to emerge. “Only in immersion do I see what the world is.”
He was sketching a tract of land which the tremor had turned upside down, raising an underground stratum to the surface; the thin root ends of the trees that had once grown there could still be seen among the new grass (a mixture of old and new sometimes brought about by avalanches). It was a small tract, yet in it different strata could clearly be seen to disperse in all directionsâand in ever minute change of direction Sorger, as he sketched, could sense the overpowering force of the tremor.
He was on the track of something and his lines, at
first almost fussily close together, began to diverge; they were aiming at something beyond physical reality. With excitement, he observed how the formless mound of clay transformed itself into a grimace; and then he knew he had seen that grimace beforeâat the Indian woman's house, on the dance mask that was supposed to represent an earthquake.
first almost fussily close together, began to diverge; they were aiming at something beyond physical reality. With excitement, he observed how the formless mound of clay transformed itself into a grimace; and then he knew he had seen that grimace beforeâat the Indian woman's house, on the dance mask that was supposed to represent an earthquake.
The forehead of the mask was edged with bright-colored feathers, and these he now found again in the fringe of grass. Wooden pegs took the place of eyes; these were the roots; the nostrils were thinner wooden pegs. However, it was not directly in nature that Sorger saw the mask but in his sketch of nature; and he did not actually rediscover this particular mask; rather, he gained a sudden understanding of masks in general. This led to the idea of a series of dance steps, and in a single moment Sorger experienced the earthquake and the human earthquake dance.
“There is a possible connection,” he wrote under his sketch. “Every moment of my life is connected with every otherâwithout intermediate links. The connection is there; I need only imagine in full freedom.”
The setting sun revealed two women in one of the passages between hills. The light fell on their hips, and they were so splendid and so full of life that Sorger, fired with enthusiasm, cried out: “Are you movie stars?” To which they replied: “Are you a soldier?” And from the “valley” that had seemed so far below him they immediately took a few steps up to where he was standing.
Sorger knew that if he seriously wanted these women he could have them. Here everything was possible: the first casual contact, as he was just standing there, passed through cloth and leather; and instantly the three of them
were one. He was not a “seducer,” simply someone who was ready for these women who had been waiting for someone like himself.
were one. He was not a “seducer,” simply someone who was ready for these women who had been waiting for someone like himself.
Still sketching, Sorger tried to defend himself against his sudden power, but the women interrupted him: “Let yourself go.” How beautifully irresponsible these adventuresses were. And their beauty was in the right. Or did he know of any other law?
They were even capable of being serious, and with them he experienced the triumph of perfect presence of mind. “The sun went down and all roads were bathed in shadow.” He didn't ask them to go with him; they followed him.
Not only was their irresponsibility right; it was magnificent. The coldness of their fingernails. The clarity of their entrails. In the warm night he saw himself stretched from continent to continent and these women ministering to him as they would not do again for a long, long time.
After his apparitions left him, he sat in the dark, gazing at the house next door. “No, you were real,” he protested, drank the wine that was left in the three glasses, and wished for rain, which, lo and behold, began to splatter down among the pines.
The lighted window of the children's room formed a yellow tent in which stood a black rocking horse. Sorger went out into the tall grass and tried to get wet; but his body was so hot that the drops dried instantly. The horizon was an inky strip over the ocean: in it the closed eyelids of the strange women still trembled, and the empty rooms were now filled with their cries.
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The center of the city was situated on an arm of the sea that cut deep into the land (the low apartment houses and the colonized woods on the ocean front were only
excrescences); consequently, the city as such was a kind of urban satellite, impossible to localize and independent of the earth, which had become an unattainably remote past. Long, long ago something had happened thereâloving encounters in lucky times, outbreaks of war when the luck was badâwhich in this part of the world had ceased to stir the imagination. (The concrete world-war fortifications on the rocky part of the coast had become incomprehensible testimony to a common prehistory.) The planet seemed to have become a machine sheltered from all complications; there was still a distinction of sorts between “lucky” and “unlucky”; luck was interpreted as no more than an absence of consequences, while “bad luck” consisted in being done away with for no reason at all; both were impersonal processes, and individual destinies had simply gone out of existence.
excrescences); consequently, the city as such was a kind of urban satellite, impossible to localize and independent of the earth, which had become an unattainably remote past. Long, long ago something had happened thereâloving encounters in lucky times, outbreaks of war when the luck was badâwhich in this part of the world had ceased to stir the imagination. (The concrete world-war fortifications on the rocky part of the coast had become incomprehensible testimony to a common prehistory.) The planet seemed to have become a machine sheltered from all complications; there was still a distinction of sorts between “lucky” and “unlucky”; luck was interpreted as no more than an absence of consequences, while “bad luck” consisted in being done away with for no reason at all; both were impersonal processes, and individual destinies had simply gone out of existence.
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