The Piano Teacher: A Novel (13 page)

Right outside her building door, Erika K. was expected by the wide-open world, which insisted on accompanying her. The more Erika pushed the world away, the pushier the world became. A violent spring storm whirled her along. It swept under her flaring skirt, and then, crestfallen, let it drop. The air, leaden with exhaust fumes, banged and bashed her, clawing her lungs. Objects rattled and crashed against a wall.

In small shops, the modern mothers, dressed colorfully and taking their job seriously, bend over a ware, flinch behind the wall of the wind. The children are kept on long leashes while the young women, applying knowledge they have gleaned from gourmet magazines, test innocent eggplants and other exotic foods. Poor quality makes these women cringe, as if an adder were rearing its ugly head out of the zucchini. At this time of day, no healthy man is out in the street, he has no business being here. Around the entrances to their stores, the greengrocers have piled up crates of colorful vitamin-sources in all stages of rot and decay. An obvious connoisseur, the woman grubs around in these heaps. She braces herself against the
storm. A repulsive inspector, she taps everything, checking freshness and hardness. Any vestiges of pesticidal ammunition on surfaces provoke dismay in the educated young mother. Here, on this bunch of grapes, you can see a fungus-green coat, probably poisonous; the grapes were crudely sprayed while still on the vine. Going over to the storekeeper’s wife, who wears a dark-blue apron, the disgusted customer shows her the grapes as proof that once again chemistry has conquered nature, and that the seed of cancer could be planted in the young mother’s child. A recent poll has demonstrated beyond the shadow of any doubt that people realize you have to test food for its poisons; in fact, more people know that than the name of Austria’s poisonous old chancellor. Even the middle-aged housewife cares about the quality of the soil in which the potato was grown. This customer, unfortunately, is at greater risk because of her age. And now the lurking risk has drastically increased. Ultimately, she buys oranges; after all, you can peel them, thus palpably reducing the ecological damage. This housewife has tried to draw attention with her knowledge of poison, but it doesn’t help, for Erika has already walked past her, ignoring her. This evening, the woman’s husband will also ignore her; he will read tomorrow’s paper today, having bought it on the way home, so he can be ahead of his time. Nor will their children appreciate the lovingly prepared lunch: They are already grown and don’t even live at home anymore. They got married long ago and are now eagerly buying their own poisonous produce. Someday, they will stand at this woman’s grave, weeping halfheartedly, and time will then be reaching for them. They won’t have to worry about their mother anymore, and
their
children will already have to worry about them.

Such are Erika’s thoughts.

On her way to school, Erika compulsively sees people and food dying everywhere; she very seldom sees that something
is growing and thriving—at most in the city hall park or in the Volksgarten, the vast park where roses and tulips are pushing up and fleshing out. But their joy is premature, because they already contain the time of withering. Such are Erika’s thoughts. And everything confirms them. Only art, she reflects, can survive longer. Art is cultivated by Erika, pruned, tied back, weeded, and finally harvested. But who can tell how many things have already been disparaged and dispatched with no justification. Every day, a piece of music, a short story, or a poem dies because its existence is no longer justified in our time. And things that were once considered immortal have become mortal again, no one knows them anymore. Even though they deserve to survive. In Erika’s piano class, children are already hacking away at Mozart and Haydn, the advanced pupils are riding roughshod over Brahms and Schumann, covering the forest soil of keyboard literature with their slug slime.

Erika K. resolutely plunges into the spring storm, hoping to arrive safe and sound at the other end. She has to cross this open square in front of city hall. A dog next to her likewise senses the first breath of spring. Erika despises anything pertaining to bodies, animals; they are constant handicaps on her straight and narrow path. She may not be as handicapped as a cripple, but her freedom of movement
is
limited, after all. You see, most people move lovingly toward another person, a partner, a mate. That’s all they ever hanker for. If a female colleague at the conservatory takes Erika’s arm, Erika shies away from her presumptuousness. No one is allowed to lean on Erika. Only the featherweight of art may settle on Erika, but it is always in danger of floating off at the slightest puff of air and settling somewhere else. Erika squeezes her arm so hard against her ribs that her colleague’s arm, unable to break in between Erika and Erika’s arm, sinks back in discouragement. Such a
person is usually called unapproachable. And no one approaches her. People take detours. They would rather wait, endure a delay, so long as they don’t have to make any contact with Erika. Some people vociferously attract attention; Erika doesn’t. Some people wave; Erika doesn’t. It takes all sorts. Some people hop up and down, yodel, shout. These people know what they want. Erika doesn’t.

Two female students or trainees approach her, giggling loudly, huddling arm in arm, sticking their heads together like two plastic beads. They cling together, like apples. They will probably dissolve their togetherness the moment either girl’s boyfriend approaches. They will instantly tear themselves out of their warm, friendly embrace in order to aim their suckers at him and burrow under his skin like antitank mines. Later on, vexation will explode with a bang, and the wife will leave her husband in order to develop a talent that has been lying fallow.

People can barely make it alone, they have to move in packs, as if each single person weren’t already a strain on the earth’s surface. Such are the thoughts of Erika, a loner. Nocturnal slugs, shapeless, spineless, mindless! Never touched or overwhelmed by any magic, by the spell of music. They stick to one another with their skins, which are never agitated by a puff of air.

Erika cleans herself by patting herself. With soft whipping strokes, she runs her hands over her skirt and jacket. It was so stormy and gusty outside that the dust must have settled in her clothes. Erika sidesteps passersby before they even come within eyeshot.

It was on one of those wickedly flickering spring days that the Kohut ladies delivered the feebleminded and completely disoriented father to the sanitarium in Lower Austria. That was
before the public madhouse Am Steinhof (known far and wide from somber ballads) welcomed him and invited him to remain. As long as he liked! Who could ask for anything more!

Their family sausage dealer, a famous self-made slaughterer, offered to transport the patient in his gray VW van (which normally contains dangling halves of calf carcasses). Papa traveled through the spring landscape, breathing the fresh air. He was accompanied by his baggage, each piece neatly monogrammed, each sock bearing a clearly embroidered
K.
A painstaking handiwork that he had long been unable to admire or even appreciate, even though he benefited from this manual skill. After all, the initial would prevent an equally dotty Herr Novotny or Herr Vytvar from misusing Papa’s socks, albeit with no malicious intent. Their names would have different initials-—but what about that senile Herr Keller, who made in his bed? Well, he lived in a different room, as Erika and her mother were delighted to learn.

They started off; they would get there soon. They’d arrive any moment! They drove past Rudolfshöhe and the Feuerstein, past Vienna Woods Lake and Mount Kaiserbrunnen, past Mount Jochgraben and Mount Kohlreit, which they used to climb with Father in the old days, which weren’t good. They would almost pass Mount Buch if they didn’t have to turn off first. Snow White herself was surely waiting beyond the mountains, in delicate splendor, laughing joyously because someone new had entered her domain—a huge two-family house belonging to a rural family with tax-evasive income. This mansion had been remodeled for the humane purpose of housing humans with unsound minds and sound finances. In this way, the building served not two families, but many, many patients, offering them refuge and protection from themselves and from others. The inmates could choose between taking a walk or practicing a handicraft. Either choice was supervised. In the workshop,
there were harmful scraps; and on walks, there were dangers (escape, injuries, animal bites); plus good country air, gratis. Anyone could breathe it, as much as he liked and needed. Each inmate paid a nice tidy sum through his legal guardian, in order to be accepted and remain acceptable, which required many extra gratuities, depending on the seriousness of the case and the untidiness of the patient. The women were lodged on the third story and in the garret, the men on the second story and in the side wing, which had officially renounced its former identity as an add-on garage, because it had turned into a real little cottage with running cold water and a leaky roof. The sanitarium cars were not expected to get moldy or mildewed, so they stood outdoors. In the kitchen, someone sometimes relaxed in between special sales and extra-special sales; he sat there, reading with the help of a flashlight. The ex-garage was built large enough to hold an Opel Cadet; an Opel Commodore would get stuck in the door, unable to advance or retreat. The area was enclosed by a good, strong wire fence as far as the eye could see. After all, the family couldn’t just take a patient back after going to so much trouble to bring him here and paying such an enormous amount of money for the privilege. The administrators had made so much off their guests that they had probably bought an idiot-proof chalet somewhere else. And they would probably live there alone in order to recover from all their charity work.

Father, going blind, but safely guided, goes toward his future home after leaving his hereditary home. He has been assigned a nice room, it is waiting for him. Someone else had to die a lingering death before a new patient could be accepted. And this new patient will someday have to make room for someone else. Mentally damaged people need more room than the normal sort, they can’t be put off with excuses, and they need at least as much space to run around in as a medium-sized sheep
dog. The house declares: We are always fully occupied and we could even increase the number of beds! However, the individual inmate, who usually has to remain lying down, because he makes less dirt that way and is thereby stored in a space-efficient manner, is exchangeable. Unfortunately, the house cannot suddenly double its price; otherwise it would do so. Anyone who lies here is stuck here—and he pays through the nose, so the administrators can profit. And anyone who lies here remains here, because that’s what his family wants. If worst comes to worst, he can only get worse, and wind up in a Bedlam!

The room is neatly subdivided into single beds, each inmate has his own little bed, and these little beds are small, so that more beds can be squeezed in. Between the beds, a foot of space is left free, so the inmate can, if necessary, get up and relieve himself, something he cannot do in his bed, otherwise he would require intensive care. He would cost more than his presence is worth and he would be transferred to a more terrible place. Often, someone has good reason to ask who has lain in his bed, eaten from his plate, or rummaged in his chest. These dwarfs! When the lunch gong rings (they’ve been hungering and hankering for it), the dwarfs form disorderly packs, trudging and jostling toward the refectory, where their Snow White tenderly waits for each of them. She loves every last one and hugs every last one—this long-forgotten femininity with skin as white as snow and hair as black as ebony. But here there’s only a gigantic canteen table coated with acid-proof, scratch-resistant, washable plastic, for these pigs don’t know how to behave at a meal. And the dishes are made of plastic so that no idiot will beat himself or anyone else, and there are no knives or forks, only spoons, don’t you know. If meat were served, which it’s not, it would be cut up in advance. They shove their own flesh against one
another, pressing, pushing, pinching, in order to defend their tiny dwarf places.

Father doesn’t understand why he’s here, for he has never been at home here. Many things are forbidden, and the rest are not appreciated. Anything he does is wrong, but he’s used to that with his wife. He’s not supposed to hold anything or even budge; he’s supposed to fight his restlessness and lie still—that stalwart stroller. He’s not supposed to bring in any dirt or carry off any sanitarium property. The outside and the inside should not be confused, each belongs in its place; clothes must be changed or added to for the outside, even though the man in the next bed has stolen them in order to nip Father’s plan in the bud. Nevertheless, Father instantly tries to get away when they put him to bed, but he is promptly apprehended and forced to remain. How else would the family get rid of their troublemaker, who disrupts their comfort; and how else would the administrators get hold of his money? One family requires his absence, the other his presence. One lives from his coming, the other from his going and never coming again. So long, it’s been good to know you. But all good things come to an end. When the two ladies drive off, Father, supported by an involuntary helper in a white smock, is supposed to wave at them. But instead of waving his hand, he holds it unreasonably in front of his eyes and begs the man not to beat him. This casts a harsh light on the departing vestige of the family, for Papa was never beaten, absolutely never. How could he say such a thing? This question is directed at the good, still air. The air doesn’t answer. The sausage-maker drives faster than before; he has been relieved of a dangerous person. Today is Sunday, and he wants to get his children to the soccer field. It’s his day of rest. Carefully picking his words, he tries to console the ladies. He condoles with them, pickily choosing his
words. Businessmen are well versed in the language of picking and choosing. The butcher speaks as if discussing a choice between filet mignon and rump steak. He uses his normal professional lingo, even though today is Sunday, the day for the language of leisure. The store is closed. But a good butcher never stops working. The K. ladies spew out a torrent of innards. The expert finds that these innards are suitable, at best, for cat food. The ladies babble: This action was regrettable, but necessary—indeed quite overdue! And it was so difficult for them to finally make up their minds! They overdo it. The butcher’s suppliers usually underbid one another. But this butcher has fixed prices and he knows what he’s asking for what. An oxtail costs this, a ham that, a steak even more. The ladies can save their torrent of breath. They should be more generous when purchasing sausages and smoked meats; now they owe the butcher, who doesn’t take a Sunday drive for nothing. Only death is free, and even death costs you your life. And everything has an end, only a sausage has two ends, as the helpful businessman points out, bursting into loud laughter. The K. ladies agree somewhat mournfully because they are losing a member of their family; but they know what is proper for customers of many years’ standing. The butcher, who considers them part of the solid core of his clientele, is encouraged: “You can’t give birth to an animal, but you can give it a quick death.” He has become quite earnest, this man with the bloody occupation. The K. ladies agree with his last statement, too. But he should keep his eyes on the road. Otherwise his statement will come horribly true before they even realize what’s happening. The streets are filled with inexperienced weekend drivers. The butcher replies that driving is second nature to him, it’s in his blood. The K. ladies have nothing to respond with except their own flesh and blood, and they have no intention of losing either. After all, they have just
lodged some very precious flesh and blood in an overcrowded dormitory, for which they spent precious money. The butcher shouldn’t believe that it was easy for them. A piece of them went along and remained in the home. Which piece, the butcher asks.