Before the Feast (7 page)

It's very quiet after the thunder. Only now that Lada is playing percussion with a bottle of Stierbier on a boulder five hundred million years old do we notice how quiet. It's as if, all of a sudden, only one sound would be possible.

Ulli joins Lada. Puts his hand on the cheek of the erratic block.

“It's not that,” he says. “Until '95, there was a plaque here in memory of Thälmann. Know him, eh?”

“Not personally, nope.”

“Very funny.”

“GDR, right?”

“Exactly. And do you know what this place was called until '45? The Adolf Hitler Sports Field. And there was a different name on the plaque, guess whose?”

“Makes sense.” Lada spits.

“Right. And whoever painted it on knew that.”

“Mhm.” Lada nods.

“And before him, before Hitler, we had a plaque on this stone here,” says Ulli, tapping the erratic block's forehead, “commemorating the Crown Prince.”

“What Crown Prince?”

“What Crown Prince? How would I know?
The
Crown Prince. They were all called Wilhelm. The oak trees at the railway station were planted in his honor too. That was before the First World War.”

“My father planted a birch tree in my honor when I was born, but later he couldn't remember where.” Lada grins. Lada spits.

Ulli walks round the erratic block. “Back in those days we were well off. People came on purpose to settle here. Can you imagine that? Someone coming here on purpose to open something in this place?”

“That woman came to open the china shop. And there's the guy from Magdeburg wants to open a shop selling old books.”

Ulli has stopped listening. “And mind you, there's more. Hans Steffen, know about him? Don't bother to tell me. . . Steffen, he came from round here. He was a geographer. Prevented some war or other, I think it was between Chile and Argentina, because he found out the border and told them, look, this is the border between you, stop quarreling. Think of that! A guy from here! A geographer! Went on real expeditions of discovery in the jungle. He's so famous in Chile, they gave him a Chilean name of his own: Juan Steffen!”

“Juan,” says Lada. “Cool!”

“Yup. Suppose you do so much for some country, let's say France, that they call you Roe-Bare Zieschke!” he said, pronouncing Lada's real first name of Robert as if it were French.

“No, La-Da,” Lada puts him right. And a moment later, after thinking it over, he adds, “I don't want to do anything for France.”

Ulli nods.

“But this guy you were talking about did?”

“Nope, but I wouldn't have minded if he had.”

“Mhm.” Lada leans against the left-hand side of the erratic block, Ulli leans against its right-hand side. They look at the
clouds, they look up and down Thälmann-Strasse, they see a fox, bloody foxes.

The vixen picks up the malty aroma of the two human males, keeps her distance, makes for the water.

“Was it you and your lot did that about Hitler?” asks Ulli.

Lada shakes his head and fishes the cigarette end out of the hole in the erratic block.

“Who was it?”

“No one.” Lada spits.

“Yeah, well. . .” Ulli raises his beer bottle enquiringly. “Another?”

“No, I'm okay. Got to get up early tomorrow.”

“Since when was that a problem?”

Lada looks the erratic block in the eye. “Suzi and me are clearing out Eddie's place tonight,” he says slowly, deep in thought.

“Our Eddie? Wow, oh wow.”

Lada is thinking. When Lada thinks, he blinks a lot.

“If you're through by nine,” says Ulli, “come to Netto with us.”

“Netto is shit. Go to Kaiser's. For the Feast, get it? I have a kind of a feeling.” Now Lada is grinning as if he'd been cooking something up. He puts his hand on the place on the stone where the commemorative plaque must have been. “All at once I kind of have a good feeling. And that about cold cuts for the men, yes, do that. I think tomorrow's going to be good.”

Lada spits by way of saying goodbye, waves and wanders down Thälmann-Strasse in the rain as it gets heavier. Ulli and the erratic block watch him go.

There's a stone on the sports field between the clubhouse and the bowling alley. We put our names there and pinned our hopes to it. Nothing came of that.

The commemorative erratic block doesn't commemorate anyone any more. But it's still there.

IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1587 IT CAME TO PASS
that the Miller's Sow brought forth a Young Pig here, beside the Pillory on the banks of the Deep Lake, and that was a Sign and a Portent, it being in all other points of Form and Feature like a Pig, but having the Head of a Man.

The people came down to the Lake to see this Curiosity and take Counsel concerning what were best to be done. The young Pig lay there for all to see, and even the Sow had join'd the Men and Women, as if she herself did not believe what had befallen her.

So the People examined that monstrous Pig at close Quarters, some even kneeling down to inspect it gravely Eye to Eye. The Conduct of others was such that it might seem as if they knew the little Monster's Face. Perchance it was the way the Pig turn'd up the Corners of its Mouth, as if it were Smiling impudently, or perchance it was the Birthmark that it bore, or the Voice in which it squealed like a Starving Babe for its Mother, but it caus'd the Men to talk Noisily and Wrathfully. Mayhap all would have been well, had not Semmel the Blacksmith foolishly cried out: Good folk, my own Reasoning can make Naught of it, and therefore I make so bold as to ask, does not that Monster remind you of. . .? Whereupon the first Blow was struck, falling on Semmel his own Mouth, and there was much pushing and tugging and
a Quantity of Profane Utterances, and old Wennecke landed Head over Heels in the Lake, and what with all this Hurly-burly the Pig was near forgot.

Then up came Miller Mertens in the company of Count Poppo von Blankenburg, Lord over our Town. The Presence of the Nobleman and the Owner of the Sow brought the Men to see Reason again, so that they Left off Brawling. They adjusted their Weskits and took off their Caps, in so far as the said Caps did not already lie upon the Ground. All was still but that the Piglet snorted, like as it were an old Dotard dying of the Pleurisy.

The Men moved closer together to conceal the Monster, or so it seemed. The Noble Lord parted the air with his Hands to right and to left—whereupon the Men left a Path free through their Midst for him.

What followed was not to be forgot, albeit those Present denied it vehemently at a later date, as if there were a Crime or a Sin to be recollected. The noble Count and the Miller looked the Pig fearfully in the Eye, and the Pig looked cheerfully back at them. They cleared their Throats as a man might clear his Throat when something displeases him mightily, and those close to the Pig thought that it also clear'd its Throat.

The Miller and Count von Blankenburg turned White as Whey in the Face, and said not a word.

Then a young Man stepped forward, 'twas the tailor's Journeyman, Anton Kobler of Jakobshagen, and he said:
Gentlefolk and good People, God be my Witness that I do not know that Sow!

The Men looked at Kobler, greatly confus'd, but then in Anger, so that he also cried: Other Folk besides me go in and out of Master Mertens his Mill!

Then a Laborer by the name of Droschler spoke up. Anton, said he, I hope your Idle Talk is not meant to anger me, or God help you! There is no Call for Insinuation, I tell you freely, aye, to be sure I know the Sow, but not in the sinful Manner that you mean, there I have no Knowledge of her at all, albeit the Pig's crooked Nose could not be more Familiar to me, resembling as it does mine own. However, I could never commit so wickedly godless a Sin! I tell you, this is the Devil's Work, so it is—aye, the Devil's Work, I say!

There were those who agreed with Droschler's words, and folk made haste to say: Aye, 'tis Magick and Sorcery!

Old Wennecke was not heard amidst the Tumult. He was Surpriz'd to hear Droschler speak of the Piglet's crooked Nose, since he saw that Nose as Flat and much like his own, Wennecke's, Nose. But the Townsmen heard only that which they wish'd to hear, and said only what show'd them to be in the Right of it, and this was Devilry. So now each spoke up for his Neighbor as they seldom did, for Man often strives only for his own Advantage, and to show his Fellow Men in a bad Light. Great Wrath was stirr'd up against the Pig, that same Pig meanwhile squealing pitifully, but none could say whether 'twere with the voice of a Babe or of a Pure-born Pig.

At last Miller Mertens did seize the Piglet around its neck with both his Hands, and he rais'd the Piglet over his Head and he threw that Piglet high into the Air, to fall into the Lake, where it immediately sank, never to be seen again, or so the People thought. The Men rejoic'd, and the Count laid his Hand on the Miller's Shoulder, and then it so chanc'd that the Pig came to the Surface again and began swimming to the Bank, grunting right merrily.

It was old Wennecke who threw the first Stone.

That same evening the Sow was first blessed and then eaten.

And it was in the little town of Fürstenfelde, in the year of Our Lord 1587, that here by the Pillory, on the banks of the Deep Lake, the Miller's Sow gave Birth to a Pig of monstrous Kind, for in all other respects it was made like a true Pig, but it had a human Head, and a Face like mine, and a Face like thine, and a face like the face of Everyman.

HE DOESN'T WANT TO DO IT TONIGHT; THE BELL
-ringer doesn't want to ring the bells any more. He should have been in the church by now, instead he stays lying in his bell-ringing uniform and his bell-ringing boots and his bell-ringing gloves, with his bell-ringing top hat lying beside him. He doesn't want to ring the bells, never wants to smell the church again. The church smells like Great-Aunt Elsbeth's wig, of pomade and dust, and Great-Aunt Elsbeth puts her wig over the little bell-ringer's head, his whole face disappears under it, pomade, dust
and
sweat, and he's supposed to turn round in a circle saying a prayer, his great-aunt hides and he looks for her, what a brutal game, you can only lose, you could lose consciousness too, that must be nearly ninety years ago, his great-aunt choked to death in '44, think of choking to death on your food when there was almost nothing to eat.

The bell-ringer is cold. If he'd listened to Rosa he'd have retired long ago, he'd be a pensioner watching the box in his slippers all day long, and now his knees hurt even when he's lying down. Twenty steps three times a day, every day since '43. He's had enough of it. Johann will have to ring the bells alone, yes, Rosa, you do know him, Johann Schwermuth, son of Herrmann and Johanna of the Homeland House, yes, my apprentice, surprised, aren't you?

Seventy years, and how many days has he missed? Three! No bells ringing for prayers in Fürstenfelde on only three days! Not counting holidays and days when the bells were being maintained.

Once in April '45. At first he ran away like the others, but you easily died on the road, so he and his family came back and he went straight to his bells. The Russians let him ring them.

Again at the end of the 1970s, because of Schramm. Schramm came by, Comrade Lieutenant-Colonel, asked whether the bell-ringer wouldn't like to give it up, that noise reminded people of other times. But those times were over, said Schramm, we weren't living in the Middle Ages any more, thank God, and in these new times the church was needed only as a place for events to be held, was wanted for deeds and not bells. Gustav, watch your step. I'm asking you nicely. Others will order you.

The bell-ringer stayed at home that day and the bells didn't ring, and after a while Rosa said: there are hundreds of reasons not to ring bells but politics isn't one of them, so he went on ringing the bells. Schramm apologized to him last summer, thirty years late, but never mind that.

The third time was when Jakob came into the world, and then he and Rosa were in Prenzlau. He made up for it with a jubilant peal the next day.

When the ferryman was buried recently, he wanted to ring his old friend of so many years into the last darkness with the chiming bells, but his knees failed him. Later, he went
to the ferry boathouse and struck the ferryman's bell. The lake was calm. He sat in a small boat. The landing stage was empty, the little boathouse deserted, no one had heard the sound of the bell. That's the real meaning of Nothing, Rosa. When something exists and works, but is no use to anyone. Objects, implements, a whole village. The bells. They are still there, that's all.

Once upon a time, ah, once upon a time bell-ringers marked the beginning and end of important events, warned the people of dangers, of enemies, of the elements. Many bell-ringers were struck by lightning while doing their duty. By night, in a world not over-full of light as it is now, the bells were a lighthouse of sound for all wandering in the darkness. Here, where we chime, living hearts beat. Today? Today bells are the acoustic reminder that the church still stands. A wake-up call that no one has asked for.

The best part was going home to Rosa after ringing the bells for morning prayers, and Rosa would wake up and hold him close. Her hair, still soft from sleep. She would whisper his name, getting the emphasis wrong all those years, beautifully wrong.

The mechanized system will have to take over if Johann doesn't want to ring the bells. Johann is always punctual, what a hypocrite! An atheist. Johann will want to ring the bells. He knows what to do, and he can do it on his own. Johann's hands are not soft and delicate any more.

The bells are ringing.

The bell-ringer opens his eyes. He is lying outside the front door of his house, with his bell-ringer's top hat on the gravel, his head on the gravel, blood on the gravel, the crunchy sound of footsteps on the gravel.

“Rosa?” He smiles. Rosa says something, it isn't his name with the emphasis wrong, the bells lose their rhythm and the sound dies away. Johann, my boy, and you've practiced this so often. Now, quick chimes as the clapper strikes the bell, rhythmically, the steps on the gravel come closer, the first drops of rain fall, Rosa bending over him—“Master?”—Johann crouches down, takes the bell-ringer's arm, tries to help him up. “You're bleeding, Master!”