Eugen Ruge - In Times of Fading Light

Alexander goes out into the street. Mingles with the people. It is eight in the evening. The streets are full, he lets the crowd carry him along as he inhales other people’s breath. Diminutive police officers, wearing bulletproof vests in spite of the heat, blow whistles. When he stumbles over a hole the size of a drain cover in the sidewalk, he falls into the arms of the people walking the other way. They laugh, set the tall, clumsy European on his feet again. Then he is in a park, where goods are for sale all over the place. Meat and vegetables braising peacefully side by side in gigantic pans. There are rugs and jewelry, there are old telephones, circular saws, alarm clocks, there’s salted pigskin, there are things he can’t identify, in fact there’s everything: feather headdresses, puppet skeletons, lamps, crucifixes, stereo systems, hats.

Alexander buys a hat. He has always wanted to buy a hat, as he knows, and now there are good reasons to buy one. Now he could say: I need a hat in Mexico because of the sun. But he doesn’t. He buys the hat because he likes himself in a hat. He buys the hat to disown the principles instilled into him in his youth. He buys it to disown his father. He buys it to disown the whole of his life so far, the life in which he did not wear a hat. And why didn’t he, when it’s so easy? He feels like laughing. He actually does laugh. Or no, of course he doesn’t laugh, but he smiles. He lets himself drift with the crowd. Only now does he really belong with it. Now, with the hat, he is one of them. Now he can suddenly speak Spanish: I would like to have… taco, tortilla?… How much… gracias, señor… señor! He bows formally, as you should in bestowing an honorary title. The old woman giggles. She has only one tooth. Alexander drifts on. Eats his tortilla. Walk, stop, traffic. Crowds of tiny police officers again, blowing their whistles for no reason at all, you might think, but now, suddenly, he understands. They are just whistling—that’s all it is. Like birds. They whistle because they exist. An amazing discovery. They beat their wings, flap their hands, obscurely, irrelevantly, while the traffic, in obedience to some natural law or other, regulates itself.

Then there’s music in the air. Not police whistles, proper music. Still indistinct, but now and then the sound of a violin or a trumpet stands out: violin and trumpet! Typical Mexican instrumentation, the kind on Granny Charlotte’s shellac record. His excitement rises, he quickens his pace. Now it sounds as if a huge orchestra were tuning its instruments. Singers seem to be getting themselves into voice. What’s going on? Alexander is standing in a brightly illuminated square. The square is full of people, among them—he can hardly believe his eyes—small groups easily identifiable by their respective uniforms. Hundreds of musicians: bands large and small, ensembles of ten and duos, with massive sombreros or light straw hats, their uniforms trimmed with gold-buttoned facings or silver braid, with epaulets and fringes, pink, white, or navy blue, and they are all making music! At the same time! An inexplicable event. Like the sudden appearance en masse of mysterious insects. A procession? A strike? Are they singing in protest against the end of the world? Is this square the only place where a god of some kind can hear them?

Alexander walks around, listens as if in a trance, wanders from band to band, listening for his music. Over there… or no. But there… that’s so like it! He stops suddenly in front of one of the singers. Pale blue suit, bright white shirt, pitch-black hair, and at his neck he wears an ostentatious bow tie.

“ México lindo,” says Alexander.

The singer says, “Sí!”

“Jorge Negrete,” says Alexander.

The singer says, “Sí!”

The musicians draw on their cigarettes once more, put their bottles down, hitch up their pants, adjust their sombreros, and suddenly Granny’s ancient shellac record is playing: Rum-tat-rum-tata… Voz de la guitarra mía… al despertar la mañana .. .

Incredulous, Alexander stares at the singer. The crazy bow tie, the shiny, pitch-black hair, the white teeth flashing under the mustache and forming sounds exactly the same as the music on the shellac record that broke into a thousand pieces a thousand years ago…

Of course it can’t be true. Probably a trick of his senses. Self-deception.

The song is over. He realizes that tears are running down his cheeks. The musicians laugh. The singer asks him: “Americano?”

“ Alemán,” says Alexander quietly.

“ Alemán,” repeats the singer out loud, for the benefit of the others. “Ah, Alemán,” they say.

They stop laughing. Nod appreciatively, as if he had come all the way from Germany on foot. The singer claps him on the shoulder.

“ Hombre,” he says.

Alexander walks away. The musicians wave.

He walks slowly. He is singing. There are fewer people in the street now. He buys a beer. The tears dry on his cheeks. He breathes the night air in; it is cooler now. Maybe only because the body warmth of the crowd has gone? The police whistles have fallen silent. There are no stars to be seen. He is in Mexico. How many years has he been sure that he would never, ever in his life, set foot in this country? Now he’s here. Now he is walking through the city. All self-deception. The Wall. His cancer. Who says I have cancer? Suddenly, when he thinks back, the whole thing strikes him as insane. The diagnosis is a mere assertion. The hospital a deranged machine churning out names of diseases. What kind of disease? Some kind of pH values, some shit like that. Oh, to go away. Simply tear himself away from this sick and sickening world…

Well, here I am. I salute you, great city. I salute the sky, the trees, the potholes in the asphalt. I salute the women selling tortillas and the musicians. I salute all of you who’ve been waiting for me. I’m here. I bought myself a hat. That’s the start.

Should he have given the musicians money?

That suspicion is the one thing that makes him a little uneasy as he falls asleep.

The dogs wake him in the morning. What dogs? He looks out of the window. Sure enough, there are two large mongrels on the roof of the neighboring building, one with a shaggy coat, one smooth coated. What are they guarding up there? The chimney? The roof?

Five thirty, too early to get up (although in Germany—he works it out—it would be 12:30 p.m. now). He pulls the covers over his head, it doesn’t help. The windows have no double glazing, the frequencies are piercing. A howl first, then some barking. One dog is the howler, the other the barker. The howler begins it, the barker joins in: Woohoo—woof, woof.

He gets out of bed to see which dog is howling and which is barking. The shaggy dog is the howler, the smooth dog the barker.

A pause. He’s waiting for it now: Woohoo—what happened to the woof, woof?

He remembers the Ohropax earplugs. He still has some in his toiletry bag; Marion took them to the hospital for him when she visited. Plastic Ohropax plugs, a newfangled idea. But better than nothing.

When he is lying in bed again, something occurs to him: Marion! He forgot to call her. Well, he didn’t forget, but he didn’t get around to it… the Ohropax plugs crackle reproachfully in his ears. The silicon material stretches, and has a tendency to work its way out of his ears again… he’ll write to her, he thinks. Dear Marion, he will write, you will probably be wondering… I’m in Mexico because I… yes, because I what? On my Granny’s trail… oh, wonderful! Dear Marion… And how is he going to explain why he didn’t call her?