Mihail Sebastian - The Accident

Gunther listened without a sign of approval, or even of understanding. A moment later he got to his feet.

“I can’t even give you an answer. For the time being, these matters don’t concern me. In March I’m going to go down to Braşov. I’ll see then what needs to be done.”

For the first time, Old Grodeck lost his patience. “I don’t have time to wait until March.”

“I’m surprised,” Gunther said. “A Grodeck always has time to wait. That’s the only thing I learned from all of you. Didn’t you wait twenty years until Mama died? You can wait a little longer for me.”

“Let’s not talk about this any more,” Old Grodeck said. “Whatever may have happened, your mama’s memory is sacred to us both. I have forgotten everything.”

“In that you’re generous,” Gunther laughed. “But I’ve forgotten nothing. You understand? Nothing at all.”

He had lost the ironic self-control he had shown until now. There were cold, blue flames in his eyes that burned with desperation in his childlike face. Old Grodeck tried to maintain his emotional balance beneath that burning gaze. If it hadn’t been for his guttural voice, altered by his barely concealed rage, as if he had unexpectedly become hoarse, nothing would have betrayed him. In this he was assisted by the rigid dignity of his black mourning clothes.

“There are certain things,” he said, “that a father cannot discuss with his son. And whatever else may be said, you are still my son.”

As he spoke the final words, he raised his head, looked towards Hagen and stared him in the eyes for the first time, confronting the stoney silence that the other man had conserved during the lunch. Then he addressed the boy again with the same guttural voice stifled by anger.

“I came here today to arrange business matters that can’t be delayed. You have to be reasonable and listen to me. I’m sure your mama, if she were alive, would agree with me.”

On hearing these words, Gunther broke into a harsh laugh. “I’d always wondered why you killed her. Now I finally know: so that she can say that you’re right. When you people kill someone you make it sound as though they were on your side. But even if Mama’s dead she’s still with me, and if you’ve come to take me away, you’ve come in vain. I’m not going to let you kill her a second time.”

He was exceptionally pale, and his exasperated laughter was full of tears. He suddenly left the room, slamming the door behind him. They could hear his steps fleeing up the stairs to the room in the tower.

Hagen left at almost the same time, heading after him. Grodeck remained alone with Nora and Paul. He adjusted his tie with great care, an activity that seemed to bring him a sort of peace, as if with this motion he had put his life in order and compensated for the harsh words that had been hurled at him in front of strangers.

“You mustn’t pay attention to Gunther’s talk,” he said. “He has a high-strung nature, and I made the mistake of bringing him up with too much freedom. In that regard, his late mother has part of the blame. She kept him too close to her coattails and made him into a spoiled child. I don’t know what you’ve been told about her, either here or in Braşov — I heard you spent the night in a house which she, too, had the possibly reprehensible recklessness to enter once in a while. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I can assure you that my late wife was an utterly respectable woman and that no reproach can be made to her memory. But she did have a high-strung nature, and that tendency had an influence on Gunther’s upbringing. I’m committed to telling you these things myself, especially since you had the misfortune to witness that scene a moment ago.”

He crossed the room with measured strides, stopped in front of various objects and stared at them with disapproval.

“The boy is ill,” Nora said. “Too much emotional strain could make him collapse. You could have left him in peace for a bit.”

“Ill!” Old Grodeck spoke the word with irritation and incredulity. “That’s another of the romantic ideas he’s inherited from his mother. If he’s really ill, why doesn’t he come home? Why does he stay in this wilderness, without a doctor, without medicine?”

“I think he feels good here. Hagen looks after him and brings him everything he needs.”

Old Grodeck frowned. “He isn’t called Hagen. He’s called Klaus Schmidt.”

“Here we call him Hagen.”

“Well, try to call him Schmidt,” he blustered. “I never could get used to my wife calling him that: Schmidt. It all could have happened differently…”

He stopped in front of the portrait on the bookshelf and gazed at it intolerantly. The young woman’s smile seemed to disappear beneath the weight of his stare.

For whole hours after Old Grodeck’s departure from the cabin, Faffner continued to fret and root around. They unleashed him, but he kept tossing about as if he were tied up. At first he had headed off into the woods on the tracks of the man who had left, but after a while he returned, dejected. It was too late to find him again, and the tracks had vanished into the mist.

He didn’t want to eat anything, nor did he accept being stroked. In fact, he was ill; his eyes burned with fever, and whenever someone tried to lay a hand on him, pulling on his ear — a gesture that normally soothed him — the dog bawled in pain, as though he had been touched on a raw wound.

“It hurts him,” Gunther said. “After such a long time, it still hurts him… It’s five years ago now. It was in September, I think… Yes, in September… I was coming back from town with Mama. We found Faffner in the yard in a pool of blood. He’d shot him with his rifle and then left him there, thinking he was dead. You understand? With his rifle…”

“Why?” Nora asked.

“Because Mama loved him. He’s never tolerated beings that Mama loved, or those who loved her. He would have murdered them all, with his rifle or some other way… The Grodecks sometimes know how to kill without using rifles… They kill discreetly and then they wear their mourning clothes with dignity.”

Faffner, as if he had understood that they were talking about him, moved closer to the fireplace.

NEW YEAR’S EVE WAS CELEBRATED IN THE MOUNTAINS with bonfires and shouts. From the Touring Club and the Saxons’ chalet cries came echoing through the woods, covered only by the metallic whizzing of the wind. A blizzard raged all day, but later on the storm began to subside. A heavy, dense mist descended peacefully over the rocks and the fir trees.

As soon as evening fell, a gigantic bonfire was set on the summit of the mountain and drew people from both chalets to gather around it. Figures with pitch-torches in their hands were visible climbing up the slope; their voices and laughter were audible from far away. When they reached the top they fell silent and approached the fire with sincere, earnest faces.

“If it weren’t for the mist, we’d be able to see the fire on Piatra Mare,” someone said.

Wherever there was a cabin, a bonfire was lighted that night, and silent people assembled around it in the final hours of the year. Big fires burned on all the ridges of the Bucegi Mountains, like so many signals seeking each other in the night; but the mist covered everything.

“You’re like the bonfire on Piatra Mare, Paul. I know you’re there somewhere in the mist, but I can’t see you.”

“Why do you say that, Nora? Am I not right beside you? Aren’t we here together?”

“Together, yet alone.”

“We’re all alone, Nora. Look carefully at everyone here and tell me if there’s one of them who’s not alone.”