H. Adler - The Wall

The way to the restaurant, which was supposed to be short, stretched on endlessly. I began to doubt if I would ever reach the Belgian meal. If I weren’t so helpless among the dark sea of blurred buildings, I would have forsaken the meal, my friends, and everything else in order to make my own way or, better yet, to crawl into a corner like a weary bundle that someone passing would find and hand over to trusted hands in a lost-and-found. But what should one do with such a foundling? They would ask me questions about who I was, where I lived, what I was doing, why I was wandering around such a strange city. However, I wouldn’t be able to respond. Adam in flight after the expulsion, that was all I could think of. The title of a painting that didn’t exist. Please understand, I’m the title of a painting that has not been painted; when dug up in Peru, there I was fine, I lived fine, what I did was fine, for there I remained in the hands of the scholars — a rare find, they whispered, for they did not want to frighten me. They didn’t do that out of brotherly love, though, but only not to lose me. Yet they were unlucky; they were careful, though not enough so. I fell to pieces, disappearing into the dust, nothing left, only the title remaining, for that they wrote down on a lovely note. Then there followed an illustration in a book, a cave painting: Adam lost and driven out in flight from his title in the darkness of a cave while resting. Found there, I couldn’t defend myself. I was too important to scholarship and needed to quickly be placed on exhibit—“The Peruvian Adam” the title, entirely naked, though nonexistent, entirely so, the visitors coming and talking a long time about me, though I didn’t understand a word, since it was Belgian and I spoke Peruvian, an extinct dialect whose name is unknown.

Then there was nothing but intense suspicion, intense before the long ordeal, and after the long ordeal and expulsion, the expulsion with my loved ones. I could have said, Oswald, please, Oswald Bergmann, he probably dug inside the cave before I fell to pieces, he was the one who came up with the title, no not Bergmann, no, Mister Birch, that’s what he’s called now, but I didn’t note his address, only the title, and that no one understood, for I could only say it in Belgian, a restaurant, yes, that’s right, we are there already or are on our way there, and my foot hurts, which is from falling from my resting spot while in flight, and because I have not yet eaten anything today, having only drunk the water next to the title of the painting on the little table next to the divan. I didn’t want to mention that, for I had fled the exhibit, there being nothing wrong with this, for I could read about it in the catalog, yes, just look, you can easily afford this, it costs almost nothing, only one Hungarian pengö, in order to save yourself the trouble, not you, naturally, but the pengö, I mean the title, a hundred titles for a pengö, it’s that simple, and if I say anything now everyone will be upset, that’s not right, Inge Bergmann, Otto Schalinger, Sylvia and her northern cooking, not Belgian, but good, photographs, and then So-and-So, Kauders as well, Karin drawing me for the publisher in the Peruvian style, but I can’t call out to any of them, for then they would only have more against me, then there’s the station which one cannot get away from at all, I don’t want to go there, the exhibition is not over because there’s such a pressing crowd, many contacts to be made, but also whom one cannot speak to in order to save So-and-So the trouble, that would not be very smart, since Dr. Blecha entitled him to nothing, only clicked the camera, another shot, a snapshot, nothing for Adam in it, for it would be difficult to recognize him, it would not seem very smart, since I had remained intellectually stunted.

There was no point in my standing up to them, nor did I have Dr. Haarburger’s telephone number, which was my last hope. In the face of such suspicion about who I was, the attendants at the lost-and-found had no idea where to begin, so I had to be taken to the police. It didn’t help that I screamed, for they needed someone who existed and wasn’t just a lost title. No, they said, the police wouldn’t take too much of my time. “Your name, please!” Yes, the names. Let’s see, I should have said loudly, “Here I am, here I am! As far as I can tell, here I am!” They wanted to bring me to consciousness and once again demanded my name. All I knew to tell them was Arthur Kutschera, whose father and mother sell nuts and apples at 8 Reitergasse, and next door there is a clothing store, clothing by Landau. Kutschera, that sounds good. The inspector would nod. And what do the apples cost? Sold out, I’m afraid, the train got the last one. Arthur Kutschera, the inspector would repeat, that can’t be right. Really, it can’t be right, a mistake of clear self-deception, for it’s Landau, Arthur Landau. That’s really much better, a nicer name. The inspector would say it again with a cloying tongue, the name turning in his mouth like honey. Arthur Landau, that tastes good. It’s foreign, one can clearly see. Naturally lives nowhere, no place of residence. A large sheet of paper in front of him, the inspector would begin to write, finally, the title, a factual report. I had been lost and someone found me and brought me here. “Disposed of you” was his answer, saying it hard and sharp, “Disposed of you,” like an apple, rotten goods, disposed of quickly over the border, across the sea, just the way you came here, or into the sea.

What can be done against this? Perhaps I had something. If an honest person had picked me up and turned me in, there was also the possibility that another honest person would turn up looking for me tomorrow, when it was light again, since the honest seekers come from across the sea and out of every hole. The inspector didn’t put any stock in that, saying that they sought no one who was honest, as only criminals were sought, and they were quickly found and picked up. Filled with despair, I began to talk about my father, saying that he was an honest father whom they had killed because he was so honest. But that only raised more suspicion. Who had killed my father? My mother as well, both parents killed. Everyone lost. And even others on top of them. Had not an honest finder turned her in? I would be happy to claim her. The inspector slowly leafed through a thick register, it probably containing all the lost names and titles. Suddenly, he stopped and asked what allowed me to claim her? My honest name, I told him. He smiled in disbelief. “Those may be stories that work elsewhere, but not here on our honest island,” he said. “Your papers, please!” I rummaged through all my pockets and handed him the documents and papers I had on me. The inspector put on white gloves before he reluctantly began to inspect my official documentation. “It’s all worthless,” he said coolly, “coming from a second-rate country. The paper even smells!” after which I quickened my pace, as I couldn’t stand this torment for long. It was better to keep up with my hurrying friends and head toward the Belgian pub than to chatter away the last threads of my sanity with pointless questioning.

So I said in a softly pleading voice, “Not so fast, please! I can’t breathe! How much farther is it?”

Confidently, a hand thrust itself under my arm and gave me much needed support.

“We’re almost there.”

The hand was so close, but the voice, comforting as it was, pressed at me from far away. It took a good while to ascertain whose it was. In order to hear it again, I spoke so that it might reply.

“Not long. Can you say that again?”

“Why, of course. It certainly won’t be long at all. Hardly a minute. Why are you so anxious? Or are you just tired?”