H. Adler - The Wall

“You must return to your beginnings, Adam!”

I stood naked before the voice, which brooked no objection.

“Who are you?”

I pointed disdainfully toward the shut-up garments of the shop, at the dismantled counter, the smashed cartons.

“Who told you that you are naked?”

I hid my face in my hands in order to see less of my nakedness.

“Do you see something?”

No, I saw nothing. Only the wall, the wall of my hands. The command was yelled loudly and shattered, pointed splinters of it reaching me.

“Look! There it is. Do not deny it.”

I did not deny it and submitted myself entirely to the command, but what I saw was that there was nothing to see. Taken by the shoulder and shaken, I was supposed to recognize my face, the one that saw. I reached for my head in vain. The headless one could not see. I whispered my dismay.

“No head!”

Laughter hopped about behind the bars of all the cages. The entire shop shook, the weeds shot up, the foliage and all the trees. Also, many animals and worms gathered about. Then a voice came forth that was strong and was intended just for me.

“No head, that’s well said. No head for these times. Back to your times, Adam, you old good-for-nothing.”

My knees rubbed against the sand.

“I want, want, want …!”

My throat flushed, whereupon the old night had mercy, but not the unleashed time that disdainfully whistled away pell-mell. The lost shop collapsed and disappeared in yawning despair. The doors were swallowed up within it and the soft breeze cut across my face.

“The children would love to go for a walk with you.”

“Really? Which children, Johanna?”

“Michael and Eva.”

“Why do you say the names so solemnly?”

“Because you asked which children? Right, then. Don’t give me that look, Arthur. Go with them! I have to clean.”

“The window is open, Johanna. Fresh air. Do you have to really?”

“At some point. The fresh air alone won’t sweep away the dust. At some point, I have to do some serious cleaning. To clean out for real. You’ve made such a mess of things.”

“Not intentionally!”

“I don’t mean anything by it. What’s happened has happened.”

“It’s about time I cleaned it up myself.”

“You always say that. Then you don’t. It’s not your fault, fine. I believe you. But that’s why I have to do it for you.”

“Johanna, please, listen. Is it today?”

“Always, dear. It’s today.”

“And yesterday? Tomorrow?”

“That’s something different.”

“How, then, can it always be today?”

“You know, that’s exactly what you don’t understand. Yesterday, today, tomorrow — a string that presents itself every day.”

“How, then, every day? Today. You said it is today.”

“Today, I say: today. And on every day, indeed in your own time, I say again: today.”

“And the past?”

“Indeed, every day of your time was today. You get that mixed up, not me.”

“Can you explain it to me?”

“I can try, but it won’t do any good. You’ll never get it. Your understanding of time has been destroyed.”

“The clock, the clock — I can read it! Look, the calendar. I can rattle off the seven days of the week, the days and months add up together — seven twelve and seven twelve. And each year is made up of them, this I know. It’s true that the reckoning of time has changed many times over the years, but always the day has consisted of the evening and the morning. When that no longer works, there is leap year, and everything is good again. See, Johanna, my awareness of time is not destroyed, it’s intact.”

“Not at all. You deceive yourself. It all runs together, it seems to me, every tick and tock. Clock and calendar mean nothing to you. In fact, leap year doesn’t even make up time for those who have no grasp of it.”

“I have a grasp of time and don’t need to change. There’s nothing wrong with me, Johanna! I have it.”

“You take it away, even from me — a time thief. Indeed, you have no time. Thus you have to take it.”

“But I do indeed have time. Can’t you see?”

“No. You have no grasp of it whatsoever. What was and is no longer, that’s because of time. What is and never will be, that is also because of time.”

“The same time?”

“Ah, the same … You talk such nonsense. Time is not forever, but time is always the same, though not the same time.”

“But you say, Johanna, that I have no time.”

“You have none at all. I feel sorry for you because of it. You have fought against it, brought yourself in opposition to it. You believe you can play with it, even control it. But it plays, instead, with you. Now, please go off with the children!”

“I have no time. You already said so.”

“Ugh, such sophistry! I mean now. You should go now! For that, you need no time. All you need is the clock. Make sure and keep an eye on it so that you’re home in time for tea. That’s all you have to do.”

Johanna kissed me softly and slowly pushed me out of the room. Then I awoke completely for the first time and laughed.

“Was I dreaming?”

“You’re a good man. Just go, it will do you good.”

Now it’s time. I felt it more clearly: it is time. When I stepped over the threshold, the children romped into the hallway and cheered.

“Father is coming! Daddy has time!”

Johanna had dressed up the children, as she always did when she sent me out with them. Michael romped along and jumped about me; Eva took me dutifully by the hand as we shuffled through the door. Johanna yelled to the children to “Be good!” waved goodbye to us, and disappeared. She remained behind in her time. Michael called out our destination, Eva agreeing completely.

“We’re going to the rides!”

“To ride on the donkey,” piped Eva. “Yes?”

Three or four times a year the rides and the concession stands are there, yesterday today tomorrow, and then they move on again. Michael already knew everything his father would do better than did Eva, who just needed to go along with her brother’s wishes. Down West Park Row the children cheered, knowing the way to the rides exactly. But you didn’t have to know at all, for it was impossible to miss them. You could even hear them, the sound carried on the wind — the sound of loud thumping music rolling closer in waves. It wasn’t far to Shepherd’s Field, only the railway embankment crossing the end of West Park Row blocking its view. Then that was behind us and we crossed Halstead Way, which bordered Shepherd’s Field. Toward the left side of it, the pointed peaks of tents and concession stands had been erected. Droves of children streamed about, dragging along compliant adults with them. They moved along fast, for Michael didn’t want to miss a thing. We approached the funfair from the side, motors snorting and dogs snarling on their chains. Eva grabbed my hand tighter, but Michael had no fear and had to be warned by his father. Already we were surrounded by the hubbub, the noise swarming around me, the children cheering and bursting with demands.

“Father, did you always go with your father when your mother said that you should go with your father?”

“Yes, he always went with me.”

“And did he always let you do as much as you let us do?”

“He let me do a lot.”

“Did he also say that he got dizzy when he spun around too much?”

“He could stand it better than I could.”

“And your mother, could she stand it better than our mother?”

“No, she never could handle it all that well. She always had to look on, and even that made her dizzy. She had to look away, or she closed her eyes.”