H. Adler - The Journey

The soldiers have no problem with this, but in fact look on pleased, because it corresponds to their own sense of habit. They have good boots and walk left, right. They thrust their legs forward, and it feels good to do so, the arms following, a four-footed creature that has been so well drilled that it can stand up and stomp the earth on just its hind feet, though it cannot conceal its origins, having maintained the swing of its front legs. The ghosts, however, are not as capable as the striding animals, but nonetheless they keep trying and sway left, right. Their ragged, torn footwear creates no pounding, but rather a quieter, more uncertain sound, a scraping, left, right, perhaps a stiff-legged dance that moves along the streets in wretched fashion. Some of the ghosts don’t want to settle into “left, right,” but instead want to slide across the earth, rocking back and forth as they scrape along, slinking, shoving themselves forward, wanting to roll, some even wanting to hop along silently, though the other ghosts spoil this game because they want to seem real to the Leitenbergers, so that at least some of them can say, “I saw it myself. It’s really true. We witnessed it ourselves.”

And so the ghosts continue trying without success. What they attempt to do cannot be accomplished, namely to get the Leitenbergers to think of them as real. If the ghosts were to think of themselves as real, that wouldn’t amount to anything, because the townsfolk would still not consider them real. Even if this difficulty were overcome, it still wouldn’t mean anything, because the Leitenbergers would still not believe their own eyes. Such people would only mutually agree that there must be something wrong with their eyes. This would only remove any last doubt that in Leitenberg one cannot see what one does not believe.

Because of their number, the existence of the ghosts was not plausible. Left and right, those are not ghosts. Left and right are only sides. Left and right, those are the streets of Leitenberg. Everything is left or right. Everything is based on left and right. Nothing is left and nothing is right if it in fact does not exist, and therefore there are no ghosts on the right or the left, they can only exist in general, and because ghosts have been abolished they no longer exist, no, not anywhere. The ghosts are not clever enough to realize this, because they really want to seem human as they shuffle along left, right. And so they carve their path forward, pressing upon the surface of the stony pavement, even if it’s with the soft flesh of the knees, left, right, onward, onward, though unlucky are those who cannot keep up because they have blisters on their soles and their shoes hurt, some of them having to hobble along and thus disturb the remaining ghosts, right, left.

The small streets climb uphill. The rows of four across almost fill the street, a sidewalk on the left, a sidewalk on the right, each seeming so close and yet so far away. No ghost can step upon them, because the long curbstones have banished anything impure, anything that would harm the health of the souls of the pious owners. How confidently the few people stand on the two-colored mosaic of the sidewalk and have no idea how small the distance is that separates them from the swaying ghosts, themselves simple people who do not like to stray too far from their lairs in order not to lose touch with their familiar smells. Only reluctantly do these loafers step forth out of their shelters when it concerns their jobs or their needs, and then they quickly turn back. They all push open their doors easily with one hand, take a whiff of their own houses and sniff each curious stain.

Already the street is absent one man. It’s Ambrose, who clambers up the stairs that lead to the upper floor and his apartment, where he slouches in a chair next to a large table. Ambrose has been expected and everything that he needs after his brief outing is set for him. The wife stands ready, her face flushed, a clump of hair having fallen from the knot as she places the tureen of soup on the table. No requests are necessary, it only takes a glance and whoosh! the bowl is filled with vegetable soup brimming full right to the rim. Ambrose bends his back and stoops over the table with his nose pointed straight down. Left lies the spoon, which is picked up and transferred to the right hand. Then it splashes into the bowl and disappears into the steaming broth, though that’s not enough in itself, as the spoon swishes back and forth through the broth in order to fish out a slice of potato and a carrot cube. Then the spoon is lifted up a bit and the nose sinks down quickly, while from down below an extra bonus appears, a chunk of meat that swims up from below and touches the lower lip. Then the spoon is lifted and disappears in a flash into the mouth that snaps shut around it. A faint gurgle can be heard as some drops fall from the corners of the mouth and back into the bowl. Ambrose lifts his nose, testing the soup with his gums and then swallowing. Then he sets the spoon down once again.

“Once again it’s gone cool, Katie, and no salt, not enough salt.”

“I put enough in. Otherwise it would be too salty, and you’d complain some more.”

“It’s not enough. It should be hotter. That’s all I ask. Only some more salt.”

Katie reaches for the saltshaker with her left hand. The spoon sinks lazily back into the soup and is let go of as Ambrose’s right hand grabs the saltshaker, turns it upside down, and shakes it once twice, once twice, once twice. Grains of salt fall from it in thin strains.

“The salt is damp, Katie! Some things never change!”

The saltshaker now in his left hand, his right hand grabs the lid and turns and turns, once twice, once twice, once twice, until it’s off. He reaches for the fork with the right hand and pokes down to the bottom of the hardened salt. Then the top is screwed back on again, worked by the right hand, the left hand. Salt is shaken into the soup, more soup is eaten. His hunger is enormous, yet he still fills his stomach, left then right. The bowl is emptied, then is followed by another, and then a third bowl is emptied. That will do it. Ambrose is full and at last feels himself a proper man, and that Katie is a good wife, and that all residents are good because they are holed up in their own houses or houses they rent, in which they take care of their bodies when the times are good. The bodies stretch out and are covered with warm blankets, soon getting hot and sweaty as they grow quiet and sleep as all good people do. That’s what they learned as children, but because they have been so good, they never have to change anything, but rather repeat the same thing day after day, night after night, left right, left right, afraid only of the law and wanting to uphold their sense of responsibility.

The residents gather together and agree on what is good and to the right, while that which is bad and to the left they want nothing to do with and toss away. They feed themselves properly and digest their food as they have always done. They listen to the doctor whenever there’s a problem with the seamless running of their metabolism until once again they are healthy. If the doctor cannot heal the body, then the doctor looks them in the eye sincerely, and then behind their backs laughs and shrugs his shoulders. Then comes the notary, followed by the undertaker, and everything is complete. Other proper souls move into the emptied rooms, generation after generation, right and left, as far as one can see.

Yet on this particular day nothing is known, everything is the same, not even a closet door is opened. Today is never fully known, something is always bound to be happening elsewhere. As long as it doesn’t intrude on matters then nothing changes. The journey doesn’t seem real, there is always just Leitenberg and the streets, this house, and here Katie and Ambrose nestle and lounge about and get up and gnaw away at bread and beets. Not much waste is produced, nothing but ashes. The days repeat themselves, once, twice, one after the other, whether or not the ghost train wanders by or not. It’s always the same, the noses sniff, nothing bothers them, nothing gets on their nerves, because ghosts are strange and must atone for the fact that they are still there even when they are not welcomed in this house. If there were no such ghosts then there would be peace in the land and the sons of Katie and Ambrose would also be at home and not marching left and right in the wide world.