Philippe Claudel - Brodeck

I was surprised by the light outdoors. The snow had stopped, and the sky was almost entirely clear. The last clouds were still trying to cling to the Schnikelkopf peaks, but the wind, now blowing from the east, was busy tidying them up, tearing the cloud remnants into small strips. The stars had put on their silver apparel. As I raised my head and looked at them, I felt as though I were plunging into a sea both dark and glittering, its inky depths studded with innumerable bright pearls. They seemed very near. I even made the stupid gesture of stretching out my hand, as if I might seize a handful of them and stick them inside my coat as a present for Poupchette.

Smoke rose straight up from the chimneys. The air had become very dry again, and the cold had formed a hard, sparkling crust on the mounds of snow piled up in front of the houses. I felt in my pocket for the pages I’d read to the others a few hours ago; they were just a few thin sheets of very light paper, but they seemed heavy and hot. I thought over what Peiper had told me about the Anderer , and it was hard for me to decide between the ravings of a drunkard and the words of a man accustomed to speaking in parables. More than anything else, I wondered why the Anderer had visited the priest, especially considering that our new neighbor quite noticeably avoided the church and never went to Mass. What could he and Peiper have talked about?

As I passed Schloss’s inn, I saw that a light was still burning in the main room. And then — I don’t know why — I felt a sudden urge to step inside.

Dieter Schloss was behind the bar, talking with Caspar Hausorn. They were both leaning forward, so close to each other that you would have thought they were going to kiss. I let out a greeting that made them jump, and then I went over to the table in the corner, right next to the fireplace, and sat down.

“Do you still have some hot wine?”

Schloss nodded. Hausorn turned in my direction and made a curt movement with his head that might have passed for a “good evening.” Then he leaned toward Schloss’s ear once more, murmured something the innkeeper seemed to agree with, picked up his cap, finished his beer in one gulp, and left without looking at me again.

It was the second time I’d been in the inn since the Ereigniës . And just as I had done the previous time, I found it hard to believe that this very ordinary place was where a man had been put to death. The inn looked like any other village inn: a few tables, chairs, and benches, shelves holding one-liter bottles of wine and liquor, big, framed mirrors so covered with soot they hadn’t reflected anything for years, a cabinet for the chess and checkers sets, sawdust on the floor. The rooms were upstairs. There were exactly four of them. Three of them hadn’t been used for a long time. As for the fourth room, the biggest and also the prettiest, it had been occupied by the Anderer .

On the day following the Ereigniës , after my visit to Orschwir, I’d stayed in Mother Pitz’s place for nearly an hour in an effort to recover my wits, to calm my mind and my heart, while the old woman sat beside me, turning the pages of a volume of her dried-plant collection and providing a running commentary on all the flowers pressed inside the book. Then, after my head had finally cleared, I thanked her, left her café, and went straight to the inn. I found the door locked and the shutters closed. It was the first time I’d ever seen Schloss’s inn in that state. I knocked on the door, dealing it rapid, heavy blows, and waited. Nothing. I knocked again even harder, and this time a shutter opened partway and Schloss appeared at the window, looking suspicious and fearful.

“What do you want, Brodeck?”

“I want to talk to you. Open up.”

“This may not be the best time.”

“Open up, Schloss. You know I have to make the Report.”

The word had come out of my mouth all by itself. Using it for the first time felt utterly strange, but it had an immediate effect on Schloss. He closed the shutter, and I heard him hurrying downstairs. A few seconds later, he was unbolting the big door. He opened it and said, “Come in quick!”

He closed the door behind me so promptly that I couldn’t stop myself from asking him if he was worried that a ghost might slip inside. He said, “That’s no joking matter, Brodeck,” and crossed himself twice. “What do you want?”

“I want you to show me the room.”

“What room?”

“Don’t play dumb. The room.”

Schloss hesitated. He seemed to be thinking over my request. Then he said, “Why do you want to see it?”

“I want to see it right now. I want to be thorough. I don’t want to forget anything. I have to tell the whole story.”

Schloss ran his hand over his forehead, which was gleaming as though he’d rubbed it with lard. “There’s not a lot to see, but if you insist… Follow me.”

We climbed the stairs to the upper floor. Schloss’s big body took up the entire width of the staircase, and every step bent under his weight. He was breathing hard. When we got to the landing, he reached into one of the pockets in his apron, took out a key, and handed it to me, saying, “I’ll let you unlock the door, Brodeck.”

I had to insert the key three times before I could turn it. I couldn’t control my shaking hand. Schloss backed off a few steps and tried to catch his breath. Finally there was a little click, and I pushed the door open. My heart was like a hunted bird. I was afraid of seeing that room again, afraid of encountering a dead man, but what I saw surprised me so much that my anxiety vanished at once.

The room was completely empty. There was no more furniture, no more art objects, no more clothes, no trunks; all that remained was a big wardrobe, which was bolted to the wall. I opened the double doors, but the wardrobe, too, was empty. There was nothing in the room anymore. It was as if the Anderer had never occupied it. As if he’d never existed.

“What happened to all his baggage?”

“What are you talking about, Brodeck?”

“Don’t insult me, Schloss.”

The room smelled like damp wood and soap. The floor had been copiously wetted down and scrubbed. In the place where the bed used to stand, I could make out a big stain, which was darker than the rest of the bare larch-wood planks.

“Was it you who washed the floor?”

“Somebody had to do it…”

“And what’s that stain?”

“What do you think it is, Brodeck?”

I turned to Schloss.

“What do you think?” he repeated wearily.

—

got up very late this morning, with a hammer at work inside my head. I believe I really drank too much last night. The brandy bottle’s almost completely empty. My mouths as dry as tinder, and I have no idea how I found the way to my bed. I wrote late into the night, and I remember being unable to feel my fingers toward the end because the cold had numbed them. I also remember that the keys on the typewriter were sticking more and more. The windowpane was covered with frost shaped like fern fronds, and I was so drunk I thought the forest was on the march, preparing to surround and smother the shed, and me with it.

When I finally got out of bed, Fedorine asked no questions. She brewed an infusion for me, a concoction in which I recognized the aromas of wild thyme, pennyroyal, and houseleek. She simply said, “Drink this. It’s good for what you’ve got.” I did what she said, as I used to do when I was little. Then she placed before me a basket Alfred Wurtzwiller had brought a little earlier in the day. It contained potato soup, a loaf of rye bread, half a ham, apples, and leeks — but no money. This wasn’t my usual delivery. When the administration in S. deigned to show that it hadn’t completely forgotten me, I’d receive a money order, along with three or four stamped, restamped, signed, and countersigned official documents, attesting to the payment made thereby. But in this basket, there was only food. I couldn’t help drawing a connection between the food basket and the previous evening’s audition in front of the mayor and the others. They were paying me like this. They were paying me a little. For the Report. For what I’d already written, and — especially — for what I hadn’t written.