Philippe Claudel - Brodeck

The old man kept up his droning. In fact, I think he hadn’t even noticed the presence of the other three. One of them placed the end of his stick against the old fellow’s chest and said, “You will repeat after me: ‘I’m a Fremdër , a worthless piece of shit!’ Now! Say it!”

But the old man neither heard nor saw him. I said, “I don’t think he understands you. He’s hurt—”

The words had sprung unbidden to my lips, and I already regretted them. The stick moved to my chest.

“Did you say something? Did you dare to say something? Who are you, with that nasty mug? You stink like a Fremdër , too!” And he struck me a blow on the side that knocked the wind out of me. At that moment, one of his comrades, the one who reminded me of someone, intervened and said, “No, I know him. His name’s Brodeck.”

He brought his face quite close to mine, and suddenly I recognized him. He was a third-year student who, like me, frequented the library. I didn’t know his name, but I remembered that he often consulted volumes of astronomy and spent a lot of time contemplating star charts.

“Brodeck, Brodeck,” the one who seemed to be the leader repeated. “A real Fremdër name! And look at this faggot’s nose! The nose is what gives them away! And their big eyes, popping out of their heads, so they can see everything, so they can take everything!” He kept shoving his stick into my ribs, the way you do to a balky animal.

“Felix, leave him alone! The old guy’s the one we want. He’s one of them, for sure, the old bastard, and that’s his shop over there, I know it! He’s a real crook! He gets rich off giving credit!”

The third member of the group, who hadn’t spoken yet, made himself heard: “He’s mine! It’s my turn! You’ve already bashed two apiece!”

He’d stayed in the shadows so far, but now he came rushing up and I could see him. I could see that he was a boy, a child, in fact, maybe thirteen years old, hardly more. He had fresh, delicate skin, his teeth gleamed in the night, and he was smiling like a lunatic.

“Well, look here, tiny Ulrich wants to join the party! But you’re too tender, little brother. The milk’s still running out of your ears!”

The old man seemed to have fallen asleep. His eyes were closed. He’d stopped talking. The boy gave his older brother a furious push, prodded me to one side with the end of his club, and stationed himself in front of the feeble mass crouched on the ground. A great silence fell. The night had become as thick as mud. A gust of wind swept through the narrow street, kicking up a bit of snow. Nobody moved. I must be dreaming, I thought, or maybe I’m on the stage at the little Stüpispiel Theater, which put on a great many grotesque and sometimes atrocious spectacles that made no sense whatsoever and always ended in farce — but suddenly the boy went into action. He raised his club above his head and brought it down on the old man with a scream. The victim didn’t cry out, but he opened his eyes wide and began trembling as if he’d been flung into an icy river. The child dealt him a second blow, on the forehead, then a third, on a shoulder, then a fourth and a fifth … He didn’t stop, and he laughed as he swung his club. His comrades encouraged him, clapping their hands and chanting “Oy! Oy! Oy! Oy!” to give him the rhythm. The old man’s skull split open with a sharp sound like a hazelnut cracked between two stones. The child kept on striking, harder and harder, still laughing like a madman, but gradually, even though his blows didn’t cease raining down and he continued to laugh as he looked upon what was left of his victim and his comrades were still clapping time, his blood-spattered face changed. The horror of what he’d just done seemed to penetrate his veins, spread out to his limbs, his muscles, his nerves, invade his brain, and wash away all its foulness. His blows slowed and then stopped. Horrified, he contemplated his club, which was covered with blood and fragments of bone, and his hands, as if they didn’t belong to him. Then his eyes returned to the old man, whose face was now unrecognizable, the closed eyelids appallingly swollen, each as big as an apple.

The child dropped his club abruptly, as if it were burning his palm. He was seized by a sudden spasm and vomited a quantity of yellow liquid in two heaves; then he ran away, and the night absorbed him into its belly while his two comrades laughed uproariously. The leader, his brother, shouted after him: “Good work, little Ulrich! The old guy got what he deserved! Now you’re a man!”

He prodded the old man’s corpse with one foot, turned around, and casually walked away, arm in arm with his comrade, whistling a little love song that was quite popular at the time.

I hadn’t moved. It was the first time I’d witnessed a murder. I felt empty. Empty of all thought. And my mouth was full of the bitterest bile. I couldn’t take my eyes off the old man’s body. His blood mingled with the snow. As soon as the big flakes touched the ground, they were tinged with red, like notched petals of an unknown flower. Once again, the sound of footsteps made me jump. Someone was approaching. I thought they’d decided to come back and kill me, too.

“Get the hell out, Brodeck!”

It was the voice of the student, the one who spent hours gazing at constellations and galaxies reproduced in large books with giant pages. I raised my eyes to him. He was looking at me without hatred but with a kind of contempt. He spoke calmly. “Get the hell out! I won’t always be there to save you.”

Then he spat on the ground, turned, and walked away.

—

he following day, rumor put the number of corpses recovered from the streets at sixty-seven. It was said that the police had made no effort to prevent criminal activity even when it was in their power to do so. A new demonstration was scheduled to take place that very afternoon. The city was on the verge of going up in flames.

I rose at dawn after a sleepless night, during which my memory constantly recalled the faces of the murderous child and his aged victim; and I heard again the boy’s shouting, the old man’s droning, the dull thumping sound of the blows, and the sharper crack of breaking bones. I made a bundle of my few belongings, returned my room key to the landlady, Fra Haiternitz, who accepted them without a word, and whose only response to my few words of farewell was a sort of contemptuous, rotten-toothed smile. She was browning some onions and bacon in a skillet. Her cubbyhole was filled with greasy smoke that stung my eyes. She hung the key on a nail and acted as though I no longer existed.

I walked the streets quickly. There were few people about. Many areas still showed signs of the previous night’s vandalism. Some men with frightened faces were talking among themselves, brusquely snapping their heads around at the slightest noise. The doors of several buildings were painted with the inscription SCHMUTZ FREMDËR, and in many places the roadway was still covered with a glass carpet which crunched under my feet and made me shiver.

In case I failed to find Ulli Rätte in his room, I’d written him a good-bye letter, but the precaution was unnecessary. He was there, but he’d gotten so drunk he’d fallen asleep with all his clothes on. He was still holding a half-full bottle in his hand, and he stank of tobacco, sweat, and cheap grain alcohol. The right sleeve of his jacket was torn and marked with a large stain. It was blood. I thought my friend might be wounded, but when I bared his arm I could see that he was unharmed. Suddenly I felt very cold. I didn’t want to think. I forced myself to stop thinking. Ulli slept on, openmouthed and snoring. Loudly. I slipped my letter of farewell into his shirt pocket and left the room.