Philippe Claudel - Brodeck

Let the reader make no mistake. I’m not saying that the Ereigniës occurred because we had scorching weather in the weeks preceding it and heads were on the boil like potatoes in a pot. I think it would have taken place even at the end of a rainy summer. In that case, of course, it would have required more time. There would not have been the haste, the tensed bow I mentioned earlier. The thing would have happened differently, but it would have happened.

People are afraid of someone who keeps quiet. Someone who says nothing. Someone who looks and says nothing. If he stays mute, how can we know what he’s thinking? No one was pleased about the Anderer’s scant, two-word reply to the mayor’s speech. The next day, once the joy of the celebration — the free wine, the dancing — was past, people talked about the stranger’s attitude, about his smile, his outfits, and the pink cream on his cheeks, about his donkey and his horse, about the various nicknames he’d been given, about why he’d come to our village and why he was still here.

And it can’t be said that the Anderer made up any lost ground over the course of the following days. I have no doubt that I’m the person he talked to most — apart from Father Peiper, but in that regard I’ve never been able to find out which of them talked more than the other, and about what — and one may judge the Anderer ’s verbosity from the fact that I’ve already recorded in these pages every word he ever said to me. A total of about ten lines, hardly more. It’s not that he ignored people. When he passed someone, he raised his hat, inclined his large head (upon which the remaining hair was sparse, but very long and frizzy), and smiled, but he never opened his lips.

And then, of course, there was his black notebook and all the notes people saw him taking, all the sketches and drawings he made. That conversation I overheard, when Dorcha, Pfimling, Vogel, and Hausorn were talking at the end of a market day — I didn’t make that up! And those four weren’t the only ones aggravated by that notebook! Why was he doing all that scribbling and scratching? What was the purpose of all that? What was it going to lead to?

We would eventually learn the answers to those questions. On August 24.

And that day, for him, was really the beginning of the end.

—

n the morning of August 24, everyone found a little card under his door. The card was fragrant with the essence of roses, and written on it, very elegantly and in violet ink, were the following words:

This evening, at seven o’clock,

in Schloss’s Inn,

portraits and landscapes

More than one villager examined his card from every angle, turning it over and over, sniffing it, reading and rereading the brief text. By seven in the morning, the inn was already thick with people. With men. Only men, obviously, but some of them had been sent by their wives to see what they could find out. There were so many extended arms and empty glasses that Schloss had trouble keeping everyone served.

“So, Schloss, tell us what this foolishness is about!”

Elbow to elbow, they were all knocking back wine, schorick , or beer. Outside, the sun was already beating down hard. Schloss’s customers pressed against one another and pricked up their ears.

“Did your lodger fall and hit his head?”

“What’s he up to?”

“It’s Scheitekliche , right? Or what?”

“Come on, Schloss, say something! Tell us!”

“How long is this queer duck going to hang around here?”

“Where does he think he is, with his smelly little card?”

“Does he take us for neophytes?”

“What’s a neophyte?”

“How should I know? I didn’t say it!”

“Damn it, Schloss, answer! Tell us something!”

There was a steady barrage of questions, which Schloss received as if they were inoffensive pellets. His only perceptible response to the general curiosity was the malicious little smile on his thick face. He let the tension mount. It was good for his business, all of it. Talking about it made people thirsty.

“Come on, Schloss, out with it! Hell, you’re not going to keep quiet until this evening, are you?”

“Is he upstairs?”

“Can’t you move over a little?”

“Well, Schloss?”

“All right, all right, shut up! Schloss is going to speak!”

Everyone held his breath. The two or three who hadn’t noticed anything and were continuing their private conversation were quickly called to order. All eyes — some of them already a bit out of focus — converged on the innkeeper, who was enjoying his little show and taking his time. Finally, he said, “Since you insist, I’m going to tell you …”

A collective sound of happiness and relief greeted these first words.

“I’m going to tell you everything I know,” Schloss continued.

Necks were screwed around and stretched as far as possible in his direction. He slapped his towel on the bar, put both hands flat on top of the towel, and stared at the ceiling for a long time, amid absolute silence. Everyone imitated him, and had someone entered the inn at that moment, he would surely have wondered why approximately forty men were standing there mute, their heads tilted back and their eyes fixed on the ceiling, staring feverishly at the filthy, sooty, blackened beams as though asking them an important question.

“This is what I know,” Schloss went on in a confidential tone. His voice was very low, and everyone drank his words as if they were the finest eau-de-vie. “What I know is — well — it’s that I don’t know very much!”

A big sound rose from the gathering again, but this time it was full of disappointment and a touch of anger, accompanied by the crash of fists striking the bar, several choice insults, and so forth. Schloss raised his arms in an attempt to calm everyone down, but he had to shout in order to be heard: “He simply asked me for permission to have the whole room to himself, starting at six o’clock, so he can make his preparations.”

“Preparations for what?”

“I have no idea! One thing I can tell you is he’s going to pay for everyone’s drinks.”

The crowd recovered their good humor. The prospect of quenching their thirst at little or no expense sufficed to sweep away all their questions. Slowly but surely, the inn emptied out. I myself was on the point of leaving when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Schloss.

“Brodeck, you didn’t say anything.”

“I let the others talk—”

“But how about you? You have no questions to ask? If you don’t have any questions, maybe that’s because you have the answers. Maybe you’re in on the secret.”

“Why would I be?”

“I saw you go up to his room the other day and stay in there for hours. So, obviously, you must have found some things to talk about during all that time, right?”

Schloss’s face was very close to mine. It was already so hot that his skin was perspiring everywhere, like fat bacon in a hot skillet.

“Leave me alone, Schloss. I’ve got things to do.”

“You shouldn’t talk to me like that, Brodeck. You shouldn’t!”

At the time, I considered his words a threat. But after the other day, when he sat at my table and got weepy talking about his dead infant son, I don’t know anymore. Some men are so maladroit that you take them for the opposite of what they really are.

The only thing I’d learned at Schloss’s inn that morning was that the Anderer’s little perfumed cards had succeeded in focusing everyone’s attention on him even more closely. Now it wasn’t yet seven o’clock, and the last breath of air was already gone. The swallows in the sky looked exhausted and flew slowly. High aloft, one very small, nearly transparent cloud in the shape of a holly leaf drifted alone. Even the animals were quiet. The cocks hadn’t crowed. Silent and unmoving, trying to stay cool, hens languished in holes dug in the dusty earth of farmyards. Cats dozed in the shadows of carriage entrances, lying on their sides with their limbs outstretched and their pointy tongues lolling out of their half-open mouths.