Philippe Claudel - Brodeck

I’ve just finished the Report. In a few hours, I’m going to submit it to Orschwir and the thing will be over and done with, or at least so I hope. I’ve kept it simple. I’ve tried to tell the story faithfully. I haven’t made anything up. I haven’t put anything right. I’ve followed the trail as closely as possible. The only gaps I’ve had to fill in occurred on the Anderer’s last day, the one that preceded the Ereigniës . Nobody wanted to talk to me about it. Nobody wanted to tell me anything.

In any case, on the notorious morning when the drowned carcasses of the donkey and the horse were found, I accompanied the Anderer back to the inn. Schloss opened the door for us. We looked at each other without exchanging a word, Schloss and I. The Anderer went up to his room and stayed there the entire day. He didn’t touch anything on the tray Schloss brought up and placed outside his door.

People resumed their usual activities again. The diminished heat made it possible for the men to go back to the fields and the forests. The animals, too, raised their heads a little. A pyre was constructed on the riverbank, and there the carcasses of Mister Socrates and Miss Julie were burned. Some of the village kids watched the spectacle the entire day, occasionally casting branches into the fire, and returned home with their hair and clothing reeking of cooked flesh and burned wood. And then night fell.

The cries started about two hours after sunset. A slightly high-pitched voice, filled with distress but perfectly clear, was shouting before the door of every house, “Murderers! Murderers!” It was the Anderer’s voice. Like some strange night watchman, he was crying out in the street, reminding the villagers of what they had done or what they hadn’t prevented. No one saw him, but everyone heard him. No one opened a door. No one opened a shutter. People stopped their ears. People burrowed into their beds.

The following day, in the shops, in the cafés, at the inn, on the street corners, and in the fields, the cries in the night were the subject of some conversation. Some, but not much; people quickly passed on to other subjects. The Anderer remained out of sight, shut up in his room. It was as though he’d vanished into thin air. But again that second evening, a couple of hours after sunset, the same mournful refrain echoed in every street, before every door: “Murderers! Murderers!”

I prayed he would stop. I knew how it was all going to end. The horse and donkey would be just the prelude. Killing his animals would suffice to cool the hotheads for a time, but if he got on their nerves again, they’d get some new ideas, and those ideas would be conclusive. I tried to tell him so. I went to the inn and knocked at the door of his room. There was no response. I applied my ear to the wood and heard nothing. I tried the handle, but the door was locked. Then Schloss found me.

“What are you up to, Brodeck? I didn’t see you come in!”

“Where is he?”

“Where’s who?”

“The Anderer!”

“Stop, Brodeck. Please stop …”

Those were the only words Schloss spoke to me that day. Then he turned around and left.

That evening, at the same time as the two previous evenings, the Anderer made his rounds again, crying out as before. And this time, shutters were banged open, and stones and insults flew through the air. But nothing discouraged the Anderer from continuing on his way or stopped him from shouting into the darkness, “Murderers! Murderers!” I had trouble falling asleep. On nights like that, I’ve learned that the dead never abandon the living. They find one another even if they’re strangers. They gather. They come and sit on the edge of our bed, on the edge of our night. They gaze upon us and haunt us. Sometimes they caress our foreheads; sometimes they stroke our cheeks with their fleshless hands. They try to open our eyelids, but even when they succeed, we don’t always see them.

I spent the following day brooding. I didn’t move much. I thought about History, capitalized, and about my history, our history. Do those who write the first know anything about the second? Why do some people retain in their memory what others have forgotten or never seen? Which is right: he who can’t reconcile himself to leaving the past in obscurity, or he who thrusts into darkness everything that doesn’t suit him? To live, to go on living — can that be a matter of deciding that the real isn’t completely so? A matter of choosing another reality when the one we’ve known becomes too heavy to bear? After all, isn’t that what I did in the camp? Didn’t I choose to live in my memory of Amelia, to make her my present, to cast my daily existence into the unreality of nightmare? Could History be a greater truth made up of millions of individual lies, sewn together like the old quilts Fedorine used to make so she could buy food for us when I was a child? They looked new and splendid with their rainbow of colors, and yet they were sewn together from fabric scraps of differing shapes, uncertain quality, and unknown origins.

After the sun went down, I remained in my chair. And in the dark: Fedorine hadn’t lit a candle. The four of us were there, surrounded by darkness and silence. I was waiting. I was waiting for the Anderer’s cries, his lugubrious recriminations, to ring out in the night again, but no sound came. The night was silent. And then I became afraid. I felt fear come upon me and pass into my stomach, under my skin, inside my whole being, in a way that hadn’t happened in a long time. Poupchette was singing softly. She had a bit of fever. Fedorine’s syrups and herbal teas weren’t bringing it down, so she tried to calm the child by telling her stories. She’d just gotten started on “Bilissi and the Poor Tailor” when she interrupted herself and asked me to fetch her some butter from Schloss’s inn so that she could make little shortbreads for Poupchette to dunk in her milk at breakfast. I didn’t react for a few seconds. I had no desire to leave the house, but Fedorine insisted. In the end, I got up from my chair, grabbed my coat, and headed for the door as the old woman was starting the story again, and my Poupchette, all pink and glowing with fever, stretched out her little hands to me and said, “Daddy, come back! Daddy, come back!”

It’s an odd tale, the tale of Bilissi. It’s the one that fascinated me the most when I was little and Fedorine would tell me stories; as I listened to it, I had the feeling that the earth was slipping away under my feet, that there was nothing for me to hold on to, and that maybe what I saw before my eyes didn’t completely exist.

“Bilissi was a very poor tailor who lived with his mother, his wife, and his little daughter in a crumbling shack situated in the imaginary town of Pitopoï. One day, three knights paid him a visit. The first knight came forward and ordered a suit of red velvet from Bilissi for his master the King. Bilissi accepted the order and produced the most beautiful suit he had ever made. When the knight picked up the suit, he said to Bilissi, ‘The King will be happy. In two days, you shall receive your reward.’ Two days later, Bilissi saw his mother die before his eyes. ‘Is this my reward?’ Bilissi thought, and he was filled with sadness.

“The next week, the knights returned. The second knight came forward and knocked on Bilissi’s door. He ordered a suit of blue silk from Bilissi for his master the King. Bilissi accepted the order and produced the most beautiful suit he had ever made, much more beautiful than the suit of red velvet. When the knight came to pick up the suit, he said to Bilissi, ‘The King will be happy. In two days, you shall receive your reward.’ Two days later, Bilissi saw his wife die before his eyes. ‘Is this my reward?’ Bilissi thought, and he was filled with sadness.