Daniel Kehlmann - F

I got along well with the other seminarians. One of them was called Arthur like my father and could do all kinds of card tricks I’d never seen before. Another was called Paul and had had conversations with the Virgin Mary. He asserted that she’d worn a raincoat and an odd hat, but there was no doubt that it had been the Holy Virgin. One of them was named Lothar and wept so noisily every night that we could hardly sleep, and even my old friend Kalm was here, surrounded by the gentle radiance of his own piety.

“I wish I were like you,” said Kalm at supper. There were mashed potatoes with fish. The potatoes were tasteless and the fish overcooked, but I still would have liked more.

“Nonsense.”

“You’ll be able to help people. You’ll go far. To Rome. And who knows how high you’ll go.”

After supper, we reassembled in the chapel. We knelt, the monks sang, their voices flowed together into a single resounding voice, and the candles filled the nave of the church with dancing shadows.

I demand it, I said. I’ve earned it. Give me a sign.

Nothing happened.

I stood up. Curious glances were cast at me, but nobody got involved. After all, these were spiritual exercises, some people had visions, others heard voices, it was expected, part and parcel of the whole thing.

Now, I said. Now would be the moment. Speak to me the way you spoke to Moses out of the burning bush, to Saul on the road to Damascus, to Daniel in front of the king of Babylon, to Joshua when he stopped the sun in its course, to the Apostles of the risen Christ, so that they could spread the truth. The world has barely aged a single day since then, the same sun moves through the heavens, and just as they stood before you, I am standing before you now and I ask for a word.

Nothing happened.

It really isn’t my fault, I said. I’m trying. I look up and You’re not there, I look around and You’re not there, I don’t see You, I don’t hear You. Just one little sign. No one else would have to see it. I wouldn’t make it all into a big fuss, no one would find out about it. Or better still, don’t give a sign, just let me believe. That would be enough. Who needs signs? Let me believe, then it’ll all happen without anything having to happen at all.

I waited and looked into the flickering candlelight. Had it happened? Perhaps I already believed without knowing it. Did you have to be aware of your own belief? I listened to myself.

But nothing had changed. I was standing in front of an altar in a stone building on a small planet that was one of a hundred billion billion. Galaxies expanding unbearably whirled in black nothingness, shot through with radiance, as space itself slowly dissolved into cold. I knelt again on the flat, friendly prayer cushion and folded my hands.

The next morning I was summoned to see the abbot. Fat, intelligent, and intimidating, Father Freudenthal sat at his desk in the purple robes of the Augustinian canons. He waved at me to come in, and worriedly I sat down.

It had not passed unnoticed, he said softly, yesterday at evening prayers.

“I’m sorry.”

Young people such as myself were rare. Such enthusiasm. Such seriousness of mind.

I realized that I was smiling modestly. A hypocrite, I thought in amazement. I had never intended it or practiced, but clearly I was a hypocrite!

Sometimes we think, said Father Freudenthal, that such young men don’t exist anymore. But they do! He was very moved.

I nodded my head.

“A request.” He opened the drawer and took out a copy of My Name Is No One . “Our monastery library collects signed copies. Could you ask your father to inscribe this one?”

Hesitantly I reached out and took the book. Arthur never signed them, nobody knew what his signature looked like.

“That’s no problem,” I said slowly. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to.”

I’ve been waiting for forty-five minutes. I have no idea why I’m here, but the air-conditioning is working, so I’m not complaining. The heat presses against the windows, the outside air is saturated with sunlight; involuntarily I wonder if the panes are going to hold. I take sips of coffee from my paper cup. In front of me there’s an empty glass plate; I ate the cookies that were on it long ago. Nobody refills it.

Office noises echo from the next room: voices, phones ringing, the humming of printers and Xerox machines. A secretary is sitting at a desk. Her skirt is very short, and I can see her legs quite clearly: tanned, muscular, smooth-skinned, and supple. When her eyes meet mine, she might as well be looking at a table, or a refrigerator or a pile of boxes. I’m glad of my priest’s clothes. If I were in street clothes, a look like that would be unbearable.

I concentrate on the cube. I have to get better at using the Petrus method. Competition is fierce, the young people are fast, and the conventional way is too slow for the world championships. Recently cubes in many competitions have started being smeared with Vaseline, to speed up the twisting. When I first started and the cube was new, the routine was to begin with one layer, which got completed, broken up, and then restored, but that’s no good anymore. Today two layers get worked on simultaneously, then the rest gets constructed from there, without ever having to break up anything already completed. It goes quicker, but you have to concentrate like crazy, none of it is merely mechanical, none of it runs of its own accord. You have to locate the first corner intuitively, and if you’re not quick enough, you lose seconds that you can’t make up.

A hand touches my shoulder. Another secretary, a little older. “Your brother can see you now.”

Eric’s office looks the way I’d imagined it: pristine desk, ostentatiously big window, pretentious view out onto roofs, TV antennas, and spires. My brother sits motionless, staring at an enormous screen, and pretends not to see me.

“Eric?”

He doesn’t answer. His finger clicks on the mouse, then he reaches slowly for a water glass, lifts it to his mouth, drinks, sighs quietly, and sets it down again.

How long is this supposed to go on? I pull up one of the leather chairs, let myself sink into it, and am immediately enveloped in its softness.

Eric turns his head, looks at me, and says nothing.

“So?” I say.

He’s silent.

“What’s up?” I say.

“Can I do something for you?”

I rub my eyes. Whenever we see each other, no matter what the circumstances, no matter when, no matter where, he always finds a way to make me furious. “You called me!”

“I know.” He looks me up and down expressionlessly. “We spoke.”

“No we didn’t! That was your secretary. She told me I had to come.”

“I know.”

“So what’s it about?”

He reaches for some piece of paper, looks at it, grins for a moment, reaches for another one, looks serious again, sets both of them aside, picks up his phone, and looks at it. “How are you?”

“Good. The state championships are in six months. I can’t win, but I can still participate.”

He stares at me.

“The cube.”

He stares at me.

“Rubik’s Cube!”

“It still exists?”

I decide not to go there. “And how are you?”

“Interesting developments in the housing market in Eastern Europe. We’re hedging with sources of alternative energy. Have you eaten already?”

I hesitate. I think of my breakfast, the chocolate bars in the confessional, the curry sausage I ate along the way, and the dry cookies outside. “No.”

“So come on!” He jumps to his feet and walks out without waiting for me to follow.

I want to heave myself out of the chair, but the arms aren’t firm and I sink back in. The older secretary is watching me through the open door. It takes me three attempts to get up: I smile at her as if I’d done it on purpose, master clown and king of slapstick, and go down the corridor to the elevator where my brother is waiting.