Daniel Kehlmann - F

“No problems, no difficulties?”

“No.”

Arthur played with the radio again. “So!” he cried. “Out!”

Martin, Eric, and Ivan looked at one another in surprise. Only now did they realize that they were in front of Martin’s house.

Martin got out.

“Us too?” asked Ivan.

“Of course.”

The twins got out rather hesitantly; only Arthur remained sitting where he was. Eric looked down at his shoes. An ant was following a crack in the asphalt, and a gray beetle was crossing its path. Tread on the beetle, said a voice in his head, tread on it, quick — tread on the beetle and then maybe everything will still be all right. He lifted his foot, but then set it down again and spared the beetle’s life.

Arthur wound down the car window. “All my sons.” He laughed, wound the window back up, and put his foot on the gas.

The three of them watched the car drive off, getting smaller until it disappeared around the corner. For a while, nobody said anything.

“How do we get out of here?” Ivan asked finally.

“Five streets over there’s a bus,” said Martin. “After seven stops you change to another bus, then it’s three stops, then you can switch to the subway.”

“Can we come in with you?” asked Eric.

Martin shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Mama’s a bit funny about that sort of thing.”

“We’re your brothers.”

“Exactly.”

But when they rang the doorbell anyway, Martin’s mother came to grips with the situation surprisingly quickly. It was unbelievable, she kept saying, impossible to take in, like two peas in a pod. She gave the twins Coca-Cola and a plateful of sugary gummy bears, which they ate so as not to be rude, and of course she allowed Ivan to use the phone to call home.

After that they went to Martin’s room and he got out the little air gun that Arthur had given him just a few months before and that he kept well hidden from his mother. The three of them positioned themselves at the window and took turns aiming at the tree that was slowly disappearing in the darkness on the edge of the street. Eric scored twice on the trunk and twice just leaves, Ivan hit the trunk twice but no leaves. Martin hit one leaf but not the trunk, and gradually they began to feel that they were related, and realized what it meant to be brothers.

And a car was already pulling up with a sharp honking of its horn to summon Eric and Ivan down the stairs and into the street. When their mother asked them what had happened and where their father was, they didn’t know how to answer her. It wasn’t until a telegram arrived from Arthur shortly after midnight that she got the two of them out of bed and made them tell her all about it.

Arthur had taken his passport and all the money in their joint account. There were only two sentences in the telegram: First, he was fine, no need for concern. Second, they shouldn’t wait for him, he wouldn’t be coming back for a long time. And in fact none of his sons set eyes on him again until they were grown up. But the following years did see the publication of the books that made Arthur Friedland’s name famous.

I confess . I hear their voices, but see nothing because the sun coming through the windows is blinding. The altar boy next to me yawns. That I have sinned through my own fault . Now I have to yawn too, but I suppress it and clench my jaw so hard that tears form in my eyes.

In my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and what I have failed to do .

In a moment the light will fall at a deeper slant, and with it a little group of people emerges from the sea of shadows: the five old women who always come, the friendly fat man, the sad young woman, and the fanatic. His name is Adrian Schlueter. He often sends me handwritten letters on expensive paper. He’s obviously not yet heard of emails.

Forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life . I can’t get used to having to get up so early. The organ starts with a drone. We worship You, we give You thanks . I miss most of the notes, but that’s a given in my profession, almost all priests sing badly. We praise You for Your glory . The organ falls silent. While we’ve been singing, the sun has risen higher, multicolors flicker brilliantly in the windows, thin blades of light flash through the air, each bearing a tiny blizzard of dust. It’s so early still, and yet so hot. Summer is at its merciless height. With the Holy Spirit, in the glory of God the Father . The yawning altar boy lays the missal on the lectern. If it were up to me, the poor boy would still be in bed. It’s Friday, I don’t have to give a sermon, so now I say: The Word of the Lord . The congregation sits, and Martha Frummel comes to the front, seventy-eight years old, she does the morning reading every second day.

First Epistle of the Apostle Paul to the Corinthians. When I came to you, brothers, proclaiming the mystery of God, I did not come with sublimity of words or of wisdom . Martha Frummel is a gentle, good woman, perhaps even one of the Just of the World, but she has a voice like a barrel organ. For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ, and Him crucified. I came to you in weakness and fear and much trembling, and my message and my proclamation were not with persuasive words of wisdom, but with a demonstration of spirit and power, so that your faith might rest not on human wisdom but on the power of God .

The Word of the Lord , I say again. Martha wobbles back to her seat. My congregation stands and sings: Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! The sun is no longer dazzling, you can recognize the clumsy pictures in the stained glass: the Lamb, the Redeemer with his staring eyes, and the loaf of bread in the cross of rays of light. This church is the same age as I am, the walls intentionally crooked, the altar a raw block of granite that for some reason is not at the east end but the west, so that at Early Mass the sun does not blind the congregation, as is the tradition, but me.

The Gospels. As they were proceeding on their journey someone said to him, “I will follow you wherever you go.” My voice doesn’t sound bad; I’m good at my job. Jesus answered him, “Foxes have dens and birds of the sky have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to rest his head.” And to another he said, “Follow me.” But he replied, “Lord, let me go first and bury my father.” But he answered him, “Let the dead bury their dead. But you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” And another said, “I will follow you, Lord, but first let me say farewell to my family at home.” To him Jesus said, “No one who sets a hand to the plow and looks to what was left behind is fit for the kingdom of God.” I close the book. How appropriate, but it’s a total accident, it’s the prescribed passage for August 8, 2008.

And now the Profession of Faith. I clear my throat and declare what I wish I could believe. God, the Father, the Almighty, Jesus Christ, the Only Son of God, crucified, died, and buried; on the third day rose again, ascended into heaven; will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead. The Holy Spirit, the resurrection, the life of the world to come . Yes, I wish I did.

The Prayers of Intercession. We pray for the Dominicans, that they may diligently do God’s work, for today is the Day of Saint Dominic. Hear us, we beg you. We pray for all those who search for the truth, hear us, we pray for all those who are sick, and for all who have strayed from the certainty of faith . In our seminar for the study of the liturgy, we once discussed what sense it was supposed to make to beg an omniscient Being to grant a wish. Father Pfaffenbichel explained to us that the intercession itself was not important, it could always be omitted. But he didn’t know my congregation. Two weeks minus Prayers of Intercession last year and they were already thinking God had forgotten them. Nine emails of complaint to me and unfortunately also three to the bishop and one official resignation from the church. I had to send Frau Koppel a box of chocolates and pay her two home visits to make her change her mind.