Julia Franck - The Blind Side of the Heart

Your father needs looking after? This was followed by a malicious cackle of laughter. Do you know what looking after someone means? Acting so sweet, and you don’t even fetch a glass of water for your mother! Another bumping sound. Your mother, do you hear? Just you wait, you’ll have to look after me one of these days. Aha. Me, do you hear? Until I die. You’ll have to take my excrement in your hands.

The cackle of laughter died away, changed and turned to sobbing.

Let’s see what’s going on, said the guest, climbing the stairs with determination ahead of Mariechen.

As he reached the top step, a boot flew just past his face and hit the wall. Helene had ducked, so her mother took the second boot and threw that at her too, with all her might.

You brat, you little tick, you’ll be the death of me yet!

Helene put her arms over her head for protection. Her answer came soft but clear: I wouldn’t do you the favour.

No one had noticed the advent of the visitor. He could hardly believe his eyes. If Mariechen had not followed him upstairs, close on his heels, and if she hadn’t been standing behind him now and barring his way down, he would have turned to beat a retreat unseen. There stood Frau Selma in her nightdress, which was cut so low that it showed more of her breasts than surely she could like. Embroidered marguerite daisies ran along the lace edge. But her loose hair swirled in the air and fell in ringlets to her bare shoulders as if it were alive. The silver threads in it gleamed, winding over her breasts like worm trails. Obviously she hadn’t been expecting a visitor, and she still didn’t see him as he stood hesitantly on the top step but one, looking for a way out.

You shameless, spoilt brat!

So who brought me up, Mother?

And to think I’ve been feeding such a child in my house. Her mother snorted. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?

Martha feeds us, Mother, haven’t you noticed? Helene’s voice was level but challenging. Maybe I write the red and black figures in the printing works accounts books for you, but it’s Martha who feeds us. Whose money do you think we use to pay for goods at the market on Saturday? Yours? Do you have any money?

Oh, you little devil, get away from here, clear out! Mother snatched a book from the shelf and flung it in Helene’s direction.

Heavens above. Helene kept her voice low. Why did you give birth to me, Mother? Why did you do it? Why not abort me and send me off to join the angels?

Before the guest could dodge, another book ricocheted off his shoulder.

Don’t say you didn’t know how!

Only now did Selma Würsich notice their visitor. Tears flowed from her eyes, she sank to her knees and said to the guest, in a pleading tone: Did you hear that, sir? Help me! And she calls herself my daughter! She was sobbing uncontrollably.

Excuse me, please. The guest was stammering. He stood hesitantly on the stairs, leaning on his stick with his one hand: Weimar, Cassel, Bad Wildungen, where are you now? He was trembling as he leaned against the banisters for support.

Oh yes, she calls herself my daughter! Mother was shouting now; she wanted the whole town, the entire human race, to hear about her misfortune. It was her soul wanted to come to me, she was the one who chose me.

Helene did not deign to glance at the guest. She murmured quietly: Wanting never came into it.

She straightened up, tidied her hair, and went purposefully upstairs to her father, who was lying there on the right-hand side of the marital bed and did indeed need her care and help. Even before the guest could follow her up, probably assuming that he would find Martha, his old friend’s wife was barring his way. She seized hold of his leg, clasped it in both her hands, she groaned, she whimpered. The visitor turned, looking for Mariechen, but Mariechen had disappeared. He was alone with the foreign woman.

Upstairs, Helene tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. So she sat on the top step in the dark and, unseen, looked down at her mother through the banisters. She was clutching Grumbach’s leg and crawling over the floor at the same time. Grumbach was trying to free himself, but in vain.

Did you see that? Her nails were clawing at Grumbach’s ankles.

Excuse me, repeated the visitor, er, please excuse me. Can I help you up?

At least there’s one person in this house who has a heart. Helene’s mother gave the visitor her hand, hauled herself up heavily, and was finally supporting herself on him and his stick with her bare arms, making him totter. His glance fell on her bosom, moved on to the delicate daisy embroidery, then returned to the locks of dark and silver ringlets falling over her breasts. Finally he tore his eyes away and, with an effort, fixed them on the floor.

As soon as she was upright again she looked down at the stooping man in front of her.

Who are you? she asked in surprise. She pushed back her hair from her face, still ignoring her deep décolleté. Suspiciously, she looked at the man. Do I know you? What are you doing in my house?

Grumbach is my name, Gustav Grumbach. Your husband printed my poems To the Fair One . Grumbach cleared his throat, trying to summon up a trusting smile out of the confusion of the moment.

To the Fair One ? The girls’ mother broke into a peal of laughter.

The change from heart-rending tears to loud laughter was so sudden that it sent a shiver running down the visitor’s spine. Perhaps his heart was thudding; at least, he dared not look the woman in the eye. In fact, he didn’t know where to look at all, since he could hardly consider it proper for his eyes to rest on the tiny breasts showing above her nightdress either. For over twenty years he had known Selma Würsich only at a distance. In the past she used to stand behind the wooden counter in the printing works now and then; he must have spoken to her a few times, he just couldn’t remember it at the moment. She had retreated from the life of Bautzen over the years and had been forgotten, had to be forgotten.

Since his return from Verdun, Grumbach had seen her only once, again from a distance. If it had been her. The people of the town said there was something wrong with her. Gustav Grumbach should have felt all the more relieved that the foreign woman had never crossed his path since he began visiting the Würsich household.

To the Fair One ? Selma Würsich had assumed a serious expression. She made it a question, and kept hold of the visitor’s shoulder. And who is this Fair One? Who is she supposed to be? While she was still asking, she seemed to be searching for something; she felt in her dressing gown pocket and looked uneasily over the guest’s shoulders. Cigarette? she asked, putting out her hand for a packet standing within reach on the narrow bookshelf.

No, thank you.

Selma Würsich lit one of the slender cigarettes and inhaled deeply. So do you know who this Fair One is? I assume you have someone special in mind, am I right? You know Daumer’s poem, I take it? Waft, ye zephyrs, soft and sweetly. Selma’s voice was hoarse. Waft ! she said in a deep and menacing tone. Waft ! She laughed, and the cackle hurt Helene, who put both hands over her ears.

Tentatively, Selma Würsich inhaled the smoke of her cigarette and let it out through her nostrils in tiny, cloudy puffs.

Grumbach managed to get out the words: Yes, of course.

This was more of an assertion than anything else, or so at least Helene interpreted the pressure she detected behind the sounds he uttered and his restless eyes.

If thou thine heart wouldst give me … Her mother began the line in a voice laden with meaning.

… then secret let it be./That others may not guess it when they see you with me. Oh yes, of course, that too, said the guest, making haste to complete the couplet. But he seemed unable to summon up much real pleasure in their complicity.