Gregor von Rezzori - An Ermine in Czernopol

“He’d have to be tied to the ground. But go on, Hubi, otherwise we’ll be late …”

“It’s not that urgent, Sophie, just let me finish …”

“I’m telling you that you should finish now, because you know how much Janos dislikes driving on these bad roads. It’s absolutely scandalous — where we live, you know — potholes two feet deep, you can imagine what that does to our axles, and Janos really is a careful driver, say what you will …”

“Listen to you! On the way into town he drove like the devil was breathing down his neck. Of course during the day it’s a different matter.”

“But tell us about your gun rest, Hubi. Pay attention, Elvira, because I’m sure this will interest you as well.”

“So now we’ll simply do this: once the gamekeeper has the gun pointed in the direction of the deer, I’ll stick the gun rest in the ground and hold the rifle tight — then he can talk to me as much he as he wants with the straw in his mouth. That way I won’t lose the deer anymore from my sight, and this also has the advantage that you can shoot with greater certainty, say what you will, but I’m no longer one to get embarrassed when I pass up a shot or anything like that. After all, I’ve shot enough in my life freehand, and fast, too, tossing them off with the shotgun …”

“Hubi can shoot from enormous distances, often up to four hundred yards …”

“Well, with the rifles these days you can do that …”

And so on and so on. They were always in the process of leaving, never had enough time, and still they would stay rooted to their chairs for several hours, then only to draw out the unpostponable departure.

“Well, we really have to be going, no two ways about it, but Hubi has a few new jokes you simply have to hear. Very quickly. Tell that one, Hubi, you know …”

“Which one?”

“The one you told me on the ride in — that Ferry told you …”

“Which one was that?”

“You know. Oh, it’s slipped off the tip of my tongue right now, but it’s really funny, it is, Hubi always has the best jokes, he can keep an entire company entertained.”

“If only I could remember them at the right moment — right now I honestly don’t know which one you mean. Really I should write them down immediately, because there are just too many to remember.”

“It’s a real pity, Hubi, that you can’t remember this one, it was really good.”

“No, there’s another one that’s a lot better, the one I told you the other day, except I can’t tell it right now in front of the children — and there are ladies present as well. But you really can’t remember which one?”

“Didn’t it start like this: ‘Two Jews are sitting in the train …’?”

“That’s right, that’s the one! No, no, it was a different one — give me just a moment …”

Strangely, we children didn’t experience this as boring: that was simply how things were and therefore how they had to be. Despite their ridiculous traits, our two relatives displayed a very high degree of what Herr Tarangolian referred to as haecceitas . Raising his finger, he launched into an explanation: “A wonderful expression from the good Doctor Subtilis, my young friends, well worth noting!” In short: they were exactly who they were, in a manner that was absolutely and utterly natural; they were perfect in their own way and defied comparison, because they represented a world that was complete unto itself. And while this world might be questioned, especially when measured against other forms of existence, it could never be negated or denied. This gave them an added measure of representative authority, apart from their own powers of persuasion, in the same way that Johann Huber the farmer is greater than and stronger than Johann Huber the man, or sailor Hein is stronger than and greater than just plain Hein. Ten minutes in their company was enough to transport us to the peaceful and leisurely pace of country life, where the eternal repetition of natural cycles is perceived and welcomed as variety, so that ultimately all impatience is lulled to sleep by the rhythmic rising and falling of the Great Breath, and banal, everyday events acquire a kind of nourishing power. Aunt Paulette, who detested anything to do with the country, couldn’t help giving one of her bitter-angry groans a biblical cast: “And breakfast and dinner and tea and supper were another day.”

Of course that world afforded Herr Adamowski little room to maneuver. After he managed to break the spell of the first awkward moments, he changed his role from observed to observer, and began calling attention to himself, so as not to be left at a disadvantage. He laughed out loud at a joke or anecdote, and looked around seeking consensus, as if every person present could claim some of the credit for the general merriment, himself included. Finally he overcame his awkwardness and began interjecting an occasional word or sentence into the conversation being carried on by Uncle Hubi and Aunt Sophie, though of course he never had much of a chance, since any insights he might have were diminished by his being an outsider. So he grew increasingly uneasy, as if he had performed below expectations and didn’t deserve the cup of tea and the anchovy roll that were set in front of him. But there was no way to get past the utter self-containment of our aunt and uncle from the country. Consequently he turned to us children, baring his teeth in a sawlike smile and winking to imply some secret understanding, as if coaxing us to join him in silent mockery of our relatives. All of these gestures set his monocled face into a circular motion like a wheel of fortune capable of producing a winning number at any moment, but which most of the time stops at a blank, only to continue undeterred onto the next spin, equally full of promise. He actually succeeded in attracting our attention, but as soon as he started to perform his magic tricks and suddenly pulled a piece of candy out of nowhere, just like that time at the gate, Aunt Paulette interrupted him with a “Would you please stop that,” in a tone whose sharpness lingered in the room for several seconds.

Not until the end of the visit, as the relatives were searching for the joke that had escaped them, did Herr Adamowski get a word in. Uncle Hubert was apologizing for what we had missed, while Aunt Sophie promised to send the joke on by mail—“You know how it is: the minute you take your seat in the carriage it all comes back to you”—along with another one that was nowhere near as good as the one they couldn’t remember, as both of them seemed vexed to admit. Herr Adamowski jumped in to take advantage of the opportunity and said: “But perhaps you haven’t heard this one …” and finally had a chance to say something. He told a fairly boring joke, and then, without waiting to see its effect, which could hardly have been remarkable, quickly added: “And here’s another, if I might …” and went on telling a second, third, and fourth joke, one after the other, until he finally noticed that enough was enough. Then he went silent, baring his saw-teeth, while Uncle Hubi said musingly: “Yes, that’s a good one … But if only I could remember mine from this morning …” until a general silence settled, which Aunt Sophie put an end to: “Well, Hubi, I think it really is time for us to get going …”

“You’re right,” said Uncle Hubert. “I think it really is time for us to get going …”

Herr Adamowski wanted to leave with them, but his hosts asked him to stay, claiming they’d hardly had a chance to talk, though in reality they wanted a chance to see off the relatives undisturbed. The couple from the country — bright-eyes, iron-gray hair, clad in coarse brushed wool with thistly tufts, with large, dry, kind hands — seemed to anticipate the fresh air on their ruddy cheeks and the wind against their carriage. They quickly took their leave of Herr Adamowski with an alarmingly brusque display of cordiality and returned to their true element. Left to his own devices, Herr Adamowski ate two more anchovy rolls and soon went on his way. The impression he left behind neither disappointed nor exceeded what had been expected of him. No one said a thing about it.