John Hawkes: The Cannibal

I left Stumpfegle and Fegelein to distribute the leaflets. The sound of the press died out as I walked from the shed across the littered yard to the boarding house, the murmur of the canal grew louder with the rain from the hills that flowed, no crops to water, down into its contaminated channel. Somewhere near the end of the canal the body of Miller, caught under the axle of a submerged scout car, began to thaw and bloat.

Once more I climbed the dark stairs, deciding as I went, that in the weeks to come I’d turn the place into the National Headquarters. I’d use Stintz’s rooms as the stenographic bureau, the secretaries would have to be young and blonde. I reached the third floor and a gust of cold wind, that only a few hours before had swept over the morning already broken in the conquered north, made me shiver and cough. My boots thumped on the wooden floor, my sharp face was determined, strained. It was a good idea, I thought, to make this old house the Headquarters, for I could keep Jutta right on the premises. Of course, the children would have to go. I’d fill the place with light and cut in a few new windows. That aristocrat on the second floor, the Duke, would perhaps make a good Chancellor, and of course, the Census-Taker could be Secretary of State. This town was due prosperity, perhaps I could build an open-air pavilion on the hill for the children. Of course I’d put the old horse statue back on its feet. Young couples would make love beneath it on summer nights. It might be better to mount it on blocks of stone, so that visitors drawing near the city could say, “Look, there’s the statue of Germany, given by the new Leader to his country.”

I pushed open the Census-Taker’s door and by rough unfriendly shaking, roused my comrade out of a dead stupor.

“All the plans have been carried out. But there’s something you must do.”

I rubbed the man’s cheeks, pushed the blue cap on more tightly and buttoned the grey shirt. I smiled with warmth on the unseeing half-shut eyes.

“Hurry, wake up now, the country’s almost free.”

After more pushing and cajoling, the old official was dragged to his feet, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Come with me.”

“I’m too tired to sleep with that woman any more tonight.”

I looked at him sharply. “We’re not going to. Come along.” I could not allow myself to be offended.

“I don’t go on duty until eight o’clock.”

I held my temper, for the old man was drunk and couldn’t know what he was saying.

Together we climbed one more flight of stairs to Stintz’s room, and pushing the tuba, with its little patch of dried blood, out of the way, we picked up the crouching body and started off with it.

“Nothing but water,” said the Census-Taker struggling with the feet, “nothing but tuba and water and hot air out of his fat horn. Another pea in the fire of hell.”

“Don’t drop him.”

“Don’t drop him? I’d just as soon push him out of a window and let him get to the street by himself.”

“We’ll carry him, and you be careful.”

The old man mumbled and pulled at the feet. “I won’t even bother to take him off the roster.”

Out in the street we propped the body against the stoop where the moon shone down on the upturned eyes and a hard hand lay against the cold stone.

“Go back to the paper, you know what to do. I’ll meet you in front of the house.” The Census-Taker, vice-ruler of the State, shuffled into the darkness and I went back to the shed to find the cart.

The Chancellery was still as cold as it was in its unresurrected days, and even at this hour the Chancellor, boarder of the second floor, was out. Madame Snow drew the curtains and found that it was still night, the smashed wall across the street was vague and covered with mist. Her loose hair hung in uneven lengths, where she had cut it, down her back, her face was white and old, pressed to the window. “If old Stintz wants to sit out there like a fool, well, let him. I’ll make my imbecile some broth,” she thought, and tried to stir up the stove but found it impossible. “You’ll have to go without,” she said to Balamir, and he started and grinned at the Queen Mother’s words. Balamir knew that the village was like an abandoned honeycomb because somebody in airplanes had blown many of the roofs from the houses. But the Queen Mother should not look at the bleak night, it was his job and his alone to rebuild the town and make his subjects happy. He tried to attract her attention, but she was looking at the stove. Madame Snow herself wanted some broth, but collecting stove fuel from the basement was simply too great a task and she knew the fool, poor man, could never learn to do it. “Stintz is as bad as you,” she said and crawled about the honeycomb chuckling to herself, tiara fallen to one side, grown loose.

Four flights up in my new rooms, the child got out of bed and once more stood by the window, beginning her vigil over the ageless, sexless night. The little girl, Selvaggia, was careful to keep her face in the shadow of the curtain, lest the undressed man in the sky look down and see. As much as she disliked Herr Stintz, she thought that someone should go and tell him to come back into the house. But she knew enough not to disturb her mother.

Jutta pulled the covers back over her shoulder. Now that I was gone, there was no need to expose herself to the cold, and even the Census-Taker was no longer interested in seeing. But she couldn’t sleep. The peculiar thump of drunken feet, the droning of an engine, the footsteps of dead men echoed through the room, the branches scraped and whispered outside the window. She remembered the day that Stella went to be married and left her alone. Now Stella, the Madame, was old, only an old sterile tramp, and couldn’t even keep the house quiet at night. Jutta drew her knee up, smoothed the sheets, and lay wide awake. She wished that I would hurry home. Men were so stupid about their affairs, running around with pistols, little short rods and worried brows. “Come to bed,” she thought, “or one of these days I’ll throw you out, Leader or not.”

It was no use, there was no more sleep. She got out of bed and went to the three drawers under the washbowl stand and searched through her clothes. She found the letter under her week-day dress and it was covered with official seals and the censor’s stamp. The letter from her husband before he was lost in Russia, imprisoned among Mongolians, was the only personal possession she had left. She held the paper up to the moonlight.

“… I’m now at the front in a big field and the familiar world of men is gone. Yesterday a group went by and I shot the leader off his horse with a bullet right through his head. The rain sings and the streamlets reproduce every hour. I thought about him all last night and his horse ran off across the field. Now, Jutta, if it is true that I get what he used to own, I will send you the necessary papers so you can go and take possession of his farm. There may be a great deal of work to do on it so you had better start. I kept wondering last night if his wife was automatically mine or not. I suppose she is, and frankly, that worries me and I’m sorry I shot the fellow for that. I think she probably has red hair and the officials will dismiss the whole thing — but I will send you money as soon as it comes and you simply will have to make the best of it and fight it out with her and the children. His farm might be several acres, who knows? I’ll send you maps, etc. plus the fellow’s name and I don’t think you’ll have trouble crossing the field. I cannot make out what his wife will think of me now that she is mine along with the land. It’s too bad for her that it had to be this way but perhaps there’s a horse in the barn to replace the one that got away. I couldn’t sleep at all because this field is in the open, which is most astounding, and I couldn’t decide how much money he actually had that I could send you. I don’t know how you feel about all this, perhaps you’ll think I did wrong, but I struck the best bargain I could, and the Corporal in the dugout made it very difficult. Maybe I’ll be able to end this slave rule and will certainly mend the roof on his farmhouse for you if you’ll just do your share. There may be a few dogs on his farm who will keep the poachers off — I hope so. It’s a terrible problem as you can see but if the Corporal comes on my side I think things will change. I hope the whole plan works out for you and the papers arrive safely through the rain, for at the same time I am doing nothing in the trenches and this excitement, over the wire and saddles, is disturbing my conscience …”