Павел Хюлле - Cold Sea Stories

He nodded, with understanding rather than sympathy. Later, as he lay in bed, he couldn’t fall asleep for ages. Now and then he heard a stray shot outside, soldiers calling, and the clatter of boots. On the wall above the bed a clock was ticking, and from the next room came Hanna’s gentle snoring. He longed for the roar of the sea, the dazzling whiteness of the dunes, and the scent of pine trees and juniper. He remembered that summer evening, when she had led him to the shed where the shipwrecks’ belongings lay untouched: an hour-glass with Greek lettering, a Swedish sextant, a Russian jeweller’s scale, an unknown sailor’s shoe, a bale of silk, a decimated whisky box, some French port, a silk shirt of unknown origin, and finally some candlesticks, cutlery and plates, two canvases by Dutch masters and the Belgian captain’s chest, in which he saw pistols, a handful of silver coins, some decaying maps and a violin, of Italian make, as it would soon turn out. Later she had explained to him that a hundred or more years ago, when the reign of the Polish kings had ended, they had stopped handing in the things they found to the officials. They were to wait here for their owners, until the Day of Judgement – so it had been decreed in the chapel.

He remembered that autumn day, on the verge of October perhaps, when he had walked the length of the beach alone after a storm. Among the mussels, seaweed and amber he had found a shackle. It was not rusty, and he recognised it instantly: he and Willman must have forged it before completing the rigging. There was a piece of ragged rope protruding from the shackle like a fluffed-up tail. He shook the sand off his find, took a swing and hurled it far into the sea.

Now the constant roar of the waves had lulled him to sleep. He dreamed he was on his way home. The moss coating the dunes was as soft as a carpet. On either side pine trees soared into the sky, with tall grass whispering in between them. She was waiting for him at the edge of the road, wearing her Sunday-best black dress with the little white collar.

‘It’s time now,’ she said. ‘Everyone is waiting for you.’

There was a crowd of people in the chapel. He could feel the warmth of human breath and burning candles. Harmensoon handed him the violin and bow, and once he had taken hold of the instrument, the old man opened the Book. Instead of biblical verses it was full of staves, and instead of letters he saw the black swallows of notes. Never before had he read or played this music. It was as lucid as a fugue by Bach, as solemn as a phrase by Handel, as lively as a few bars by Vivaldi, and as melancholy as a song by Schubert. Before the coda had finished resonating, he caught sight of the two sisters’ faces: leaning over the gallery rail, they were following his playing in deepest concentration. When he stopped, there was no one in the chapel the King. The waves were beating against the walls. The Earth was shrinking. The wind was raging in the broken windows, turning the empty pages of the Book, and bringing in snow, withered leaves and grains of burning sand.

Next morning when Hanna saw the empty bed and the half-open door, she wasn’t even surprised. But the bright mark on the wallpaper where the clock used to be and the missing silver candlestick made her feel confused. How would she tell her sister about it? The word ‘thief’ didn’t seem appropriate, nor was ‘swindler’ exactly right. Maybe she should keep quiet about it? She couldn’t imagine the two of them together, at any time or in any place. Nor could she forgive herself for so recklessly letting him in, and once it had happened, for keeping him here like a friend. But Hanna’s confusion proved far greater when around noon Jakub came back from the city. He put two cans of army food on the table, a chunk of bacon, some smoked fish, a bottle of vodka, some salt, a little bag of buckwheat and some matches. From his pocket he produced a handful of tea in a twist of paper.

‘I see you are resourceful in any situation,’ she said.

‘I’m afraid I am,’ he confirmed.

They smiled at each other. Then Jakub showed her an official receipt; bearing the stamp of the city’s Soviet police headquarters, it looked quite ominous.

‘What does it say here?’ she asked.

‘That I live here legally, and as a result you are safe, at least for some time.’

Only a man called Molke from the ground floor stopped bowing to her. But she didn’t have to take the slightest bit of notice, just like Jakub, who simply failed to perceive any of the neighbours.

‘Please take the D line and go as far as Bedford Park Boulevard. The lady will be waiting in the botanical garden. Have you got a map? What’s that? A guidebook, which one? Yes, perhaps. It’s called the Rhododendron Walk – do you know what those plants look like? The lady’s in a wheelchair, she’ll be holding the book, you are sure to recognise her.’

I was amazed. Where did she get my phone number from? And what an idea, to make an appointment through your secretary or someone of the kind who pronounced the simple word ‘ you ’ with such reverence?

I walked down 34th Street to Herald Square, and once at the station I wondered: maybe I shouldn’t go? But his words, after introducing himself as ‘Mr Hook’ and asking if he was talking to ‘Mr Helke, the writer from Europe’, that short sentence of his in which he said: ‘The lady read your story “The Table” and wants to tell you what it was really like’, that declaration of his in which there wasn’t the slightest doubt I would take up the invitation, had made my heart flutter. In the worst case I had disappointment ahead of me: a long monologue about an unsuccessful life, or questions such as: ‘Why did you write about the Mennonites?’

In Greek rhodos means a rose, and dendron means a tree, and indeed – the rhododendrons were blooming just like rose trees, in shades of crimson, white and red. Just as Mr Hook had said, she was sitting in a wheelchair with the book in her hands. She must have recognised me from afar, for as I approached, she raised the white cover and waved it to greet me in a very friendly way.

‘Thank you for coming’ – those were her first words. ‘I’m going to die soon, and what I read in here,’ she said, raising the book, ‘leads me to imagine you will want to hear this story, and that one day you will write about it, back in your own country.’

And at once, without any introduction, she started telling her tale. The English she spoke was coarse, but plain. Only occasionally did she put in a word in German, and then broke off at once, said ‘Excuse me,’ and went on with her story.

After about an hour, when Jakub and Willman were building the boat, along came Mr Hook. He looked odd: in a huge fedora and a summer suit, he was more like a character out of a Chekhov play than someone who lives in the Bronx. He brought some sandwiches and hot chocolate, straightened the rug on her knees and walked away, discreetly glancing at his watch.

My surprise was growing by the minute: how come no settlers were moved into the village once the Germans had deported everyone? Did Willman make a deal with Jakub that only the two of them would sail away together, or had there been a decision to escape as a threesome? Why couldn’t Jakub see Harmensoon in the chapel, when she claimed to have seen him many times after his death and burial? Was Ludwig, the one in the uniform, really her sister’s husband?

There were more and more questions on my notepad, but not once did I dare to interrupt the flow of her narrative. Every sentence was uttered with an effort she did her best to conceal, and had something final about it, as if after each full stop, marked with a short pause, the end of the world had come.