Gert Jonke - Awakening to the Great Sleep War

Burgmüller now spoke a few explanatory words about his new acoustic-utopian interior design of the sound of longing, whereby it seemed to him, when he was facing the caryatid, that he wasn’t just any acoustic interior designer, but rather an acoustic universe designer ; it is my great hope, he said, that I will someday be able to pace off the boundary line of one of those stray dream-insight-districts as might occasionally happen to err in our direction, as one of the truly great dreams passes through on its travels, just a few steps, just briefly, without even noticing it itself, so that I might perhaps manage then to catch even a glimpse of its true magnitude, of which we can’t even dream, really, to any extent — and then of course one would have to hope as well that this unperceived, hypothetical, errant dream wouldn’t immediately smash to pieces on its return, just because its most fleeting outlines had briefly, when it was too close to you or to me for its own safety, been taken into our memory — that is what he would wish for more than anything else in the world, Burgmüller explained to the caryatid, as he temporarily took his departure from her. .

But do take your time, she replied, inviting him before his return to her to go ahead and carry out one of those research expeditions he had spoken of, so that he could better report back to her on everything, and, as he knew, the time of his absence, whether he was away now for a few hours or months or years, would in any case seem very short, just like the blink of an eye for her, and besides, too, as he would soon find out, she knew how to make certain she was always accompanying him in some manner. .

(After all, she had always been with him, they had always been together, it was only briefly that they’d ever been somewhat separated from each other, and now it had become high time that he once more. .

What? he asked, have I met you before? When was that?

I don’t know, she said, but I firmly believe it, I have a very definite feeling. .)

Everything seemed so different, as if it had been replaced, yes, much had changed, because the city had stepped right out of the shadows it had cast, was no longer knotted like a cummerbund around its previous existence; instead, it was clearly recognizable as nothing other than a negative image, a silhouette of a city previously unknown to him that no longer laced him in, but rather stretched itself out visibly before him.

This shadow, he asked himself, this shadow-snow, this shadow-snow-spark-shower now leaping out of all the alleyways, is it also the face of my beloved whom I have now found again, whose eyes accompany me everywhere, blinking into my face? and the silver-sound-lightning of the rain-guitars now hopping and squatting their way out of those cloud-gray houses, is that also her voice, the echo of her calling for me? and the swaying boats that hit against the hawsers in the river harbor, are they her breath, that carries the light toward the west?

When he looked across the roofs, their patterns were woven together into foothills that flowed into the forests at the edge of the city, from which a rustling calm passed over the houses. The towers were within reach, painted into the distant air, all the way up to the ceiling of this atmosphere-room, with complex light-beam constructions artfully stretched over it.

He made his way to the river. The trees were leaned against the shore, organized into avenues that flowed away with the stream, and they were either blown upward by the wind through the sky, or else they trickled away into the horizon.

The conversations of the shore glistened in the river, which had stopped under the remaining shadows of charcoal soot that the previous night must have left lying there in its abandoned campfires, strewn out from its completely transparent, yes, even more transparent than the autumn air, its transparent albino darkness .

He stood at the wharf and tried to look across to the other shore.

Was it so wreathed in mist that he couldn’t see it? No, no mist, this day was almost exaggeratedly clear, but the other shore was much too far away, even the bridges spanned the river in vain and couldn’t reach it, they were just gigantic jetties built into the surface of the water, waiting for the ocean-going steamers to berth, whose tooting was answered by the friendly waving or calling from the people standing on the shore, whose conversations disappeared into the sea, yes, because the river was the ocean, the stream was the sea, whose smell had been accompanying him for a long time, hurrying ahead of him through the entire city, pulling him along behind it through the narrow streets, the streetcars rushing toward him with their pantographs flashing happily on the overhead cable, laughing in his direction, wishing him a good day, and ringing their bells as they passed.

At the train station a crowd had assembled outside the main entrance, swinging their beer bottles in unison and staring at a real spectacle:

The high glass partition at the front of the building had been broken through by a locomotive whose brakes must have failed as it came into the station. All the cars behind it had derailed, had broken, and were lying in ungainly and awkward positions in the hall. Of course no one had been hurt. Burgmüller was just in time to see the last of the inconvenienced travelers climbing out of some colorfully glistening splintered windows and brushing the dust off their clothes by hitting their hands against their coats and suit jackets, wiping and beating the arms and legs of their clothing, and blowing it off their hats. The locomotive engineer was surrounded by newspaper reporters who were celebrating him as the hero of the day and were busily writing down his explanatory comments, which were accompanied by many hand gestures: he told them that he wouldn’t have missed this very interesting adventure for anything, despite all the danger; it was the first time he had experienced anything like that, but if it should ever happen to him again, he’d do everything exactly the same way. The passengers confirmed his view, all of them nodding and smiling as they listened to his explanations, you could see from their faces that they felt like chosen ones, they were glad and happy that they had not, as usual, missed the most important thing to happen on this day, and indeed the bystanders were very envious of them, surrounding them and asking them questions, and wishing — most of them — that they had been on the train too.

Otherwise, it was business as usual at the train station; the accident hadn’t caused any major disruption.

Away from the turmoil, on a track set off by itself, Burgmüller now saw something he wouldn’t have thought possible, a train made entirely of glass, its cars all transparent, and on the signs affixed to its exterior, which normally named the destination and the most important intermediate stops, it said: Travel with the Federal Railway’s glass train through our beautiful land! Really get to know your unknown homeland!

While he stood there in astonishment, a uniformed railway official came up behind him and said: Don’t you want to come along? You won’t regret it; we still have some seats available!

Even the cost of the trip remained within reasonable bounds. Was the locomotive at the front also entirely made of glass, Burgmüller asked, but the official either didn’t hear the question properly or didn’t understand it, or he thought he didn’t have to answer it, because it was more important to tell Burgmüller right away the number and location of the special wicket where he could buy his ticket.

A little later they glide out of the city, or the city is shedding the travelers, or brushing them out of itself, one can’t say exactly, and Burgmüller feels the landscape starting to slide over him like a skin, feels the hills gliding gently through his fingers and the intervening valleys skimming across his face.