Christopher Kloeble - Almost Everything Very Fast

Albert hid himself by the curb behind a Dumpster, which reeked sourly of discarded wine bottles.

Tobi was a well-known figure in the village, huge and vigorous, with an arrogant peasant haughtiness; he gave a quick, wheezy laugh, yet all he said was “Freddie.” He said it eagerly, as if sure it would fluster its target. But Fred didn’t move. Tobi’s disappointment showed itself in a shuffling of the feet; they wanted to move on, no rest for them, that’s what they were famous for. Whenever he was on the road in his milk truck, making his rounds from farm to farm in order to suck up the fresh milk with a hose like an elephant’s trunk and deliver it to the creameries in the uplands, his feet jammed the pedal all the way to the floor. These impatient feet of his had made him the quickest, most cost-effective driver in eleven towns; their distaste for the brake pedal meant that the milk didn’t slosh around, keeping it from going bad on the way. Today, however, Tobi’s truck was nowhere to be seen.

His second “Freddie” had the same effect as the first, which is to say, none whatsoever. Tobi circled Fred, ran his hand across his freckled face, scratched his neck. The heat was getting to him. His feet writhed in their loafers as he stepped closer to Fred, clapped one hand to his pursed lips, and let out an ululation— “U-U-U!” —waited a moment, then repeated the whole operation: “U-U-U!”

Albert knew it was time for him to step in, he ought to go over and send Tobi home, clearly, directly, no two ways about it. “Go sleep it off, fella,” something like that, and then, once Tobi had absented himself, Albert would take Fred by the hand, no, in his arms, and say he was sorry for leaving him alone so long and, most important, offer him some sort of reward for all the strain he’d suffered — for example, pancakes with raspberry jam.

And just at that moment, Fred raised his hand to his mouth, and went, “U-U-U!” Tobi nodded, his feet formed themselves into an arrow aimed in Fred’s direction, and he replied, “U-U-U!” Now they took turns, and Albert closed his eyes and clutched the makeup compact in his pocket. To Albert, Fred’s voice sounded euphoric, like that of a child who’s unexpectedly come across a playmate.

But Tobi’s strained laughter made Albert uneasy; he thought better of his impulse to rush over, for the time being. He was no match for Tobi.

Tobi slapped Fred in the face. Which didn’t immediately stop the U-U-U s. They merely slowed for a moment, then took up their previous tempo again, a few halftones higher, clearly in hopes that this new friend had intended something other than the obvious by the gesture — a nice pat on the cheek, maybe. “U-U-U,” went Fred, and Tobi’s feet pointed at him again, and then came the second slap, right to the middle of Fred’s face, and he fell silent. The Tyrolean hat sailed off his head. Fred’s lips trembled, he mumbled something Albert couldn’t make out, but which he supposed was an apology, because this last one had been, unmistakably, a slap, and anyone who gets hit in the face has clearly done something wrong, has been bad. Fred let his hands, his head, his shoulders sink, his whole body melt, and Tobi, whose feet were now merrily dancing, moving closer to each other with every step, slapped him again, this time with his left hand — pasted him so powerfully that Fred lurched sideways.

Ludwigstrasse was an unfrequented strip of tar in an isolated backwater. Where were the cars when you needed them? Albert was hoping Fred would resist, but he was also a little frightened of what would happen if he did. More than a little. Again he peeped around the corner of the Dumpster, and this time saw that Tobi, who had just swung for the fourth time, was waving his arm in the air like a schoolboy keen to give an answer. Tobi was looking straight at Albert. Just then Fred took a step toward Tobi, and stopped. The tip of Fred’s nose was nearly grazing the truck driver’s cheek, there was something almost conspiratorial about the way the two were standing. Fred whispered something that caused Tobi to lower his hand again. His feet had stopped moving. Relieved, Albert drew a deep breath, forced himself to let go of the makeup compact, and hoped Tobi would finally retreat.

“That’s your dad,” said Tobi to Albert, soberly.

To Albert, that dad sounded like dead.

“That’s your dad,” Tobi repeated, “isn’t he?” Fred was half-hidden behind Tobi, whose loafers were pointing at Albert now.

Fred glanced back and forth at the two men, as if following the ball at a tennis match.

Though he didn’t need to clear his throat, Albert did so anyway. “Get lost,” he said. His injured hand throbbed in his pocket.

“It doesn’t hurt at all,” Fred said, and clutched his nose, which was dripping blood. He rubbed the red between his thumb and index finger, then displayed the hand, saying, “Look!”

Albert wanted to go to him.

Tobi stood in the way. “How long have you been squatting there?”

Albert could feel Fred’s gaze on him, and turned to Tobi: “Can we talk?”

Tobi’s feet were perking up again. “So why didn’t you do anything? I mean, he’s your dad. Hey, Freddie, this wonderful Albert of yours didn’t do a thing.” One of Tobi’s feet was pointed at Albert, the other at Fred. “He must not care, Freddie. Guess you don’t matter to him.”

“Of course I matter to Albert,” said Fred sorely, and that disturbed Albert, because he should have said so himself.

“You think so?”

“Come on.” Albert extended his hand to Fred. “Let’s go.”

Fred, whose blood was now running freely over his upper lip, didn’t move.

Albert didn’t know what to say.

“Albert?” Fred’s nose was gushing.

But now a midnight-blue tractor had appeared on the road, and was bearing down on the trio at a good clip. Its approach shook Albert from his stupor. At once he was wide awake. As they stepped aside to let the tractor pass, he moved closer to Tobi, waited for the cover of the engine’s noise, and then, once they were completely enveloped by it, spoke quickly but clearly and unmistakably, because he had only a couple of seconds. Fred, he said, was terminally ill, had no more than three months left, and if he, Tobias Gruber, the milk truck driver, wanted to be answerable for the premature death of Albert’s severely disabled father, then he should simply carry on as before.

As he pronounced his last syllables, the tractor passed with a boy hugging the steering wheel, dragging behind it a wind as hot as the foehn, and the roar of the engine and crunching of gravel subsided.

At a mute command, Tobi’s feet turned, and he walked away with the double-time pace of someone less than eager to display how much he wants to run.

“There’s a lot of blood,” said Fred, making a cup of his hand and holding it beneath his chin, without managing to catch even one drop.

“Lie down. On the grass.” Albert gave him a handkerchief. “Hold it under your nose.”

“Thank you, Albert.”

“No. Thank you. ”

“Why?”

“Don’t you know why he ran away?”

“Because he was afraid of you.”

Albert moistened his shirtsleeve with saliva and began to wipe Fred’s face. The fabric went pale pink. “No, of you.”

“Of me?”

Albert nodded.

Fred smiled. “I am a hero after all.” He coughed, flinching a bit, spitting blood. Fred’s right eye was slightly swollen, his skin waxy.

“You have to lie down,” said Albert.

“I’m already lying down.”

“At home.”

Fred sat up again. “We have to go down into the pipes, Albert!” Fred was looking at him seriously. “I want to do it today!”