Christopher Kloeble - Almost Everything Very Fast

That night I saw how patiently the bog swallowed the box of Most Beloved Possessions, and hoped that with this, the story of Jasfe and Josfer was finally at an end.

Afterward, I sat down on Wolf Hill by the tree’s serpentine root, and read I love you. From now on, Arkadiusz would no longer stand between me and my sister.

From a pouch I pulled the gold I’d found on Arkadiusz. He must have stuffed it into his pocket just seconds before the surge of water had swept him away. I’d hold on to it for the time being; who knew what good it might do someday.

Then I saw Fred hurrying up the hill toward me, and tucked it away. Though he wasn’t yet nine, my nephew’s legs, thin as matchsticks, were known as the longest in all of Segendorf, and patches of downy beard were already sprouting on his cheeks. “Mama says she can’t be a mama now!”

“And why are you telling me that?”

“I’m telling you because Mama says you can be my papa a little bit now.”

“Me? No, Fred. Nonono. Only your papa can be your papa.”

Fred shook first his right, then his left leg, looked up at the sky, cleared his throat. “Mama says you can be my papa a little bit now.”

“You already mentioned that.”

“What?”

“You said that already.”

“I know.”

“So you can go now.”

“I can draw a picture of you!”

“I don’t want any of your pictures. Go play with some kids, any kids!”

“Any kids are sleeping now.”

“Then why don’t you go to sleep, too?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“And why not?”

“Because my papa always sings a song so I can sleep. It has really funny words. Do you know that song?”

“No.”

“I was in the pipes today,” said Fred. “I looked for my papa. Mama says my papa is always traveling through the pipes. Sometimes he’s in America, and sometimes he’s in Poland, and sometimes he’s here, too.” He scraped at the ground with his feet, crossed his arms, stretched them out again, and sniffled. “Mama says you can be my papa a little bit, while my papa is traveling.”

“Fred.”

“Are you my papa a little bit now?”

“Listen.”

“You have to be my papa a little bit now!”

“Listen, Fred, listen carefully: I’ll never be your papa. Not today, not tomorrow. Never. Because I’m already a father. I have a son, a healthy son, who I like spending time with. His name’s Ludwig. You aren’t my son, and that’s why I’ll never be your father. I’m not going into the stinking sewers with you and I’m not singing for you and I’m definitely not going to be your papa. And thank God for that. Because I could never be anything for someone like you. You’re nothing to me. You’re nothing.”

The Truth

A few minutes later my bad conscience sent me after Fred, who’d leapt up and run away. I told myself that I could at least try to be his papa a little bit. In the end, that would please Anni. And maybe then I’d be Fred’s papa a little bit in her eyes, too.

I found Fred at the bus stop; he was crying. Before I could make my presence felt, Markus sat down beside him, and since I’d never had much sympathy for the pig farmer, I hid myself behind the maypole, where they wouldn’t be able to see me.

“The next bus doesn’t come for three days,” said Markus to Fred.

“I’m not waiting for the bus,” said Fred.

“For what, then?”

“For my papa.”

“The Polack?” Markus passed Fred a handkerchief. “That could take a while.”

Fred blew his nose. “I’m nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Julius says I’m nothing.”

“Ha. Julius Habom isn’t so much himself.” With a casual gesture that betrayed how often he did it, he flipped open a makeup compact and checked to make sure his toupee was perfectly seated on his scalp. Since the unfortunate encounter with Anni many years back, he’d used it to hide his bald patch.

Markus held the mirror up in front of Fred. “Who do you see there?”

“Frederick Arkadiusz Driajes.”

“And is that nothing?”

“Yes?”

“The correct answer is: You can never be nothing. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be there at all!”

“That’s right.”

Markus pointed to Fred’s reflection. “Do you know what I see?”

“Frederick Arkadiusz Driajes?”

“To tell you the truth: no, not just that. I see a boy who could be something great someday, I see potential.”

“You use a lot of words that nobody knows.”

“I read plenty of books.”

“As many as Julius Habom?”

“More, much more.” Markus tapped his finger on Fred’s reflection. “What color eyes do you have?”

“Green!”

“And what does green stand for? It’s the color of hope, of nature — green stands for growth. Green grows!”

“I’m growing a lot, too!”

“Precisely! Most people never grow. They simply settle for their lives, and when they die, it’s as if they’d never been. But the two of us, we’re different. We grow, we change. Before, I was just the son of a pig farmer. But now, look!” Markus opened his coat and showed Fred a pistol. “My best friend. A Walther P38.” He slipped it from the holster. “Want to feel?”

Fred hesitated.

Markus snatched Fred’s hand and laid the butt of the pistol in his palm.

“It’s heavy!” said Fred.

“It has to be. The weight reminds its owner of the power and responsibility that the possession of such a weapon brings.” Markus held the mirror up before Fred once more. “Who do you see?”

“Frederick Arkadiusz Driajes.”

“And what else?”

“Green.”

“And what else?”

“A pistol.”

“That’s quite a lot, isn’t it?”

Fred looked at the ground, and whispered: “Quite a lot.”

“Why so shy? Say it louder: quite a lot!”

“Quite a lot.”

“Even louder.”

“Quite a lot!”

“Louder!”

“THAT’SALOTTHAT’SNOTNOTHINGATALLTHAT’SALOT THAT’SQUITEALOT!”

I should have done something, I shouldn’t have just surrendered Fred to Markus. But then, I was glad someone was looking after him, sparing me the task. During the next few days, Markus demonstrated to Fred how you slipped the magazine into the gun, how you cocked the hammer and stood with your legs spread and arms extended and supported your right hand with your left and squinted your eyes and jerked the trigger. For targets they built scarecrows — which Markus called “blackamoors”—from old clothes stuffed with muddy straw. Whenever Fred landed a bull’s-eye their heads burst like kernels of corn in a hot pan, and Markus applauded. “Of course, killing is always the last resort,” he said, “but one should never forget: blackamoors steal children and eat them.”

At home, Anni often forgot to cook anything for Fred, and when he asked her for food she didn’t even shake her head, but slipped out of the house and ran to the Moorsee, where she spent most of her time nowadays. At home Fred slunk around, always on guard, because he didn’t want to run into me. At home he sometimes awoke, thinking that the day had come when his father would return, but the day never came. At home, it was obvious, Fred didn’t feel safe.