Kathleen Spivack - Unspeakable Things

Then, years later, Herbert, for a time, gave lessons in Esperanto, zealous in his efforts to promote this universal language. He lectured and wrote in the newspapers on language and brotherhood; and this continued to be an interest long after he had entered government service. But German, Hungarian, Russian, and French had all proved more useful. Herbert had used his abilities in language to learn a bit of Serbo-Croatian and Bulgarian; his tongue twisted around these savage sounds. Somehow, in the clash of nations, Esperanto was, if not forgotten, at least put aside.

Herbert’s wife, Adeline, had not showed the slightest interest in all these language studies. For her, music was the only language she paid attention to. She sat at the piano, in a white dress, at dusk, and played the flowers to sleep in the garden outside. Herbert could not interest Adeline in reading; she felt literature too far removed from the real life of feeling. Adeline had been so beautiful, Herbert remembered. Yet, perhaps slightly…silly, Herbert had to admit. But it was her silliness he loved, after all. It was befitting in a woman. Or so he had thought at first. Later he had become a bit impatient with it, but in the beginning of their relationship he had found it charming. Yet, he would perhaps have preferred to spend more time with the little Rat, to pass happy hours in conversation, sharing love of books, of ideas, of chess. But this was not to be.

“J’arrive!” Now, in the library, Herbert reread those last words. “Expect me! I arrive before you know it.”

At that moment, both Maria and Philip, Herbert’s grandchildren, who had been sitting so patiently beside their grandfather, began to twitch uncontrollably. Maria smoothed her dress again and again as Philip opened his mouth in a wide yawn and began to howl at the top of his voice. Maria roused herself out of her seeming passivity to cry anxiously. “Stop it! Stop it, Philip. Immediately, do you hear? Stop it!” But Philip did not stop; he was just warming up for an operatic yowl.

Herbert looked anxiously around him. “Ach, little ones, little ones,” he said, reproving them gently as he put Anna’s letter in his waistcoat pocket.

Most annoying, Maria’s grandfather was refusing to pay attention to her. Maria pulled on his sleeve, irritated. “I’m bored,” she complained. “Grandfather, I’m bored.” Her grandfather appeared not to hear. “I’m tired of waiting here.” She let her voice rise to a little whine, just loud enough to disturb the soft whispers about them in the library.

Her grandfather appeared to shake himself out of his reverie for a moment, long enough to look at her and pronounce in an automatic and authoritarian voice, “Show me a bored child, and I’ll show you a lazy child.”

With slightly more compassion, he patted her, but he still seemed abstracted. He softened, realizing it must be hard for the children always to wait here. Still, there was no place else for them to be.

“A bored child is a lazy child,” he repeated more kindly. “Is that not true, Liebchen ? Now surely you must have something to do. Where is that book you were reading?”

“I’m tired of reading.”

In the half-light of the library, far down the corridors and in the reading room, elderly anxious faces turned away from books and newspapers toward the commotion and clamor of Herbert’s grandchildren.

Maria, in a frenzy of anger, reached over and yanked Philip’s hair. “Shut up!” she hissed at him. This had the effect of making Philip yell even louder.

“Children,” Herbert clucked helplessly, reaching into a pocket for two shriveled candied violets with which to pacify the children. But the proffered candies did no good: both children were squirming uncontrollably. The waiting gray heads looked toward Herbert and the children pityingly. Herbert was intensely embarrassed. In response, he closed his eyes, letting himself lapse into a delicious torpor, almost sleep. He pushed the noise of children far away, time for his nap.

But somewhere behind him, Herbert sensed a commotion, a reverberation of confusion that shattered his dream state. The light in the library fractured into shards, as if the noise of fingernails on a blackboard had cracked it. There was the sound of scuffling somewhere, perhaps in the stacks, and then protesting, muffled shrieks.

In answer to that, Maria leaped to her feet. “Grandfather,” she commanded, “stand up. Something is happening.” She reached over and raised little Philip to his feet beside her. Philip, surprised, stopped crying, stuck in mid-yowl.

Near them, the sounds of more scuffling. Herbert still tried to feign sleep. He tried to block out the sounds of a struggle and then, almost beside him, the faint sounds of terrified squeaks. “Grandfather!” Maria pulled at his coat. Herbert reluctantly opened his eyes.

At his feet, as if hastily deposited there, lay a small dusty bundle. But this bundle was shaking; this bundle was alive. Herbert looked more closely. The bundle opened its small dark eyes, eyes that suddenly welled with tears and, as suddenly, with laughter. Could it be? “Anna?” he asked falteringly.

“Yes, my dear Herbert. You see, ‘J’arrive.’ I have arrived! I am here.” The creature closed its eyes again, but the long, pointy nose quivered as tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. The whiskers swayed, catching the tears; three long whiskers, now gone completely white.

“Anna?” Herbert bent down and raised the bundle to its feet. “Oh, my little Rat, but what have they done to you?”

“ J’arrive. Je suis ici. I have arrived,” whispered Anna, clinging to his arm.

“My little Rat.” Herbert cradled her, surprised. The pointy little face looked up at him.

“Oh, Herbert, do not worry. I am here now; that is what matters.”

“My dear friend.” Herbert wondered how he would cope with this surprise.

Anna’s face took in his wonderingly. She passed a tiny hand over his cheek, as if in disbelief. Then she peered at the children, who, suddenly silenced, stood watching. “And these?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Herbert. “These are David’s children. My grandchildren.”

“Children?” Anna breathed.

“Yes. This is Maria, and this is Philip.” Herbert put his arm around the two children, who stood stock-still, staring at the creature beside their grandfather.

“Dear, dear children,” Anna said. The children stared.

The Rat was tiny, no doubt the smallest woman Maria had ever seen; smaller than Maria herself. Anna, now completely bent over at right angles to the ground, twisted in a grimace of shoulder and torso as she took in the presence of the grandchildren.

Maria looked back into the face of the creature, the curved, eager mouth fringed by three long white whiskers. The huge dark eyes peered damply, red-rimmed, through spectacles. Anna’s eager face strained to penetrate the heart of the onlooker. Maria was fascinated, and immediately she fell in love, although she did not know what that felt like. She could not look away from the Rat’s face and little body.

“They call me the Rat,” Anna said, presenting her hand, unsteady and shaking, to each child in turn. Philip did not utter a word. Maria took the Rat’s hand, and curtsied, as she had been taught, quickly and respectfully. “Yes,” Anna continued. “Do you not think I look a little bit like a little Rat?”

Maria did not dare answer in the affirmative, for fear of offending the creature. Grown-ups sometimes joked, but they did not expect you to joke back.

The little Rat was by now so deformed that her spine resembled that of a shrimp, curved and curled onto itself, more than it did that of a rat. Maria stared at the long whiskers curving out of the mole near the Rat’s nose. The dark red-rimmed eyes smiled kindly. These eyes were ringed with deep circles, the small face grooved with these dark bruised lines. “Yes, these circles are new,” Anna said with a sigh, as if divining the child’s perceptions.