A Treatise on Shelling Beans (49 page)

More and more piles of stalks appeared as the mist cleared. At each pile there was an identical group of women, all dressed in black. I was about to tip my hat and apologize for the interruption when one of the women turned to me with her finger on her lips, indicating that I should be quiet. It only lasted a split second, but I noticed a boundless sorrow in her expression. She was wearing a black hat with a huge brim; her eyes were big and dark, and her sorrow pierced me.

The women made room and another of them, who also wore a black hat though with a somewhat narrower brim, beckoned me to stand amongst them. I thought that they must want to light the bonfire, but they didn’t have matches. Potato stalks, fall, meadows, cows, mist – everything pointed to this. Perhaps they were even planning to bake potatoes? I reached into my pocket for matches, but the woman standing closest to me stopped my arm and gave me a reproachful look.

I couldn’t say how many of them were standing around the pile. I wasn’t counting. Besides, you know how it is in dreams. Dreams don’t like numbers. Most of the women were elegantly dressed in black overcoats, black furs, black
hats and shawls and gloves. And the black of each woman’s outfit was different from that of any of the others.

One of them had a black veil wound around her hat. Another wore a huge hat decorated with black roses – I think she was the one who had turned to me with her finger to her lips to stop me from speaking. I just hadn’t noticed the roses at the time. Another had a tiny little hat, but with a black pearl the size of a poppy head pinned to the front. I know there are no pearls like that, but in dreams there are, evidently. One had no hat, only a black veil over her head, dark glasses in gilt frames, and a black fur that glistened with droplets of mist. Yet another wore a hat with a veil so thick that nothing of her face could be seen. That woman’s sorrow seemed the most painful of all to me.

Among them were some country women. Muffled in shawls, in sleeveless jackets, wearing thin worn overcoats and crooked shoes, they hunched over, whether from sadness or from the drudgery of life. It must have been colder than it seemed to me, because they were blowing on their stiff blue hands. It occurred to me that perhaps the women in the elegant outfits were their daughters, daughters-in-law, cousins, who had come back from where they lived out in the world for the baking of potatoes. What could fine ladies like that be wanting for, if not the taste of potatoes baked in a bonfire.

“Have the potatoes been put into the bonfires yet?” I asked in a half-whisper.

“What potatoes?” asked the woman with the pearl the size of a poppy head, indignant at my question.

“Then what is it?”

“They’re dying,” said one of the country women in a voice filled with grief, as she blew on her hands.

“Who? Where?” I didn’t understand.

“The old farmers here, in these piles, they’re dying,” the women in the hat with the black roses said softly in my ear.

“Lord in heaven,” sighed one of the country women. Tears prevented her from saying any more.

“What do you mean, they’re dying?” It was still a mystery to me.

The one in the dark glasses chided me:

“Please stop talking. Show some respect.”

All the same I leaned over the pile of stalks, thinking I might recognize someone from our village. But there was only the narrowest of gaps, no bigger than a final sigh, and I couldn’t see a thing. I was about to widen the crack a little, but I heard someone murmur above me:

“Please don’t do that.”

I looked to see who had spoken, and I realized I didn’t know a single one of the women, either the fine ladies or the country women. Well, the one in the veil I might have noticed in passing at some point. But how could I see through her veil to check. The veil was dark as night, plus it was densely patterned with knots, they looked like little flies. I thought to myself that if I kept my eyes on her, at some moment she might need to wipe her tears, then she’d have to lift the veil. All at once a voice reached me from under the veil:

“Please don’t look at me like that. Especially because this isn’t me, despite what you think.”

“Ah, the priest’s here at last,” said one of the country women.

I did in fact see a priest. He had risen from his knees at a nearby pile and was headed toward us. He wore a surplice, had a stole around his neck, and carried a Bible. I was about to shout:

“Hey, Priest! Remember me?”

I knew him right away. But when he came close, it turned out that it wasn’t the welder from the building site, but a photographer. Without even asking, right away he took our picture. I’m standing with the group of women around a pile of dry potato stalks, in the brown felt hat. Can you imagine, I had so many hats in my life, but in the picture I’m wearing the brown felt one.

He clicked the shutter and took the picture out of the camera on the spot. It was in color, of course. My hat is brown, the meadow is green, the pile of
stalks we’re standing around is grayish, and the black of each woman’s outfit is different. I believe he said which magazine he was from, but I don’t remember. He said he’d just learned that here, on the meadows, in the piles of stalks old farmers were dying, and he’d come.

“The issue’s going to sell like hotcakes,” he said, crowing with anticipation. All he had to do was get into the middle of the pile.

He fixed a long lens on his camera. He knelt down by the pile and inserted the lens into the gap the size of a final sigh. He clicked and clicked, all excited, exclaiming: Excellent, fantastic, even better. Except that when he was done, it was like someone began to pull him into the pile. He struggled and struggled, calling out, Help me, someone, till in the end he had to let go of his camera. And that’s how he lost possession of it.

You know, often when I look at that photograph, I’m tempted to take a peek inside the pile and see who’s dying in there. One day I will. I’ll have to. The only thing holding me back are the women standing nearby, even though I don’t know any of them. Especially the one in the hat with the black roses. I don’t suppose you know what black roses mean? Maybe the meaning of the whole dream could be made clear? I didn’t mention that when she stopped my hand as I was about to take the matches from my pocket, and she looked at me with reproach, one of the roses came loose from her hat and fell at my feet. I was about to bend down and pick it up, but my hat warned me that if I leaned over it would fall off too.

Black roses must mean something, you don’t find roses like that in gardens. One time when I was abroad I went to a rose show. Let me tell you, I was dazzled by all the shapes and colors. There must have been every kind of rose in the world, but there weren’t any black ones.

Do you believe in dreams? I didn’t until I had that one. I never thought twice about them. Whereas now, when I sometimes look at the photograph, I have the impression that I’ve simply dreamed myself from that dream into this
world, and I’m here, I have to live here. I wonder if you’ll recognize me. I’m a little younger, but not much. Maybe you’ll recognize some of the women too. You may turn out to know one or another of them well.

What do you say, shall we have some tea? Or maybe you prefer coffee. Do you like green tea or regular? Me, I only drink green tea. Do you take sugar? Hang on, the sugar bowl should be around here somewhere. I don’t use sugar myself. I only drink unsweetened green tea. I rarely have sugar at all. Ah, here it is. I’ll put this stool between us if you’ve no objection, we can put our drinks on it. Yes, the sugar bowl is silver. I bought it in the same shop where I got the candlesticks. That was the time I was best off, it was my golden period. I was playing in a five-star hotel. We wore white tuxedos with green lapels, I remember it clearly. Well, not every evening. We had different outfits. And we’d play different instruments according to the evening and the clientele. Sometimes we’d change outfits in the same evening, depending on what we were playing. But the sax was always there, at most I’d change from an alto to a tenor or a soprano.

Here’s the tea. We can drink it in these teacups. You like them? I’m glad. They were a birthday present from the band. Only two are left from the set. It’s like they knew that one day you’d come and we’d drink tea in them. I never use them when I’m alone. Whether I’m having tea or coffee, I use a mug, like I do for milk. And before now I somehow never had the opportunity to serve tea to anyone. I’ve got two others like these, but smaller, for coffee. If you’d asked for coffee, instead of sugar I’d have given you honey. You could have tried it with honey. Have you ever had coffee with honey? I’ll make some later and you can see what it’s like. I only ever have honey with my coffee. Coffee with honey is totally different than coffee with sugar. You don’t lose the taste of the coffee, but it’s even smoother than with cream. Unfortunately I don’t have any cream even if you’d wanted it. It’s too late now, otherwise I could have gotten some at the store. The store’s a couple of miles away, but in the car it’s a hop and a skip. Like walking from here to the other side of the lake, no longer.

If I’d known you were coming I’d have made sure to have cream. I’d have been
prepared. Too bad you didn’t let me know in advance. You called? And what, there was no dial tone? Don’t be offended, but I’ll tell you honestly that it’s a good job you didn’t get through, because over the phone I’d have told you I don’t have any beans. I’d have thought someone was pulling my leg. Or that they were mending my phone and checking to see if it works. Even if you’d introduced yourself, over the phone I wouldn’t have believed you. I’d have thought you were pretending to be someone else. This way, at least when I see you I can be sure of one thing – that we must have met once before. Though where and when? We couldn’t have just gone through life like that and never have met.

Maybe we should light candles after all? I could bring in the candlesticks. We’ve been shelling beans so long, we could have gotten to know each other well. The more so because I’m almost certain that once before … And when two people meet after they’ve not seen each other in a long time, it ought to be a special occasion, don’t you think?

I’m sure you’ll agree with me when I say that up to more or less halfway through life we know more and more people, so many that it’s sometimes hard to remember them all, then in the second half there start to be fewer, till at the end you’re the only person you know. It’s not only that we outlive everyone else. Rather, it’s life’s way of indicating how much is already behind us, and how much still lies ahead. Almost all of it is behind, there’s just a little bit still to go. So when someone like you comes by, if only to buy beans, and in addition they seem to have been an old acquaintance, it only seems right to at least light a candle. At those moments any person you’ve known stands for all the people you’ve known.

If I still played, I’d play something to mark the occasion. But what can you do. It goes without saying that I’m tempted. I often am. Sometimes I even take the sax out of its case, hang it around my neck, put the mouthpiece in my mouth,
place my hands around the body. But I don’t have the courage to run my fingers over the keys. For shelling beans my hands will more or less do, as you see. And for other jobs. But repainting those nameplates is torment. The saxophone is out of the question. My fingers start to feel stiff right away. I’m even afraid to blow into the mouthpiece. But I hear myself. You might not believe me – I don’t play, but I hear myself playing. And those dogs of mine hear me too. I see them lying there all ears. Their skin is calm, neither of them so much as twitches, their muzzles are stretched out, but their ears are sticking up like they don’t want to miss a note. I don’t just imagine it, I play. They hear it, I hear it. I play with my mouth, my breath, with these hands that I’m afraid to place on the keys, with my whole being. Would I not recognize my own playing? I’ve listened to myself so often, my soul has listened, how could I not recognize that it’s me?

And imagine this, it’s only now, after I haven’t played in years, that I’ve come to understand what kind of instrument the saxophone is. With that kind of playing, when only you can hear yourself, you hear more than the music alone. It’s as if you cross some boundary within yourself. Perhaps it’s the same with every instrument, but I played the saxophone and that’s all I can speak about. You supposedly know what it’s capable of, what it’s good for and what it isn’t, you know all of its parts, like you know your own hands, eyes, mouth, nose, you know which part is connected to which. But it turns out you knew almost nothing. It’s only after you stop playing …

When I was picking out a new mouthpiece I’d try endless ones, the clerk would keep bringing them to me, before I found one that satisfied me. So you might think you know everything. Once in one of the stores I even heard someone say, We get people from all kinds of bands, but I’ve never known anybody to be so picky. Though two identical mouthpieces, made from ebonite let’s say, they’ll each sound different. Not because they’re ebonite. They could be brass, silver, gilt. Identical mouthpieces, but the sound is different. And there’s no knowing what causes it. It’s the same with reeds, they have to be made of the right bamboo. But how can you say what the right bamboo is? What does it even
mean to say it’s the right kind? Well, it can mean anything. What soil it grew in, what kind of year it was where it grew, whether it had too little sun, too much rain, or vice versa. Whether it was harvested properly, dried evenly on both sides. And above all whether it’s soft or hard. All of that comes out later in the sound. Even the hands of the people that made the reed are probably reflected in its sound. So every reed, I’d rub it down myself afterwards till I felt the sound was the fullest it could possibly be. Because let me tell you, the reed and the mouthpiece are the most important parts of a saxophone. Of course, every part is important, the neck, the keys, especially whether the pads are tight-fitting, the bell, each of them has its role, the cork around the mouthpiece is crucial, also what’s called the tenon that holds the reed so it vibrates along its whole length.