Epitaph for a Working ManO (4 page)

Sophie's way of looking at people. Her head tilted slightly to one side, she listens eagerly – an eager listener. That's probably how she listened to her boss, Fritschi.

Generous necklines are her speciality. Not that her pullovers and blouses have low necklines, just wide ones: neck, shoulders, collarbones.

Any children? Her two sisters, the one in Burgdorf and the other in Brugg, have enough: five children in all. And their mothers have put on weight magnificently.

Sophie is not likely to put on weight.

*

A quiet July. This year she went on holiday on her own. Sent a picture postcard from Elba.

At the time I didn't know how Fritschi had managed to engineer it. It didn't interest me. Apparently Fritschi's wife knew nothing about it at all. So much the better, I thought. And as for me, I wasn't interested in broadcasting it to the whole world. Although it could be assumed that everyone would very soon be in the picture. Or would think they were in the picture.

Three whole weeks without having to go to the dole office. That was holiday enough. I'd hardly have got more out of it if I'd gone abroad. So I stayed at home. I'd been abroad often enough before. Moreover it would have been distressing if something had happened to Father while I was away.

A quiet July. Occasional drives out to the Brühl district. Late in the afternoon. I could make as many detours as I wanted: there was no one at home waiting for her meal.

People were on holiday, and I wasn't doing anything either: that went well together. At long last I didn't attract anyone's attention. I could go on a leisurely stroll through the town whenever I felt like it. I was just one of the crowd.

*

How long does one glass of beer entitle you to sit at one of the round tables in front of the pub watching the people amble past? The answer is forty minutes. On average. Then the waitress comes and asks you what else you would like to order. Last year I wouldn't have noticed such things.

*

Laid off as from the beginning of January. In mid-February Lätt's operation on Father's tumour. A third calamity was inevitable.

I'd always known that I might lose my job. From the type case to the typesetting machine, from galleys to computers – rationalisation, quite normal.

It was also foreseeable that some time or other Father might fall sick. Black lung, smokers' lung, or simply old age. But a skin-related malady? That had never occurred to me.

And now Sophie away on holiday with another man. The boss and his secretary, the secretary and her boss. The kind of thing that happens to other people in other places, I reasoned, can also happen to me. The third calamity, inevitable.

*

A hot July. People jumped into the Aare at the lido and swam down as far as Säli Bridge in the town centre, then sauntered back on the riverside path in their swimming trunks and bikinis.

I enjoyed being on my own.

Three whole weeks without having to look even once at the job vacancies columns.

Sitting on the balcony; in the reddish light behind the balustrade and the half-lowered awning. There was just enough room for one wicker armchair. As a rule it was Sophie who occasionally sat there. However, the noise coming up from the street usually drove you back into the house before long.

From the balcony I watched the neighbours' children. The Hubers had put out a paddling pool on the lawn next to their garage; kids scampered around; their squeals echoed between the buildings.

*

She was thirty when we married and wouldn't have minded having a child. Now she'd soon be thirty-eight.

*

In the Brühl district there are still extensive stretches of woods; fields in between. Fewer houses and fewer people than in the Mittelland in general. Off the beaten track, far from the railway line, far from the motorway. It was pleasant for me to ride out there on my moped; boring for Father who had to live out there all the time. He was a sociable person. He would have preferred an old people's home near the town or in a larger village. The only thing there was the Löwen.

“The Löwen is the front parlour of the old people's home,” he used to say. “You can see for yourself what it's like. From time to time they wipe the tables with a damp cloth. If it weren't for the home, the place would have gone bankrupt long ago. It's where we spend whatever's left over from our old-age pensions.”

He'd had no choice. The old people's home in Breitmoos was the cheapest in the region.

Should we take him home, now that he was ill? The thought had occurred to me a couple of times that summer. And also the answer: Out of the question. The flat was too small. Sophie found Father charming – but she would hardly have found him charming as a permanent guest. Not to mention me. Let's not kid ourselves, please.

The greyish-yellow wheatfields. I saw the first combine harvesters move through the crops: the rotating reels in the front, the back part shaking out the straw, a dust trail floating overhead.

A quiet July for me, a boring July for Father. Estermann had put all his people to work on a big drainage job and couldn't spare a labourer for mason's work. The new fountain couldn't be started. Father sat in his room, or over in the Löwen. He smoked a lot.

*

Sophie sent postcards from Elba. Three in all.

The smell of freshly mown lawns in the Allmend neighbourhood. Washing hung from rotary driers the same as ever. Joggers ran along the Aare. Men in plastic sandals dragged watering cans from the riverbank to the allotments. Clouds of midges hung over the riverside path.

*

The threat of a political crisis in Italy. They'd changed the prime minister in Tunisia. The Iraqis had bombed some oil tankers. The Iranians had fired on a border town. The Pope was in South America; he'd been greeted by hundreds of thousands of people and had given speeches. In Switzerland, parliament was already on holiday but a law had been submitted for public consultation. The Farmers' Union had made demands. The people of Uri had expressed displeasure at the traffic jams their side of the St Gotthard tunnel.

After the news, I listened to the commentaries. After the commentaries, I watched the news on television.

Thanks to the community aerial you could watch an old film every evening. I drank one bottle of beer per film.

Being alone is nice, it's so peaceful.

You're free from supervision.

I stuck the postcards Sophie sent me on the frosted glass door between the kitchen and the corridor.

We could have felt reassured. For the time being. As long as they were doing something it meant that something could be done. No doubt the radiologist hadn't discovered anything out of the ordinary when he did the X-rays in mid-June. On Father's lungs, all those spots and streaks that had caught my eye on the screen in the glass cubicle can't have meant anything. Or else just something normal: silicosis shadows, signs of old age.

“You'd better make sure you don't burn my back this time,” he said. “I don't want to be rubbing on ointment for weeks on end again.”

The doctor reassured him. They were giving him a smaller dose. And after all, it hadn't been that bad.

“Why don't you just operate on it if it's grown back? It'd be much simpler.”

The doctor shook his head. “No, Mr Haller, I'm afraid that would not be the most sensible thing to do.”

“I can cut it out myself if you don't want to. A saw-toothed kitchen knife would do the trick. There are plenty of knives in the kitchen out at our place in Breitmoos.”

“My, my, you are aggressive today!” said the doctor.

“You call that aggressive? A pity I can't reach that part of my back. A fine contortion that would be! Ah well, if you think I must, I suppose I'll have to.”

*

The orange-coloured bus coming down round the bend toward the bus stop. Father was usually in one of the front seats. He remained sitting until the bus had stopped completely. He was the last to get off.

Across the road the small man standing on the kerb. Always the same grey cap, the light-coloured jacket, the wide-legged trousers. He waited until the bus had started up again, until it had driven past him. Then he came over on the pedestrian crossing.

Ever since his accident twelve years ago he had trouble walking. Back then he'd grown fat and shapeless within a few months. Now he moved with a slow grace, seeming to ponder each step as he set one foot down in front of the other, supporting himself on the walking stick held firmly in his right hand.

When he'd reached my side of the road he stopped and turned his head toward me. “So, you've come again after all. It's getting hot again today.”

No moaning. Cursing, yes – but moaning was not his way. He cursed like a stonemason: brought his hammer down on the chisel with such force that the chips flew. You can't talk quietly in a stonemason's workshop, let alone curse quietly. In the hospital corridor he made comments in his loud stonemason's voice: “There's more staff than jobs here. Exactly the same as at our place. The more people run around, the less work gets done.” The other patients sat there in silence, at most they conversed in whispers. Now someone had come who hadn't lost his voice; he sat there with his belly and his stubbly beard and said things that were not proper. “Why do all these poor devils keep coming here? Radiotherapy's nothing but bunk.” And at the interim check-up, straight to the radiologist's long face: “To heck with all your machines! In any case it's all for the birds. If you're hell-bent on my coming here three times a week, let me send you the bill for the bus tickets. Because I'm fed up with all this riding around in buses, it's a waste of money.”

He said what he thought. Or did he? He must have felt uneasy about what was happening to his back. He denied it: “Not in the least! It'll take more than that to knock old Haller out.” Did he believe that? If he really wanted to know what I knew, he already knew enough. He never asked the doctor any questions. He just grumbled and then grinned. The male nurse and the X-ray assistant found it amusing.

*

Sophie's fling. When I saw Father standing there on the kerb I forgot about her affair. That was nice. While I was sitting beside Father in the hospital corridor I never thought about the matter. The senior civil servant and his secretary. A senior civil servant was taking my wife away from me.

So what? After all he was her boss, not mine. I didn't have a boss any more. One thing led to another and there was no point in running away. I'd been on the dole for months, with the fine prospect of benefits expiring very soon. Perhaps I'd been too choosy. When the business with Father's back started I became even more choosy. If it hadn't been for that I might never have become so choosy.

I said: “If it makes you happy… I'm not bothered.” She appreciated that. Or at least she acted as if she appreciated it. In any case, jealousy, like Father's back, would have been inoperable. Therefore I couldn't risk being jealous. “You should have kept a closer guard on me,” she said. It wasn't meant as a reproach, she was only making fun of me. “I'm not a shepherd and you're not a sheep,” I retorted. “And as far as guarding is concerned, you'd do better to advise Fritschi to be on his guard against you.” “Indeed,” she said.

Acting the part of house husband. Without Sophie, I wouldn't even be able to do that any more. No, there was no point in running away. At times I felt quite comfortable in my role. A bit off-kilter admittedly. House husband and nurse. But only to a certain extent. For I didn't tend my father. All I did was keep him company when he went to the hospital for his radiotherapy treatment. I visited him out in Breitmoos once or twice a week. It was a pity I didn't have a car, but I could ride out on the moped. It was like a holiday, it passed the time.

*

For the second batch of radiotherapy at the beginning of August Father came to town in the afternoons. This time I didn't make salami sandwiches. He'd already eaten.

The bus arrived at a quarter to two, the treatment was usually over by a quarter past, and again we'd sit upstairs in the entrance hall. The next bus back to Breitmoos didn't leave until just before four.

“You really don't need to come every time. I can find the way on my own,” he said. “It's quite enough for one of us to be sitting around twiddling his thumbs. You've probably got more important things to do.”

Perhaps I did; perhaps not. In any case he didn't mind having someone to listen to him: it gave him the chance to talk. About all kinds of things and nothing in particular, about the fountains he'd mended, about window-sills, floor tiling, Estermann, Mrs Estermann's cooking, about the Construction and Timber Workers' Union, the Brühl district, Späti's quarry.

Now, in the afternoons, we often met acquaintances, people Father knew. They were here because they were ill themselves, or else they'd come to visit friends or relatives.

Mr Gasser was one of the second kind. He'd come because of his brother. “A stroke, the whole of his left side paralysed, since last month. I can't even talk to him properly.”

He sat down at our table. A thin, yellow-skinned man, half bald, with a wrinkled face. He knew that Father lived out in Breitmoos; he asked him what it was like out there. He was looking for a nursing home for his brother. They wouldn't keep him at the hospital. It was damned hard to find a place. He'd been phoning around for the past two weeks.

“I can recommend our place,” said Father. “A reputable home for senior citizens. The proof: the residents stay there until the day they croak, all of them do, without exception. Only the managers change.”

That was not exactly what Mr Gasser wanted to know. “Seriously, Haller,” he said. “What's it like there? Is it worth considering?”

Father got into full swing:

“I've been there for eleven years – even a bit more than eleven years – and this is already my fourth manager. Sometimes we're lucky, sometimes not. The present one used to be an office clerk, or so they say, at Oertli's. And he's still an office clerk. He manages the bookkeeping perfectly, you have to admit that: at least, the daily rates go up regularly every few months. And that's the main thing for us residents after all, isn't it? A splendidly run business! If there's a dripping tap somewhere, he'll immediately send for a plumber. If there's a door that sticks, along comes the carpenter, with his mate of course. After all, you have to provide a living for the tradesmen of Breiten, Haulen and Weiermatten. Soon he'll be calling the electrician for a blown fuse. But what else can you do if you've been born with two left hands? People who can't do anything else become managers.”

Gasser looked at Father, nonplussed. “But what about the food?” he asked. “Is the food all right at least?”

“Who said there was anything that wasn't all right?” said Father. “Let no one say I said anything like that. Our manager used to be an office clerk. We have enough to eat and we definitely have the right kind of food. The clerk works all that out in his menu-plan – that's what it's called, isn't it? – calories, vitamins, etc. And every other morning we get porridge, that's the main thing; the porridge looks as solid as the mortar you use for pointing flagstones. And we all spoon it up obediently – after all, people like us all need a bit of pointing here and there. And then we fart all morning. Not that it bothers anyone: out in the Brühl district you're in the fresh air, far away from everything.”

Gasser laughed. “You haven't changed, Haller!” He turned to me beseechingly: “Finding a place in a nursing home is a real problem. We can't take my brother home. My wife's ill, she's got diabetes. And I haven't been feeling very well recently, either.”

“Eat porridge,” said Father, “and you'll be as strong as a horse.”

“That's not the point,” said Gasser.

“Of course not,” said Father.

Then, after a pause: “Come to think of it, they probably wouldn't take your brother at our place anyway. Although it's called a nursing and old people's home, they only nurse people who already live there. I've never heard of any other cases. But you can always ask. Try. Then we'd have one person more to help us eat our porridge every other morning.”

He picked a cigarette out of the packet, offered one to Gasser.

Gasser refused. “Doctor's orders.”

Father: “That wouldn't stop me, not on your life!”

*

On the folding seat in the cubicle, his hands spread out on his knees. His shirt and jacket hung from the hook, on top of them his cap.

“They brought Lüdi back from the hospital yesterday.”

“Who's Lüdi?” I asked.

“I'm sure you've seen him. He's always got a broom in his hand. He sweeps the house, that's his hobby.”

“The one with the hump?”

“The one with the hump, precisely.”

Sounds from the corridor, voices from the doctor's room. “A fortnight ago Lüdi had to pack his suitcase; off to the hospital. But they didn't keep him here long. They opened up his belly and immediately sewed it up again.”

He reached to the right for his stick and leaned it against the wall to his left saying, “Nothing to be done.”

*

He'd caught his cold in the second week. It was a Monday and I'd left him at three: I had to go for a job interview at Cantieni's; of course nothing came of it, but that's not to the point here. I'd left early, and apparently Father didn't stay in the entrance hall but went straight out to the bus stop.

He hadn't wanted to miss the bus. It didn't make any difference whether he sat around inside or outside. Actually it hadn't looked like rain. It was cloudy, but he hadn't thought it would rain.

Suddenly there was a downpour; it had rained cats and dogs. Before you could count to ten you were soaked through.

Normally that wouldn't have bothered him, he was used to getting wet. But the draught in the bus afterwards – it must have been the draught.

A barking cough, hard and dry. It wouldn't loosen. If only it started loosening up it would get better in next to no time.

I bought him paper handkerchiefs, suggested lozenges, gargle.

Sweating was the only way, he said. It was incredible how much he sweated at night. So much so that it wasn't worth changing his shirt and his wet sheets any more.

Walking across the car park between the cars toward the entrance. After every few steps we had to stop. “It really takes it out of you,” he said. He leaned more heavily on his stick. Gasping. Panting.

*

Halfway through the treatment he got fed up. Partly because of his cold; his back hadn't been burnt this time, so that couldn't have been the reason.

Sitting there among the motley gathering of patients and visitors he muttered curses under his breath, coughing, his face grey.

I tried to soothe him. Admittedly it was annoying. But if he persevered now he'd be left in peace for a while. He'd be able to chisel stones for his fountain at Estermann's. And that's what he wanted, wasn't it? It would be stupid to give up the treatment now. The thing he had on his back was not nothing. He needed the radiotherapy, for sure. It was hardly a case of taking a sledgehammer to crack a nut.

“More like taking a shotgun to shoot a rhinoceros,” he retorted.

He was probably right. The radiologist marking out Father's back with his plywood stencil came to mind. What were they actually trying to do? They decide by rule of thumb, then, wham, under the precision machine you go!

August; late summer, autumn. Then he'd have to get through the winter. Winter was always the worst time for him: seldom able to get out, stuck all day in his room or in the day room. To hell with winter and the home! Roll on springtime! Spring and summer and autumn, just one more time. And then the grand departure – or more likely: out through the back door! At his age tumours grow slowly, I thought. Why not a second summer, with dust, sunshine, shadows? That was still a possibility, wasn't it? Maybe.

*

“Back then I helped prevent your grandmother being put into an old people's home,” he said. “Although the Juraview is ten times better than our place out in Breitmoos. Nevertheless she absolutely refused to go, she balked at the very idea. And I stuck up for her.”