The Journey (17 page)

Already the street is absent one man. It’s Ambrose, who clambers up the stairs that lead to the upper floor and his apartment, where he slouches in a chair next to a large table. Ambrose has been expected and everything that he needs after his brief outing is set for him. The wife stands ready, her face flushed, a clump of hair having fallen from the knot as she places the tureen of soup on the table. No requests are necessary, it only takes a glance and whoosh! the bowl is filled with vegetable soup brimming full right to the rim. Ambrose bends his back and stoops over the table with his nose pointed straight down. Left lies the spoon, which is picked up and transferred to the right hand. Then it splashes into the bowl and disappears into the steaming broth, though that’s not enough in itself, as the spoon swishes back and forth through the broth in order to fish out a slice of potato and a carrot cube. Then the spoon is lifted up a bit and the nose sinks down quickly, while from down below an extra bonus appears, a chunk of meat that swims up from below and touches the lower lip. Then the spoon is lifted and disappears in a flash into the mouth that snaps shut around it. A faint gurgle can be heard as some drops fall from the corners of the mouth and back into the bowl. Ambrose lifts his nose, testing the soup with his gums and then swallowing. Then he sets the spoon down once again.

“Once again it’s gone cool, Katie, and no salt, not enough salt.”

“I put enough in. Otherwise it would be too salty, and you’d complain some more.”

“It’s not enough. It should be hotter. That’s all I ask. Only some more salt.”

Katie reaches for the saltshaker with her left hand. The spoon sinks lazily back into the soup and is let go of as Ambrose’s right hand grabs the saltshaker, turns it upside down, and shakes it once twice, once twice, once twice. Grains of salt fall from it in thin strains.

“The salt is damp, Katie! Some things never change!”

The saltshaker now in his left hand, his right hand grabs the lid and turns and turns, once twice, once twice, once twice, until it’s off. He reaches for the fork with the right hand and pokes down to the bottom of the hardened salt. Then the top is screwed back on again, worked by the right hand, the left hand. Salt is shaken into the soup, more soup is eaten. His hunger is enormous, yet he still fills his stomach, left then right. The bowl is emptied, then is followed by another, and then a third bowl is emptied. That will do it. Ambrose is full and at last feels himself a proper man, and that Katie is a good wife, and that all residents are good because they are holed up in their own houses or houses they rent, in which they take care of their bodies when the times are good. The bodies stretch out and are covered with warm blankets, soon getting hot and sweaty as they grow quiet and sleep as all good people do. That’s what they learned as children, but because they have been so good, they never have to change anything, but rather repeat the same thing day after day, night after night, left right, left right, afraid only of the law and wanting to uphold their sense of responsibility.

The residents gather together and agree on what is good and to the right, while that which is bad and to the left they want nothing to do with and toss away. They feed themselves properly and digest their food as they have always done. They listen to the doctor whenever there’s a problem with the seamless running of their metabolism until once again they are healthy. If the doctor cannot heal the body, then the doctor looks them in the eye sincerely, and then behind their backs laughs and shrugs his shoulders. Then comes the notary, followed by the undertaker, and everything is complete. Other proper souls move into the emptied rooms, generation after generation, right and left, as far as one can see.

Yet on this particular day nothing is known, everything is the same, not even a closet door is opened. Today is never fully known, something is always bound to be happening elsewhere. As long as it doesn’t intrude on matters then nothing changes. The journey doesn’t seem real, there is always just Leitenberg and the streets, this house, and here Katie and Ambrose nestle and lounge about and get up and gnaw away at bread and beets. Not much waste is produced, nothing but ashes. The days repeat themselves, once, twice, one after the other, whether or not the ghost
train wanders by or not. It’s always the same, the noses sniff, nothing bothers them, nothing gets on their nerves, because ghosts are strange and must atone for the fact that they are still there even when they are not welcomed in this house. If there were no such ghosts then there would be peace in the land and the sons of Katie and Ambrose would also be at home and not marching left and right in the wide world.

Then Katie called out, “They’re coming!”

No, not the boys. Which is why Ambrose doesn’t even look up and has no interest in his soup. He is tired, much too tired; rest is the wages of work. Ambrose wants nothing to do with this horrible yapping. Digestion is all the salvation one gets.

“They’re not coming, Katie! Stop thinking that they are!”

Ambrose, however, doesn’t consider the banished, whose scraping feet can be heard on Bridge Street. He sees his boys before his eyes and knows that they will never again walk down the streets outside. My boys, my boys, yanked from their home, whisked away, though for a good cause, for the war, the country’s security, the peace of the citizenry, as well as applesauce, the tax on consumption, glory, and soup. So it’s for the good! The victory palm already stands in the vase beneath Grandpa’s picture. One can’t be quite as sure of the good Lord, but almost, for there must be one, though without a beard, and there will be peace in the land, here beneath His long nose, as they march left and right through the applesauce of the good Lord watching from above, amen. Amen! Then the journey will be over. Garlands will hang from the bridge.
WELCOME TO THE GOLDEN GRAPE, SERVING COFFEE AND WINE
. Katie, wouldn’t it be wonderful to march with them? No more ghosts. No more paper, just my dear boys. We wouldn’t throw anything away. Not even bones, we could grind them into a fine flour instead.

“My dear, you’re sleepy. Go to bed.”

“No, no! I’m not at all. Just a quick nap. And now I’m fine. I just barely dozed off. But it doesn’t matter. Not at all, Katie, I swear, most of all to you.”

Without war there can be no victory. That’s what Ambrose had been told.
The Leitenberg Daily
had written the same thing. The result being left, right. That’s the way it was. Written words are sacred, because you can hold them in your hand. You can throw them away, but they don’t disappear
from the public library. That which is written down speaks the truth, which is the most sacred thing of all. On each little cube it says, “I am Vita-All. Just add me for extra spice and nutrition in your soup. Katie, toss me in; Ambrose, left right, will love it! Since he already likes having gruel and soup, it will also help his terrible teeth!”

Everything is a mess. The boys who will never walk the streets again, the ghosts of Ruhenthal who march on by, it’s all a mess, even Katie is a mess, and Ambrose is a mess, the potato soup with Vita-All is a mess, and then whoosh! the brimming spoonful disappears between the rotten teeth, swishing around the left jaw, the right jaw, then down the middle and into the stomach, into the pit, buried, everything covered up, thrown into the rubbish where it boils and bubbles. Tasty sauces bubble up in order that Ambrose can rise and shine once more. For he’s there again after his winter’s sleep, going up and down the steps. Then he takes to the streets. He sees soldiers passing by, carrying out the pleasurable business of guarding the ghosts in order that they do not run away. Though they’ve been forbidden to do so, that won’t do any good if one isn’t careful. The riffraff from Ruhenthal are only afraid of the cold bullet in the belly. They all have a little tummy that has grown thin and dirty, because they are pigs who don’t wash, their women nothing more than hollow straws full of thin soup. How it would spray about if one peppered the pack with shrapnel! Then the voices of the ghosts would scream loudly and croak on the spot, Bridge Street full of rotting corpses, the war on, the result a bloody mess and no applesauce, the remains needing to be thrown onto a wagon with pitchforks. Then off to the dump and away with them! Let’s have at it! Into the pit with hip-high boots! Roll up your sleeves! Dig those graves! Cover them over! But that’s too much work. There’s a better way. And so the gasoline is brought out and lit, a huge hygienic fire billowing. Then ashes are all that’s left, which can just be spread about.

Ambrose smiles with pleasure. He stretches and lightly dreams, but he doesn’t sleep, no, he doesn’t sleep. Katie has moved the easy chair next to the window and into the sun so that the man of the house can sprawl out with his legs spread wide. He is a little tired, yet he feels completely fine, for he’s feeling fine, and because of that he can digest his meal in peace. Potatoes and carrots swell the belly, yet Ambrose has to eat them if he’s to get his fill, since there’s no meat. Katie must do everything she can in
order to have enough to feed Ambrose, because a hungry husband in the house is a problem and will only lead to trouble for the wife. But Katie always managed to bring it off because she loved her Ambrose, and love was more inventive than necessity. Because of that Ambrose is nearly satisfied and only grumbles a bit. Things could be better, certainly, but after four years of war it’s bearable, you get used to it since you only live once. If one were to consider everything that happened under this foolish heaven, then it would be unbearable, which is why Ambrose doesn’t want such things to trouble his head.

Whatever happens will happen, meanwhile the soup is served. First the eyes take it in, then the belly senses it. Sleep, Ambrose, sleep on! Ambrose hears his mother’s voice. It sounds so warm and friendly that he cannot imagine how such a charming voice can call from the grave, but that must be because the Leitenberg Cemetery is so beautiful. There is not a more beautiful garden in the entire town, not even the one by the castle, and for All Souls’ the cemetery is filled with endless garlands and bouquets, the entire landscape smelling of damp earth and ruffled late autumn blossoms, of flickering oil and tallow candles, Masses sung in all the churches,
credo in unum deum, credo, credo
, done in the third conjugation. After four years of high school at least some Latin still remained, and there is still a God in heaven, everyone knows, though He doesn’t have a beard, the pope having said so himself. With a little Latin one understands a lot more in life than uneducated commoners,
plebis plebis
, that being the third declension, not to mention that one also has a credit line and a savings book for the First National Bank, the Leitenberg branch. A worry-free old age is ensured,
credo in unam sanctam
, for there is always enough to go around if only the currency doesn’t depreciate still further.

But when the currency becomes worthless paper then you can burn it. To hell with credit! The coal is almost gone, yet Katie must still heat the house and light the oven. The cinders are emptied out. The coal shovel scrapes its way into the expended remains of the burned-out coals, a soft sound, as the crumbs are tipped into a dented bucket. Katie sprays water on them so that the ashes are not so dusty. Ambrose carries the bucket downstairs and tips it over, spilling it all out. Only when it snows are a part of the cinders spread on the sidewalk in front of the house so that people don’t slip. Otherwise they could fall and break a leg. That’s punishable by
a fine. The town can’t be icy. Better that it be covered with cinders, but tidy, because safety is the first demand. So says the First National Bank, and so had Ambrose learned in school. Everything in the world since the first days of creation had been aimed at ensuring safety for everyone. It is the prime aspiration of the state and the public at large, it is the aspiration of every citizen. For then commerce and trade flourish. Anything unsafe is cleared from the sidewalks, that being the first law,
dies irae
, and so away with that awful snow, the massive broom sweeps it all away, the cinders cure the dangers of winter.

The streets are cleaned throughout the year, for even in summer danger can arise. Horses and dogs soil the pavement, papers and trash fall to the earth. Then come the sweepers who push with a gentle swaying motion the little dustbins in front of them. Once they have gathered up enough, they load their cargo onto a shovel, all of the street’s woes stuffed into handcarts that the sweepers busily push through Leitenberg. Each morning they show up on time, going about their daily work in peace and with care, for which they receive a weekly salary. It’s light work that serves to spread the peace. Which is why no street sweeper ever seems to apply himself as vigorously as he should. Instead, he takes a break and takes out a sandwich from his pocket as a way of relaxing in the face of his endless sweeping.

And so Johann stands guard next to his handcart, his broom and shovel leaning against it, as he noshes on what he leisurely lifts to his mouth from his pocket. The mouth is opened, the sandwich is shoved into the cleft, then the lower jaw lifts the front teeth and presses the sandwich into the upper teeth. Immediately the teeth slice through the porous mass, the hand holds the sandwich and pulls it away from the mouth once the bite has been taken, lowering as the tongue, gums, and saliva work together to accomplish the ravenous swallow as the moistened bite is choked down the gullet. Then it occurs again, until it’s all gone. Meanwhile the street is forgotten, the broom is forgotten, the daily tasks full of dust and trash are forgotten. After the snack the flat metal flask sneaks out of a different pocket. The cork, attached by a thread, is yanked out, the flask lifted high, the head tilted back, the mouth pierced as it opens small and round, the teeth recessed in order that the flask’s neck settles into the opening. It all happens fast. The cool, sugary chicory coffee with milk flows
into the hole until it is full, the tongue itself between the mouth and the flask’s neck in order to stop the flow. Then the mouth is emptied after a series of hefty swallowings, more coffee follows until the last drop has disappeared. The flask is then corked before sinking into a jacket pocket.