The Other Side (11 page)

I

Once I came home from the coffee house and climbed up the stairs to our apartment. At our agreed knock my wife opened the door. Her face was tear-stained and she looked close to nervous exhaustion. On the table was the leather case with Patera’s portrait.

‘Why’s that on the table? Has something happened?’

‘I’ve seen
him
–yes–him there.’ Her speech was disjointed and confused. ‘I still don’t understand it. But it can’t have been an illusion. There can’t be two people with
those eyes
.

‘Pull yourself together now and tell me exactly what happened.’

‘I was coming back from the market. Just before I turned into Long Street–it was already getting quite dark and I was hurrying to get home–I heard rapid footsteps behind me. It was a lamplighter, he almost brushed against me as he dashed past. At the same time he turned his head for a moment and said quietly, “Sorry”. But–oh, it was horrible–it was your friend Patera!’

She literally screamed the last words. The tears were pouring down her cheeks. Sobbing, she buried her head against my shoulder. I tried to calm her, though I was shocked too and had difficulty keeping myself under control.

‘You must have been mistaken’, I said, trying to sound as unconcerned as possible, ‘I’m sure you must have been mistaken. It was twilight. That kind of thing often happens just as it’s getting dark. And anyway, Patera, the man who owns all this, wouldn’t be going round as an ordinary lamplighter, now would he?’

My voice was uncertain, I felt apprehensive myself.

‘Oh, don’t talk like that, you’re just making it worse. His face was frozen, like a wax mask, only–those eyes! … They had a dull gleam…. I still shudder to think of them.’ Her hand felt hot and feverish and I insisted she went to bed. I tried to cheer her up by retailing the inane gossip from the coffee house, but it was impossible to get her thoughts away from her experience. And I too was afraid. Life here was getting more and more harrowing and stressful. Despite the crawling monotony of the days there was no rest, we were not even sure what was going to happen in the next hour.

I was gradually getting fed up with the Dream Realm. My wife’s experience was an hallucination, of course. What? My friend Patera had better things to do than dress up in a carnival costume. Still, an hallucination is a warning, tormented nerves making their voices heard.

II

I eventually met Nicholas Castringius. I can’t really say whether he liked me or not. He had had to give up his position with the
Dream Mirror
and was now working freelance. I found him very original and much nicer than the two friends he came to the coffee house with, de Nemi and the photographer. Castringius was no good at hiding his feelings, his envy and jealousy were plain for all to see. That meant he was quite harmless and you could enjoy his good qualities. An artist is seldom really bad; a mean trick now and then, that’s usually about as far as it goes. Our sensations leave us no time for large-scale nastiness. We lay our souls bare in our work so that anyone can clearly see what a blackguard an artist might have been, given the right circumstances. Art is a safety valve!

Before I arrived Castringius had his simplest period. Three or four lines and the picture was finished. He called it ‘Greatness’. His most important works had titles such as
The Head
,
He
,
She
,
Us
,
It!
They placed no limits on the imagination. For example, a head in a flower vase–it could mean anything. However, when the public began to take notice of me, Castringius was forced to produce something a bit more substantial. ‘Plumb the depths of the subject matter, that’s the answer!’ was his obstinate maxim. Now came works such as
Mad Pope Innocence Dancing the Cardinals’ Quadrille
.

He had a small attic studio in the French Quarter. In that part of town he was free to live his life according to his own bent. That was where he found de Nemi. This latter, a lieutenant in the infantry, was an old goat. He was a regular at Mme Adrienne’s and the one and only thing in his mind were the activities that went on in that establishment. As a matter of principle his conversation never strayed onto any other topic. His eyes were always red and his uniform always grubby.

There’s not much I can say about the photographer. He was English, had a long face, flaxen hair, a velvet jacket and a tie always fluttering in the breeze. He still worked with the old, wet-Collodion process and ten minutes exposure time. Things had not advanced beyond that in Pearl. Otherwise he was taciturn and concocted his own liqueurs.

We were talking about the theatre. I had only been once. It was
Orpheus in the Underworld
that was on and there were three people in the audience. Although the acting and singing were good, I felt uncomfortable all evening. The audience of three made the large theatre seem all the more deserted. It was eerie the way the music echoed round the empty space. The actors looked as if they were performing for their own amusement.

I was up in the gallery. All at once I was seized with the feeling that I had been here before, that this was the old City Theatre in Salzburg that had been torn down years ago. As a young lad of eleven it had been the epitome of magnificence for me. What I saw now were wooden benches worn smooth by thousands of bottoms, dark-red seats with tattered upholstery and cracked plasterwork. There was a large, unlit box facing the stage; over it, in gold letters, stood Patera. In the darkness of the box I sometimes imagined I could see two points of light gleaming, two points of light quite close to each other.

De Nemi, who seemed to be well informed about backstage affairs, went on at great length about how they just didn’t seem able to make a go of the theatre. ‘Why do we need a theatre in Pearl?’ people would say. ‘There’s theatre enough as it is.’ So they just didn’t go and now it was bankrupt. The company was being split up. The lower-ranking female artistes, the corps de ballet and the chorus, were being packed off to the bawdy house, although allowed to keep their status as ballerinas or singers. The rest were forming a variety theatre; Blumenstich was putting up the money. De Nemi was overjoyed, he was mad about music hall. I was not particularly interested in the topic.

The owner of the coffee house was going from table to table, greeting his customers with a stupid, sly smile. When he got to the chess players, he dropped anchor and put on a serious expression, despite the fact that he was much too dimwitted to understand the first thing about chess.

I yawned and looked out of the window. They were unloading sacks of grain at the mill. I recognised the two millers, one always laughing, the other with a permanent scowl on his face. In their outward appearance they were the most backward in the whole city, still wearing bagwigs and buckled shoes. A carriage drove past. In it was an elegant lady. ‘Do you know her?’ de Nemi asked, nudging me with his elbow. ‘That’s your landlady, Dr. Lampenbogen’s wife.’ He gave a cynical laugh and the others sniggered. The carriage was heading for the public baths.

I called the waiter to pay. Anton, a card-sharp of the first water, tried to slip some worthless notes,
assignats
of the French revolutionary government, in with my change. For once it didn’t work and, with an insolent grin, he took them back.

III

My poor wife found it impossible to overcome these fits of anxiety. She grew visibly paler, her cheeks more and more sunken, and at every unexpected word I spoke she would give a nervous start. Things could not go on like this much longer, and it was only the fact that I had still not managed to see Patera that delayed our departure. Without his specific permission any thought of leaving the Dream Realm was futile. The Archive contained ten requests I had submitted, but the only replies they deigned to send were a few stilted excuses such as, ‘The time in question falls within a period of feriation for the Audience Bureau’, or ‘The petitioner has repeatedly been advised that a respectable position in society is a sine qua non for the granting of an audience. He is recommended, therefore, to maintain an ordered way of life, the which he should …’ etc., etc. I was seething, and determined to open my friend’s eyes to the harm caused by this pernicious bureaucratic clique. ‘They’ll be sorry for it!’

There was another thing that weighed against our journey home:
Our money was gone!
Yes,
simply gone!
Not a single copper was left from the hundred thousand marks.

‘Well, there we have it, I knew it would happen’, I said bitterly to my wife when I found out. It was not really her fault, poor thing, so I spared her any further wailing and gnashing of teeth. Theft or no theft, the money had disappeared and all we had to live on was what I could earn.

This was towards the end of our second year in the Dream Realm. Now my wife began to be tormented by fears during the daytime as well. The kitchen was at the back of our flat and looked out through a window onto the courtyard of the dairy; in the middle was a well-shaft, at the back a few stable doors.

‘That well is haunted’, she insisted. She claimed she had heard strange hissing and knocking noises. I had noticed nothing, but to keep her happy I decided I should have a look, and so I went. Under the pretence that I wanted to look round the dairy I knocked until a half-deaf dairyman came to the door. A juicy tip quickly cured his dull-wittedness. I could look at whatever I liked, he shouted in my ear, before returning to his cubbyhole. Left to myself, I had no difficulty in setting about my investigation. I quickly passed through a whole series of dimly lit rooms. The building was set quite deep in the ground and the faint light had to squeeze in through small barred windows. There were many flat, round containers on long wooden trestles and wooden tubs standing in the corners. They were all filled to the brim with milk. There was one vault which was entirely given over to the storage of various implements. The walls were covered with tin pots, wooden boards and platters. I was in a hurry to find the courtyard, but instead of a way out into it, all I could find were more dark cellars with huge cauldrons hanging over cold fires. A pungent smell of cheese stung my nose. There they lay, dripping and stinking, regular rows of all sizes in an unsavoury closet, long and narrow, the mouldy walls covered with spiders’ webs. It couldn’t be there, so I decided to retrace my steps, but found I had lost my bearings in this labyrinth of cheese, milk and butter. I took a wrong turn and ended up in part of the subterranean labyrinth that was clearly not used at all. The arched ceiling was low, and rusty chains hung down from massive hooks. I could hardly see at all, but the slimy floor seemed to slope downwards slightly. All at once I stumbled down a few slippery steps and found myself in complete darkness. Blackest night and icy cellar air; somewhere above I heard a door slain shut. Thank God I had a few matches with me. Then suddenly, from far away, I heard a noise. It sounded like distant hammering, but was becoming clearer with disturbing rapidity. In the light of a match I saw that I was in a passageway. I was seized with dread. ‘Away from here, I must get away from here’, was my only thought. I ran, several times knocking my head against the dripping walls. Still the rumbling behind me grew louder, an awful, rhythmical thunder, like galloping hooves. The light from my matches was getting weaker, the damp air stifled the flame. The sound came nearer, obviously I was being pursued. Now I could clearly distinguish a wheezing and groaning. It so chilled me to the marrow, I thought I would go mad. I plunged on as if there were a whip cracking behind me, but all at once the strength drained out of me and I fell to my knees, almost fainting. Helplessly I held my hands up against the onrushing danger, my last matches flickering on the ground. Then the wild charge was upon me. A cold wind tore at me and I was staring at a white, emaciated horse. Although I could not see it clearly, I could tell what a terrible state it was in. The huge nag was almost starved and flung its enormous hooves around with the vigour of desperation. Bony head stretched out in front, ears laid flat, it dashed past me. Its dull, cloudy eye met mine: it was blind. I could hear it grinding its teeth and as, with a shudder, I watched it disappear, I saw the gleam of blood on its flayed crupper. There was no stopping the wild gallop of this living skeleton. Tormented by the vision of those dreadful bones, I felt my way along the passage as the thundering died away. Soon I was rescued by the distant glow of a gas lamp. It blurred as I went into a state of shock. My tongue went rigid and my body seemed to turn into stone. When the fit had passed I dragged myself towards the light. A staircase appeared, then another light. I heard people talking and entered a familiar room. I was in the coffee house.