However, my fascination often gave way to anger at the pedestrians who crossed my path or bumped into me. I couldn’t stand walking behind someone, the streets seemed overcrowded, saturated with noisy, foul-smelling men, which is why I made a point of breezing past all those walkers, until I reached the city limits or some deserted area whose quiet reminded me of home, and of Anni. The longing for Anni was like an invisible thread coiled around my chest. Now and then it was as if she tugged on it, so that my heart throbbed and I was afraid I might forget her. Then I’d ask myself why I hadn’t tried to make contact with her by now, and I answered that it was impossible: there was no mail delivery to Segendorf, Wickenhäuser’s next excursion south was beyond the horizon, and I was much too young to travel on my own.
Looking back, I think these were only excuses to salve a guilty conscience. The real reason was that I preferred Schweretsried to Segendorf. Even if I had to sacrifice the proximity of my sister.
One morning Wickenhäuser and I were polishing a coffin that a local glass blower had chosen for his daughter. Burglars had slit her throat with shards of glass from one of her father’s vases.
“What’s your opinion, rascal?”
“About what?”
“About this girl’s death.”
“The thieves are murderers. They ought to be executed.”
“A fine opinion. But now: imagine a different truth.”
“Maybe the thieves broke into the wrong house at the wrong time? Maybe the girl … killed herself?”
“Clever as always, my little rascal. You see, it isn’t so hard. You can make sense of anything, if you want to, as long as you’re willing to exert your brain a bit. Everything can be true. What you decide to believe is always the truth. Remember that. Rascal, would you be happy as an undertaker?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It would be lonely.”
“Maybe. And now …”
“The opposite?”
Wickenhäuser nodded.
“If I were an undertaker, I could earn a lot of money.”
“Good.”
“I could keep you company.”
“Very good.”
“I could eat orange marmalade every day. I could own a flush toilet. And electric lights.”
“Right, keep going!”
“I could collect money from the church, which has deep pockets. I could console people. I could always wear nice suits. I could keep the best plot in the graveyard for myself. I could do something respectable.”
Wickenhäuser slapped the coffin lid with a loud bang. “And you could have any woman you want.”
That same evening he introduced me to a girl my own age whom he’d brought to the house.
“Her name is Stephanie,” he said, at which the girl briefly wrinkled her brow. As we introduced ourselves, I was surprised by her strong handshake. Wickenhäuser slapped me on the shoulder and winked at us. He hurriedly wrapped himself in his coat, and opened the front door. An urgent appointment, he said, he might be gone a long time.
Then we were alone.
The girl, who presumably wasn’t called Stephanie, was neither pretty nor ugly. You wouldn’t have turned to look at her in the street, at any rate. Without a word, she began to unbutton her dress. I didn’t move, just watched, as she peeled away one layer of clothes after another and took off her jewelry. Her body was petite, her skin pale and firm. Next, she started to undress me. It all seemed so strange, but nevertheless, I let it happen. Her touch wasn’t unpleasant. She knew how to fill a young man with self-confidence, when to groan, when not to snicker. I stopped her only once — when she went to kiss the scar on my elbow. While I was sleeping with her, I thought, fascinated: I’m sleeping with a woman. And I asked myself why I’d waited so long to try something that felt so good. I was hardly irritated by the fact that in the hours we spent together she barely looked me in the eye; that was just part of her profession, I told myself.
Sometime around midnight she dressed again, nodded a good-bye, and left the house.
I never saw her again.
At breakfast the next morning I felt Wickenhäuser watching me. I let him fidget for a while, and picked the salt from my pretzel as always, as if there were nothing to discuss. Only after washing the dishes did I say, “Okay then.”
“What do you mean?” asked Wickenhäuser, though I think he knew immediately what I was talking about.
“I’ll stay.”
In Schweretsried I saw the world, and that was exactly what I wanted. Wickenhäuser showed me the business of death, and, since I learned quickly, the undertaker never had to repeat an instruction. At first I served as assistant; later on, rascal came to mean partner.
Back then, the pastor of Schweretsried marveled at how strikingly often baptisms followed hard on funerals in the same family. So many husbands, it seemed, had sired children shortly before their demise. The preacher ascribed this to the righteous equity of the Lord. The Grace of Heaven, so to speak. At the regulars’ table in the Iron Pine he told Wickenhäuser about this joyous miracle; the latter smiled and shook his head. “What a rascal!”
“Who?” asked the pastor. “God?”
“Sure,” said Wickenhäuser. “Who else?”
Wickenhäuser explained to me things no woman would have been willing to explain herself. After each burial ceremony, I’d ask the widows in a whisper to follow me into the office for some final paperwork. They never refused; their eyes were puffy with weeping, and their thoughts weren’t running as smoothly as usual. In the newly furnished guest room — my office — I offered them a seat on my bed. None of them suspected anything. Patiently I asked the widows if they were satisfied with my services. They always said yes. Slowly I scooted my chair closer, and proposed a slight discount. They always welcomed it. I sat beside them on the bed, and warily slipped an arm around them. At which point they’d always cuddle up to me. Finally I admitted what exceedingly intense feelings I cherished for them. (The truth is always what one decides to believe.) Most of them tensed up, leapt from the bed, and excused themselves, polite, aloof; but some, more than a few, gratefully kissed my face. They smelled of makeup applied too thick, and sweetish sweat. In bed they were quiet, almost noiseless, as if they didn’t want to wake their departed husbands.