Wickenhäuser assured me that I could have my fun with the widows, as much and as often as I liked, none of them would ever dare to confess such a misstep. But he warned me that I should never, at no point whatsoever, look one of those women in the eye. That’s why he’d taken care that my first time hadn’t been anything special. As far as Wickenhäuser was concerned, making love didn’t mean sleeping with someone; in his opinion making love meant that you created love, you actually made love. “It happens quicker than you’d think,” Wickenhäuser pointed out, and added with a significant smile: “And then suddenly all you’ll want is to be with that one person.”
On weekends, guests were no longer invited over. Instead, the two of us celebrated alone, and it would be wrong to say we didn’t have a good time, playing our rhyming games. If one of us recited badly, that is, without rhyming, we’d have to take a hearty swig of brandy.
This happened fairly frequently.
I love to play: whenever I’ve a chance
I cry aloud and dance a wild dance.
My cheeks flush ruddy as a crimson star
And now and then, I’ll shout: You’ve gone too far!
Many men have met their jolly doom, my dove,
By hiking up my skirt beneath the moon above.
You call me pert: I like that well enough,
But not as much as I love making … merry.
These evenings usually ended — more often than I liked — with the undertaker, emboldened by alcohol, begging me to share his bed. To make a little love.
I turned him down. To me, Wickenhäuser was a teacher and a business partner, nothing more. Hidden in my affection for him I sensed the possibility of a love that I didn’t want to permit. To love someone again the way I’d loved Else was too great a risk for me. Because one morning the undertaker, too, would fail to wake up.
I sometimes capitulated to Wickenhäuser’s pleas purely out of pity, and slept beside him, under separate blankets. Even when he wept and wistfully described that moment in the log cabin when, for the first and only time, we’d embraced, I refused to take him in my arms, and corrected him, saying that on that particular occasion, he’d been the only one doing the hugging. This melancholy, which by day withdrew behind the sparkle in Wickenhäuser’s eyes, broke out again at night. It was only following his visits to Segendorf that Wickenhäuser was able to suppress it for a few days — or, at best, weeks — at a time, and I asked myself what Master Baker Reindl was able to give the undertaker that he couldn’t find among such a rich assortment of men and women here in Schweretsried.
For me, Segendorf lay far in the distance, as if the first eleven years of my life had been merely a dream, one that was fading with every day. Anni helped me with that. My sister answered none of the letters I sent with Wickenhäuser, never returned a single greeting. Which is why I never went with him to Segendorf. I took it to mean she didn’t want any contact with me. And whenever I tried to understand why, Wickenhäuser consoled me, saying I shouldn’t stew over it, and instead enjoy the freedom I had here in Schweretsried. He told me that of all God’s cruelties, the greatest was saddling a man with family.
In the cool summer of 1930, when I was a handsome seventeen-year-old, the undertaker returned from another excursion to Segendorf. “Have a look, rascal,” he said, pulling the tarp from a hazel coffin. “We’ve picked up another bargain.”
“How much?” I asked, excited.
Wickenhäuser whispered it in my ear.
“In that case, you’re buying me dinner tonight,” I said solemnly, hesitated, and pushed two more words over my lips: “Did Anni …”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is she doing okay?”
“She looks gorgeous. But not as gorgeous as you.”
“Did you ask if she wants to come see me?”
“She’s a village kid, rascal.”
“Did you ask her?”
“The girl runs away as soon as I drop your name.”
“Maybe next time.”
“There won’t be a next time. I’ve finally decided not to go back. It’s too far away.”
“What about Reindl?”
“She understands. Besides, she isn’t getting any younger.”
That evening I tossed and turned in bed, and kept examining my elbow; the scar was pale; unless someone was looking for it, they wouldn’t notice. When Wickenhäuser had spoken about my sister, she had tugged hard on that thread around my chest. I didn’t understand how a lack of news from Segendorf could so preoccupy me — as if it were bad news.
I threw off the covers and walked in the dark to the door of Wickenhäuser’s bedroom, paused, and while I was debating whether or not to knock, heard a conspicuously unshrill voice: “Come on in.”
Wickenhäuser was sitting upright in bed. His eyes were bloodshot.
“I knew you’d see through it, rascal.”
“What?”
“But I was hoping that if I didn’t tell you, you wouldn’t go.”
“Tell me, already.”
“Your sister’s getting married.”
“To whom?”
“Fellow called Driajes.”
“When?”
“In the fall.”
“Fall? Why not spring?”
“They’re in a hurry.”
Wickenhäuser patted the mattress beside him. “Please.”
I sat down. “Do you think I should go see her?”
“I think that if you don’t go now, you never will. But I also think that if you go to her, you won’t come back.”
“Nonsense. What’s your opinion?”
“Rascal …”
“What’s your opinion?”
“I want you to stay.”
“Fine,” I said. “Now imagine another truth.”
“I … want … you … to …”
“Yes?” I prompted.
“… go.”
“Good. Go on.”
“You should set out tomorrow.”
“Very good.”
“Rascal? Stay here. Just for tonight.”
“But not for long.”
“Will you hold my hand?”
“No.”
I left the next morning. After a long back-and-forth I’d decided against taking Hoss; I could cover the bulk of the distance faster by bus, and the remainder on foot. I didn’t pack any of my suits; as long as I took little with me, I’d have enough of a reason to come back soon. Along with sufficient food for the trip, Wickenhäuser gave me a map whose southernmost marking was a ring in red ink, above which someone had scribbled Segendorf. Furthermore, as we were saying good-bye, the undertaker passed me a parcel that felt like it contained a pillow.