“‘How important can it be now?’ the Anderer replied. ‘A name is nothing. I could be nobody or everybody’
“Several long seconds passed before Orschwir went on: ‘I wanted to ask you one more question. It’s something that’s preyed on my mind for a good while now.’
“‘I am at your service, Mr. Mayor.’
“‘Were you sent here by someone?’
“The Anderer laughed, you know, his little laugh, almost like a woman’s. Then, after a long, long pause, he finally said, ‘It all depends on your beliefs, Mr. Mayor, it all depends on your beliefs. I shall let you be the judge …’
“And then he laughed again. And that laugh — I tell you, Brodeck, it sent a chill up my spine.”
Schloss was talked out. He looked exhausted but at the same time relieved to have let me in on his secret. I went and got two glasses and a bottle of brandy.
While I was filling the glasses, he asked, with a hint of anxiety, “Do you believe me, Brodeck?”
“Why wouldn’t I believe you, Schloss?”
He bowed his head very low and sipped his brandy.
Whether Schloss told me the truth or not, whether the conversation he reported took place or not, in the exact terms that I’ve transcribed or in other more or less similar terms, the indubitable fact is that the Anderer did not leave the village. What’s likewise indubitable is that, five days later, when the rain stopped and the sun appeared again and people started coming out of their houses and talking to one another, you could hear the last bit of the exchange between the mayor and the Anderer repeated everywhere. Those words were worse than the driest tinder, ready to burst into flames! If we’d had a priest with a functioning brain, he would have thrown buckets of holy water on that blaze; he would have put it out with some well-chosen words and a little common sense. But instead, Peiper poured a little more oil on the fire the following Sunday with his drunken raving during his sermon, babbling something — in what connection, I don’t know — about the Antichrist and the Last Judgment. I don’t know who spoke the word “Devil” first, either, whether it was the priest or someone else, but it suited most of the congregation, and everyone seized upon it. Since the Anderer didn’t want to give his name, the village had found one for him. A name made to his measure. A name which has been put to much use over the centuries, but which never wears out. A name that’s always striking. Effective. Definitive.
Stupidity is a sickness that goes very well with fear. They batten on each other, creating a gangrene that seeks only to propagate itself. Peiper’s sermon and the things the Anderer was supposed to have said combined to make a fine mixture indeed!
He still suspected nothing. He continued to take his little walks until Tuesday, September 3. He didn’t seem surprised when people no longer returned his greetings or crossed themselves in self-defense when they passed him. Not a single child followed him anymore. Having been sternly warned at home, the children all took to their heels as soon as they saw him coming a hundred meters away. Once the cheekiest of them even threw a few stones at him.
Every morning, as was his habit, he went to the stable to visit his horse and his donkey. But in spite of his arrangements with Solzner and the sums he’d paid the stable owner in advance, the Anderer noticed that his animals had been left to themselves. Their drinking trough was empty, as were their mangers. He didn’t complain; he performed the necessary chores himself, rubbed down his two beasts, groomed them, whispered in their ears, reassured them. Miss Julie displayed her yellow teeth, and Mister Socrates bobbed his head up and down while waggling his short tail. This happened Monday evening; I witnessed the scene myself on my way home from a day in the forests. Since I was behind the Anderer, he didn’t see me. I was on the point of stepping into the stable or coughing or saying something, but I did nothing. I stood in the doorway, unmoving. Unlike their master, the animals saw me. Their big soft eyes rested on me. I remained for a moment, hoping one of them would react to my presence — with a little kicking, say, or a grunt or two — but they did nothing. Nothing at all. The Anderer kept on stroking them with his back to me. I continued on my way.
XXXVI
—
he following day, Diodemus arrived at my house panting, his shirt unbuttoned, his trousers askew, his hair disheveled. “Come! Come quick!”
I was busy carving some clogs for Poupchette out of cubes of black fir. It was eleven o’clock in the morning.
“Come on, I said! Come see what they’ve done!”
He looked so panic-stricken that there was no possibility of discussion. I put down my gouge, brushed off the wood shavings that had fallen on me like down from a plucked goose, and followed Diodemus.
Along the whole way, he spoke not a word. He hurried on as if the world’s fate depended on his speed, and I had trouble matching strides with his long legs. I saw that we were heading toward the sharp bend in the Staubi, where it curves around the fields of vegetables belonging to Sebastian Uränheim, the biggest producer of cabbages, turnips, and leeks in our valley, but I didn’t understand why. As soon as we got past the last house, I saw. I saw the big crowd on the riverbank, close to a hundred people, men, women, and children, all of them facing away from us and looking in the direction of the water. A surge of panic made my heart beat faster, and I thought, rather stupidly, of Poupchette and Amelia. I say “rather stupidly” because I knew they were at home. A few minutes earlier, I thought, when Diodemus came to get me, they were there in the house. Therefore, they can’t have been involved in whatever misfortune has just taken place out here. Thus making myself see reason, I joined the silent crowd.
Nobody spoke, nor was there any expression on anyone’s face as I slowly pushed my way to the front. The scene was utterly strange: the expressionless features, the staring, unblinking eyes, the closed mouths, the bodies I jostled, standing aside to let me pass, and me going through them, as if they were insubstantial. After I passed, the crowd regained its shape and people popped back into their original positions, like rocking toys.
I was perhaps three or four meters from the water’s edge when I heard the moaning, a sad, wordless, one-note song that got in your ears and froze your blood, though God knows it was hot that morning; after the great deluge and the carnival of waterspouts and lightning, the sun had reclaimed its rights. I had come almost all the way through the crowd. In front of me were only the eldest Dörfer boy and, at his side, his little brother Schmutti, who’s simpleminded and carries on two rather feeble shoulders a disproportionately large head, as big as a pumpkin and as hollow as the trunk of a dead tree. I gently pushed them aside, and then I could see.
The crowd had gathered by the spot where the Staubi runs deepest. It can’t be much less than three meters to the bottom, but it’s a little difficult to gauge because the water is so clear and pure that the riverbed looks as though you could touch it with your finger.