11
THEN AT BREAKFAST THEY just can't get enough. The child comes racing down and bounds about before Father, what a young rascal. Little sunshine, he is. Worth his weight in gold. Father wants his son to be a plucky fellow, not a yellow fucker. But it's not plucky the kid is, it's lucky, pushing his luck, always out for the lucky dip at the joke shop in town, always wanting something bought. Me me me. He'll scarcely heed his mates in the distance. They have to watch as the Direktor's son runs out of money (just as they run out of time, time to knock at the door of the business world, which is ajar, neither open to them nor closed). At the Volksschule the son sits in class with kids from poor homes, which is logical enough from an educational point of view, but it's war out there in those cottages! Some of these sons and daughters reek of the byre from their long morning's work with the cattle, up to their ankles in leaden shit. There they all are, the bodies, huddled together, till lack of money sweeps them off to the factories. Never seen flowers like these blowing and fading in the factories? Off the child mischievously skips across the field, upsetting the precarious balance of Nature and natural law. (And the child's quite right to hammer a mole with a stick or whish downhill on skis. But then, you're right too, gentle reader, off for a healthy walk, wrapped up in a genuine, natural cloud of pure new wool.) From time to time a gun is fired into the guts of the forest. Cesspits are meant to protect Nature from human kind and its waste, but who will protect humanity from bank employees who get up early just to look up at the Alps? During the night, thank God, there's been a slight thaw, which keeps would-be skiers in suspense well before they're suspended from the lift. Round the bases of trees, ice is packed like the moulded polystyrene used to pack those delicate hi-tech gadgets that make our eyes pop out.
Some would see it quite differently, mind. Here comes the housekeeper with her shopping trolley. The ground, still frozen in places, drones under the wheels as if it were hollow. As well as above us, there must be something below us, too. Have you put your affairs in order, are you having an affair, do you have a fair weather friend? No? Well, just wait till there's a knock at your door. Who knows, maybe one of these slimmed-down well-built jobless fellows out to sell you a magazine subscription. So that you understand the arts and the economy and politics the better.
Being a man, the Direktor can look down on his wife, since she's sitting down there in her usual place where the light from the window cannot fall upon her. Falling upon her is the prerogative of her husband. It is still dark. Gerti is wearing sunglasses. The boy, agog from the TV, comes romping in squawking with greed for another new thing that this time just has to be bought, to take him out of this good old world fast gadgets and the clothes to go with them, so he will walk in happiness for all of his days. For he wants to go off out with the tide, the boy does. His father, from the dark and mighty planet that is his head, utters a word of command. His choice has fallen upon this morning as the right time to fall upon the mother of this child once again. Improving on his nocturnal performance, he has forced himself upon her, just for a short while, short being the operative word. Just as one sits in an armchair, absorbed for a brief moment only in the contrived honesty of the evening news, the Direktor has settled heavily into her, letting himself drop, docking his nozzle from behind at his favourite pump where he tanks up with the consolations and sacraments of life. If only a man could really work this pump to his heart's content! Super! His words force a way into her ear; he wants to go over her accounts of yesterday's misdemeanour again, he's her master book-keeper. Genuine grass will hopefully make an appearance some time or other, now that we've been sowing the fake seed at scrap car lots and service areas, where even a rubber needs a thorough warming before it's unpeeled. We are so orderly and so spendthrift, spending ourselves, casting our seed upon stony ground and then keeping the fact from our human partners', keeping it to ourselves so that the pleasure's ours alone. His wife's thighs are for him only, the Direktor, the terrible visitant. They roast in the hot oil of his lust. He deep-fries. Busily he unloads on her ramp, palpitating, and some time he'll bring her a present of a brooch or a steel bracelet. And it's over. We're free again. Home. Where we belong. But richer than before, when we laughed at the neighbour. You have an open invitation to come and take a look! Don't worry, nothing will happen when the gentleman with the fizz and bezazz comes knocking at your door to jazz you up and pop your cork! Quite the contrary: a woman's expected to be delighted! Next thing you know he'll be packaging himself up in a box! The blue heavens have serious intentions where the landscape is concerned. Business is flourishing.
This woman will doubtless be off at the drop of a hat to the hairdresser's, to have herself trimmed for Michael. Brimful of love, the parents clash above the son. Who is immersed in his playthings just as Father is immersed in Mother. Engrossed; it's gross. The manchild alone with his toy. Fetch that child, now. At one time blades of grass grew here, now the knife-blade's at the heart: who could stay calmly on his own pathway and merely look on? They all have to make a song and dance of their sufferings, piss out something creative so that everyone will notice and love them. Everyone asks the son in what way he is superior to the other kids. It's enough to make Mother's breasts squirt milk: the boy just doesn't seem to possess an immortal soul. At least, he gives his mother no joy. Already he wants to be off skiing again, off with the others being taken for a ride on the lifts. Let's hope they don't dare too much and have an accident! Now the mother greedily kisses her child, who twists free of her grip. Benevolently Father paws at the carpet, wishing he were alone with his wife once again to paw her. Sometimes when the child's attention is distracted he shoves a finger or two into the most exciting part of her, that slit, which he finds so enticing that he buys her expensive things to wear so that she can cover it up. Secretly he sniffs his hand. It's a winning hand, as winning as he is, as relentless as the light. Meanwhile, Mother lavishes kisses on him, loving the boy and spoiling him rotten, lavishing toys and junk on him as if they were lovers. Father thumps the table goodnaturedly. He has already made use of the woman today; presumably a child has uses for a mother too. Still, it doesn't do to overdo these things! His son needs to learn a little moderation and modesty, it'll come in handy when he loans his nice new skis to those of more modest means, for a moderate sum, so that he can stuff yet more surprises into his mouth at the sweetshop. The boy is a lazy little local railway. Already he has a flourishing trade going with his various equipment, bearing happiness even to the most oafish ignoramuses (the kind of characters who imagine that roller-skating can help in the quest for a loophole in the system, when everyone knows the Alps are in the way). All these kids know is that it must cost a fair bit to have racing skis. This man and this heavenly woman – how alive they feel when they touch each other up! Their eyes are fixed on each other's as if nails had been driven in.
Father the fiddler, pardon me, the violin-player, would doubtless praise his son for working such fiddles. Let him be an example to you, you who administer the snow in this community, even demanding money for the use of this flaky white sporty stuff. There it lies, on the fields of home. And there you go, one of the numberless slaves of sport, wearing the brightly coloured overalls that you sport everywhere you go, whether it's the ski slope or the disco. It's all one. And you're number one. But first you have to be hauled up high, to be close to God, where time is valued more highly than your downhill time recorded with a stop-watch by your lady wife who has come along on foot. Suddenly life is a more familiar thing to you when you're at the snowy brink holding a gadget to your guaranteed-to-wash-out body. The poor can't hold back the waters, they freeze beneath them; all they can do is cautiously step across, with the exalted majesty of the mountains above them, from where no help will ever come, we regret to say, yours faithfully etc. Here they all are, a colourful multitude scattered from their offices, nicely dressed, rejoicing in the taverns, bent over their skis as if over someone they loved, sliding and whooshing right on down, well, that's it, what else did you expect them to do on skis? And then they get together, full of good cheer like a care packet, bundles of fun on the air waves, live from the village inn where an Alpine band is playing, say, and the poor look on and have no idea what's going on or how it is that these stars of the TV screen are there before their very eyes, blown in by a wanton wind.