Chapter 5
WILLIAM
She often sat there, beside my bed, with her head bowed over a book, turning the pages slowly, reading with concentration. My daughter Charlotte was fourteen years old and should have many other things to keep her busy besides seeking out my mute company. Still she came more and more frequently. I distinguished day from night through her presence, and her perpetual reading.
Thilda had not come by today. She came to see me more seldom now, didn’t even drag the family doctor here anymore. Perhaps the money had now really come to an end.
Thilda had never said a word about Rahm. I would have known, even if she were to speak about him while I lay in the deepest of slumbers. His name could awaken me from the beyond. She probably had never put it together, never understood that our conversation the last time we met, his laughter, had led me right here, to this room, to this bed.
He was the one who had asked me to come. I didn’t know why he wanted to meet me. I hadn’t been to see him for several years, and made only compulsory, polite conversation on the rare occasions that we happened to meet in the city—conversation that he always brought to an end.
The autumn was at its peak when I went to visit him. The leaves were an intense play of colors, clear yellow, warm brown, blood red, before the wind had succeeded in tearing them off, forcing them down to the ground and decay. Nature was brimming with fruit, trees laden with apples, juicy plums, dripping sugary pears, and the soil, not yet fully harvested but full of crunchy, crisp carrots, pumpkins, onions, fragrant herbs alongside the field, everything ripe for the picking, for eating. One could live just as carefree as in the Garden of Eden. My feet stepped lightly across the ground as I walked through a grove overgrown with dark green ivy, towards Rahm’s house. I was looking forward to meeting him again, to having time to converse with him properly, as we had done so long ago, before I became the father of so many children, before the seed shop took all of my time.
He met me at the door. He still wore his hair cut close, was still thin, wiry, strong. He flashed a smile, his smiles never lasted long, but warmed nonetheless, and then he let me into his study, which was full of plants and glass tanks. In several of them I caught a glimpse of amphibians, full-grown frogs and toads, bred from the tadpole stage I presumed. It was towards this field of the natural sciences that all his attention was directed. When I came to see him after completing my exams eighteen years ago, I hoped to study insects, particularly the eusocial species, the individual insects that functioned together virtually as one organism—a superorganism. That was where my passion lay, with the bumblebees, wasps, hornets, termites, bees. And ants. But he held that this would have to come later and soon I was also busily occupied with these inbetween creatures that his study was full of, creatures that were neither insects, nor fish, nor mammals. I was only his research assistant, so I could not object. It was an honor working for him, I knew that and was therefore concerned about showing reverent gratitude rather than imposing demands. I attempted to adopt his fascination and expected that when the time was ripe, when I was ready, he would allow me to reserve time for my own projects. That day never came, however, and quite soon it became clear to me that I would instead have to carry out my own research during my time off, start with the fundamentals and slowly work my way forward. But there was never any time for this, either, before or after Thilda.
The housekeeper served biscuits and tea. We drank from delicate, thin cups that almost disappeared between our fingers, a tea set he had bought himself on one of his many trips to the Far East in the years before he settled down out here in the village.
As we sipped the tea, he told me about his work. About the research he was doing, about his most recent scientific lectures, about his next article. As I listened I nodded, asked questions, taking care to formulate my words in a qualified fashion and then listened once again. I fixed my gaze on him, wanted him to meet it. But he did not look at me much, instead his eyes slid across the room, across the artifacts, as if they were the ones he was talking to.
Then he fell silent, no sound other than that of the wind tearing the yellowing leaves off the trees out there. I took a sip of tea; the slurping sound was heightened in the quiet room. Heat rose to my cheeks and I quickly put the cup down. But he did not appear to have noticed anything, just sat there quietly without dedicating any more attention to me.
“Today is my birthday,” he said, finally.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea… but I extend to you my heartfelt best wishes!”
“Do you know how old I am?” He turned his eyes towards me.
I hesitated. How old could he be? Very old. Well over fifty. Perhaps closer to sixty? I fidgeted, noticing suddenly how warm it was in the room, cleared my throat. How should I answer?
When I said nothing, he looked down. “It’s not important.”
Was he disappointed? Had I disappointed him? Again? His face, however, expressed nothing. He put down his teacup, took a biscuit, how mundane, a biscuit, even though the conversation we were about to embark on was anything but mundane and he put it down on the saucer.
He didn’t eat it, just let it lie there. The room was uncomfortably quiet. I had to say something, it was my turn now.
“Are you going to celebrate?” I asked and regretted it immediately. What a foolish question, as if he were a child.
Neither did he deign to answer. He sat there with the saucer in his hand, but did not eat, just looked down at the tiny, dry biscuit. He moved his fingers, the biscuit slid towards the edge of the saucer, but he quickly straightened it, saving the biscuit at the last second and put the saucer down.
“You were a promising student,” he said suddenly.
He drew a breath, as if he were about to say something more, but no words came.
I cleared my throat. “Yes?”
He shifted his position. “When you came to me I had great expectations.” He let his hands hang at his sides, just sat like that, straight up and down. “It was your powerful enthusiasm and passion that convinced me. I had otherwise not planned to hire an assistant.”
“Thank you, Professor. Those are immensely flattering words.”
He straightened his back, sat very erect as if he were a student himself, glanced at me quickly. “But something happened to you.”
My chest tightened. A question. It was a question. But how should I answer?
“Had it happened already by the time you gave the Swammerdam presentation?” Again he looked quickly at me. His gaze, which was usually so steady, wavered.
“Swammerdam? But that was so many years ago,” I said quickly.
“Yes. Exactly. So many years ago. And it was there that you met her?”
“You mean my wife?”
His silence confirmed my question. Yes, I met Thilda there, after the lecture. Or, rather: the circumstances led me to her. The circumstances… no, Rahm led me to her. It was his laughter, his derision that caused me to look in another direction, to look in her direction.
I wanted to say something about this, but couldn’t find the words. He leaned forward abruptly, cleared his throat faintly. “And now?”
“Now?”
“Why have you brought children into the world?”
He made the last comment in a louder voice, a voice that almost broke and now he was staring at me, unwavering, a frost had emerged inside of him.
“Why?” I looked away quickly, unable to meet his gaze, the hardness in his eyes. “Well, it’s what one does.”