A short while ago, when I came back home, I pulled down the mushrooms, the trumpets of death that Limmat had given me the other day when I visited him to talk about the foxes, and threw the garlands into the fire.
Fedorine opened one eye and noticed what I was doing. “Are you crazy?” she asked. “What’s wrong with them?”
“With them? Nothing. But the hands that strung them together aren’t exactly clean.”
There was a ball of coarse wool and some knitting needles in her lap. She said, “You’re speaking Tibershoï, Brodeck.”
Tibershoï is the magic language of the country of Tibipoï, the setting of so many of Fedorine’s tales. Elves, gnomes, and trolls speak Tibershoï, but humans can never understand it.
I didn’t reply to her. I grabbed the brandy bottle and a glass and went out to the shed. It took me several long minutes to free the door from all the snow piled up against it. And snow was still falling; the night was full of it. The wind had stopped, and the snowflakes, abandoned to their own caprice, came down in unpredictable, graceful swirls.
There was a long silence in the council room when I finished reading what I’d written. It was a question of who would speak first. I raised my eyes to them, which I hadn’t done since I’d started to read. Lawyer Knopf was sucking his pipe as though the fate of the world depended on it. He couldn’t produce more than a wisp of smoke, and this seemed to irritate him. Göbbler was apparently asleep, and Orschwir was making a note on a piece of paper. Limmat alone was looking at me and smiling. The mayor raised his head. “Good,” he said. “Very good, Brodeck. It’s very interesting and well written. Keep on going, you’re on the right path.”
He turned toward the others on either side of him, seeking their assent or authorizing them to state their opinions. Göbbler dived in first. “I was expecting more, Brodeck. I hear your typewriter so much. It seems to me you really write a lot, and yet the Report is far from being finished …”
I tried to hide my anger. I tried to reply calmly, without showing surprise at anything, without challenging Göbbler’s observation or even his presence. I surely would have liked to tell him that he’d do better to direct his attention to the fire burning in his wife’s ass than to my compositions. I replied that writing this sort of Report did not come naturally to me, that I had difficulty finding the right tone and the right words, that collating the statements of the people I’d interviewed, putting together an accurate account, seizing the truth of what had gone on during the last few months constituted an arduous task. Yes, I was constantly at my typewriter, but I labored, I revised, I crossed out, I tore up, I started over, and that was the reason why I wasn’t going farther or faster.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Brodeck. What I said was just a passing comment. I apologize,” Göbbler said, miming embarrassment.
Orschwir seemed satisfied with my justifications. He turned once more to his colleagues on either hand. Siegfried Knopf looked happy because his pipe was working again. He gazed upon it with benevolent eyes and stroked its bowl with both hands, without paying the least heed to the people around him.
“Schoolmaster Limmat, perhaps you have a question?” the mayor asked respectfully, turning toward the old teacher. I felt the sweat spring to my forehead, as it had done when he quizzed me in front of the whole class. Limmat smiled, allowed some time to pass, and rubbed his long hands together.
“No, not a question, Mr. Mayor, but rather a remark, a simple remark … I know Brodeck very well. I’ve known him a long time. I know he’ll conscientiously perform the task we’ve entrusted to him, but… how shall I say it… he’s a dreamer, and I use that word in no bad sense because I think dreaming is a great and positive thing, but in this particular case, he mustn’t make a muddle of everything, he mustn’t mix up dreams and reality or confuse what exists with what never took place. I exhort him to pay attention. I exhort him to stay on the straight road and not to let his imagination govern his thoughts and his sentences.”
For hours after the meeting, I kept going over Limmat’s words in my mind. What were they supposed to mean? I had no idea.
“We won’t keep you any longer, Brodeck. I imagine you’re in a hurry to get back home.” Having said these words, Orschwir rose to his feet, and I immediately followed suit. I bade farewell to the others with a little movement of my head and began walking rapidly toward the door. This was the moment that Lawyer Knopf chose to arouse himself from his reverie. His old nanny-goat’s voice caught up with me: “That’s a handsome cap you’ve got there, Brodeck. It must be really warm. I’ve never seen anything like it… Where’d you get it?”
I turned around. Lawyer Knopf was approaching me, hopping a little on his crooked legs. His eyes were fixed on the Anderer’s cap, which I had just placed on my head. Knopf was now quite close to me, and he reached for the cap with one clawlike hand. I felt his fingers running over the fur. “Very original, and what fine work! Beautiful! Just the thing for the weather that’s on the way. I envy you, Brodeck.”
Knopf trembled a little as he stroked the cap. I could smell his tobacco-laden breath, and I saw a delirious light dancing in his eyes. Suddenly I wondered whether he hadn’t gone mad. Göbbler came over to us and said, “You didn’t answer Lawyer Knopf’s question, Brodeck. He wants to know who made your cap for you.”
I hesitated. I hesitated between silence and a few words I could fling at them like knives. Göbbler was waiting. Limmat joined us, clutching the lapels of his velvet jacket around his skinny neck.
In the end, I summoned up a confident tone and said, “Göbbler, you’ll never believe me, but be that as it may, I’m going to tell you the absolute truth. Remember, however, that it’s a secret, and please don’t repeat it to anyone. You see this cap? Just imagine, the Virgin Mary made it for me and the Holy Ghost delivered it!”
Ernst-Peter Limmat burst out laughing. Knopf laughed, too. Göbbler was the only one scowling. His nearly dead eyes searched for mine, as if he wanted to gouge them out. I left the lot of them standing there and went out the door.
Outside the snow hadn’t stopped falling, and the path Zungfrost had cleared an hour previously had already vanished. The village streets were deserted. Halos quivered around the lanterns hanging from the gables. The wind had come up again, but very lightly, and it made the snowflakes flutter in every direction. Suddenly I felt a presence against me. It was Ohnmeist, who was trying to bury his cold muzzle in my pants. Such familiarity surprised me. I began to wonder whether the dog wasn’t mistaking me for someone else, for the Anderer, the only other person with whom it had taken such liberties.
We trudged along side by side, the dog and I, surrounded by the smells of the snowy cold and the pinewood smoke that came down from the chimneys in gusts. I no longer remember exactly what I thought about in the course of that strange promenade, but I know that suddenly I found myself very far from those streets, very far from the village, very far from familiar, barbaric faces. I was walking with Amelia. We were holding on to each other, arm in arm. She was wearing a coat of blue cloth with embroidered sleeves and a border of gray rabbit fur around the collar. Her hair, her most beautiful hair, was coiled up under a little red hat. It was very cold. We were very cold. It was our second meeting. I gazed hungrily at her face, at her every gesture, her small hands, her laughter, her eyes.