I have to kill my father.
There was silence for a while; Kienast sensibly let it be a long pause. And Döhring didn’t even dare swallow during this time, because he wanted to carry out his mission: he wanted to tell all, but the problem was he didn’t have the proper method for doing this. His Adam’s apple moved up and down too rapidly, like that of a young adolescent.
Had Döhring not become so sharply outlined in his exertions, if insanity had not distorted his features, Kienast might have said to himself that Döhring was amiably childlike.
He was struggling with the air, or struggling for it; it can’t have been easy to combine such great trust with such great distrust and then express this.
Almost everyone has to kill his father, said Kienast by way of helping. But that’s not a personal problem but rather a ritual, which should be considered a ceremony. In earlier times the Elevation of the Host or Holy Communion must have had this significance. To take to myself a body that others have murdered and whose bones they have broken, when you think about it, that’s no less brutal and barbaric. I, for example, am in trouble compared with others because my father killed himself instead of killing me.
Döhring was silent again; his eyes shone soberly out of his insanely distorted features.
If you want me to, I’d be happy to tell you about it, Kienast continued readily. And we’ve reached a point, given the various beliefs in supernatural powers, where even girls have to kill their fathers, and I tell you, this is based on my professional experience.
He stopped for a moment, as if he had lost his breath like the young man, because he did not understand how two things that have nothing to do with each other could cross paths so powerfully.
Little girls seduce their fathers so they can kill them, with the help of their mothers, for the incest committed.
Somehow this created a profound silence between them.
From a sociological viewpoint this is a salient symptom in the new era, Dr. Kienast continued cautiously, wanting to say something rational in their mutual silence. You must have read the story of Lolita, or you will read it; the secret of her success must lie somewhere in that attitude.
That’s not what I’m talking about, I’m talking about our own father.
I don’t mean to take the edge off what you’re saying, don’t misunderstand me.
I’m not very interested in ethical questions, so I’m not interested in commercial novels either. Our father had no personality of his own, anyway, so in the sense that you propose, the way you think about it, I’d have no reason for wanting to get even with him. He was a nameless, clumsy petit bourgeois, a nobody who preferred to go around staying out of the way, avoiding everything and making sure not to stand out in the crowd.
Now it was Kienast’s turn to wait and see what the young man was getting at.
He’s the fellow who wouldn’t harm a fly.
Is that why you think, asked Kienast, still guided by surprised caution, that he might be in your way.
It’s not so simple as you might imagine. I’d have to squeal on or accuse family members individually, including dead ones. And you’re coming on with these miserable conceptual dichotomies. If I may, I beg you, please stop it. The others are truly frightening murderers, but not disgusting. Because one can understand them. But my father is a common opportunist. Legally speaking, this seems like a ridiculous accusation, as if I were harping on obsolete business. But it’s the matter of obsolescence, of statutory limitation, that gives me no rest. I won’t lie to you about essential matters. This thing torments me, nothing urges me on so much as that they continue to make a living out of this statute of limitations — until someone exposes them. And there, at that point, that’s where it has to be cut, you understand, so they can’t go on living off the statute of limitations. It’s not the legal process, I don’t care about the law — everything is legal or everything is illegal, that’s a matter of litigation, it’s all the same anyway — what interests me is the way later developments push aside earlier events and the sly way they play with this. I enjoy it too, the place of dread always filled by the next dread. Why should I remember anything, that’s what I want you to explain, but I bet you don’t have an answer.
Kienast did not want to reply to this question, it was simply not his business.
Or why do I still have this penchant for remembering things despite everything. This cannot be understood, and we cannot forgive one another for it.
He stopped suddenly and looked at Kienast as though he now saw or realized why he must kill his father or at least forsake his family.
But I will ask you to leave God out of the game, don’t go on mentioning him to me, because I hate Jesus Christ with all my heart.
Grave silence settled between them, silence of a quality that belonged to neither of them, and for a while neither dared break it.
I despise him, if you’d rather hear it that way, Döhring shouted desperately.
Your preferences are clear: you don’t care about the law, don’t bother with ethical questions, and hate God. However, I haven’t mentioned them, you’re wrong about that, neither Jesus Christ nor God.
Of course you have. You are a blasphemer and so am I. You mentioned their holidays, that’s enough for me. You mentioned the Elevation of the Host, the sacrifice of the body, of course you did, all those flowery words.
Again there was silence between them.
Don’t mention him again, Döhring shouted, you’re probably Catholic, that’s why you mention him so loudly, but don’t mention him to me here, because I hate him, I hate him.
Perhaps they were standing too close together; the poker protruded dangerously from Döhring’s hand. They were barely an arm’s length apart.
Until now, I thought I could follow you without difficulty.
The one they call Jesus Christ I cannot take seriously, I despise him.
Kienast’s glass was still on the mantelpiece; he wanted to reach for it.
But what does this have to do with what they’ve been talking about, and Döhring has to explain that.
It’s probably not his fault, maybe he’s not the one to blame for not redeeming anyone’s sin, Döhring continued, as simply and smoothly as if they were talking of the beneficial effect on the world’s stock markets of the fall of the Berlin wall, which was also something factual, but perhaps it’s really impossible to comprehend or understand what sort of crime it is to let others delude themselves with false hopes of redemption. Why would that be a more forgivable nastiness or crime than murder. Why shouldn’t every person be able to end this ugliness of several thousand years, or one’s own life.
You may be right, but not only am I not a Catholic, I’m not even a Protestant. I left the church, have nothing to do with it. The matter is much simpler than that. I’m thirsty, Kienast answered rather softly. I left my church, you understand, I’m hungry as a wolf, that’s how simple life is.
He was not in the mood for a theological debate, did not want to discuss religious wars, would have no counterarguments. If only because he saw how great the adolescent confusion was in the other man’s head, and he did not believe it.
Maybe you know a roadside place nearby that’s open now.
Upon hearing such an indecent proposal, Döhring was not only taken aback but momentarily struck dumb.
Man, oh man, he shouted after a brief silence, and then, flying into a passion, he laughed strangely, very strangely. Here I am, asking you about the existence of the deities and you come back with material things, your hunger and thirst.
Perhaps his laugh was not even a laugh but the beginning of a convulsive dance of his facial muscles.