3.
Some time ago, when Dr. Alzheimer was still mentioned mainly in jokes—So what’s your diagnosis? It was some guy’s name, but I forgot it—a short article appeared in a small newspaper, one of those news items that was read by five people, four of whom instantly forgot it.
Here is the article, retold in brief:
A certain medical professional, Dr. G. (mentioned only by initial), from a Vienna geriatric clinic in Wienerwald, a fan of the Beatles, decked out his office in the style of the ’60s. He found a Bakelite gramophone, put up posters of the band, including the famous Sgt. Pepper album cover . . . From the flea market he bought an old cabinet and lined it with all sorts of tchotchkes from the ’60s—soap, cigarette boxes, a set of miniature Volkswagen Beetles, Mustangs and pink Cadillacs, playbills from movies, photos of actors. The article noted that his office was piled full of old magazines, and he himself was always dressed in a turtleneck under his white coat. There was no photo, of course, the whole piece was all of thirty lines long, stuffed into the lower left-hand corner. The news here was that the doctor had noticed that patients with memory issues were staying longer and longer in his office; they became more talkative, in other words, they felt at home. And that had radically reduced the number of attempts to run away from that otherwise prestigious clinic. The article had no author.
That was my idea, I’ve had it in my head for years, but clearly somebody beat me to it. (I must admit that in my case the idea was for a novel, but still.)
Whenever possible, I always supplied myself with that homeless newspaper, on the one hand due to my particular attachment to those who wrote it (a long story from another novel), but also because of the clear feeling (a personal superstition) that precisely in this way, through a scrap of newspaper, what must be said comes fluttering down gently or hits you upside the head. And this has never led me astray.
The paper said that the clinic was in the Vienna Woods and nothing more. I checked the geriatric centers nearby, and at least three of them were located in those woods. The one I needed turned out to be the last one I checked, of course. I introduced myself as a journalist, which actually wasn’t such a big fib; I had an ID card from a newspaper so I could get into museums for free, and sometimes I actually wrote for it. Otherwise I used the related, but far more innocent and elusive profession of writer, for which there is no way to legitimize yourself.
Anyway, I managed to reach—with quite a bit of difficulty, I might add—the director of the clinic. When she realized what I was interested in, she suddenly became curt: The individual you are looking for is no longer here as of yesterday. Why? He resigned by mutual consent, she replied, stepping onto the slippery slope of bureaucratic-speak. Was he fired? I asked, sincerely astonished. I told you, mutual consent. Why are you so interested? I read an interesting article in the newspaper a week ago . . . Even as the phrase left my lips, I realized I had made a mistake. That article about attempts to run away from the clinic? We have submitted a claim for a retraction.
I realized I had no cause to stay any longer; I also understood the reason for the resignation by mutual consent. What was the doctor’s name? I asked, turning back just before leaving, but she was already talking on the phone.
I didn’t leave the clinic immediately. I found the wing with the doctors’ offices and saw a worker taking the sign down from the third door on the right. Of course that was the name. I had suspected this from the very start.
4.
To catch a trace of Gaustine, who jumped from decade to decade just as we change planes at an airport, is a chance that comes along only once a century. Gaustine, whom I first invented, and then met in flesh and blood. Or perhaps it was the opposite, I don’t remember. My invisible friend, more real and visible than my very self. The Gaustine of my youth, the Gaustine of my dreams of being someone else, somewhere else, of inhabiting other times and other rooms. We shared a common obsession with the past. The difference between us was slight, but fundamental. I remained an outsider everywhere, while he felt equally at home in all times. I knocked on the doors of various years, but he was already inside, ushering me in and then disappearing.
When I called forth Gaustine for the first time, it was to have him sign his name beneath three lines that came to me just like that, out of nowhere, as if from another time. I struggled for months, but still couldn’t add anything to them.
From woman is the troubadour created
I can say it yet again
she has created the Creator
One evening I dreamed of a name written on a leather book cover: Gaustine of Arles, 13th Century. I remember that even while still asleep I said to myself: That’s it. Then Gaustine himself appeared, or I should say, someone who looked like him and whom I mentally took to calling that.
This was at the very end of the ’80s. I must have kept that story somewhere.
5.
Gaustine. An Introduction.
This is how I’d like to present him to you. I saw him for the first time at one of those traditional early September literary seminars at the seaside. In the late afternoon we had sat down in one of the little pubs along the shore, every last one of us writing, unmarried, and unpublished, at that pleasant age between twenty and twenty-five. The waiter could barely keep up, scribbling down our orders of brandy and salads. When we fell silent, the young man at the end of the long table piped up for the first time. Clearly, he hadn’t managed to order anything yet.
One creamer, please!
He uttered this with the confidence of a person who was ordering at the very least duck à l’orange or Blue Curaçao. In the long silence that followed, the only sound was the evening breeze coming from the sea, pushing along an empty plastic bottle.
Pardon? the waiter managed to say.
One creamer, if you would be so kind, he repeated with the same reserved dignity.
We were puzzled as well, but the conversations at the table quickly regained their previous boisterousness. Soon plates and glasses covered the tablecloth. The last thing the waiter brought was a small porcelain dish with a thin band of gold edging. In the middle of the dish, the creamer stood exquisitely (or so it seemed to me). Gaustine drank it so slowly, in such tiny sips, that it lasted him all evening.
That was our first meeting.
The very next day I went out of my way to get to know him, and in the remaining days we completely turned our backs on the seminar. Neither of us were extremely talkative types, so we spent a marvelous time walking and swimming in a mutually shared silence. Nevertheless, I managed to learn that he lived alone, his father had passed away long ago, while his mother had emigrated illegally for the third time a month ago—he very much hoped this time she would succeed—to America.
I also found out that sometimes he wrote stories from the end of the last century, that’s exactly how he put it, and I barely contained my curiosity, trying to act as if this were something perfectly natural. He was especially preoccupied with the past. He would go around to old empty houses, digging through the ruins, clearing out attics, trunks, and gathering up all sorts of old junk. From time to time he managed to sell something, either to an antique dealer or to an acquaintance, and that’s how he made ends meet. I reflected that the humbleness of his order the other night did not inspire confidence in that line of work. For that reason, when he mentioned in passing that at the moment he had three packs of Tomasian cigarettes from 1937 on hand, dusted off, double-extra quality, I, being a die-hard smoker, immediately offered to buy all three of them. Really? he asked. I’ve always dreamed of trying such an aged Tomasian, I replied, and he darted back to his bungalow. He watched me with true satisfaction as I casually lit up with an authentic German match from 1928 (a bonus he threw in with the cigarettes) and asked me how the spirit of ’37 was. Harsh, I replied. The cigarettes really were jarring, they had no filters and smoked like crazy. It must be because of the bombing of Guernica that same year, Gaustine said quietly. Or perhaps it’s because of the Hindenburg, the biggest zeppelin in the world exploded then, I think, on May sixth, about a hundred meters above the ground, right before landing, with ninety-seven people on board. All the radio announcers cried on the air. These things surely clung to the tobacco leaves . . .