E-Book, Englisch, 300 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-908276-14-8
Verlag: And Other Stories
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Christoph Simon was born in 1972 in Emmental, Switzerland. After travels through the Middle East, Poland, South America, London and New York, he has settled in Berne. His first novel, Franz, or Why Antelopes Run in Herds (2001) has sold over 10,000 copies, while Planet Obrist (2005) was nominated for the Ingeborg Bachmann Prize. Zbinden's Progress is his fourth novel and won the 2010 Bern Literature Prize.
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Last Wednesday morning, I was walking around the local area here. That early in the morning, no one feels like a conversation, apart from Bobby who distributes the free papers at the tram depot. Once, in the snow, my feet slipped away from under me, I fell on my back, and Bobby helped me up again, saying, ‘A less agile old man would surely’ve got a broken neck.’ With this flattering remark began a casual friendship that both of us cherish. I sit down beside him. The pile of free papers he’s supposed to be handing out is on his lap. I inquire about his well-being; Bobby, bleary-eyed, inquires about mine. Then he asks if I’d like a paper ‘for the tram’. Bobby’s dressed the way, in his opinion, someone doing his job in early summer should be: trainers, jeans, baseball cap, a windcheater, to which his ID is clipped. ‘People aren’t going to come up and snatch the paper from the hands of a seated distributor,’ I say. Bobby sighs. ‘Give me the rest. I’ll hand them out in the Home. There’s your tram coming.’ ‘That’s good of you, Herr Zbinden.’ Bobby raises his baseball cap and calls back ‘Thanks’, over his shoulder. The stop empties, the tram drives off. Then the stop fills with people again. A girl sits down beside me: a girl with braces and a school bag and dangling legs. I ask would she like a paper ‘for the tram’. The girl declines, politely. She doesn’t read newspapers, so I ask what she normally reads. Then I wait: I can see she’s examining me, taking her time before she answers. I’m dressed the way, in my opinion, someone going for a walk should be: a sailor’s cap; a tucker bag with tassels; shoes, badly worn at the heel. ‘I like reading fairy tales best,’ the girl says, finally. ‘Hansel and Gretel at the moment.’ ‘Breadcrumbs were supposed to lead them home,’ I recall. ‘The witch gets burnt to cinders,’ the girl says. ‘Do you like school?’ ‘I’m good at Arithmetic and Writing. Really fast – like a machine. I’m top in GIS too.’ ‘What’s GIS?’ ‘No one knows, exactly. To do with maps.’ ‘I used to be a teacher. GIS didn’t exist in those days. What age are you?’ ‘Eleven. And you?’ ‘Count the wrinkles on my face. Like the rings on the horns of an antelope.’ ‘Do you know what I want to be when I’ve finished school? I want to have a jewellery shop in every single country in the world.’ ‘Every single country in the world? That’s great!’ ‘Maybe not New Zealand. I’ve nothing against New Zealand. We were there last year. But it’s too far away for a jewellery shop. What are you doing with all those papers?’ ‘I want rid of them.’ ‘Give me a few. I’ll hand them out at break time. There’s my tram coming!’ ‘That’s really kind of you!’ I raise my sailor’s cap and shout ‘Thanks!’ as she walks away. A businessman sits down beside me, and for the next ten minutes fends off my questions. Would he like a Gazette ‘for the tram’? – a hand waves it away. What his favourite subject at school was – a suspicious look. Why, in his opinion, New Zealand is avoided by jewellers – he moves away, as if I’d something contagious. Whether, professionally, he’d made it to where he’d dreamed of as a boy – he stares straight ahead. Many I encounter find it difficult to come out of their shell. Today seems quiet, at least. Other days, activation therapists and nurses in white tunics and great-grandchildren whizz past at such a rate, you have to cling to the banister as you would a ship’s rail when huge waves crash on board. Listen, Kâzim, I don’t want to keep you back, but would you do me a favour, young man? Would you accompany me on a walk outside? I know you’ve lots to do, but I assure you, you won’t regret a walk! Precisely because you’ve lots to do. Walking is the oldest form of mental and physical exercise. Adam and Eve walked out of Paradise. Socrates strolled along a newly inaugurated street on the look-out for curly-haired boys to kick. Jesus and the Devil took a walk in the desert and, inspired, talked shop. Eighty-seven-year-old Lukas Zbinden may no longer be strong enough to pull a plough; not wanting to plummet into the void, he does a recce before each step; still, he strides along the street undeterred, avoiding its many dangers, like Moses through the Sea of Reeds. I give an example that contradicts the view, very prevalent here in the Home, that old people would surely suffer heart attacks were they to subject themselves to the exertions of a walk. What is granted, do you think, Kâzim, to those who go for walks? Incredible joie de vivre, that’s what! Happy – in a way that’s almost laughable – relationships! Incredible solutions to problems of Physics! Icelanders walk, naked, in the snow – and manage to maintain their body temperature without ever breaking into a run. And do you know the best of it? Out walking, you could meet a partner for life, one who won’t want to marry you just for tax reasons and your pension. As a young man, a trainee teacher, I visit the home of a fellow student. Before the shoe rack is a pair of – muddy – high boots. When, furtively, I lift them, I see the sole’s almost completely worn out. I put the boots back and later – it’s a big family – ask, ‘Whose boots are those?’ ‘They belong to our Emilie.’ We look at each other – and in no time engagement rings are being exchanged. But will you accompany me outside, Kâzim? Into the fresh air? I have to tell you: I’m a social animal, not a loner, I like to have company when I go for a walk. For many, being alone may be the point of a walk. They don’t want to have to bow to others, prefer to walk when and where they please. They don’t want to hear other people’s commentaries on views; they’re unsociable. Herr Ziegler, for example, in Room 219, will protest, defiantly, ‘One walker is a walker. Two walkers are half a walker. Three walkers are no longer a walker at all.’ Have you already come across Herr Ziegler? He says hello to no one, and wouldn’t thank you for saying hello. He’s not in the least interested in meeting people. A small, dry figure who makes his way around the Home careful to keep at least two steps between him and anyone else. His head’s always lowered a little, as if he’s just solving the last mysteries of humanity – the origins of the Nazca Lines, the significance of the stone heads on Easter Island and the crop circles in Wiltshire. On a mild day, he’ll sit down on a remote bench in the courtyard with an archaeology book, and if I join him and start to speak, he’ll clap the book shut and get up and go, without a word in reply. He frightens me a little. His wife lives not far from here, in Domicil Elfenau. For reasons you’re best not asking about, they wanted to be assigned to two different homes. You can believe me when I say this, though: at least occasionally, even lone wolves like Herr Ziegler like to go for a walk with someone else, or as part of a group of like-minded people. As you know: no one is so perfect as not to need someone else to point out a charming bed of red carnations on Florastrasse, or a delightful little wind from south-south-west up on the Gurten, or a sleepy sawmill in Bümpliz. The person waiting for the lift back there is Herr Furrer. Former engineer. An open, broad-minded man, and much more friendly to you civvies than Herr Ziegler, say. He’ll take the greatest pleasure explaining to you how the fountain in the courtyard works. Among the advantages of walking in company is that it’s not so easy to accost yourself. That’s especially important for walkers who are easily distracted by their own thoughts. Those who brood over the slights suffered at the Police Headquarters on Waisenhausplatz, and so crash straight into the hapless pensioner who chooses that very moment to shuffle his way round the Oppenheim Fountain. Take two sociable country walkers – my late wife and me: we experience, together, the shift from colourful natural meadows to shady pine forests. We talk about the upheaval in the last Ice Age when the glaciers pushed way beyond the borders of our cantons, creating prominent moraines. Emilie describes the din of the massive rock slides that filled the valleys with debris when the glaciers retreated, and suddenly we’re back in a vast moor. We walk along narrow boards, half submerged, jumping from one firm patch to the next. The boggy ground beneath our feet squelches, sometimes, and gives a bit. Wooden crosses mark spots where someone lost their footing and got bogged down, but what’s Nurse Alessandra doing there, in the corridor? Why’s she crawling around on all fours? Come along this way, Kâzim. Alessandra! You see, she’d like to run off, but she’s kneeling on her tunic. Nice to find you here, Alessandra. What are you doing on your knees? Don’t you feel well? – Pardon? Well, what if you were maybe to squeeze your hand in carefully, who knows? Have you met this young man already? Our new civilian-service carer, it’s his first week here. His name is Kâzim. Side by side, we’re taking the stairs, one at a time. – Correct. You said...
