Crowds are not for Walter, they make him anxious. There are too many of us for him, too many at once. It frightens him. He’s afraid of us, she said, afraid of how loud we are now. It’s true. She’s right about that, we’ve always been loud. But why we should keep waiting for him when we’ve always been too many for him, to that she gave no answer.
In summer, weather permitting, we wait in the garden because the children’s rowdiness often makes it difficult to stay indoors. So we sit in the sun or under one of the trees. Only Walter’s chair sits off to the side in the shade of one of the other trees.
Walter can’t bear the sun. Too much light isn’t good for him, and draughts make him ill. So the windows and doors are all kept shut, since Walter mustn’t become ill. In summer, we wait in the sun or in the shade, and in cold weather we wait indoors. The house is not heated. The warmth isn’t good for Walter, so in winter we sit chilled in the rooms, looking at each other but with Walter on our minds. We try to get along, which we do and then don’t. We leave only to return, looking at one another again, and we wait for Walter without really expecting him. We sit together and try to forget him, and whenever we succeed or simply believe we’ve succeeded, even for a moment, when things are quiet, peaceful and calm, Mother says into the silence: And when I think that things are so good for us, and Walter is alone somewhere, I don’t think it’s right.
Walter isn’t alone. We know his wife and his son and his grandson, who are both named Walter, after him. He’s not alone, we know, but we don’t contradict Mother, since for her that doesn’t count. For Mother, Walter was and is alone. Ria doesn’t change anything, she says dismissively. We have each other, but Walter is always on his own, so we must think of him and take care of him. And that is no doubt precisely what Walter wanted to avoid.
When we exchange presents, there is always one for him, inconspicuous, but plainly visible for those who want to see it. After the Christmas tree is cleared away, one present remains unopened until Easter or Pentecost, or even later, when it disappears into a cupboard, only to reappear under the tree the following Christmas.
Once in a while, Father will suddenly stand up and go to the telephone in the hall, to enquire. Although everyone watches him, they all continue to speak, or scream, or be silent, as if they haven’t noticed a thing. After a time, he comes back into the room and sits in his chair, clearly distracted. He gazes at those around him, but says nothing. The afternoon passes, and the evening, then he taps the table with his finger and announces, Walter’s still coming. He says this as he glances around him. Who did you speak to? Who did you call? we ask.
Walter should be here by now, he replies. This from Walter’s son, who had no idea where else Walter could have gone. And then the doorbell rings. Mother looks around, gets up and leaves the room, closing the door behind her, and we stay put.
Walter’s wife occasionally stops by unannounced, whether out of consideration for our parents or because Walter sends her. The door opens and we see that Walter isn’t with her. She has come without him. Still, one person fewer is missing, because Ria belongs with us, even if she doesn’t count without Walter. So we wait with her, since she always insists that he intends to come. Walter will follow, she says then. She has come ahead of him because he was held up by someone at the last moment. We wait, and while waiting she becomes restless and worried, as do we and our parents. Something must have happened or he would be here, she says. She stays a while longer, then leaves. We stay behind, waiting for her call, for a sign. But there is none, ever, as if there really were no Walter, not for us.
But there is a Walter. And he’s coming. If what our parents tell us is true. Walter’s coming, they say. In a day or two, in a week, in a month. Walter will come in his own time. The door opens and he’s standing here in the room.
Mother calls. Walter was here, she says. His chair is still warm. Imagine, we almost missed him! Good thing we had a feeling he’d come. Then she says, Next time, make sure to be here. I always knew, she says then. Walter is coming, he’s looking forward to seeing you. Next time you’ll come too. Walter’s coming, he promised. Then we’ll all be together. Promise me that you’ll come. Walter would like to see you, she says. I promise, as do the others. We all promise, each of us. Yes, I promise, I say. I’ll be there and Walter will too, for sure. And at our next visit they both tell us about Walter and how it all went.
We can’t leave, we have to include him, they say, when they suspect that we might once again be trying to stop them thinking of Walter by suggesting an outing.
We don’t want to tempt them away, so we listen to them and their stories. Eventually it’s evening, then night, and although it’s clear to the rest of us that Walter won’t be coming this time either, they seem calmly confident, knowing they’re home and ready in case he does come.
We’re not so different, I often think. I, too, want to be available. I know that desire all too well. If someone is waiting for me, anywhere, or wants to stop in and see me, announced or unannounced, I sometimes think I consist of nothing but the desire to see that person. So I shy away from commitments, and whatever meetings I agree to, I cancel, just to be free in case anyone should decide to stop by. I make an exception for my parents, so often, in fact, that there is little time left for anyone else. Still, even on my way to their house, I worry that someone might be standing at my door and I won’t be there. The last time I came, at the very moment I opened the door, it dawned on me that I had forgotten about Winkler. I hadn’t seen him for years, and now I had forgotten about him. He was left standing at my door with his wife and children, and I couldn’t reach him, no matter how often I tried, either then or since. In fairness, it wasn’t the first time I had stood him up like that.
It happens time after time. And time after time while I am with my family at my parents’ house, sitting in the garden or at the dinner table, my mind wanders to my front door where someone might perhaps be waiting. Then I look at each member of my family in turn and think how impossible it is to escape these family ties. No one has managed it except Walter, and for him there was a price which we all must pay.
And yet, at each gathering, the moment comes when it’s time to leave, to let it go and admit that there is no point in waiting, at least this time, and Father sweeps his hand across the table and says nothing, but then, finally, he says, Walter probably won’t make it today after all. He stands up and thanks everyone for coming and, turning to Mother, says, I’ll be off to bed then. Mother follows him to the door of the room. She closes it behind him, and straightens her blouse and sits down and stays with us for a little while longer. Eventually she lowers her eyes, smiles and claps her hands cheerfully. Tomorrow I will give Walter your best, she says.
The Beginning of Something
The stamps on the envelope were still moist. I noticed they were foreign. As I got to the window I realized that I was, in fact, in another country, somewhere unfamiliar. I didn’t know where. To confirm or dispel my sense of foreboding, I went into the bathroom. A stranger’s face looked at me from the mirror.
Finally awake, sweaty, but relieved to have remembered a dream after so long, I got up and found everything in order. I was drawn to the table where I had worked through the night. I looked out of the window and saw it was all as I remembered in the dream. A late afternoon in early autumn. Even the woman behind the half-open shutters in the bay window opposite, the woman who had watched me in my dream, she was still there and hadn’t lost interest in me.
A dream, I thought, and sat on the bed to finish the dream, but everything stayed the same.
Sheets had been draped over everything in the room, I now noticed. The walls were bare. The room seemed to have been abandoned long before. I closed the curtains. Darkness fell.
Several doors led out of the room. Lock them, I thought.
They were locked. The keys were on the inside. I knew I had to get to the mirror. Only then would the dream stop. I felt my way to the bathroom. The mirror was still there.
I started to wash myself. My hands mechanically scrubbed my body and didn’t stop. I wanted to escape from the dream. But I couldn’t wash what had happened from my skin, and my hands rubbed myself raw with the scalding water. Finally, they pushed my head under water and only relented when I realized that I could not resist them. The hands reached for a towel and used it to cool the red face that looked out at me from the mirror, as if already used to the fact that I was another.
I pulled myself together, convinced the darkness was deceiving me. But my hands throbbed with pain, and with the pain they became mine once more. I tore open the curtains and examined my hands in the daylight. They were covered with blisters. I wrapped them in the towel, which was now no longer cool enough to soothe the burning. Before long I brought the towel to my face and held it against my forehead.
