The Old King in his Exile Read online

  My father was still unhappy with what he managed to do. He complained that he was an idiot, but then he’d say, ‘I’m not such a complete ass that I can’t do anything.’

  His weaknesses often reminded him of the past and the ‘proud pleasure’ he used to experience.

  ‘I used to take real pleasure in the good things I did. I wasn’t crazy about all the work, but I knew it was important and that there was scarcely anyone who was as good at those things as I was. Wherever I was, I dealt with everything in a jiffy. Done. It wasn’t always lovely work, but it was pleasant. You and I always did well together.’

  ‘I did do well with you.’

  ‘Seriously. We really did. If we hadn’t had each other, we would have been shot like dogs. Those weren’t things that could just be churned out. Half the things could be, but not everything. I was proud, you know, of those things that only a few people could have made turn out for the best – because we could! And they gave me pleasure, because I saw that I could do those things. Things where you needed to work with your brain. I’d tackle them and always succeed. Taking complicated things and giving them the right turn – I was an expert at that. How I managed to twist things this way and that until they were right! And you saw that I enjoyed my work. Everything else would have been hopeless. You all could sense, couldn’t you, that I liked the work and that I had a good attitude? I know, there’s not much left now. Not much left now at all. I still have some odds and ends, but that’s almost the same as nothing. But my achievements back then, all the different things, they were good. I don’t know who did it all. I think you were involved. And Emil. And me. I’d get the job done and move straight on to the next one. Just to think, what hard work it was! And when it went well, God, I felt so strong!’ He balled his fists and raised them to his chest. ‘You know, I didn’t particularly think I was an idiot. I knew that when I tried, I’d manage – one time, someone came and praised me because I did it right. He came and praised me. I was proud of how I’d done it. Because, since I used to be pretty intelligent, I could think, “You’ve hit the bull’s-eye there!”’

  Another time, he said, ‘The flukes we had – they weren’t by chance. There’s always some luck involved, but not all of it is just luck. We were’ – he brushed the thumb of his right hand across his fingertips – ‘more skilful than the others. So we can’t complain.’

  *

  I certainly wasn’t complaining, because I could again look to the future with confidence. All the strain had been blown away. Unusually for me, everything appeared clear – personally, with my family, and at work. We had time to catch our breath. We had landed on our feet again.

  Previously, most of my days had ended with dashed hopes, especially during my visits to Wolfurt. At night, my thoughts exerted a dark power over me, so that by morning I was weary, and by midday, as tired as a dog. Even in Vienna, far from Wolfurt, it was not good to let my mind drift homewards. And yet now the days seemed to pass normally again. I was looking forward to the summer weeks in my parents’ house. They would compensate for a miserable winter and spring.

  My fifth novel had turned out well and for the first time in ages I was light-hearted, something I realised on the day I arrived, when I climbed to the very highest branch of the cherry tree. I hadn’t been up there since I had broken three ribs performing a similar circus trick. How liberating to feel joy once more! To wake up and know that I would be able to enjoy the day – that was an elemental change.

  The last few years, I hadn’t been very adventurous while at Wolfurt. Because some unforeseen incident could occur, I had felt tied to the house. One day after another had passed, sluggishly and yet unpredictably, which is why people in the village saw so little of me. Now, on the other hand, I had not only time but also energy. I called my father’s brothers and sisters and his former workmates and told them I wanted to talk to them, for a book I was going to write.

  Most of the conversations took place in the evenings. During the day I would pay my father one or two visits.

  From the very first day, he was even-tempered, relaxed and attentive. He asked how I was doing and about my plans. He said he was happy enough, but waiting for the right moment to get out of the home.

  With a conspirator’s air, he said, ‘Then you won’t see me here any more.’

  He leant back and grinned to himself.

  He had grown thin. His clothes hung off him. He had a different collar size now, but still wore the same shirts. He was still good with his hands. I found it extraordinarily beautiful that he could do up or undo the top button of his shirt with two fingers, casually, without interrupting his chain of thought. I liked the whole of my father, his entire person. It looked like he was in a good way. I half-remembered a phrase about ending something in beauty. If my father carried on like this, then the same would be true for him as I had once read in a Thomas Hardy novel, which talked of an old man who approached death as a hyperbolic curve approaches a straight line – changing his direction so slowly that, in spite of the nearness, it was unclear that the two would ever meet.

  My father’s intention was indeed to live a little longer. He was absolutely clear about that.

  *

  One Tuesday afternoon when I walked into the lounge, my father was sitting with another resident, someone whom he’d asked a few days earlier, ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m Toni,’ the man had said.

  At this, my father grinned and replied, ‘I think you’re more of a pony.’

  Now, the two of them were deep in conversation. To my joy and amazement I saw that, within the limitations of their illness, they were managing a good conversation, each taking an active interest in the other person.

  Toni said he’d been up there, where St Peter lived, and it was beautiful. They all had new flats.

  ‘That’s not what I have in mind,’ my father replied. ‘I much prefer walking around a little and looking for someone to chat with.’

  Toni scoffed, ‘Well, of course you can’t do that up there.’

  While Toni and my father chatted, two women were calling for the nurse for help. My father ignored their cries. His cheerful expression didn’t change at all, and he didn’t even turn his head – he was completely focused on Toni and me. He only paid attention to what was happening behind him when Toni turned towards the women and started to direct withering ripostes at them. He was like the home’s own Schopenhauer.

  ‘Help! Help! Won’t anyone help me?!’

  ‘Quiet over there!’

  ‘I want to go home!’

  ‘Then call a taxi!’

  ‘I need a doctor!’

  ‘He’s gone home already!’

  ‘Doctor!’

  ‘He’s at home with his sweetheart!’

  ‘I need help!’

  ‘No one can help you!’

  The woman, ashamed, said, ‘Oh, I didn’t know that…’

  What surprised me was that although both women were local, their pleas were uttered in High German, as if they wanted to emphasise the seriousness of the situation.

  My father was calmly speaking High German with Toni, too, as if they were discussing grave topics.

  At a table behind my father, two women were reading the newspaper, undisturbed by the commotion. I found it unsettling that people were crying for help and Toni was just interrupting them. But the staff and residents paid his taunts no more attention than they would a cuckoo popping out of a clock, so I tried to do the same.

  But it really grated that, if my father would sing a little, one of the two women reading the newspaper loved to shout, ‘Excuse me! Hello! He should be quiet!’

  Now my father said to Toni, ‘Times are changing, but not for much longer.’

  He said it firmly, in a tone somewhere between regret and fatalism.

  Toni said, ‘I could cross the mountains. I’d like to climb the Alps again. And then head down the Rickatschwende.’

  My father replied, ‘I won’t come.’
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  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m nothing.’

  ‘You’re still a lot.’

  My father grinned. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You just have to want it.’

  ‘“Wanting” is not a big thing with me any more. Hope, I do have. In my life, I used to be on my feet a lot.’

  Toni said something that I didn’t quite catch.

  You could see that my father had his doubts about what Toni had said, and he replied, ‘Good, I’ve noted that. What next? The rosary?’

  ‘No!’ Toni exclaimed.

  ‘It would take too long.’

  ‘And be pointless. Can you even pray the rosary?’

  My father said, ‘I think so.’

  ‘OK, so how does it go? Show me!’

  My father shook his head and changed the topic.

  When the conversation returned to my father’s being over the hill and how things couldn’t carry on like this for long, Toni said, ‘Yes, then they’ll put you in a box. Off to the happy hunting grounds with you.’

  ‘I’d rather… chatter a bit longer,’ my father said. ‘You know, I can’t clear new paths, but I can go here and there, where I can still see things and pick things up.’

  Once again, Toni said he’d been up to see St Peter and look around. He liked it up there but St Peter told him that he, Toni, wasn’t on the list.

  Toni added, ‘They’ve all got new flats up there. You should go.’

  My father once again replied, ‘That’s not what I have in mind. I much prefer to go for walks and look around.’

  ‘You’ve served out your life already.’

  ‘And you? Do you want to carry on like this for a while longer?’

  Toni smiled. ‘I’d be happy with a few more years.’

  ‘Yes, you still look strong.’ My father undid the top button of his blue, patterned flannel shirt. Then he loosened his tie and explained, smiling, ‘I need to let a little air in.’

  A thin man in a wheelchair was sitting at the same table. Most of the time he moved his legs slowly, as if he were walking, while his face and torso were quite still. A little taken aback at the sight, my father commented to the man, ‘What you’re doing there is not particularly effective.’

  Toni told my father, ‘He spends all day running, at least in his head. In one day, he runs around the whole of Austria.’

  ‘With me, it’s the nether regions that are limp,’ my father said as he grasped his upper thigh. ‘I think it’s the nether regions that matter.’

  ‘Your nether regions are still intact,’ Toni said.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘How old are you now, August?’

  ‘Should I know that?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  I helped my father out, saying he would soon be eighty-three. ‘Thank you, that’s nice of you. I appreciate that.’

  ‘We’re not twenty any more, after all.’

  ‘My mother is still fine too. But other than her…’

  Then, the woman on the couch shouted out, ‘Holy sister! Holy sister! Holy sister! Come and help me, please!’

  ‘The nurses aren’t such holy sisters any more!’ Toni retorted.

  Another woman complained, ‘I’m so tired! I’m so tired!’

  ‘Then go to bed! Go to your room and sleep!’

  ‘I haven’t done anything! Holy God, help me! Holy God!’

  ‘Grant us mercy!’ Toni exclaimed.

  My father, surprised and happy, asked, ‘Really?’

  The woman cried, ‘Why? Why?’

  ‘Why not!’ replied Toni.

  To Toni, my father said, ‘Even you’d pray an “Our Father”, if they’d let you work. You still look like you’re in fine fettle and would like to work.’

  Toni agreed, ‘Yes, I’d certainly like to.’

  My father added, approvingly, ‘You’re still strong and solid.’

  Toni laughed. ‘I’ve grown solid!’

  He told my father that the previous day the paramedics had driven him to the hospital in Feldkirch. He had been itching to tell the driver, a mere kid, ‘Out you get – let me drive!’

  The two old men talked about making their escape. Then Toni again started to say he’d visited St Peter, who still didn’t have him on his list.

  ‘I’d have liked it up there.’

  My father said, ‘Yes, it can’t be bad up there. But I’d prefer to stay in Wolfurt.’

  When their meal came and I said goodbye, my father nodded. ‘Yes, get home. I’ve only got one bit of advice for you: stay home and don’t leave it!’

  *

  When I first visited the care home, for an instant I felt pity for all humanity – for those who have lived, for the living, and for those who were still to live. Over time, however, I became accustomed to the unusual situation, and in the end I didn’t find their way of life stranger than any other. The constant repetition meant that, on the whole, there was a calm, steady buzz of activity. Even one resident’s guttural growls and hoarse shouting, which had annoyed me at first, sounded familiar and pleasant once I knew what a warm nature he had.

  My brothers and sister found the home’s atmosphere hard to bear. They took our father outside as often as possible. Whenever I asked my sister to tell me about a visit – and she visited him often – she wouldn’t want to talk about it. She said that my strategy was to talk about it, while her strategy was to immediately suppress what she experienced there; she was happy to forget everything five minutes after walking out of the door, and the sooner the better. She couldn’t find it interesting, just heartbreaking. Reading what I wrote was fine, she said, it even made her chuckle, but the situation itself horrified her.

  My younger brother simply said he couldn’t deal with it, and he wasn’t the only one. Often we brought our father back up the hill to our family home.

  Everyone is different, or, as my father would say, ‘Our dear Lord has all kinds of lodgers.’ Personally, I found the home’s atmosphere friendly and enriching, and the staff relaxed and good-natured. They were all local women who used du, the friendlier word for ‘you’ in German, rather than the more formal Sie. Most of the residents were full of life – though in a very elemental way. And although the world at large no longer really counted these people among its numbers, they were great company.

  *

  But then, during my very last visit that summer, my father was not in a good way. A carer from the Philippines greeted me outside the home with the words, ‘Oh, thank God, Arno’s coming. August has wanted to go home for hours.’

  I brought my father outside. He said he was sad about how things were, that he couldn’t do anything right, that he wasn’t getting anywhere with his efforts to move back into his own house. He hung his head and complained bitterly. Maybe it was because that weekend he’d gone up the hill twice, and just the day before he’d seen his brothers and sisters in his parents’ house. Aunt Marianne, Robert’s wife, had told me how lovely it had been – everyone happy to see him and no lack of topics for conversation. After all, she said, you don’t exactly need to force Paul to tell stories. Apparently, August had listened attentively to Paul and watched him, spellbound, the whole time.

  And now, during my evening visit, my father thought I was Paul. He kept asking me what would happen next and whether I could help him get home. His worries had left him drained and he mentioned a number of times how sad he was. I tried to calm him down, telling him we weren’t in a hurry and that we could sit for a while longer before we got going. He asked in astonishment, and with a certain shyness, if we were then really going home. I told him we were, we would just wait for Helga and then be on our way. Two or three times he touched my cheek lightly with the back of his hand, and once with his palm, thanking me because my news made him so happy. I had brought a bowl of raspberries and fed them to him, one by one. Later, we went to his room and listened to music. Now and then we would chat. He was still inconsolable, but at least happy he had a brother
. After a while, I had the feeling that he had calmed down and wasn’t thinking as much about going home. And as it was bedtime and I had to pack for my journey, I stole away. I didn’t have the heart to say goodbye. I left without a word and felt rotten. Walking down the hall, I wanted to run back. I thought of the expression ‘to tear yourself away.’

  ‌

  That’s your workshop. What do you think when you see it?

  How much we stored there. I used to think I’d still need it. There are things everywhere with old dates on them. And you, do you work there?

  I get a screwdriver or a file out now and then. I like using your tools.

  I don’t, not any more. I’ve lost a lot of my mental abilities. If I still had them, I’d enjoy spending time in the workshop.

  I enjoy spending time with you.

  That’s all right, then. I don’t feel abandoned or disappointed. I’ve experienced many things, had many things, achieved many things. It’s not so very terrible that only a little more performance is still in me.

  I think you underestimate yourself. I don’t. You’ve still got a lot, even if it’s not what people normally measure as ‘performance’.

  Yes, yes, in the past I sometimes did things based on my ideas, but I’m too weak now. Never mind. If I were offended or disappointed, I’d ask if you all could help me. But I’m content enough. I’ve done a lot in the past. But today – for some time, actually – I don’t want to, not any more. For a good while my doing has been going downhill. When I was younger, and grown up, too, I could do a lot. Now, frankly, I can’t do anything. No. No. I get it all wrong. But it doesn’t make me unhappy that I no longer master things. It’s just gone. I can still take pleasure in other people’s successes. But I’ve lost the feathers in my cap.

  ‌

  Our father’s house had fulfilled its purpose. It had held together until his children grew up and he had been moved to the home. Now it all looked rather shabby and old-fashioned, and more than one part of it gave cause for concern. Our father had built the house with his own hands. Since the seventies he had been constantly adding to and adapting it. What can I say? Such houses are, indirectly, always self-portraits.