Maybe This Time Page 4

  When I visit them and suggest, as I did last time, that we all go to my sister’s house to celebrate her birthday, they’re delighted because nothing is more important to them than their children. So we agree to surprise my sister the following day, and then visit my brother, maybe even my other brother, if there’s enough time, since he lives a bit further away.

  You know how much I like it when you are all together, Mother says, and tells me everything that has happened while I was gone, and we grow closer, become close even. After a while, however, she stops talking and remains quite still. Father says, Maybe it’s better if you two go and I stay at home. Maybe Walter will stop by tomorrow. And the next day we don’t go to my sister’s, since Mother doesn’t like to leave Father by himself and she doesn’t want to miss Uncle Walter, should he finally come, as she says. So they stay at home, in the house, and I stay with them. My sister comes to visit, to celebrate her birthday here, in our parents’ house, not at hers as she has wanted to do for decades.

  One of them always used to stay at home. For as long as I can remember, they’ve never left the house together, and for some time now they haven’t even left separately, fearing that Walter might come and they wouldn’t be there.

  If we want to see them, we have to go to their house, and we do. There are plenty of occasions: Father’s birthday, Mother’s, their anniversary, my brother’s birthday, my other brother’s birthday (the one who supposedly looks just like Uncle Walter), saints’ days, weddings and christenings, All Souls’ Day and All Hallows’ Eve, Christmas, Easter and Pentecost. Yes, there are occasions enough and we observe them. From all directions, we make our way to our parents’ house.

  Besides Walter, Father has another brother and a sister who come to every occasion, along with their sons and daughters, the cousins with their children, the nephews, my great-uncle, all of them. Well, not all of them, in fact, because Uncle Walter is always missing. The more he stays away, the more my parents long for him and the more stubborn their hope that this time, today, now, he could perhaps still come after all.

  But Walter doesn’t come, at least not while we are there. We don’t make up for his absence, those of us who are present, and no matter how hard we try to distract them, to make them forget about Walter, it never works. The rest of us do count for something, but not enough compared with him, since Walter’s absence makes us all invisible in our parents’ eyes and in our own. Those who are missing are noticed, but only until they come through the door, join those who are waiting and disappear into the group. It’s always the same game, who’s there and who isn’t, how many are we now, and who might then still come and who not.

  The names of the others are mentioned. Yet it’s only his name everybody thinks about. However, no one asks after him, on that we silently agreed a long time ago. Not a word is said about him. But eventually our parents start talking about him and then we speak of nothing but Walter.

  In the house and in the garden, we sit together and wait, pretending that we aren’t waiting. We look at each other and try to talk to each other, pretending that this is enough. But it isn’t. And how could it be, waiting as we are for another, morning, noon, evening and into the night. Whether we don’t mention his name once or whether we speak of nothing but him, we wait, at each and every family gathering and also the days and weeks in between, through the years and decades that our family has been around. And should we, just once, manage to be together without a single thought of him, a mere look from one of us is enough to bring us all back to him, and to our parents, for whom, once again, our presence is not enough.

  With our constant glances at the door, never intended for the one coming through it, but searching for the one who is not to be found, we simply tell one another, but no, you’re not Walter. It took me years before I could interpret these looks and understood that they had nothing to do with me, but with the one who was missing, always the one who was missing.

  That’s how it was, and it’s no different now, and none of us could say why it was the way it was, the way it had to be, the way it is now. In this sense, we have always lived with Walter. We know him and don’t know him. The youngest of us, in fact, have never laid eyes on him. And when photos from our parents’ or another relative’s childhood are passed around at the gatherings, there is never any trace of Walter.

  We know him from hearsay and from our parents’ stories and expectations and their invariably disappointed hopes, which have now become ours. Should a stranger come to the door or pass by a window, which happens often enough at our family gatherings, my nieces and nephews are taken aback and look at each other, checking to see if the stranger could be Uncle Walter, nodding inquiringly or shaking their heads. No, it’s not Uncle Walter, for whatever reason. Uncle Walter looks different, Uncle Walter is taller or shorter, depending, since each of us has our own image of Walter. But in all the stories he’s good-natured, well-meaning and attentive, and interested in all of us. That’s what they tell us. But we don’t believe it, just as when I was a child, for years I didn’t believe he even existed. But there is a Walter. He has a wife called Ria. And she comes to our parents’ house. And he has a son, too. A grandson, even. Why shouldn’t he exist? He does. And he comes to visit. That’s if what our parents tell us is true, as not a soul has ever witnessed these visits. In any case, after each so-called visit, our parents’ lives are, for a time, off kilter.

  He sends his best. He has a kind word for each of us. He promises to join us for the next gathering and looks forward to getting to know us, each and every one of us. That is what they say and that is what we hear. There are still a few of us who believe it, or pretend to for our parents’ sake, but this is not to say that we all appear to believe it or that it could possibly happen one day, maybe this time, maybe now.

  Walter hasn’t come. Nor, on the other hand, have our parents ever gone to his house. He has never invited us children. From the beginning, Walter never encouraged visitors, and our parents always respected his wishes, or at least that’s what they say.

  For a long time, I wanted to get away from the family gatherings. Whenever I sat with the others in the kitchen or in the garden and the waves of noise rose around me, I thought of Walter and how calm and peaceful it must be where he is, and of how much I, too, needed to escape. And I was impressed by his rejection of us. When I got into the car, on the way there and on the way home, I thought of nothing but avoiding the next gathering and the one after, of never turning up again, because our parents and all the others needed to understand that I could no longer comply with their wishes. I decided to stay away, but still ended up coming to the next event.

  And then I did leave and stayed away. For a while I didn’t show up any more. But I soon realized I didn’t have the strength to stay away for good, because I spent the whole time thinking about them and wondering whether or not Walter had ever come.

  While I stayed away from the family gatherings, not one of my relatives mentioned my absence. This bothered me, as I felt that they should notice I wasn’t there. I wanted them to miss me. After all, Father is old, and Mother isn’t getting any younger. How many more times would I see them, I wondered. And so I forced myself to return.

  My parents cling to this person, and we in turn all cling to him. Walter haunts them and they let it happen, and so do we, as if we had to pay off a debt or atone for some unspecified offence.

  As a child, I often asked my mother what we had done to Uncle Walter to make him stay away, because I assumed we must be at fault. I sensed how easily I could embarrass her with this question and what power I had over her at that moment, and so I asked it when we were not alone, preferably in public.

  What happened with him? I asked. Why do we do this? Why do we always wait, when he never comes?

  Why should anything have happened? She replied. Nothing happened, not a thing. She disappeared for a while, then returned. Walter was always that way, she said, even as a child. Always apart from the others and on his ow
n. 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.

  The arms weren’t my arms. I looked down at myself and knew the mirror was after me again. It all happened more quickly this time, since I went along with it. The washing, the hands, just like before, my head held under water. But I let it happen, and, as if to reward me, the water was now cold.

  The bay window opposite was wide open and the woman had gone, but I was still not alone.

  I covered the mirror and burrowed into bed under the towels I had dampened to cool my skin. Like everything else in the room, I too was draped in sheets, and I tried to remember how things could have come to this.

  It worked, or at least I thought it did. I remembered a story, my story, at least I thought it was. And the calmer I became by thinking about this story, the more sharply the pain returned, and I was pleased to be forced into alertness. The pain would pass, and I tried to distract myself by concentrating on this thought, which worked for a while, until I noticed that everything I remembered vanished the moment I thought of it, vanished permanently, as if it had never happened, as if I had never experienced it. As soon as I remembered something, I seemed to forget it. No matter what I thought. The last few hours. How I came here. There was an answer, which appeared like a familiar face in a crowd, but it immediately disappeared and was as strange as all the others.