'Oh, why don't they bolt, Graff?' said Siggy. And a brat had the leg of one now; it bleated and kicked, but it was slipping down the steps.
'You think you know so much about goats,' said the grandfather. 'You let them out, didn't you? You're just that sort of madman.'
Then they had the one goat down.
'Let's go, Graff,' said Siggy.
'I'm going to tell,' the grandfather said, and he blushed. 'Widow Ertl thinks I'm just an old duffer who doesn't know anything.'
'She'll think he's more of a duffer if he tells - won't she, Graff?'
'Oh,' said the grandfather, 'I'll let you get away before I tell.'
'Ah, Graff,' said Siggy, 'the terrible chances old duffers will take!'
And when we were started, they had a second goat down. The first goat was on its feet, but a fat girl had it in a headlock and its beard was rattily plucked.
Its pink mouth was open for bleating, but we couldn't hear it calling us over the motorcycle.
As the notebook has it:
Goats won't bolt! But they aren't wild animals.
Take heart, you wild animals!
Fairies All Around
WHEN WE CAME into St Leonhard, the bell ringer was still at it; he was trembling the church.
'What a racket!' said Siggy. 'Bong! Bong! Bong!' he shouted at the belfry.
And a thin little girl with a licorice stick saw him shout. She looked up to the church as if she expected the clapper to break loose from the bell and fly at us.
'Bong!' Siggy said to her, and we went into a Gasthof.
Mass had been over some time, and the Gasthof was almost empty. A natty, quick-moving man stood staring out the window at our motorcycle. Every time he raised his beer he looked like he was going to toss it over his shoulder; he stood with one foot on top of the other, suddenly losing his balance and regaining it with a hop and two-step.
The tired bartender, the Wirt, was reading a newspaper spread on the counter. We bought two bottles of cold beer, a loaf of bread and a two-schilling butter pat.
And the tired Wirt asked, 'All in one bag?'
'Oh, sure,' I said.
'I'll have to give you two bags,' he said. 'I haven't a bag big enough for the whole works.'
And the frisky man at the window turned round so suddenly he made us jump.
'Put the bottles up your asses!' he shouted. 'Put the bread in another bag!'
'God!' said Siggy. 'Frot you!'
'Eh?' the man cried, and he did his hop and two-step at us. 'Frot me, eh? Eh!' he shrieked, as if something were caught in his throat.
'Better watch out for him,' the Wirt said.
'I certainly will,' said Siggy.
'Because he'll sue you,' the Wirt said.
'Sue us?' I said.
'It's a profession with him,' said the Wirt.
And the man who was going to sue said, 'Put your asses in one bag!'
'Now look out, you,' said Siggy.
But the Wirt caught his arm. 'Better for you to look out,' he said. 'He'll let you hit him and then he'll sue you. He'll say he can't breathe because of his jaw, he'll say he gets headaches when he eats. Oh, we don't get many strangers here, but he goes after every one.'
'I'll give you the scrap of your life!' the suer yelled. He gave us the two-step again, cupping his beerglass in his palm and slopping his beer.
'I warn you, he won't fight,' said the Wirt. 'He just sues.'
'I can't imagine,' I said.
'It's amazing, I know,' said the tired Wirt, as if he were falling asleep over it. 'And he even gets away with it,' he said.
'How can he get away with it?' said Siggy.
We three stood together and watched him, standing one foot on the other, tottering and squirming his knees like a child trying hard not to wet his pants. But there wasn't anything childish in the man's face. He opened his fly and poured his beer inside his pants.
'He's a bit queer too,' said the Wirt.
And he gave us the two-step, but he was losing his nattiness fast; he flapped his pants fly open and closed, and the beer foam spat down his leg. He winked at Siggy. 'You-you,' he slobbered, 'you-you!'
'He'll sue!' the Wirt cried, but he missed stopping Siggy's arm.
Because Siggy already had his helmet off the counter, and he swung it twice-round by the chin strap, full circles of his arm, and swung it up under the surprised frisky man - caught him in the open crotch and tumbled his one-footed stance. The man howled over hind-end, his knees flinging up to his chest.
'Really,' the Wirt said, 'he'll sue you, I know it.'
'You're an utter dope,' said Siggy. 'And you can tell him we went the other way.'
'Well, sure I can,' said the moping Wirt. 'I don't mind at all, boys.'
And we walked quickly out of there, with no bags at all for what we'd bought; we left the dullest Wirt I'd ever met - with his Gasthof, and with the other's singed-mouse howl.
At the motorcycle, I stuffed the things into Siggy's vent-pocket.
'Christ, Sig,' I said. 'Letting goats loose, bashing queers!'
'Well, frot me, then,' said Siggy.
'Oh, we're quite a pair,' I said, meaning nothing by it, and he turned on the seat; he stared at me.
His voice, then, came up so shrill it seemed to startle the motorcycle. 'Are we now, Graff? Well, there's a butter pat for the pan, and bread for crumbs to roll the trout in. And there's beer for me to pour in my fly! And maybe I'll choke on a fish bone and let you botch the rest of the day by yourself!'
'Oh, frot,' I said. 'Oh, Jesus, Sig.'
And just as he chunked the bike in gear, the thin little girl came up to us from nowhere and touched Siggy's hand with her licorice stick - touched him lightly and magically, as if her licorice were the Good Fairy's wand.
The notebook records it in poetry: Oh, the things you want
Are very private--
Private, private,
Very private.
Oh, the only ways there are
To get them
Are very public--
Public, public,
Very ugly-public.
So God help us, Graff.
Great Bear, Big Dipper,
Help us both.
Which must be one of his worst poems.
The Second Sweet Act of God
FROM ST LEONHARD THE road turned steeply downhill, cutting high-banked and gravelly switchbacks to where the Ybbs would spill out of the mountain at Waidhofen. The gravel was soft and loose in the banks, and we tried to stay near the middle of the road; our rear wheel moved us all aslither, and we rode with our weight off the seat, pushed forward on the foot pedals.
The first of the orchards began less than a mile below St Leonhard - apple orchards, the tree rows stretching on both sides of the road, the young trees snappy in the wind and the old twisties squatting immovable; the grass between the tree rows was mown and lumped, smelling sickish-sweet in the sun. The apple buds were coming to blossom.
Now we posted on the foot pedals and let the bike scatter under us like a horse; it was some road, all right, the way it dropped and bent, giving us a flash of trees on one side and then the other; the raspy grasshoppers snapping out of the ditches, and the blackbirds swooping to near-collision.
Then the girl's braid seemed to whip out at us as she flung her head round to our noise and skipped herself out of the road. It was a thick auburn braid, waist-length, with the end of it flicking her high, swinging rump, and there was more wind filling her skirt than hips. The gravel was too loose for braking, so we had just this flash of her - her long brown legs, and her long fingers flicking down to her knees, pinching her skirt safe around her. Then I was looking over my shoulder, and she was turning her face away - tossing her braid out beside her; it did a snake dance in the sun while the wind held it up. I could almost have reached it, but the wind dropped it on her shoulder and she tugged it roughly to her cheek; that was all I saw of her, except for a laundry bag adangle from one of her arms.
She straightened her brown leather jacket with a tug as rough as she gave to her braid. Then we lost her in a switchback.
'Did you see her face, Sig?'
'You weren't looking at her face, either.'
'When I turned around, I was. She hid it from me.'
'Ah,' said Siggy. 'She feels guilty about it. An ill omen, Graff.'
But I looked for more of her along the road, as if girls with braids so auburn and rich were as prolific as apple buds and grasshoppers.
Great Bear, Big Dipper, Thy Ways Are Strange Indeed
WELL, UNDER THE apple trees there was deadfall and winter pruning that the firewood men had missed. The low boughs with blossoms and buds; the bee boxes propped on apple crates, the bee abodes painted white and set high up so the tractors and horsecarts wouldn't bump them over and spill the hives. It was all bees' work in the orchards now; the bees were out opening the apple buds, from blossom to blossom - oh, the friend of the flower and fertilization, the polliniferous bee!
'Isn't fertilization grand?' said Siggy.
And the deadwood under the trees was easy to snap up small - was making a quick-hot coal bed for us; we sprinkled the coals with water to put the flame down. Then we set the pan on the fired rocks and popped our butter pat into the pan. Siggy crumbed the crust of the bread loaf, and we rolled the wet trout until they were furry with crumbs.
The slim trickle of a trout stream crossed the road and the orchards and leaned down the mountain - to where we would go and see Waidhofen, after our lunch.
The stream was so tiny we'd almost missed it; the bridge was so thin we'd almost been sifted through the slats. But the trout here hadn't been shy about rising; now they spattered in the pan and tuned their music to the bee drone in the orchards.
And a bee flew a blossom over the stream; the air current dropped from under him, and the bee got his wings wet, paddling an apple petal now. But he was better off floating air than water; the giant trout pulled out from the bank, rose and nosed bee and blossom down its throat - left barely a ripple mark in its descent.
'There's one we missed,' I said.
'There's one who'd have eaten your whole rod,' said Siggy.
We ate a bit messily ourselves, picking with jack-knives until the trout were cool enough for our hands. And of course we had the beer cooling in the stream, waiting to go with an after-lunch pipe.
Belly-up to the sun, then, with the bee drone all around us; I couldn't see the road from the orchard, just the bridge rail underlining the treetops, the green-blotched bouquets of blossom and bud. This world is kind to itself, I thought. Well, the bees make honey for the beekeeper, the bees multiply the orchardman's apples; no one's hurt by that. And if only Herr Faber were a beekeeper, and Gippel an orchardman, wouldn't they be all right too?
So I said, 'Well, Sig, I could never tire of this.'
'One day it rains,' he said. 'One day it snows.'
And the notebook turns everything to poetry: Fate waits.
While you hurry
Or while you wait,
It's all the same to Fate.
Then I saw her head moving gently above the bridge rail; she had one hand on the rail, and I think she was tippy-toeing so she wouldn't rouse us. The red braid was pulled over her shoulder and tucked in the collar of her leather jacket; she tugged a thick knot of hair to her throat like a scarf, and her long face came down over it. The rail cut her off at the waist, so it was only a bit more than a bust of her that was sneaking by us.
I kept my eyes half closed, and I whispered, 'Look there, Sig, but be easy - don't open your eyes. On the bridge, look.'
'Frotting Graff!' said Siggy, and he bolted upright. 'Look where without opening my eyes? Look how?'
And the girl gave a little cry; she nearly bobbed out of my sight. I had to sit up to see her skip off the bridge and cross to the far side of the road. She was protecting her legs with her laundry bag.
'It's the girl, Siggy.'
'Oh, dandy,' he said.
But the girl was still walking away.
'Here!' I called. 'Can we give you a ride?'
'A ride with us?' said Siggy. 'Three on our bike?'
'Where are you going?' I shouted. Now I had to stand up to see her.
'She's running away from home, Graff. We won't be a party to that.'
'I'm not,' said the girl, not looking back at us. But she stopped.
'I didn't know she could hear, Graff. And anyway,' he whispered, 'I know she's running away.'
The girl turned a bit more to us, still keeping her legs behind the laundry bag.
'Where are you going?' I asked.
'I've a new job in Waidhofen,' she said, 'and I'm going to it.'
'What was your old job?' said Siggy.
'I took care of an aunt,' she said, 'in St Leonhard. But I've another aunt in Waidhofen, and she owns a Gasthof. She's giving me wages and a room of my own.'
'Did the other aunt die?' said Siggy.
'We were just leaving for Waidhofen,' I said.
'We were just having a nap, Graff,' said Siggy.
But the girl came back a little. She came kneeing her laundry bag in front of her, keeping her face down - her eyes under lashes and under the shadow of her hair. Her face seemed to catch a blush-color from her braid. She looked at the motorcycle.
'There's no room for me on that,' she said. 'Where would I be?'
'Between us,' I told her.
'Who drives?' she asked.
'I do,' said Siggy. 'And Graff would lovingly hold you on.'
'You could wear my helmet,' I told her.
'Could I?' she said. 'You wouldn't mind?'
'You'd have to leave your braid out,' said Siggy. 'Wouldn't she, Graff?'
But I scurried him back to pick up the fishing stuff; we cooled off the pan in the stream. The girl was tying the laundry bag drawstrings round her waist, letting the bag hang down in front of her.
'Can I just sit this on my lap?' she asked.
'Oh yes, yes,' I said. And Siggy gouged the panhandle into my belly.
'She's just a skinny baby one, Graff. She can't possibly give you much of a ride.'
'Oh, turn it off, Sig,' I whispered. 'Just turn it off a bit.'
'Fate waits,' he mumbled. 'Great Bear, Big Dipper, how you can wait!'
What All of Us Were Waiting For
'NEVER DONE THIS before,' she said.
And when she was on behind Siggy, I squeezed up behind her - sliding our rucksack back on the fender so I could hang a bit of my rear over the seat.
'I don't need to be held,' she said. 'I'm in here tight enough.'
Then Siggy bucked the ditch up out of the orchard; he raised the front wheel off the ground and brought it down again so gently that it seemed to kiss the road. The rear wheel went mushing out of the soft.
'Hold,' said the girl; she was tossed back against me a moment and her braid hung to my lap. I caught her between my knees and pinched her to the seat. 'Better,' she said. 'That's enough.' And we came down the pitch into the switchbacks; the road was so worn and such a leathery color, it looked like a razor strop. The trees seemed bent by the sky, but we were the crooked ones - leaned-over through the switchbacks, and barely out of one before we were leaning into another.
'Hold,' the girl said. 'More.' But I had no place to put my feet; the girl hooked her sandal heels over my foot pedals, and I held my feet up so they wouldn't be burned on the exhaust pipes. I put my hands on her hips and touched my thumbs together at her spine. 'That's better,' she said. 'That's enough.'
The wind took the tassel end of her braid and lashed it upward at my chin, but the weight of her hair hung against my chest in a wine-colored goblet-shape - coming down loose and full from the helmet to her first braid knot. I leaned a bit forward and pressed her braid against my chest; and she pressed forward to Siggy.
Oh, girl, I thought, what lovely taut tendons hold your ankle to your calf!
It was her laundry bag keeping her skirt in her lap, and
her elbows pinched her skirt to her thighs; she had her hands tucked in the famous vent-pocket of Siggy's duckjacket, as if she were using it as a muff against the wind.
Her hair was sweeter than the mow-smells, richer than the honeydrip hung from the bee boxes' little screen doors.
We were taking the switchbacks in slithers, ploughing the gravel-mush out to the bank.
'Frot me,' said Siggy. 'There's some load pushing us along.'
'You've got the helmet on wrong,' I said to her ear, so soft it tickled my nose.
'Never mind now,' she said. 'Just hold.'
I could peek how the helmet nearly covered her eyes and rode high up on the back of her head; she gripped the chin strap in her mouth, and it cut off the ends of her words.
'It's the Ybbs, there,' she said - and through the long-falling orchard I had a glimpse of wide water, black as oil in the shade firs at the meadow bottom.
At the next switchback we saw it again, only now it was hammering over a falls. A mudstone town with rust-colored roofs began where the black of the river fell to foam - fell to a broth, bone-colored and bubbly. And there were towers flying the canton flags, peep sights and gun slits in the waterfront castles, and arching bridges of stone, and little, swinging wood walks spanning the offshoots of the river that ran through the streets. And garden plots too, with the fading, fake colors of the city flower markets.
But Siggy had taken too much of a look; he'd gone too high up on the bank of the switchback, and the crown of the road was turned against us. Siggy was fighting the gravel-mush on the fat lip of the bank. 'Oh, frot!' he said. 'Oh, frot frot frot!'
One cheek of my rump wobbled down on the fender; I was tipped, and there was no place for my poor feet.
So my thumbs slipped apart at the girl's spine; I plunged my hands under her laundry bag and into her lap.
'Don't you!' she said. And her elbows flew up under my arms, like the startled winging of a grouse; her skirt fluttered up to her thigh. I at least had a glimpse of that hard, round leg before my other rump cheek sat on the fender too; I was pushed between the seat and rucksack, with no place for my poor feet, and with no way to steady my slipping. My weight pushed the fender down; I was warmed by the wheel rub. And I was slipping more. It was my left leg that touched the pipe first, at mid-calf, and I had no choice but to scissor the bike to stay on.
So the pipes received my calves like the griddle grabs the bacon.