'A member of the government itself—'
This was a point my counsel didn't want to go into. Anything not quite above board makes him feel uneasy, and above all as an honest Swiss he can't bear to see abuses laughed at instead of being denounced and definitely relegated to the other side of the Iron Curtain. To back up his viewpoint he quickly pointed out that Mexico was a Communist country, an explanation which, from my first-hand knowledge, I could not accept. Apart from the fact that Mexico's mineral resources are mostly in American hands and therefore mostly protected, I did not consider the taste for large-scale land ownership Communistic, but human, and why should we not, free as we were, discuss everything human?...
Said my counsel: 'Let's come to the point.'
Meanwhile I find the story of my hacienda minister so amusing that I cannot forbear to tell it: He was, I believe, a manufacturer of office chairs, such as every State needs in large quantities. He wasn't the only manufacturer of office chairs. Once he had been elected Minister of Trade—so that he personally occupied a State office chair—for the sake of something to do, he imposed a ban on imports, to the great distress of those who delighted in the manufacture of office chairs. Raw materials fell into short supply everywhere. The Minister of Trade did not sit easy in his chair, as may be imagined, and when the right moment came—that is to say, when he had bought up the materials in short supply in the United States and stored them tidily on the other side of the frontier—he could no longer resist the entreaties of his competitors, and lifted the import ban for a fortnight. All the rest, of course, were too late with their orders, went bankrupt, and were only too glad to accept the merger that was offered them. But the Minister of Trade, although above reproach, felt no further urge to sacrifice himselffor his fatherland; he retired to the dilapidated hacienda with which the State, so to speak, rewarded him, and tended it with heart and soul and some thousand labourers, whose picturesque straw hats I shall never forget. As we sat on the shady veranda, we used to see them like white mushrooms out in the flowering, burning hot fields; and soon it was indeed a model hacienda, a paradise on earth...
***
Received from the public prosecutor the following information:
Anatol Ludwig Stiller, sculptor, whose last address was his studio in Steingartengasse, Zurich, and who has been missing since January 1946, is suspected of some offence the nature of which cannot be revealed to me until my identity has been proved. It seems to be a matter of some gravity. Espionage? I don't know what sets my mind running on this particular track, and anyhow it makes no odds to me; I'm not Stiller. How they wish I were. They obviously need him badly, guilty or not, as one small pawn may be needed in a game of chess—to clear up a whole situation. Drug traffic? Somehow I catch a whiff of politics rather than ordinary crime, and something in the attitude of my public prosecutor suggests to me that the suspicions of the Federal Police rest on rather shaky foundations. The mere fact that a man has suddenly disappeared naturally gives rise to rumours.
***
P.S. Looking back (in the meantime I have been reading the Bible again) it strikes me that both my defence counsel as well as my public prosecutor have asked me from time to time whether I know Russian, a question to which I replied, 'Unfortunately not.' 'For Russian is supposed to be a wonderful language,' I added, 'all the Slav languages in fact...' Isn't one allowed to say that here?
***
I'm being put through the mill. Now they want to confront me with the lady from Paris; a blonde or red-head, to judge by the photographs, and very attractive to look at, rather skinny, but graceful. She and the missing man's brother have been sent a photograph of me. She insists she is my wife and is arriving by plane.
***
A walk in the prison yard—alone! It is very pleasant, but it makes me wonder. The favoured treatment proves that those in authority still (or more than ever) take me for their missing Herr Stiller. They even let me out without a warder, so I don't have to walk in a circle; I sit on a bench in the sun and draw in the sand with a twig. But I must never forget to rub out my scribbles with my shoe, otherwise they take them for art and see in them further proof that I am the missing man. Autumn is on its way. Here and there, as though from an empty sky, a yellow plane leaf flutters on to the sand. You can see it in the sky too; its blue is already paler and more transparent. The air is fresh, especially in the morning. A hazy spaciousness. Pigeons coo, and when the cathedral bells chime they swish up into the air like a silver-grey cloud and their fluttering shadows follow them silently across the walls. They flutter on to rooftops and gutters; later they sail down again into my silent courtyard, waddle round my bench, and coo.
***
I shall tell her the little story of Isidore. A true story. Isidore was a dispensing chemist, that's to say a conscientious fellow who made a pretty good living, the father of several children and a man in the prime of life, and there is no need to emphasize that Isidore was a faithful husband. Nevertheless, he couldn't stand his wife's perpetual inquiries as to where he had been. They made him furious—inwardly furious, he didn't show a sign on the outside. It wasn't worth quarrelling about, for at bottom, as I have said, theirs was a happy marriage. One fine summer, as was the fashion just then, they made a trip to Mallorca, and apart from her never-ending questions, which annoyed him on the quiet, everything went well. Isidore could be extremely affectionate when he; was on holiday. They were both delighted with the beauty of Avignon, and walked along arm in arm. Isidore and his wife, whom we must imagine as a very amiable woman, had been married just nine years when they arrived in Marseille. The Mediterranean sparkled as it does on posters. To the silent annoyance of his wife, who was already on board the steamer for Mallorca, Isidore had to go back at the last moment to buy a paper. It may be that he did it partly out of pure spite because she asked him where he was going. God knows, he didn't mean to; it was simply that, as their steamer wasn't going yet, he went for a bit of a stroll. Out of pure spite, as I have said, he plunged into his French newspaper, and while his wife was actually sailing to picturesque Mallorca, Isidore, when the wail of a siren at last made him look up with a start from his paper, found himself not at the side of his wife, but on a rather dirty tramp steamer filled to overflowing with men in yellow uniforms and also under steam. The great hawsers had just been cast off. Isidore watched the quay recede into the distance. Whether it was the devilish heat or the uppercut from a French sergeant that shortly afterwards rendered him unconscious, I cannot say; on the other hand, I venture to assert with complete confidence that Isidore the chemist had a harder life in the Foreign Legion than before. Flight was out of the question. The yellow fort, where they made a man of Isidore, stood alone in the desert, whose sunsets he learnt to appreciate. No doubt he sometimes thought of his wife, when he was not simply too tired, and he would probably have written to her; but writing was not allowed. France was still fighting against the loss of her colonies, so that Isidore had soon seen more of the world than he would ever have allowed himself to dream. He forgot his chemist's shop, of course, as others forgot their criminal past. In time Isidore even lost his homesickness for the country that claimed in writing to be his home, and it was pure decency on Isidore's part when—many years later—he came through the garden gate one fine morning, bearded, lean as he now was, his sola topi under his arm, so that the neighbours—who had long ago assumed the chemist to be dead—should hot be distressed by his somewhat unusual attire; naturally he also wore a belt with a revolver. It was a Sunday morning, his wife's birthday, as I've said, he loved her, even though he had not written her a postcard in all those years. He paused for an instant, looking at his unaltered home, his hand on the garden gate, which had not been oiled and creaked as it always used to. Five children, all bearing a certain resemblance to himself, but all seven years older, so that their appearance took him by surprise, were already shouting 'Daddy' from a distance. There was no turning back.
So Isidore strode on with the d
etermination of a man who had seen hard fighting, and in the hope that his dear wife, if at home, would not ask for an explanation. He strolled across the lawn as though he was coming back as usual from his shop, and not from Africa and Indo-China. His wife sat speechless under a new sunshade. Isidore had never seen the expensive dressing gown she was wearing before either. A maid—another innovation—immediately fetched a second cup for the bearded gentleman, whom without doubt, but also without disapproval, she took for the new 'friend of the family'. 'It's cool here,' said Isidore, pulling down his rolled-up shirtsleeves. The children were delighted at being allowed to play with the sola topi, which naturally led to some quarrelling, and when the fresh coffee arrived it was a perfect idyll, Sunday morning with bells ringing and birthday cake. What more could Isidore want? Without a thought for the new maid, who was just laying the cutlery, Isidore grabbed his wife. 'Isidore,' she cried and was unable to pour out the coffee, so that the bearded guest had to do it himself. 'What is it?' he asked affectionately, filling her cup up at the same time. 'Isidore,' she cried, close to tears. He put his arms around her. 'Isidore,' she asked, 'where have you been all this time?' The man, as though momentarily stunned, put down his cup; he was simply not used to being married, and stood in front of a rose tree with his hands in his pockets. 'Why didn't you write me so much as a postcard?' she asked. Thereupon he took his topi away from the dumbfounded children without a word, set it with military precision on his own head, which is supposed to have left an indelible impression on the children for the rest of their lives—Daddy with a sola topi and revolver holster that were not only genuine, but showed visible signs of use—and when his wife said, 'You know, Isidore, you really shouldn't have done it,' it was all over with Isidore's cosy homecoming. He drew (once more, I expect, with military precision) his revolver from his belt and fired three shots into the still untouched cake decorated with sugar icing, which, as may readily be imagined, caused a pretty frightful mess. 'Isidore,' screamed his wife, for her dressing gown was spattered all over with whipped cream—if the innocent children had not been there as witness she would have thought the whole visit, which cannot have lasted more than ten minutes, a hallucination. Surrounded by her five children like a Niobe, she watched Isidore the irresponsible walk coolly out through the garden gate, the impossible topi on his head.
After this shock the poor woman could never look at birthday cake without thinking of Isidore, a pitiable state of affairs. Her friends advised her confidentially to get a divorce, but the brave woman still hoped. Her husband's guilt was obvious. But she still hoped he would relent, lived entirely for the five children she had by Isidore, and like a Penelope put off for another year the young lawyer who paid her a visit and urged her, not without reasons of his own, to divorce her husband. And sure enough a year later—again on her birthday—Isidore returned, sat down after the usual greeting, rolled down his sleeves and once more let the children play with his topi; but this time their delight at having a daddy lasted less than three minutes. 'Isidore,' said his wife, 'where have you been this time?' He stood up, without shooting, thank goodness, and without taking his topi away from the innocent children, rolled up his sleeves again, and went out through the garden gate never to return. His poor wife wept as she signed the divorce petition, but it had to be, especially as Isidore did not put in an appearance within the legally specified period; his chemist's shop was sold; the second marriage proceeded without ostentation and after the legally specified period had elapsed was also sanctioned by the registry office; in short, everything followed an orderly pattern, as was so important for the growing children. There was never any answer to the question of where Daddy had got to. Not even a picture postcard. Mummy didn't want the children to ask where he was; she ought never to have asked Daddy herself...
***
They have no money for whisky, but plenty for telegrams to Mexico to confirm from the Swiss Embassy that there is not only a Mexican dump called Orizaba, but in very truth a whole lot of flourishing haciendas, some of them really occupied by ex-ministers, some of them larger than the canton of Zurich and some of them smaller. On the other hand, however (my able counsel informs me), the Embassy cannot confirm that a Swiss citizen was ever employed on a Mexican hacienda.
'Well,' I said, 'now you know.'
'What?'
'That I'm not a Swiss citizen, Herr Doktor, and therefore can't be your missing Herr Stiller.'
Whenever one of us thinks with razor-edged acuity, the other is in no way convinced; my counsel reached into his leather case and actually offered me a cigar he had specially bought for me—not the brand I wanted, unfortunately, but I nevertheless showed I was touched.
'Word of honour—have you really been in Mexico?' he asked. 'Joking apart.'
It's funny how a little thing like a one-franc cigar immediately puts you under an obligation, making it quite impossible for me to turn my back on the donor without a word, in answer to his question ... Have I really been in Mexico! Anyone can say Yes, but not everyone, I thought to myself, can relate what a backache a lower shrub-leaf, like the one on this cigar, gives the poor picker on the plantation; for these lower leaves are tougher than the upper ones, grey with dust, sandy, and brittle, so that they are all too liable to break. But the picker is only paid for absolutely faultless goods. These lower leaves are used to wrap the fine cigars. Only the perfect article can be employed...
'Yes, yes,' said my counsel. 'No doubt, but what has that to do with my question?'
I smoked. I described my work on the Uruapan tobacco plantation. A hard time. On my knees from morning to evening. You can't pick the lower leaves any other way: even on your knees you have to bend to find the best leaves. Once, I shall never forget it, I was crawling along from shrub to shrub, a Mexican straw hat on my head, without catching a glimpse of the other pickers. I waited in vain for the overseer's whistle. Despite my economic position I simply couldn't stand the heat any longer, wages or no wages. The stench of sulphur was getting stronger and stronger. I yelled out, suddenly seized with terror. From the grey earth just behind me a little cloud of yellow smoke billowed forth. In vain I shouted to the other labourers, mostly Indians; they had already fled. My feet, too, could bear the heat no longer, and I ran, but where to? The air was full of smoke like a stag party where everyone is smoking cigars, and I could see fissures opening up in the earth around me, soundless fissures from which came the stench of sulphur. I ran on at random until I was panting so hard that I could run no further. Then I looked back at our plantation and saw it rise and arch itself and become a small hill. A thrilling spectacle, but heat and smoke drove me on. I cried out the news in the village. The women gathered together their children and sobbed; the men decided to send a telegram to the owner of the plantation that was turning into a volcano. After a few days and nights, during which the village lived in a continual state of alarm, it had developed into a not inconsiderable mountain enveloped in yellow and greenish smoke. The village could neither work nor sleep; the sun shone as always, but it stank of sulphur, poisonous and hot, so that one would have liked to stop breathing; and the moon shone out of a cloudless night sky, but there was thunder. The little church was filled to overflowing, the bells rang without pause, occasionally drowned by the thunderous eruptions of the mountain.
No answer came to the telegram, so we had to take steps to save ourselves. Fire glowed through the smoke that clouded the moon. And then came the lava, slowly, but irresistibly, cooling and setting in the air, a black broth giving off swirling white steam; only during the night could you see the glow inside the stone broth that came nearer and nearer, as high as a house, nearer and nearer—thirty yards a day. Birds flitted about in bewilderment because they could not find their nests, and forests disappeared under the red hot lava, mile by mile. The village was evacuated. I don't believe a single human life was lost. Carrying their weeping children in their arms or on their backs, laden with bundles containing little of value, they drove their d
istracted beasts in front of them, the donkeys braying and becoming more stubborn the more despairingly they were beaten. The lava flowed casually between the houses, filling them and swallowing them up. Being one of those who had no animal to save, I stood on a hill and watched the lava advancing: it hissed like a snake, turning every drop of water it came upon into steam, and it had a skin like certain snakes, a metallic grey skin, crusty over a soft, hot, and mobile interior. Finally it reached the church; the first tower fell to its knees and was swallowed up with all its hurtling debris; the other stood fast and is still standing today, a tower with a little Spanish dome, the only thing left out of the whole village...
'The village was called Paricutin. Now that is the name of the new volcano,' I finished my story, 'and if you ever go to Mexico, my dear Doktor, drive out to this Paricutin. The roads are terrible, but it's worth while, especially at night; glowing stones fly fifteen hundred feet into the air, and there is a rumbling like the rumbling of an avalanche, and just before it begins smoke always billows up from the crater like a giant cauliflower, but black and red, red underneath where it catches the light from the flames below. Not so long ago the eruptions succeeded one another at pretty short intervals—six minutes, ten minutes, three minutes, each eruption throwing up a cascade of glowing stones, most of which were extinguished before they struck the ground. It's a first-class firework, believe me. Especially the lava. From the middle of a dark heap of dead slag, on which the moon shines without detracting from its blackness, the lava shoots out bright crimson, in spurts, like blood from a black bull. It must be very thin and runny, this lava, it sweeps down over the hillside almost as quick as lightning, gradually losing its brightness, until the next eruption comes glowing like a blast furnace, gleaming like the sun, lighting up the night with the deadly heat to which all life is due, with the molten heart of our planet. That's a sight you must see. I remember that our souls were filled with a jubilation that could only find an outlet in dancing, in the wildest of all dances, an outpouring of horror and delight, such as the incomprehensible people who cut the warm heart out of the living breast might have understood.'