It was the well of a deep, dark courtyard. He was standing beside the garbage bins. And suddenly began ear-splittingly to sing. He pulled the hat off his head like a hurdy-gurdy man. The sound bounced off the walls. It was a good sound. His voice filled his ears. He sang more lustily than he had ever dared in prison. What was it he was singing, that came bouncing off the walls? ‘Es braust ein Ruf wie Donnerhall’.[1] A martial earnestness and rigour. And then, in the middle of a song, ‘Juvivallerallera’. No one paid him any heed. The Jew was waiting for him at the gate: ‘You’ve got a good voice. You sing beautifully. With a voice like that you can make money.’ The Jew followed him out onto the street, took his arm, towed him along, jabbering at him all the time, till they turned into Gormann Strasse, the Jew and the big, raw-boned fellow in the summer duster, who kept his lips pursed as though he tasted gall.
Still not there
He took him to a room heated by an iron stove, sat him down on the settee: ‘There, now you’ve arrived. Sit soft. Keep your hat on, or take it off, just as you please. I’m going to bring someone who you’ll like. I don’t live here myself, see. That’s the way of it, if the room’s cosy and warm, one guest brings the next.’
The convict sat there all alone. ‘Es braust ein Ruf wie Donnerhall, wie Schwertgeklirr und Wogenprall’. He took the tram, he looked out the side, the red walls were plainly visible between the trees, brightly coloured leaves were raining down. The walls were in front of his eyes, he was looking at them from the settee, looking at them incessantly. It’s great good luck to live within these walls, you know how the day begins and how it continues. (Franz, you’re not about to hide, are you, you’ve been hiding for four years, buck up, take a look around, it’s time you stopped hiding.) All forms of singing, whistling and noise-making are forbidden. Inmates are required to get up the moment the signal is given to get up, then make their beds, wash, comb, clean their clothes and dress themselves. Soap is to be supplied in sufficient quantities. Boom, the sound of a bell. Get up, boom five-thirty, boom six-thirty, cells unlocked, boom boom, out you get, sunshine, breakfast time, work time, free association, boom boom boom, dinner time, come on son, don’t make a face, you won’t put on any weight here, singers are to present themselves, singers come forward at five-forty, I report hoarse, six o’clock lock up, g’night, that’s been taken care of. A great joy to live within these walls, they ran me into the ground, I thought I’d committed murder but it was only manslaughter, GBH resulting in death, not so bad, I’d gotten to be a right s.o.b., a ruffian, little better than a vagrant.
A big old long-haired Jew, the little black skullcap on the back of his head, had been sitting facing him for a while. Now there was a Jew in Susa the capital whose name was Mordecai, who brought up Esther, the daughter of his uncle, the maiden was beautiful to behold. The old man looked away, turned back to the red-haired Jew. ‘Where’d you dig him up then?’ ‘He was going from door to door. He stopped in a yard, and started to sing.’ ‘Sing what?’ ‘Wartime songs.’ ‘He’ll freeze.’ ‘Maybe.’ The old man studied him. Jews may not handle corpses on the first holy day, nor on the second; and this applies to both New Year’s Days. And who is the author of the following Rabbinical lesson: if a man eats of the carcass of a clean bird, he is not impure; but if he doth eat of the bowels or the craw, then he is impure? With his bony yellow hand the old man reached for the hand of the convict, which was lying on his coat: ‘Will you not take off your coat, mister? It’s warm in here. We are old people, we feel the cold all year, it’ll be too warm for you.’
He sat on the settee, squinting down at his hand, he had gone from house to house, who knew where you would find something in this world. Now he wanted to get up and leave, his eyes were scanning the dark room for the door. The old man, though, pushed him back on the settee: ‘Stay, where d’you think you’re going.’ He thought: out. But the old man held him by the wrist and squeezed. ‘We’ll soon see who’s the stronger. Will you sit here when I tell you to,’ the old man yelled. ‘Sit, and listen to what I have to say. Get a grip on yourself.’ And to the red-haired man who was holding him down by the shoulders he said: ‘You can go. I never sent for you. I can manage him.’
What did these people want with him? He wanted out, he thrust up, but the old man pushed him down. ‘What do you want with me?’ he yelled. ‘Scold all you like, you’ll be scolding a lot more.’ ‘Let me go. I want to get out.’ ‘What’ve you got waiting for you, the street, the courtyards?’
Then the old man got up out of his chair, and went rustling up and down the room: ‘Let him yell all he wants. Let him do as he pleases. But not here. Show him out.’ ‘But why, it’s always noisy in here?’ ‘Don’t bring me people who make more noise. My daughter’s children are sick, they’re in bed at the back, that’s enough noise.’ ‘Oy, oy veh, I didn’t know that, please forgive me.’ The red-haired man clasped his hands together: ‘We’d better go. The rabbi’s house is full. The grandchildren are sick. We’ll go somewhere else.’ But now Franz didn’t want to get up. ‘Come.’ He had to get up. Then he whispered: ‘Don’t pull me. Leave me be.’ ‘But the house is full, you heard.’ ‘Leave me be.’
With glittering eyes, the old man looked at the stranger imploringly. Jeremiah said we would heal Babylon, but Babylon would not be healed. Let us leave, let each one of us go home. The sword will fall upon the throats of the Chaldeans, and upon the inhabitants of Babylon. ‘If he’s quiet, he can stay with you. If not, he’d better go.’ ‘All right, we won’t make a sound. I’ll sit with him, you can depend on me.’ The old man rustled out through the door.
The example of Zannovich
Then the discharged prisoner in the yellow duster was once more seated on the settee. Sighing and shaking his head, the red-haired man paced through the room. ‘Don’t be angry with the old man. He has a temper. Are you new in town?’ ‘Yes, I was in—’ The red walls, the beautiful walls, the cells, he looked at them yearningly, his back was stuck to the red wall, a clever man had built them, he wasn’t going anywhere. And the man slid down off the settee onto the floor, like a doll; as he went down, he pushed the table away. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ cried the red-headed man. The prisoner writhed on the carpet, his hat rolled away between his hands, he drilled down with his head, he groaned: ‘Into the ground, into the earth, where it’s nice and dark.’ The red-headed Jew tugged at him: ‘For the love of God, you’re among strangers. If the old man should come back. Get up.’ But he wouldn’t permit himself to be pulled back up, he clawed at the carpet, he groaned. ‘For God’s sake be quiet, what if the old man should hear you. You and I will get along.’ ‘No one’s gonna get me out of here.’ Tunnelling like a mole.
And as the Jew wasn’t able to haul him upright, he scratched his sidelocks, shut the door and settled himself on the floor beside him. He clasped his knees, and looked at the table legs in front of him: ‘All right. Stay there. I’ll stay with you. It’s not so comfortable, but why not. You’re not going to tell me what’s the matter with you, so let me tell you a story.’ The prisoner wheezed, head to the carpet. (Why is he groaning and wheezing? It’s make up your mind time, you’ve got to choose a route, and you don’t know any, Franz. You don’t want the old stuff, and in the cells you only hid and groaned, and you didn’t think, Franz, you didn’t think.) The red-haired man said angrily: ‘It’s not right to make a show of yourself. Listen to other people. Who’s telling you you’re so special. God won’t let anyone fall from his hand, there are other people besides you. Haven’t you ever read about Noah, putting two of each kind in his Ark, in his boat, when the Flood came? Two after each kind. Did the Lord forget any of them? He didn’t forget so much as the lice on their heads. They were all dear to him.’ The man below whimpered. (Whimpering doesn’t cost anything – a sick mouse whimpers.)
The red-haired man ignored the whimpering, scratched his cheeks: ‘There’s lots of things on this earth, no end of stories you can tell when you’re young, and when you’re old to
o. I’m going to tell you, yes, I’m going to tell you the story of Zannovich, of Stefan Zannovich. You won’t have heard it before. Once you feel better, you can sit up, it’s not good for you to have too much blood go to your head. My late father told us a lot of stories, he travelled as our people do, he got to be seventy years old, he outlived my mother, he knew a lot, a clever man. We were seven hungry mouths, and when there was no food in the house he would tell us stories. They may not fill you up, but you forget your hunger.’ The dull moans continued. (A sick camel can moan too.) ‘Well now, we know there are more things in this world than gold and beauty and joy. So who was Zannovich, who was his father, who were his forefathers? Beggars, like most of us, grocers, traders, commersants. Old Zannovich came from Albania and made his way to Venice. He will have known why. Some go from the city to the country, others from the country to the city. The country is calmer and quieter, people consider everything, you can talk for hours, and if your luck’s in you’ll earn a few coppers. It’s no easier in the city, but the people are more densely packed, and they have less time. If it’s not this man, it’s that one. They don’t have ox-carts, they have fast horse-drawn carriages. You win some, you lose some. Old Zannovich knew that. First, he sold what he had with him, and then he took out cards, and played. He was dishonest. He turned it to his advantage, the fact that people in the city are always in a hurry and want to be kept amused. He kept them amused. It cost them a lot of money. Old Zannovich was a card-sharp and a cheat, but he had a good head on him. The peasants used to make things difficult for him, life was easier in the city. He prospered. Till one day someone felt he’d been tricked. Well, old Zannovich wasn’t prepared for that. Blows were exchanged, the police were called, and in the end old Zannovich had to leg it with his children. The law was after him, and the old man preferred not to argue with the law, the law of Venice wouldn’t understand, and in fact it never caught up with him. He had horses and money, and he went back to Albania, and bought himself an estate, an entire village, and he sent his children to good schools. Then, when he was very old, he died quietly and respectably. That was the life of old Zannovich. The peasants mourned his passing, but he didn’t care for them, because he never forgot the times he stood before them with his wares, his rings and his bracelets and his coral necklaces, and they handled everything and turned it this way and that, and finally they went off, and left him with it, and didn’t buy.
‘You know, if a father’s a shrub, he’ll want his son to grow up to be a tree. And if a father’s a rock, he’ll want his son to be a mountain. Old Zannovich told his sons: I was nothing in Albania for the twenty years I was a peddler, you know why? Because I didn’t carry my head to where it belonged. But I’m going to send you to the great school at Padua, take horses and carriages, and then when you come to go out into the world, remember me, who had trouble with your mother and with you, and who used to sleep in the woods with you at night like a boar: it was all my fault. The peasants dried me out like a lean year, and I would have withered away, then I went to be among people, and I didn’t die.’
The red-haired man chortled to himself, tipped his head to the side, waggled his behind. They were sitting on the carpet together: ‘If someone comes in now, he’ll think we’re both meshugge, they supply us with a settee and here we are sitting on the floor in front of it. Well, if it’s what you want, why not. Young Stefan Zannovich was a great talker, even when he was just a young man of twenty. He could twist and turn, ingratiate himself, he could flirt with the women and flatter the men. In Padua the nobility learns from the professors, and Stefan learnt from the nobility. Everyone liked him. And then when he went back to Albania, his father was still alive, and liked him and was happy to see him again, and said: “Take a look at him, he’s a man of the world, he won’t spend twenty years dickering with peasants, he’s twenty years ahead of his old man.” And the young man stroked his silk sleeves, brushed the pretty curls out of his face and kissed his proud father: “But you, Father, you’ve saved me the worst twenty years.” “I want them to be the best twenty years of your life,” the old man said, and he stroked and petted his son.
‘And then young Zannovich seemed to experience a miracle, even though it wasn’t a miracle. People came to him from everywhere. He was given the keys to every heart. He travelled to Montenegro with coaches and horses and servants, his father was delighted to see his son such a great man – the father a shrub, his son a tree – and in Montenegro they spoke to him as to a count and a nobleman. They would never have believed him if he’d said: my father’s name is Zannovich, we come from the village of Pastrovich, that my father is proud of! They would never have believed him, such was his allure of a nobleman from Padua, and he looked like one and he knew them all. Stefan spoke and he laughed: “All right, have it your way.” And he said he was a wealthy Pole, which is what they took him for, a Baron Varta, and they were glad, and he was glad.’
The convict had sat up with a sudden jerk. He squatted on his knees, listening to the other man below him. With an icy glare he said: ‘Monkey.’ The red-haired man replied indifferently, ‘So I’m a monkey. A monkey that knows more than a lot of people.’ The other was forced back down on the ground. (You have to learn contrition; understand what you’ve done; understand what you need to know!)
‘So can we carry on then? There’s always a lot you can learn from other people. Young Zannovich was on that path, and he carried on. I never saw him, and my father never saw him, but it’s easy enough to imagine him. Let me ask you, you called me a monkey – one shall not despise any creature on God’s earth, they give us their flesh, and they do us many kindnesses besides, think of the horse, the dog, the canary, monkeys I only know from the fair, they have to do tricks in chains, a hard lot, no man has a harder one – well, I want to ask you, and I can’t ask you by name, because you haven’t done me the courtesy of telling it to me: what was it that helped the two Zannoviches on their way, both the younger and the elder? You’ll say they had brains, they were both clever men. But plenty of people have had brains, and at the age of eighty they’re not so far along as Stefan was at twenty. The main thing about a man is his eyes and his feet. You have to be able to see the world and direct your feet to it.
‘So hear what Stefan Zannovich did, who knew a bit about people, and who knew how little there was to fear from them. See how they smooth your path, almost as they show a blind man the way. They wanted him to be Baron Varta. All right, he said, I’m Baron Varta. Later on, that was no longer enough for him, or for them. Why just a baron, why not more? There’s a celebrity in Albania who’s already long dead, but they continue to celebrate him, the way the people like to celebrate their heroes, Skanderbeg was his name. If Zannovich had been able to, he could have claimed: I am Skanderbeg. As Skanderbeg was dead, he said, I’m descended from Skanderbeg, and strutted about and said he was Prince Castriota of Albania, destined to recover the lost greatness of Albania, his retinue was waiting for him. They paid for him to live as a descendant of Skanderbeg’s ought to live. He was just what those people wanted. They go to the theatre and listen to things made up to suit them. They pay money for the privilege. So why not let them pay to hear nice things in the morning and afternoon as well, and that they can even play a part in themselves.’
Once again the man in the yellow summer duster pulled himself upright, he had a grim, creased face, he looked down on the red-haired man from above, cleared his throat, his voice was changed: ‘Now hold on a minute, mister, you seem to be not all there. You’re a bit short.’ ‘Not all there, maybe that’s right. Now I’m a monkey, now I’m meshugge.’ ‘What do you think you’re doing, gabbing this stuff to me?’ ‘Whose idea was it to sit on the floor, and not get up? It wasn’t mine, was it? With a whole settee behind me? Well, if it bothers you, I’ll be happy to shut up.’
At that the other, having shot a glance round the room, thrust out his legs and sat down with his back against the settee, propping his hands on the carpet. ‘There,
that’s more comfortable, isn’t it?’ ‘You can stop your nonsense now.’ ‘Whatever you say. I’ve told the story often enough, I don’t care either way.’ But after a pause, the other man turned to face him: ‘You can carry on if you like.’ ‘Well, listen to that. People talk and tell each other stories, and the time passes more agreeably. All I wanted was for you to open your eyes. The Stefan Zannovich you were learning about, he got so much money he was able to travel to Germany. They didn’t succeed in unmasking him in Montenegro. What you can learn about Stefan Zannovich is that he knew himself and he knew people. Even if he was as innocent as a chaffinch. You see, he had so little fear that the greatest historical figures were his friends, the most imposing: the Kurfürst of Saxony, the Crown Prince of Prussia, who was later a great war hero. The Austrian Empress Theresa quaked on her throne when he stood before her. Zannovich never quaked. So when Stefan got to Vienna and there were people sniffing around him, the Empress lifted up her hand and said: “Let the young man go free!” ’
The story is concluded in an unexpected way; helping the freed man to acquire new strength
The other man laughed, whinnied against the settee: ‘You’re a card, aren’t you. You could work for a circus. As a clown.’ The red-haired man giggled with him: ‘There, you see. Hush now, I can hear the old man’s grandchildren. Maybe we should sit up after all. What do you say.’ The other laughed, crept up, settled himself in one corner of the settee, the red-haired man in the other. ‘You sit softer this way, and you won’t get creases in your coat.’ The man in the summer duster eyed the red-haired man in his corner. ‘I’ve not met a bird like you in a long time.’ With equanimity the red beard replied: ‘Maybe you just didn’t look, there’s more than enough of us. Now you’ve gone and soiled your coat, they don’t wipe their feet in this household.’ The freed man, a man in his early thirties, had alert eyes, his expression looked fresher: ‘Tell me, you, what do you deal in? I expect you live on the moon?’ – ‘Very well, let’s talk about the moon then.’