The blind side of the heart

EPILOGUE


Peter heard what his uncle was telling him. So that woman who calls herself your mother is coming to see you. His uncle snorted into his checked handkerchief and spat scornfully in the direction of the muck heap. Well, let’s get on with it, he said, glancing up at the cranes in the sky. The others had all flown south weeks before. Peter was to help his uncle muck out the cowshed. He needn’t think he was there to idle about. Just because he seemed so clever at school was no reason for him to consider himself too fine for mucking out. Peter did not consider himself too fine. He helped out in the cowshed, he helped with the milking, and he slept on the bench in the kitchen. They tolerated him.
Not a word from her in all these years, his uncle complained. Makes off just like that. Calls herself a mother. His uncle shook his head scornfully and spat again. He dug the pitchfork into the big heap. Mind this at the bottom doesn’t get spread around, Peter, keep piling it well on top.
Peter nodded. He went ahead to the cowshed door, which was kept closed because it was an unusually cold autumn, and opened it. He liked the warm breath of the cattle, their grunting and mooing, their munching and lip-smacking. She had said she was coming on his birthday, his seventeenth birthday. Peter knew that his uncle bore his mother a grudge. He and his wife had no children of their own and obviously never would. Peter had turned into a good farm labourer, helping about the place, but the first years had been difficult; they realized they would have to get used to each other, but none of them knew whether it would be for a few weeks or a few months. By now it was clear to everyone that it was to be for ever, or at least until Peter was old enough to leave. And none of them had really got used to each other, they simply tolerated one another. His uncle and aunt moaned whenever they had to spend good money on something for him to wear. He had had to build his own bicycle, the one he rode to school first in Graal-Müritz and later to the railway station for the train to Rostock; he had made it out of spare parts that were still worth using, finding or if absolutely necessary earning the money for those spare parts himself. He had earned cash by turning hay all day long in his first summer holidays. After that he had been able to convince his uncle and aunt that he could make himself useful. Which was just as well. He wasn’t expected to eat too much either; if he did they would say: That boy will eat us out of house and home. Again and again his uncle and aunt had expressed the hope that someone would come to fetch Peter, his mother was the one who ought to come, after all, she had known their address at the time. Uncle Sehmisch, Gelbensande. Just like that, without asking them. But nothing had been heard of her for a long time. Nothing had been seen of Uncle Sehmisch’s brother either, the brother now living it up in the West on Braunfels market place near Wetzlar with his new lady friend. Oh yes, he was a big shot there, he had no time for a brat like this. Another mouth to feed, that was how they had referred to Peter on the farm in those first years.
Where is she coming from? The West? Peter knew that his question would merely anger his uncle again, but he wanted to know. He really did want to know where she’d be coming from.
The West, huh! Lives near Berlin. Says she wants to see you. Huh. His uncle wrinkled his nose and didn’t look at Peter. Your aunt wrote straight off asking if she wants you back. That’s what we asked her. Not likely! Have you back – her situation wouldn’t allow it, huh, living in a very modest way with her sister in a one-room apartment, working all the time. Huh! His uncle bent down. Aren’t we all working hard? Here, Peter, take a hold of this. Peter picked up one end of the trough, his uncle picked up the other and together they carried it to the most distant of the sheds, where the eldest sow was due to farrow any day now.
So Peter knew that she came from near Berlin. She had no husband, but all the same she didn’t want him back. She just wanted to see him. Peter felt himself tightening his lips, his teeth nibbled at the dry skin on them, softened it, bit strips off. What was she after? All these years later. He wasn’t going to show up anyway. Let her come.
His uncle fetched his mother from Gelbensande station in the morning, she was coming by train, changing at Rostock. Would Peter like to go to the station with him, his uncle asked, but his aunt said the sow had farrowed in the night and someone had to see to the piglets. The sow had had too many, she was two teats short, and the two extra piglets risked being bitten to death or starving, because each of the others jealously clung to its own teat. Peter was happy to go to the shed. He knelt down beside the sow where she lay and chose the strongest of the suckling piglets. The sow’s light-coloured bristles were curiously soft along her belly, some of the teats were fuller than others, some large and knotty, others small and long. The piglets kept their eyes closed. Peter hauled the strongest piglet off its teat and it squealed as if its throat were being cut. He would carry it around for a while so that one of the two runts of the litter could have a go. With the piglet in his arms, Peter trudged through the straw and climbed the narrow ladder to the hayloft. It was dry and warm up there, warmer than down below. Peter sometimes hid here to read and dream. You could see the whole farmyard through the cracks in the skylight. From up here he had a view of the gate, the entrance, the beginning of the poplar-lined road. He took his clasp knife out of his trouser pocket and cut a little notch in the frame of the skylight, which was already heavily carved, another notch, making a pattern, an ornament. It wasn’t long before a clattering sound was heard and the little truck appeared in Peter’s line of vision. His uncle got out, opened the gate, got in again, drove into the yard and climbed out once more to close the gate. Hasso started barking and jumped up at his uncle. Hasso was a good-tempered German shepherd, but bright enough to guard the farmyard. The last dog, a large mongrel whom Peter had taken to his heart, had been put to sleep because he didn’t bark loudly enough. The other door of the truck opened and a young woman climbed out. At least, from up here she still looked like a girl, slender legs under her skirt, fashionable shepherd’s check coat, blue headscarf. Peter recognized her blonde hair, as fair as if it had turned white. Her familiar figure, the way she walked, the way she put one foot in front of the other gave Peter gooseflesh. She was carrying a little handbag and a net shopping bag. She looked around hesitantly. Perhaps she had brought him a present. How old would his mother be now? Peter did a quick calculation, she must be forty-seven. Forty-seven! Still, six years younger than his uncle and aunt. The piglet in Peter’s arms squealed. Peter watched his uncle disappear into the farmhouse with his mother. He quickly climbed down the ladder and took the piglet back to the sow.
Peter! That was his uncle’s voice. He must have come out of the front door to call for him. Peter kept still and didn’t respond. Come on in, time for coffee!
His uncle had never invited him to have coffee. Peter had once helped himself to some out of the pot on the sly, tasting it with plenty of milk and sugar.
Peter waited until he heard nothing but the snorting and breathing of the animals, then climbed back up to his hiding place. He could see the house from the skylight. There was a wooden roof over the porch, with benches to left and right where you sat to take off your wellington boots and put on wooden clogs. If it was as cold as today, Hasso lay there on the planks of the porch among the shoes and the benches. He liked chewing shoes, it was his one vice, but he was forgiven because he barked so well. Peter could see Hasso’s tail from the skylight, thumping down on the porch floor at regular intervals. Then he saw Hasso jump up and wag his tail. His uncle appeared on the porch, shouting: Peter!
That call, just his name, showed that they were being thoughtful of the visitor. Usually his uncle was never as patient as that, calling his name instead of cursing that lout, where could he be this time? Peter had to smile. She would soon come out on to the porch too. Would she call his name? Peter felt excited. He wasn’t going to show himself, never. Peter! Let her call, let her wait for him, let her hope he’d turn up. Peter felt his trousers with one hand; they were covered with bits of hay and straw.
Wait a minute, he heard his uncle say, turning to the dog, I’ll soon ferret him out. Peter needed to pass water, but he didn’t want to leave his place here, he wanted to see her come out on to the porch and look for him.
Where’s Peter? he heard his uncle asking. Find, Hasso, find. His uncle slapped his thigh impatiently. His aunt must have put the potatoes on indoors. His mother was staying for lunch. His aunt had made cabbage roulades. Peter had suggested pickled herrings; he remembered that his mother had liked those as much as he did. Rollmops and pickled herrings. But his aunt didn’t like fish. They lived eight kilometres from the coast and his aunt had never eaten fish in her life, so there was never any at the farmhouse. Peter remembered how his mother often used to cook fish for him. With juniper, he thought, what a nice word. He said it out loud: Juniper. The little black berries that his mother used to flavour the fish. Peter liked to smell her hands; even when she had been gutting and cooking the fish her hands had their own special smell. Perhaps he could forget the smell of his mother some day. It wasn’t until four in the afternoon that her train would leave Gelbensande, taking her to Rostock, where she would change for Berlin. Hasso wagged his tail. Obviously he didn’t take Peter’s uncle’s command to find him seriously.
Peter took his handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped his hands with it. He washed his hands often, several times a day. The other boys at school said that made you infertile, which was a good idea. Peter couldn’t imagine ever having children. Now his mother did come out on to the porch. She wasn’t wearing her headscarf any more, and she must have left her coat indoors too. Her hair was piled up on her head. She must be freezing. Peter saw her fold her arms and stand uncertainly at the top of the few steps under the porch. Her breath was white vapour in front of her face. She had a beautiful face. Wide and regular. Her high forehead, her narrowed eyes – Peter remembered how bright they were, as bright as the Baltic Sea in summer. His uncle had come out into the yard and was telling Hasso to look for Peter. Seek, Hasso, seek. Peter saw his uncle going to the outhouses; after all, Peter had been told to look after the piglets this morning. His uncle disappeared from view, and Peter heard the door of the shed underneath him open. Cautiously and quietly, he squeezed in among the bales of straw. He heard his uncle call his name, then a clattering, a thumping as if his uncle were stamping his foot and kicking over a bucket, the squealing of the piglets as if he had kicked them.
His uncle’s footsteps went back through the cowshed; perhaps he thought Peter was there with the cows. Once again he heard his name, its sound muted by the straw. Hasso barked, only briefly this time and far away.
After the back door of the shed had closed and he thought the coast was clear, Peter crawled out of hiding. Now the skylight showed him the porch as well as Hasso and his uncle. His mother must have gone back into the warm again. Was she asking questions, asking about him? Perhaps she was proud that he was going to secondary school. His aunt and uncle didn’t like to talk about that, but they hadn’t dared to disagree with the teacher and his strong recommendation. Oh, very well, his uncle had said after that interview at the school. So long as Peter went on helping on the farm he could stay at school. Peter knew where he wanted to go later. A few weeks ago a College of Film Studies had opened in Potsdam near Berlin; he had read about it in the newspaper. And one Sunday there had been a long talk about it on the radio, saying how it was going to train talented young people. Who knew, perhaps he was one of those? They’d all be marvelling at him yet, his uncle and aunt, his father, his mother.
Down in the shed the geese were cackling and flapping their wings. Someone must have scared them; geese didn’t start cackling for no reason. Only when they were hungry or when someone had alarmed them. Peter would have liked to climb down and take a look, but it was too risky. Smoke was rising from the farmhouse chimney. Peter was hungry. Time for dinner, his aunt called this time, coming out under the little roof of the porch. Come along, dinner time, Peter!
It was a pleasure to resist his hunger and the sight of his mother, a huge, compelling, sweetly painful pleasure. Peter imagined them sitting there, his uncle cursing, his aunt embarrassed and complaining quietly, his mother in silence. Was she sitting on the bench in the kitchen where he slept at night? He was sure she wouldn’t ask: Where does he sleep? She didn’t ask such questions, she’d be thankful that he’d been able to live here for the last few years. Peter had once heard his aunt and uncle quarrelling about money, and it had sounded as if his father sometimes sent some money for him. But Peter didn’t know about that; what he did know was that he had to earn his keep, and he did, he was earning his keep and earning the time he spent at school instead of on the farm. How would she speak of him? Was she saying my Peter, was she just saying Peter, or simply the boy? Perhaps she wasn’t talking about him at all. Perhaps she was sitting there in silence. She might not understand why he didn’t show up. It could be embarrassing to her to think her son was so rude that he didn’t want to see her. Well, let it embarrass her. Peter rammed his fist against the bulge in his trousers, pressed it, handled it delicately. Let that mother of his down there leave, she could piss off. Didn’t she realize she was waiting in vain? She wouldn’t ever get to see him, not now, not today, not ever. Let her push her fair hair back from her forehead, wash her white aprons and go back to that sister of hers near Berlin. Go away, he thought, just go away!
Peter stared through the crack in the skylight frame. Large, soft snowflakes were whirling in the air. You couldn’t say they were falling, they were hovering, dancing down towards the east and settling on the cobblestones in the yard. How often, as a child, he’d imagined running away from his uncle and aunt, out into the fields in the snow. Lying there in the snow and just waiting to stop breathing. But that was all over now, he wasn’t going to do them the favour, he would let them wait and keep them guessing. And then he’d simply go his own way. He didn’t need anyone.
Hasso barked and ran to the gate, wagging his tail. Someone with a bicycle and a milk can hanging over the handlebars was opening the gate, wiping snowflakes off her face. She was wearing her red anorak. It was B?rbel. B?rbel was posh, or at least she thought so. Her parents sent her over at the weekend to fetch milk. B?rbel was Peter’s age and was learning how to be a salesgirl in Willershagen. In summer you sometimes saw her on the beach at Graal-Müritz. Peter was seldom allowed to cycle over the Rostock Heath to the coast. But it didn’t take long and he sometimes went without asking for permission. You could see boys and girls almost naked on the beach. B?rbel too. B?rbel thought the world belonged to her because she had the beach and the summer visitors at her feet. No one saw what she looked like coming to the farm with her milk can over the handlebars of her bike in winter, slipping in the farmyard. She really did slip over and fell flat, the bicycle with her, and Hasso came out barking and wagging his tail. Peter’s uncle appeared on the porch. He wasn’t to know what B?rbel looked like on the beach in summer because he never went to the beach. All the same, he liked B?rbel and didn’t want either Peter or his aunt to fill the can with milk for her. His uncle preferred to do that himself. B?rbel was a silly goose. She had told Peter he was a late developer. She was right, everything she said was always right.
Peter heard the cowshed door down below opening. Just buggered off, he heard his uncle telling B?rbel, today of all days, would you believe it? B?rbel giggled. B?rbel usually giggled when she went into the cowshed with his uncle. She giggled on her bicycle too, and in the shop where she was a trainee, standing behind the cash desk, she giggled there as well, and she groaned when Peter asked her when real honey would be available again.
Peter listened to them down below. His uncle and B?rbel were talking quietly now, whispering. Or perhaps they weren’t saying anything. Peter heard the milk flow into B?rbel’s can from the big tank. Then he heard the cowshed door close and looked through the crack, to see B?rbel shaking hands with his uncle, opening the gate and pushing her bicycle out. His uncle went back to the house. He turned once, looking at the gate as B?rbel closed it. Hasso stood in front of his uncle with his ears pricked, thumping the ground with his tail and whining. He could probably smell the cabbage roulades and was hoping there might be some left for him. His uncle was looking in several different directions. He wasn’t calling for Peter any more, they weren’t to know that he’d disappeared only for the time being and hadn’t run away for good. The air darkened and turned blue. The twilight of a November afternoon; time for his mother to go. Perhaps it was only the snow clouds bringing evening on early. Perhaps his uncle was feeling glad, was relieved to think that Peter had gone for ever. Wouldn’t he just be furious when Peter turned up that evening claiming his place to sleep on the kitchen bench! Making demands too, his uncle would say.
What had his mother imagined? She wanted to see him – so then what? Did she by any chance want to ask him to forgive her? Was he supposed to forgive her? He couldn’t forgive her, he’d never be able to do that. It wasn’t in his power; even if he had wanted to. What did she hope to find out by seeing him? She was brave, yes. Coming now, after so many years. Just like that. She had picked his seventeenth birthday and now he was spending his birthday hiding in the hayloft. He put his eye to the crack so as not to miss the moment when she left. The falling darkness made it difficult to see. The little light at the entrance had come on. There was light behind the kitchen window. Peter wasn’t cold, but he did feel hungry again. He quietly climbed down the ladder and went over to the milk tank. The darkness didn’t bother him, he knew his way around the cowshed. He turned on the tap and drank. The sucking noises and quiet squeaks of the piglets added up to a comfortable sound. None of them crying or squealing, perhaps the two extra piglets were already dead. Outside, Hasso barked for a moment. Peter wiped his milky mouth on his sleeve; he must hurry, he didn’t want to miss the moment when she left. He quickly climbed the ladder again and took up his post by the crack in the skylight, staring out at the dark-blue farmyard. It was warm in the straw above the animals. He had peed in the corner before when he had to. What else could he do? No one would notice or smell it up here in the cowshed. Peter liked to pee in the straw. What could be nicer? He did it again in a high arc, as far as it would go.
He heard voices coming from the farmyard. Did she still smile sometimes? When she smiled she’d had dimples in her cheeks. Peter remembered those dimples. She hadn’t often smiled. Peter knelt by the crack. In this blue light he saw his mother walking over the thin covering of newly fallen snow, putting on her headscarf and opening the truck door. What was left to him of his mother? Peter thought of the fish, the funny fish carved from horn. No one knew what to make of the fish, not his uncle, not his aunt. Peter had looked at the fish for a long time, every evening he had opened it and looked inside, but there was nothing there, just a hollow space. Down below, his mother had tied her scarf on. From up above it didn’t look as if anyone was smiling, and their goodbyes must have been short and sharp. His mother was carrying her handbag and the net shopping bag. Was she taking the present away again? Or perhaps she hadn’t thought of bringing any present, and it was just provisions for her journey in the net bag. Peter had felt that the hollow space in the fish’s belly was weird. Perhaps it was three years ago, perhaps only two that he had taken the fish to the coast with him and thrown it into the sea. Stupid fish, it wouldn’t sink, it floated on the waves. Peter liked the curve of the horizon. You could see it particularly well from the steep coast to the east, from the Fischland peninsula. Perhaps his mother’s back was a little bent, curved like the horizon? Only very slightly, as if she were grieving. Let her grieve. Peter wanted her to grieve. But he wasn’t going to mind about that, there was just one thing he was quite sure of: he never wanted to see her again in his life. Peter saw his mother take the handle of the truck door and climb in. His uncle closed the door and went round to the other side to get in himself. Peter heard the wind in the poplars. His aunt opened both sides of the gate. The engine was switched on, the little truck turned in the yard and drove out. His aunt was talking to Hasso; she closed the gate. Peter lay down flat. The straw tickled the back of his neck. The darkness soothed him; he was quite calm now.