Read an Excerpt
SS PROLETERKA
By Fleur Jaeggy
A New Directions Book
Copyright © 2001
Adelphi Edizioni S.P.A., Milan
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-8112-1550-4
Chapter One
MANY YEARS HAVE gone by and this
morning I have a sudden desire: I
would like my father's ashes.
After the cremation, they sent me a small
object that had resisted the fire. A nail. They
returned it intact. I wondered then if they had
really left it in his suit pocket. It must burn with
Johannes, I had told the staff of the crematorium.
They were not to take it out of his pocket.
In his hands it would have been too visible.
Today I would like his ashes. It will probably be
an urn like any other. The name engraved on a
plate. A bit like a soldier's dog tags. Why was it
then that it had not occurred to me to ask for the
ashes?
At that time I didn't use to think about the
dead. They come to us late. They call when they
sense that we have become prey and it is time for
the hunt. When Johannes died I didn't think he
really died.
I took part in the funeral. Nothing else. After
the service, I left right away. It was an azure day,
everything was done. Miss Gerda saw to all the
details. For this I am grateful to her. She made an
appointment with the hairdresser for me. She got
me a black suit. Discreet. She scrupulously complied
with Johannes's wishes.
I saw my father for the last time in a cold
place. I bade him farewell. Miss Gerda was at my
side. I was dependent on her for everything. I did
not know what one does when a person dies. She
had a precise knowledge of all the formalities.
She is efficient, silent, timidly sorrowful. Like an
axe, she advances through the meanderings of
grief. When it comes to making choices, she has
no doubts. She was so thorough. I was unable to
be even a little bit sad. She took all the sadness.
But I would have given her the sadness in any
case. There was nothing left for me.
I tell her that I would like to be alone for a
moment. A few minutes. The cold room was
freezing. In those few minutes I put the nail in
the pocket of Johannes's gray suit. I did not want
to look at him. His face is in my mind, in my
eyes. I have no need to look at him. But I did the
opposite. I looked at him rather well, to see, and
to know, if there were signs of suffering. And this
was a mistake. For, in looking at him so attentively,
his face eluded me. I forgot his physiognomy,
his real face, the usual one.
Miss Gerda has come to fetch me. I try to
kiss Johannes on the brow. She recoils in sudden
revulsion and stops me. It had been such a sudden
desire this morning, to want Johannes's
ashes. Now it has vanished.
I DID NOT KNOW MY father very well. One
Easter holiday he took me with him on a
cruise. The ship was moored in Venice. Her
name was Proleterka. The Proletarian Lass. For
years the occasion of our meetings had been a
procession. We both took part. We paraded
together through the streets of a city on a lake.
He with his tricorne on his head. I in the Tracht,
the traditional costume with the black bonnet
trimmed in white lace. The black patent leather
shoes with the grosgrain buckles. The silk apron
over the red of the costume, a red beneath which
a dark bluish-purple lurked. And the bodice in
damasked silk. In a square, atop a pyre of wood,
they were burning an effigy. The Böögg. Men on
horseback gallop in a circle around the fire.
Drums roll. Standards are raised. They were bidding
the winter farewell. To me it seemed like
bidding farewell to something I had never had. I
was drawn to the flames. It was a long time ago.
My father, Johannes H., was a member of a
Guild, a Zunft. He joined it when he was a student.
He had written a report called What the
Guild Did and What It Could Have Done
During the War. The Guild to which Johannes
belonged was founded in 1336.
On the previous evening there had been the
children's ball. A big hall thronged with costumes
and laughter. I was waiting for it all to be
over. Perhaps Johannes was too. I do not like
balls, and I wanted to take my costume off. The
first time I took part in the procession (I had not
yet started school) they put me in a sky-blue
sedan chair. From the window, I waved at the
other children who were watching the procession
from the pavement. When the porters set me
down on the ground, I opened the door and
went off. I had not thought to run away. It was
not rebellion, but pure instinct. A desire for the
unknown. For hours I wandered through the
city. Until I was exhausted. The police found me.
And they handed me over to my lawful owner,
Johannes. I was sorry. Given the circumstances,
any chance of a more profound acquaintance
between father and daughter was limited in the
extreme. Observe and keep quiet. The two walk
close to each other in the procession. They do
not exchange a word. The father has trouble
keeping in step with the march music. Two
shadows, one moving slowly, with a visible
effort. The other more restless. The people proceed
in ranks of four. Beside them, a couple; the
man in military uniform, the woman in costume.
They are in step, their gait majestic, sanctified,
proud. Heads held high. At night, sometimes, the
burning effigy would return beneath closed eyelids.
The roll of the drums even more martial,
with a posthumous sound. In a hotel room, two
days later, I left Johannes. The term of my visit
had expired.
SS Proleterka had been chartered by some gentlemen
who belonged to the same Guild as
Johannes. The ones who paraded through the
city in the month of April. They were to be our
travelling companions. We set off, my father and
I, by train for Venice. The carriage was empty.
From that moment I would be with Johannes,
my father. He is not yet seventy years old. White
hair, parted, straight. Pale, gelid eyes. Unnatural.
Like a fairytale about ice. Wintry eyes. With a
glimmer of romantic caprice. The irises of such a
clear, faded green that they made you feel
uneasy. It is almost as if they lack the consistency
of a gaze. As if it were an anomaly, generations
old. Johannes had a twin brother, with similar
eyes. His brother's eyes were often concealed
by his eyelids. He would spend hours in the garden.
In a wheelchair. He could manage to say:
"Es ist kalt," it's cold. His tone held a blend of
the awareness of a divine imposition and the
mere earthly realization that cold is transitory.
As was his illness. In those days they called it
sleeping sickness.
In the compartment, Johannes is reading the
newspaper. He reads for a long time. Perhaps he
does not know what to say to me. I observe the
fingers that hold the newspaper, and his shoes. I
cast about for a topic of conversation. I do not
find one. I think of the word Proleterka, the
name of the Yugoslavian ship. There are more
beautiful names for ships. Like the Indomitable,
on which Billy Budd was hanged. Do you
remember when the chaplain visits the sailor in
irons in order to sow the idea of death in him?
Billy Budd's last words were: "God bless Captain
Vere!" He blesses the man who ordered his execution.
He blessed his executioner. I should like
to talk to you of Billy Budd, instead of telling
this brief story hoisted from the yard-arm, swaying
before a headwind at the mercy of nothingness.
Billy Budd, I see him as the landscape slips
by, while the hours slip by in the company of
Johannes. We do not know who Billy Budd's
father was, or where he was born. They found
him in a pretty little basket lined with silk. I
know Billy Budd much better than I know my
father. "We're here," says Johannes. We have no
luggage. It is on the ship. The Proleterka.
Father and daughter take the vaporetto to
piazza San Marco. The daughter looks farther
and farther ahead; she wants to see the ship.
Venice appears and disappears. They walk along
the riva degli Schiavoni. The daughter is impatient.
Johannes walks slowly. He has a malformation
of the foot. He wears shoes that are a bit
high at the ankles.
I used to think that he was born that way.
And that he had always had difficulty walking.
But it had been caused by a carcinoma. I read
this in an album, the traditional kind they give
when a child is born. It records the first days of
life, the first months, almost day by day. On the
eighteenth month, Johannes notes that his
daughter had gone to visit him in hospital. If she
wants any information about his existence in the
early years, all she has to do is leaf through the
album. It is proof. It is the confirmation of an
existence. Laconically, Johannes recorded what
his daughter did, where they took her, her state
of health. Brief phrases, without comment. Like
answers to a questionnaire. There are no impressions,
feelings. Life is simplified, almost as if it
were not there. Johannes notes: his daughter has
never cried. She has not been rebellious, she
behaves correctly. A proper infancy. All is on the
surface. About himself, Johannes, two personal
notes. A minor heart attack and the carcinoma.
When his daughter was two, notes Johannes, her
grandfather (he writes the grandfather's name
and surname) died. At the cremation, many
friends. His daughter shows herself to be nice
and discovers everything. Johannes does not
write "understands," but "discovers." So, the
man observes his daughter. She must have been
really well brought up and sweet, that little girl,
about her grandfather's death. Perhaps even then
Johannes was thinking about his own death and
hoped that the girl would be nice to everyone.
That she would be nice to the world. To grief.
When she was still small, she had to leave
Johannes. Children lose interest in their parents
when they are left. They are not sentimental.
They are passionate and cold. In a certain sense
some people abandon affections, sentiments, as
if they were things. With determination, without
sorrow. They become strangers. Sometimes enemies.
They are no longer creatures that have
been abandoned, but those who mentally beat a
retreat. And they go away. Towards a gloomy,
fantastic and wretched world. Yet at times they
feign happiness. Like funambulists, they practice.
Parents are not necessary. Few things are
necessary. Some children look after themselves.
The heart, incorruptible crystal. They learn to
pretend. And pretence becomes the most active,
the realest part, alluring as dreams. It takes the
place of what we think is real. Perhaps that is all
there is to it, some children have the gift of
detachment.
Father and daughter stand before the ship. She
looks like a naval vessel. The red star glitters on
the funnel. I look immediately at the lettering
Proleterka. Blackened, patches of rust, forgotten.
Sovereign lettering. The dusk is falling. The ship
is large, she hides the sun that is about to sink
into the water. She is darkness, pitch and mystery.
A privateer built like a fortress, she has survived
stormy weather and shipwreck. We go up
the gangplank. The officers are waiting for us.
We are the last. Johannes has trouble getting up,
and an officer helps him. They show us the
cabin. Small. I would sleep there with Johannes.
Two bunks, one above the other. I will have to
sleep on top. The Proleterka puts out to sea at
1800 hours. She slips gently over the water. A
raucous sound precedes our departure. A sound
of farewell. There is no turning back. I look out
of the porthole. I wonder how I shall manage to
get out, to get into the sea, should I wish to slip
away like Martin Eden.
I get changed. An hour's time in the dining room.
On the deck the passengers are looking at the
sunset. They cannot miss it. Johannes is watching
the sunset too. By now it illuminates nothing
any more. Darkness is come, the voyage has
begun. The first sunset will be followed by others,
for fourteen days. The Guild people are sure
that they have organized everything in the best
possible way. Even the weather. A sailor invites
the ladies and gentlemen to go into the dining
room. One after the other, almost in silence, the
passengers in line. My father and I are again the
last. We have a corner table. Johannes reads the
menu, chooses the wine. He greets his friends, I
greet them with a tight-lipped smile. Muggy
heat. The ship sails on serenely. The crystal chandelier
sways slightly. Like a leisurely pendulum,
moved by inertia. Johannes is dressed in dark
colors. Impeccable. We have barely exchanged a
word. The ladies are in evening dress, a few
grudging décolletés. In the room a continuous,
slow, persistent swaying. A calm, malign rhythm,
as if the waves of the sea were crooning a lullaby
before stupefying the passengers. The chandelier
swings a little more. It casts its light on the
passengers and then leaves them in shadow, only
to return faster. The room rises and falls. The
flowers on the table move at irregular intervals.
They slip away and then return to their place.
Johannes distant, absent, elsewhere. Dessert, trifle.
During dessert the force of the sea increases.
I ask Johannes's leave to get up. Outside, a raging
wind. Shadows move frenetically. They are
the sailors. I breathe in the sublime nocturnal
solitude. The bad weather. And the danger. I do
not think of Johannes. Of giving him my arm
and helping him. Nothing matters at that
moment.
I cannot keep my feet. After a few minutes a
sailor grabs me and hurls me in front of my
cabin. The crew had ordered all the passengers
to remain in their cabins. They managed to finish
the trifle.
The Proleterka has changed course. She is heading
for Zara. A sailor, perhaps the same one who
grabbed me, was seriously injured during the
night. The following morning he was on a
stretcher. I caress his face, I give his hand a
squeeze. The stretcher is lowered onto a motor
launch. I should like to leave the ship too. The
captain salutes.
The passengers are fine. We are in the dining
room for breakfast. Two days sailing before we
arrive in Greece. Today all is calm. I do not see
Johannes; it is as if he has disappeared. Like the
storm. Some passengers are stretched out on the
deck chairs. Me too. I think of nothing.
Nothingness is the stuff of thought. Beings,
autonomous voices, memories dredged up, follow
the lapping of the water. Nothingness is not
empty. As if fallen from the talons of a bird of
prey in flight, thoughts drop into our mind when
we are convinced that we are not thinking.
Johannes appears. A good, sad smile. He asks if
I am well, if I am zufrieden. As if it were our
obsession, father and daughter. That of not being
sad, of concealing the sadness that has left its
mark on us for no reason. This voyage is important
to him. Before leaving, I had thought that
the destination was unimportant to me. The
journey to Greece was a part of my education. It
is our first voyage and it looks like the last.
Johannes, improbably, is a stranger to me. My
father. No intimacy. But a bond that precedes
our existences. Acquaintances amid complete
extraneousness.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from SS PROLETERKA
by Fleur Jaeggy
Copyright © 2001 by Adelphi Edizioni S.P.A., Milan.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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