The Sanatorium at the Sign of the Hourglass: -I- -II- -III- -IV- (V)
V
I DO NOT KNOW if it is the influence of the late season, but the days are growing ever more sombre in colour, murkier and darker. It is a world seen as if through almost totally black spectacles.
The whole landscape resembles the bottom of an enormous aquarium, filled with pale ink. The trees, people and houses liquefy into dark silhouettes, waving like subaqueous plants against the background of those inky depths.
Packs of black dogs roam all around the vicinity of the Sanatorium. All different shapes and sizes, silent, tense and alert, they run close to the ground in the twilight, along every road and footpath, engrossed in their canine affairs. They run in twos and threes, with outstretched, vigilant necks and pricked up ears, the doleful tone of a quiet growl torn involuntarily from their voice boxes, signalling their supreme agitation. Always in a hurry, always on the move, absorbed by their own concerns and consumed by their incomprehensible purpose, they pay almost no attention to a passer-by. Only occasionally will they glower at him, their eyes darting. And then, from that sly, black squint, their rage emerges, its impulses held in check only because they have no time to spare. Sometimes, giving vent to their animosity, their heads lowered, they will even run at his feet with an ominous snarl, only to abandon their purpose in mid-course, and fly onward with great canine dance steps.
That plague of dogs cannot be helped; but why would the Sanatorium management keep an enormous Alsation dog chained up — a terrifying beast, a veritable werewolf of simply demonic wildness? A shudder runs through me each time I pass by its kennel, alongside which it stands perfectly still, on a short chain, a collar of fur sticking out wildly around its head, moustachioed, bristly and bearded, with a machinery of huge jaws full of fangs. It never barks; but at the sight of a human being its savage face grows even more terrible. Its features freeze into an expression of utter rage. And in a quiet convulsion, slowly raising its terrible muzzle, it lets out an intense, low howl, torn from the depths of detestation, in which the sorrow and desperation of its powerlessness echoes.
My father walks nonchalantly past the beast whenever we leave the Sanatorium together. For myself, I am deeply shocked every time by that elemental manifestation of impotent hatred. I am now two heads taller than Father, who trots beside me, small and thin, with his tiny, old person’s steps.
Approaching the market square, we caught sight of some unusual movement. Crowds of people were running about the streets. The unlikely news reached us that an enemy army was soon to about encroach on the town.
Amid general consternation, people passed alarming and contradictory news back and forth, from which one could glean almost no sense. A war without any preliminary diplomatic moves? A war during a time of blessed peace, undisturbed by any conflict? A war — who with? Over what? We learned that this invasion by an enemy army had emboldened a party of malcontents in the town, who were now running armed about the streets, terrorising the peaceful townsfolk. We even caught a glimpse of a group of those assassins, in their black civilian clothes with white bands crossed over their chests, advancing silently with lowered rifles. The crowd backed away before them, huddling on the pavements, whilst they strode past, casting dark, ironic looks from the shade of their caps, looks which displayed a clear sense of advantage, a flash of malicious amusement, a knowing glint as if holding back snorts of laughter, lest they unmask the whole mystification. Some of them were known to the bystanders. But it was their lowered rifles which persuaded the crowd to let out restrained shouts of joy. They went past, accosting no one. An ambling, gloomily taciturn crowd once more filled all the streets. A dull hubbub flowed over the town. We seemed to hear the rattle of artillery fire in the distance, the rumble of batteries moving into position.
‘I should be in the shop,’ said Father, pale but determined. ‘You needn’t come with me. You’d only be in the way.’ And he added: ‘Go back to the Sanatorium.’
A cowardly voice bid me to obey. I saw my father push into the dense wall of the crowd, and lost sight of him.
Hurriedly, I stole through the side streets to the top end of the town. It seemed to me that by those steep paths I could make my way in a semi-circle around the town centre, which was congested by a multitude of people. The crowds were sparser here, in the higher parts of the town, and at last they dwindled away completely. I calmly made my way along the empty streets, coming at last to the municipal park. Lanterns burned here with dark, bluish little flames, like funerary asphodels. Around each one a swarm of May bugs was dancing, as heavy as bullets, carried by their vibrating wings in oblique, sideways flight. Some of them, having dropped to the ground, clambered listlessly on the sand, their hunched backs crooked by their hard elytras, under which they tried to refold the delicate films of their flight wings. Passers-by, engaged in light-hearted conversations, were strolling on the lawns and footpaths. A few last trees hung over courtyards lying deep in a valley, hard against the park wall. I strolled along this wall, which on my side barely reached the level of my chest, but which fell away on the other side with buttresses many storeys high, down to the level of those courtyards. In one place, a ramp rose up from the compacted earth below, to the full height of the wall. I could easily cross over to that other area. I squeezed along that narrow embankment between the tightly packed structures of the houses, and onto the street. My calculations, backed up by outstanding spatial intuition, were correct. I was almost directly opposite the Sanatorium building, its rear side looming indistinctly white through a black covering of trees. I entered as usual by the rear entrance, through the courtyard and the gate in the iron fence. And already, in the distance, I could see the dog at its post. As usual, a shudder of aversion ran through me at that sight. I wanted to get past it as quickly as I could, without having to hear that growl of detestation torn from the bottom of its soul — when to my horror, not believing my eyes, I saw it unleashed, scampering quickly away from its kennel and running about the courtyard, its barks resounding hollowly as if from a barrel, as it tried to cut off my retreat.
Numb with terror, I backed into the opposite, furthest corner of the courtyard, and instinctively looking for a hiding place, took shelter in a small summerhouse that stood there, absolutely conivnced of the futility of my efforts. The shaggy beast approached with rapid steps, and now its snout was at the very entrance of the summerhouse. It had me in its trap. Almost expiring with fear, I saw that its chain, dragging through the courtyard in its wake, was pulled tight. The summerhouse was just beyond the reach of its fangs. Aghast, crushed by horror, I felt barely any relief at this. Staggering, close to fainting, I raised my eyes. Never before had I seen it at such close quarters, and only now did the scales fall from my eyes. For how great is the force of credulity, how powerful the suggestion of terror! Such incomprehension! But this was a man! A chained up man, whom I had by incomprehensible means, in a simplifying, metaphorical and comprehensive elision, taken for a dog.
Please don’t misunderstand me. A dog he was, to be sure, but in human shape. The quality of the canine is an internal quality, and can manifest itself quite as well in human as in animal form.
Standing before me at the entrance of the summerhouse — his jaws inside out, as it were, and unwrapped, all of his teeth bared in a terrible snarl — was a man of medium stature, with a black beard. His face was yellow and bony, his eyes black, angry and distressed. Judging from his black clothes and the cultivated shape of his beard, he might be taken for an educated person, a scholar, perhaps the older, unsuccessful brother of Doctor Gotard. But that first impression was mistaken. His huge hands, smeared with glue, the two brutal and cynical furrows etched at either side of his nose and disappearing into his beard, the vulgar horizontal wrinkles on his low forehead — quickly dispelled that first illusion. Rather, he was a bookbinder, a tub-thumper, a rally speaker and a party member, a fierce man with dark, explosive enthusiasms. And exactly there, in those depths of passion, in that convulsive bristling of all of his fibres, in that mad rage, barking furiously at the end of a stick pointed at him — he was a hundred percent dog.
If I were to escape over the back wall of the summerhouse, I thought, then I should be completely out of range of his fury, and I could reach the Sanatorium gate in safety by a side path. But just as I was about to hop over the railing, I suddenly stopped in mid-motion. I simply felt it would be too cruel to walk away and leave him like this, his helpless fury surpassing all limits. I imagined his terrible disappointment, his inhuman pain at seeing me walking away for ever, escaping his trap.
I stayed. I stepped up to him, and in a steady, natural voice, said: ‘Remain calm. I will untie you.’
At this, his face, rent by twitches, perturbed by the jarring of a snarl, was reintegrated and became smooth; from deep inside it, a face almost completely human rose to the surface. I approached him without fear, and unfastened the buckle at his neck. We set off walking, side by side. The bookbinder wore a decent black suit, but was barefoot. I attempted to engage him in conversation, although from his mouth there came nothing but unintelligible gibbering. Only in his eyes, in those black, expressive eyes, could I read his wild rapture of attachment, of fondness — which gripped me with terror. Once or twice he stumbled against a stone or a clump of earth, and his face at once broke up in shock, and his dread emerged half way, poised ready to jump out, and behind it, his rage awaited only its moment to transform that face once more into a swarm of hissing vipers. At such moments I would bring him to heel with a gruff but friendly reprimand. I even patted him on the back. And sometimes, an astonished, suspicious smile strove to rise to his face, not quite trusting itself. Oh, what a burden that terrible friendship had become! How that alien fondness had begun to terrify me! How could I be rid of this character striding beside me, with his eyes fixed on me, all the eagerness of his canine being intent on my face? But I must not show my impatience. I took out my wallet, and said in a businesslike way: ‘No doubt you will need money. I can lend it to you with pleasure.’ But at this sight his face took on such terrible wildness that I quickly put the wallet away. For a long time afterward, he would not be placated, and was unable to control his features, contorted by a convulsion of howling.
No, I can stand it no longer. Anything but this! Matters have become altogether too complicated, hopelessly tangled. I can see the glow of a distant fire over the town. Father in the burning shop, somewhere in the fire of a revolution! Doctor Gotard unavailable! And what is more, the inexplicable appearance of Mother, incognito on some secret mission! They are all the links of some great, incomprehensible chain of intrigue drawing tightly around my person. Escape! I must escape from this place! Anywhere at all. And be rid of this terrible friendship with a bookbinder who stinks of dog, who keeps a constant watch on me. We are now standing at the entrance to the Sanatorium. ‘Please come to my room,’ I say with a courteous gesture. My civilised motions fascinate him, and lull his wildness to sleep. I gesture him into the room, and seat him in a chair.
‘I will go to the restaurant,’ I say. ‘I will bring cognac.’
He starts up in dread at this, wanting to accompany me. I calm his panic with gentle firmness.
‘Sit down. Wait quietly,’ I say in a deep, wavering voice, at the bottom of which my concealed terror resounds. He sits down with an uncertain smile.
I go out, and walk slowly along the corridor. Then I descend the stairs. I proceed along the corridor that leads to the exit, and leave by the door. I cross the courtyard, I slam the iron gate shut behind me, and I set off running, out of breath, my heart thumping, my temples pounding, along the dark avenue that leads to the railway station.
Visions accumulate in my mind, each one more terrible than the last. The monster’s impatience, his dread and despair at realising that he has been cheated. His resurging fury, his renewed rage, exploding with uncontrollable power. My father’s return to the Sanatorium — tapping on the door, suspecting nothing, and coming face to face with a terrifying beast.
It is just as well that Father is actually dead, I think with relief, and that it can no longer really catch him. And I see before me a row of black railway wagons, ready to depart.
I take a seat, and as if it has been waiting for me the train moves slowly, without a whistle, from its place.
In the window, that huge bowl of the horizon passes by and revolves once more, swollen with dark, blustering forests, and in their midst the Sanatorium walls loom white. Goodbye Father. Goodbye town I shall see no more.
Ever since then, I have been travelling — travelling endlessly. I have made myself somewhat at home on the railway, and they tolerate me here, wandering from carriage to carriage. The compartments, as enormous as rooms, are filled with rubbish and straw. Draughts penetrate them from end to end on grey, colourless days.
My clothes became tattered and torn, and I was given an outworn railwayman’s uniform. There is a dirty rag tied around my face due to my swollen cheek. I sit in the straw and doze. And when I am hungry, I stand in the corridor before the second-class compartments, and I sing. And people toss loose change into my conductor’s cap, into my black, railwayman’s cap with the peak torn off.
> -Dodo- >