Dating : Mr. Walser

Mr. Walser died in the early hours of December 25th when most of us were celebrating Christmas. Franz and Heinrich found his body lying on the snow not far from the Appenzell Herisau sanatorium, where he had spent the last twenty-three years of madness. He wore a three piece dark grey suit and a black overcoat which elegantly contrasted with the absolute white of winter.

In the series of pictures that a tall and handsome left-handed police officer named Patrick Thebes took of him, Robert’s eyes were open and looked at the immensity and glory of the sky of cream above him. Even though officer Thebes was just about to turn thirty, his abundant and prematurely ashen hair gave him a certain air of wisdom. His were the hands of an intelligent and imperious man. The night before finding Mr. Walser’s body, officer Thebes dreamed he was tossing white and yellow hens alive into a caldron full of boiling water.

Mr. Walser’s right hand rested on his abdomen. A burst of laughter for a jest he had understood at last. His left hand was extended, as if he wanted to show officer Thebes and his partner Michel Goessmann, a portly man whose dreams were plagued with locusts, centipedes, leeches and other vermin, someone hiding in the woods behind them. Perhaps Death, also dressed in snow white to go unnoticed, was behind the trunk of an old pine, holding Mr. Walser’s still warm soul by the hand, as a Mother holds the hand of a playful and impatient son, waiting for someone to offer his body the well-deserved dignity and repose that belongs to the departed.

Mr. Walser’s hat, a worn, old Homburg, lay a couple of steps above his head and waited upside down for the snowflakes to fill its vast void.

Contrary to what many had imagined and prematurely concluded, Mr. Walser was not crazy. He was quiet and reserved and away from the world and from the people in it in more than a way. A noble and enviable way to live.

Or perhaps he was crazy after all, but it does not really matter.

Doctors and nurses at the sanatorium agreed that he barely had some clothes, none recently bought, some pencils and paper and no other material possessions to speak of. It is not imperative to mention that the old man left this world a bachelor.

Karl, a slim man who seemed to be about to melt, and Lisa, a golden-haired woman who made me think of a Dutch milkmaid, Robert’s closest brother and sister, had died, him in 1943 of a heart attack, and her 1944 of reasons I have yet to find, both well over a decade before him. So, no one claimed Robert’s body. He was buried in a lot at the Friedhof Herisau under a waterfall of green. The scarce visitor can read on the plain tombstone, Ich mache meinen Gang — der führt ein Stückchen weit / und heim; dann ohne Klang / und Wort bin ich beiseit (I make my way, which leads a little way and home; Then without a sound / and word I am aside).

Heinrich

Wear your gloves and scarf and cap, Father used to say before I opened the door of our small apartment. Wear your gloves and scarf and cap or you will catch a cold and die, he used to say before I closed the door behind me. Mr. Walser surely ignored his father’s warnings.

I was with Franz that morning. His skin was always cold and white like the snow on which Mr. Walser went to sleep forever. Does one dream when one is dead? I dream dreams of war and death and dreams of travel and of dreams mystery. Father used to say that the biggest disagreement is always in our heads. The night before we found Mr. Walser lying dead on a bed of ice, like a fish in a freezer or a body in a morgue, I had two or three of them. I was inside a plane, even though I ‘d never been in one of them machines floating in the skies, machines that take you far away from the dread and boredom of the day, machines which land in faraway lands where people skins and voices are colored differently. Inside the plane everyone got ill, their eyes went white, their flesh started rotting. I woke up and went to pee and had a glass of water and went to sleep and dreamed again. When the plane landed I went to immigration. A pale and sad guard, his face crisscrossed by a beard and a mustache, said, You can’t come in here. Why not? I asked, my mouth full with something I was chewing. Because it’s not your time, he answered. I spat and handed the eyeball I was chewing to the guard.

Franz

Merry Christmas, Mr Walser. Mr. Walser’s mouth was halfway open, as if he had whispered or was about to whisper his last words to someone next to him. How many words we have left? I wondered. How many days, how many songs, how many hugs, how many breaths? Mr. Walser was attired in a dark ragged suit, a thick suit of grey wool I had seen him wear a hundred times, or maybe two hundred. He only had two suits, two pairs of shoes, two hats, two scarves, two eyes, two lungs, two hands, two legs, a time to live and another not to. He was lying on his back, eyes open, at least as open as a face devoid of soul can open them. He was looking at the sky or at the angels who came down from there to fetch him. He was looking, waiting for the white sun to fall from the sky like a bird that has just been shot. Why would anyone do that? Why would anyone find a gun and clean it and load it with cartridges filled with gunpowder.? Why would that anyone take that gun and point it at the skies, where they says that God resides, and shoot a bird that was doing nothing but minding his own God-flying business? When a man shoots another man, we call him killer and make sure he rots in prison. When a man shoots a non-human we call him hunter and encourage him to take the head of the non-human as his trophy. Is it envy? It must be. When a man can’t fly, when his wings and tail are clipped and his dreams are grounded, he thinks the way to fight the envy is to point and shoot at those who fly and dream.

Mr. Walser’s hair was impeccably trimmed. His white shirt was buttoned to his chin. A thin gray neck-tie gave him an air of distinction. Perhaps his open mouth was asking God all those questions men can never seem to answer. What would I ask God if I could? The same questions I often ask him, the same ones that always go unanswered. Mr. Walser’s body was set on the ground as a kid who is making snow angels with his black hat lying next to him. Don’t touch it, I told Heinrich, but Heinrich was not the type to follow orders. He grabbed the hat and cleaned the snow and ice in it with the back of his hand and patted the hat back into shape and put it on his head. Now I am Mr. Walser, he said smiling, very pleased to meet you.

I took off my gloves and touched the dead man’s face. It felt like cold cardboard or sandpaper. We retraced our steps and went back home and told mother we had seen a dead man. Oh, good God, she said as her heavy body slumped to the closest chair. The air was impregnated with the odor of rotten cabbages and rotten meat. Mother had been cooking. Do you know who he was? She asked fanning her face with her hand. Mr. Walser, said I. He is wrong, madame, said Heinrich still wearing the hat. Mr. Walser is not dead. Very pleased to meet you, he said taking off his hat, Mr Walser’s hat, and extending his ice-blue hand to Mother. Oh, you silly kids, said Mother smiling. My heart is frail, It could have stopped. Don’t play tricks like that on me again. But it is true, Mother, I said, Mr. Walser’s dead and frozen and he is lying on the snow. Will you join us for lunch, Heinrich? Said mother ignoring my plead. We have white sausages, potatoes and choucroute. May I have a beer too, madame? Heinrich asked Mother. Sure, Mr. Walser. Sure you can, but not today because you are dead.