The Other Side Read online

  There was great consternation at the fact that the animal had not been caught. The American suggested a thorough search of the Palace, but, despite the general emancipation from the Master, no one was willing to go that far; the military and the police flatly refused to cooperate.

  The Lord’s behaviour was truly strange! Even if he was going to withdraw his protection from Pearl, he could at least have made an exception for his faithful followers, but he didn’t seem to bother about the distinction. At times now the city was quiet, even though almost the whole of the population of the Dream Realm was gathered there.

  ‘The mansions of the rich for the poor and needy!’ roared the mob. The rich gave up their houses all the more willingly as possession had to be wrung from the animals that had made their homes in them. Lampenbogen’s country villa had become a porcupine warren and a well-fed python was sleeping on the sofa in his late lamented wife’s boudoir. These animals had to be exterminated before the people could move in. And anyway, conditions in these palatial dwellings were not as fine as the common folk imagined. The precious objects had clearly lost the will to live. The valuable vases and china were covered in a delicate network of tiny cracks; magnificent paintings developed black spots which spread over the whole picture; engravings became porous and disintegrated. You wouldn’t believe how quickly well-looked-after furnishings could turn into a pile of rubbish. For this reason most of the peasants who had come into the city preferred to camp out in the open spaces and fields close to the city.

  ‘Lord, now you show your might through terror alone’, I thought as I made my way up Long Street. It was dark and there was a rustling and creaking all around. At one point a slate plummeted down from the roof, at another lumps of mortar fell away from the wall, there was a constant trickle of fine sand from holes in the masonry which were growing visibly larger and everywhere we had to clamber over piles of rubble, posts and stakes sticking up out of the ground.

  Death weaving its intangible web.

  On the roof of the coffee house quite close to my attic I could clearly see a black silhouette moving: the leopard. It had doubtless made its lair in the loft of one of the neighbouring buildings. It could perhaps have been killed by a rifle bullet, but we were all too cowardly. In my narrow room I fell into the depths of despondency. For a long time I walked up and down, aching in my back and joints.

  ‘What are we all still living for? We’re damned! If I fell ill now, there isn’t a soul would bother about me.’ An all-pervading fear crept over me. ‘I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die!‘ At a complete loss, I put my head in my hands. ‘The pinnacle of creation!’–It was my despair speaking.–‘Two legs, tubes of bone, bear my whole world, a world of pain and delusion. The worst part is the body.’ The fear of death sent a shudder through me. ‘What lies in store for my body? All its thousand organs, into what cunning instruments of torture will they be transformed? Oh, if only I could stop thinking, but that functions automatically. There are no certainties that are not countered by uncertainties! It’s an endless labyrinth, and I’m damned! My belly is filled with ordure and disgust, and whenever I do manage to feel something passionately I immediately lose my nerve. There is just one thing I do know: however much I wriggle and squirm, minute by minute I am coining closer to the inevitable, closer to death, and there is nothing I can do about it. I haven’t even the courage to kill myself. Lasting unhappiness is my destiny.’ I sighed.

  ‘I despair of Patera. I don’t understand him, he plays with mysteries. He must be as powerless as the rest of us or he would long since have crushed the American. But that is beyond him. It is the American who possesses true life. If only I weren’t so timorous, I would go to him, fall to my knees and he would help.’

  I was at my wits’ end, almost out of my mind with the fear of death. Downstairs there was a banging and crashing, hooligans being thrown out of the coffee house, a nightly occurrence. In his lighted room across the road I saw the barber bent over his books.

  VI

  I felt an inner tug, several times in rapid succession. I had to stand up–there it was again–what was it? I was gradually pervaded by an obscure urge. There was another tug, a pounding, stronger this time. ‘I hear. What is it?’ I made a great effort and concentrated on the vague sensation. ‘Patera’, was the word I heard coming from within. ‘Patera. Palace. Come.’ It grew more and more urgent, persuasive, terribly distinct and clear. In the dark I went downstairs, sure of myself without having to think. I was being pushed and pulled, and surrendered completely to the force directing me. No one took any notice of me and when my mind cleared I found I was half way to the Palace. ‘For God’s sake’, I thought, ‘what am I doing? What is this I have to do?’ I decided to turn back. ‘Yes, I’ll definitely turn back at the next corner.’ It was no use. I had to carry on. I wanted to shout out to people, ‘Help me! Stop me!’ but it was as if my jaws were screwed together. Then I saw the imposing Palace with its huge gateway, its empty window sockets, like -a skull … and -I stepped into its darkness.

  On all sides a labyrinth of colonnades stretched out. I walked on like a wooden marionette, mechanically, one-two, one-two. The long galleries were sparsely lit by suspended lamps. I came to the state rooms. All the doors were ajar. I heard a bang–the melodious chime of a clock–the draught made the doors open of their own accord–a crash! Sweet merciful Jesus! The tiger! The thought was like torture and the sense of urgency such I was almost running while trying to make as little noise as possible. Several times I thought I heard my name called out close by, quite loudly, then softly, but nothing could make me look back. Broken furniture was lying round the empty, deserted rooms and the stifling, musty atmosphere made breathing difficult. I passed through extensive chambers, dimly lit by a single candle: rumpled beds, torn-down draperies, bricked-up windows, fires going out in magnificent stoves, tapestries hanging askew. Like a sleepwalker I hurried up small, dusty staircases, down long, silent corridors, then I saw a low oak door I recognised. ‘Patera’, I kept on thinking, ‘Patera, Patera …’ This door was also ajar. From the ceiling hung a silver lamp with a flickering candle shining on the dangling tatters of a canopy. Apart from the faint outlines of the mosaic floor I could hardly see anything. I stopped–now I could stop! There! There! That face! Immediately a cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

  Wrapped in a gauzy, silver-grey robe, Patera was standing there, upright and asleep. I was filled with uncontrollable dread at the sight. In the deep, greenish shadows under his eyes lay suffering beyond that of ordinary mortals. Then I noticed that on one of his large, shapely hands the top section of the thumb was missing. Immediately I recalled the children born in the Dream Realm. Again there was the whispering I had heard on my first visit.

  ‘I called you.’ It sounded as if it came from a long way away. This time there was no chameleon-like change of expression. His facial muscles rippled, bulged and contracted, but there was no expression in it. His features went slack, only his lips twitched, a horrible sight in the otherwise inert face. And then it started again, very softly, as if muffled by a veil. At first I just heard a whispering, disjointed, meaningless, then I began to understand:

  ‘Can you hear the dead singing, the bright-green dead? They disintegrate in their graves, easily, painlessly. If you put your hand into their bodies all you feel are fragments, and the teeth come out so easily. Where is the life that drove them, where is the power? Can you hear the dead singing, the bright-green dead?’ I smelt the sharp odour of Patera’s breath and a sensation of weakness spread through my limbs. Then the Lord seated himself on his high bed and threw off his robe. Sitting there, straight-backed, bare-chested, his flowing locks tumbling to his shoulders, I could not but admire his broad, noble physique. His gleaming white body was like a statue. I drew on my last ounce of strength to ask my question. ‘Patera, why do you allow all this to happen?’

  For a long time there was no answer. All at once he cried out in a resounding metallic bas
s voice, ‘I am weary.’

  I started. The next moment I was staring into those expressionless eyes. I was spellbound. His eyes were like two empty mirrors reflecting infinity. The thought crossed my mind that Patera was not alive at all. If the dead could look that is what their gaze would be like. I felt a command to speak inside me, but I could only stammer, I babbled and was surprised myself to hear what it sounded like. The question seemed to come from the deepest depths of time, the words must have been spoken billions of years ago and only now did I utter them, only now were they heard here:

  ‘Patera, why did you not help?’

  Slowly, lifelessly, the lids closed and I felt easier. His features were now flooded with an inexpressible gentleness. They had an immeasurable softness, sadness which entranced me. Again came the whisper, clear and distinct, ‘I did help, and I will help you.’ It sounded like music. I was overcome with a sweet weariness, I bowed my head, my eyes closed …

  A spine-chilling laugh, a laugh from hell, tore me out of my reverie. Standing in front of me in the brightly lit room in place of Patera was the American.

  How I managed to get out of the Palace I no longer know. I ran and screamed. Men tried to stop me but I must have broken loose from them, for when I had my body under control again I was huddled up in a coach-house. Inside an overturned carriage I saw a litter of dead pangolins.

  Snatches of the mocking laughter were still echoing in my ear, but it no longer had any effect on me. My nerves had given way completely. Fate, in whatever shape or form, had lost the power to drag me out of my torpor. Incapable of extended thought, I took strength from the consciousness of my own impotence. I couldn’t understand or solve these contradictions but, after all, what concern were they of mine? All my fear had vanished. The horrific vision, which revealed Patera’s double nature to me, closed off the abyss of my doubts and anxieties.

  VII

  It is this encounter alone that can explain how I was able to look on the ultimate terrors that engulfed the Dream Realm and still survive. My insensibility acted as a shield protecting my innermost heart. It was as a procession of spectral apparitions that the death throes of the Dream Realm passed before my eyes.

  I no longer went back to my room and I also avoided the café. Apart from his filth, I now found Anton’s behaviour revolting as well. He had started giving the customers a hearty pat on the shoulder and saying things like, “Ere squire, that friend of yours, ‘e’s a real bastard, i’n’t ‘e??

  ‘Whom do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you know, that Castringius.’

  The Dreamlanders gradually moved out to the open spaces. The best people camped out in the Tomassevic Fields and in the extensive building sites by the cemetery. They set up a kind of tented village there which stretched as far as the riverbank. True, the stifling fog and the damp clay soil meant it was not the best place to sleep, but they didn’t let that get them down and things were often quite jolly round the camp-fires in the evening. People danced and chatted. Some even caught fish, which had to be eaten more or less raw because they started to smell rotten as soon as they were killed. At night only the riff-raff was left in the town, searching for plunder. It was possible to go through the streets by day, if one took great care, but many were injured by collapsing masonry.

  In an abandoned park Dr. Lampenbogen had set up an emergency clinic. I saw him there while he was ‘working’ in his grey coat. He told me that two storeys of the Blue Goose had collapsed, result 86 dead, 17 injured. It happened just after a meeting. By some miracle the American was unhurt, but his servant–he pointed to a figure wreathed in blood-stained bandages–was unlikely to survive. He had lost his touch, he complained, most of his patients simply faded away.

  Things looked pretty bad in his shed: rusty instruments, a shortage of linen, dirt everywhere. He had an old ice-box–he locked it carefully every time–in which he kept cold food and his cupping glasses. I felt it appropriate to say a few words of condolence. He gave me a chilly smile and said, ‘Well, I’m a man, you see, not like you.’ He didn’t seem to be mourning for his Melitta particularly.

  The official Gazette and the Dream Mirror had closed down and the Voice was owned by the American. It appeared exclusively in special editions and reported the events of the day in a style that seemed to consist entirely of headlines. Jacques and his gang hawked them round the streets in the evening with raucous cries of ‘Vooooice! Get your Voice ‘ere!’ It sold well since it carried more and more sensational stories.

  At that time the appearance of certain pathological phenomena was causing a stir. When Dreamlanders met they would often be surprised to find themselves gripped by an irresistible urge: they all started making the same involuntary movements, their hands would stretch out in stiff and pointless gestures. After a few minutes it would stop and everything would go back to normal.

  During a long speech given in the open air one of the audience kept repeating it quickly over and over again, sometimes starting at the beginning, sometimes at the end, like a gramophone with the needle stuck. Speech disorders were reaching epidemic proportions. People couldn’t remember words, concepts, letters; some were struck with temporary dumbness.

  Many shunned their fellow men and retreated to the wilderness.

  We had to be very careful what we drank. Alcohol had the effect of a poison, although there were exceptions; some infirm persons, women and children could drink it by the gallon and come to no harm.

  One day in Long Street I saw little Giovanni. He was with a band of chattering monkeys that had settled in Blumenstich’s junk shop. All the slates had gradually fallen off the roof, revealing a moth-eaten realm of upholstered furniture. He was in the middle of a group of long-tailed guenons and I recognised him by his red belt. I called up to him, but he ignored me. He had completely reverted to type and was engaged in amorous dalliance.

  The build-up of electric disturbances was unbearable. At night pale silvery flashes would snake across the sky, long, delicate trails of filigree, like the northern lights. Hermits, dervishes and fakirs came out of the desert and down from the mountains to announce in the market place that the end of the world was nigh. They called on us to do penance but their messages of doom were shouted down.

  Before the end one final farce was played out: The Black Fish. That was what the special editions of the Voice called the large shape that appeared in the bed of the Negro a good hour downstream from the city. Fear spread as people prepared for an attack by some new, unknown animal. An observation post was set up in the brick-works and the part of the camp in the Tomassevic Fields that was in most immediate danger was evacuated. Everyone gathered and looked down towards where the colossus lay. Oh, they would sell their lives dearly! I too was in the excited crowd, looking though an old cardboard telescope. Unfortunately, what with the clouded lenses and the hazy atmosphere, there was not much to be seen.

  ‘A Greenland whale’, I was informed by the old professor who was standing beside me, ‘so far only recorded in the Arctic.’

  The strange animal did not move and the city was at a loss what to do in the face of the impending danger. Some suggested bombarding it from a distance, but did we know how it would react to such an attack? We might merely succeed in provoking it, it might spit out poison and destroy what little we had left. Better wait and see, perhaps it would go away of its own accord.

  In the middle of the general confusion some bold spirits demonstrated admirable courage. It was the last surge of a natural, healthy instinct that I came across, later on everything was chaos and disorder. Two farmer’s lads, a soldier and a gamekeeper, all young men, offered to sacrifice themselves for the good of the community. Their plan was to take a boat and drift downstream on the current, come up quietly on the animal and drive it away with hand-grenades. They might even manage to kill it. It was a hazardous business, reckless yet brave.

  Their noble offer was accepted. Everyone ran up to see their youthful saviours. A priest in full vestme
nts pronounced his blessing over the four, who each received the last sacrament. The crowd, deeply moved, excitedly crammed the river-bank from the mill to the cemetery.

  The four went to the sluice. They managed to make the last boat that had not completely rotted reasonably watertight and floated slowly down with the current, though two of the men still had to spend all their time bailing out. The boat grew smaller and smaller. Now it was at the bend in the river, it must reach the monster quite soon. Everyone was craning to see, everyone was holding their breath. The crowd was completely silent, apart from a quiet scratching. The expedition appeared to have anchored, unharmed, right next to the dangerous beast. To everyone’s surprise nothing happened for quite some time. Then there was a sudden flash in the distance and the gigantic animal slumped.