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Die Klavierspielerin - pp 138-139
"Jetzt weicht Fräulein Kohut einem frech nach ihr tappenden Jugoslawen aus, der ihr eine defekte Kaffeemaschine und seine fernere Begleitung zumutet. Er muß nur noch zusammenpacken. Erika steigt, den Kopf gezielt abwendend, über etwas unsichtbares hinweg und zielt auf die Praterauen ab, in denen der einzelne sich rasch verliert. Sie allerdings strebt keinen Verlust ihrer Person an, sondern eher: Gewinn. Und - angenommen, sie verlöre sich - ihre Mutter, deren Besitzstand sie seit ihrer Geburt mehrt, würde sofort ihre Ansprüche anmelden gehen. Dann suchte das ganze Land nach ihr, mit Presse, Rundfunk und Fernsehen. Etwas zieht Erika saugend in diese Landschaft hinein, und nicht zum ersten Mal heute. Sie war schon öfter hier. Sie kennt sich aus. Die Menschenmeng dünnt aus. Sie zerfließt an ihren Rändern, die einzelnen Individuen streben auseinander gleich Ameisen, von denen jede eine bestimmte Aufgabe in ihrem Staat übernommen hat. Nach einer Stunde präsentiert das Tier dann stolz ein Stück Obst oder Aas.
Eben haben sich an den Haltestellen noch Menschentrauben, Gruppen und Inseln zusammengeballt, um irgendwo gemeinsam hinzustürzen, und nun, da es, von Erika gut berechnet, rasch dunkel wird, erlöschen auch die Lichter menschlicher Anwesenheit. Um die künstlichen Lichter der Lampen hingegen ballt es sich immer mehr zusammen. Hier, im Abseits, befinden sich übergangslos nur mehr jene, die beruflich hier sein müssen. Oder die ihrem Hobby, dem Vögeln oder eventuell dem Berauben und Töten der von ihnen gevögelten Person nachgehen. Manche schauen auch nur ruhig zu. Ein kleiner Rest entblößt sich gezielt bei der Station der Liliputbahn."
Eben haben sich an den Haltestellen noch Menschentrauben, Gruppen und Inseln zusammengeballt, um irgendwo gemeinsam hinzustürzen, und nun, da es, von Erika gut berechnet, rasch dunkel wird, erlöschen auch die Lichter menschlicher Anwesenheit. Um die künstlichen Lichter der Lampen hingegen ballt es sich immer mehr zusammen. Hier, im Abseits, befinden sich übergangslos nur mehr jene, die beruflich hier sein müssen. Oder die ihrem Hobby, dem Vögeln oder eventuell dem Berauben und Töten der von ihnen gevögelten Person nachgehen. Manche schauen auch nur ruhig zu. Ein kleiner Rest entblößt sich gezielt bei der Station der Liliputbahn."
Near fragment in time
"Im Café Landtmann wartet der Bulgare auf mich, zu Lina hat er gesagt, er komme direkt aus Israel und müsse mich sprechen[...]"
pp 111- from Malina by
Near fragment in space
We went then to the roundabouts. He chose to ride not on a dappled horse - I had noticed already his dislike of horses -but on a swan. He enjoyed it, but he didn't want to go round again. It was an experience complete in itself.
Then came the Wurschtlmann. He's so famous the Prater is named for him and you can see why. A hideous rubber man with a red nose who, for a few kreutzer one can thump and pound and wallop to one's heart's content, knowing that he will right himself undamaged and come up for more. Give him a name - that of your mean-minded boss, your bullying commanding officer - and you can punch him insensible and walk away, purged.
'Would you like to have a go, Sigismund?'
Even before he shook his head I saw him instinctively shield his hands, hiding them behind his back - and that was the first time I remembered the concert.
In the end, though, the Prater is about the ferris wheel whose fame has spread throughout the Empire. It towers over everything else, its carriages take you a hundred metres into the sky. To be up there and look down on the city is to ride with the gods.
So I asked him: 'What about the giant wheel? Would you like to go on it ?'
His hand tightened in mine. A tremor passed over his face. She had not been frightened even at six years old, but the boy was scared.
'The view is very beautiful from the top. You can see all Vienna.'
He stood still in the middle of the path. He tilted his head and gave a small sniff.
'I want very much to be brave,' he said in his low, cracked voice. 'I very much want it.'
And suddenly it all dissolved - my long antagonism, my restraint, the resentment that I felt at being asked for what belonged only to my daughter. I saw him sitting beside his dead mother in the Polish forest, waiting for her to wake … Saw him wobbling on the Encyclopedia of Art, playing and playing because he could no longer talk. I remembered the silent patience with which he'd endured his uncle's bullying, saw the graze on his forehead of which he'd said no word.
And I knelt beside him and took him in my arms.
'You are brave, Sigi. You're very brave, my darling,' I said - and kissed him.
So now I can tell you this. They are entirely exact descriptions of what happens, those ones in the fairy tales which tell you what occurs when you kiss an ugly frog, a hairy beast, with proper love.Sigi didn't kiss me back or cling to me. He just straightened his shoulders and then in a calm, almost matter-of-fact voice, he said: 'Now we will go up,' - and then led me to the brightly painted carriages swaying high above our heads.
pp 177-178 from Madensky Square by
Then came the Wurschtlmann. He's so famous the Prater is named for him and you can see why. A hideous rubber man with a red nose who, for a few kreutzer one can thump and pound and wallop to one's heart's content, knowing that he will right himself undamaged and come up for more. Give him a name - that of your mean-minded boss, your bullying commanding officer - and you can punch him insensible and walk away, purged.
'Would you like to have a go, Sigismund?'
Even before he shook his head I saw him instinctively shield his hands, hiding them behind his back - and that was the first time I remembered the concert.
In the end, though, the Prater is about the ferris wheel whose fame has spread throughout the Empire. It towers over everything else, its carriages take you a hundred metres into the sky. To be up there and look down on the city is to ride with the gods.
So I asked him: 'What about the giant wheel? Would you like to go on it ?'
His hand tightened in mine. A tremor passed over his face. She had not been frightened even at six years old, but the boy was scared.
'The view is very beautiful from the top. You can see all Vienna.'
He stood still in the middle of the path. He tilted his head and gave a small sniff.
'I want very much to be brave,' he said in his low, cracked voice. 'I very much want it.'
And suddenly it all dissolved - my long antagonism, my restraint, the resentment that I felt at being asked for what belonged only to my daughter. I saw him sitting beside his dead mother in the Polish forest, waiting for her to wake … Saw him wobbling on the Encyclopedia of Art, playing and playing because he could no longer talk. I remembered the silent patience with which he'd endured his uncle's bullying, saw the graze on his forehead of which he'd said no word.
And I knelt beside him and took him in my arms.
'You are brave, Sigi. You're very brave, my darling,' I said - and kissed him.
So now I can tell you this. They are entirely exact descriptions of what happens, those ones in the fairy tales which tell you what occurs when you kiss an ugly frog, a hairy beast, with proper love.Sigi didn't kiss me back or cling to me. He just straightened his shoulders and then in a calm, almost matter-of-fact voice, he said: 'Now we will go up,' - and then led me to the brightly painted carriages swaying high above our heads.