The Tanners

The lady led Simon through a suite of elegant rooms — noting, as she strode on ahead of her young companion, that one of his tasks would be to keep these rooms clean — and asked whether he was capable of scrubbing a wooden floor with steel wool, but didn’t wait to hear his reply, as though she already knew the answer and had asked for the sole purpose of asking something or other to keep the questions whizzing arrogantly and interrogatively about his ears; then she opened a door and ushered him into a smaller room, warmly lined with tapestries of all sorts, where she introduced him to a little boy lying in the bed with these brief words: He would be serving this young master, who was ill, and how he was to do this would be explained to him later. The boy was a pale attractive lad, though disfigured by his sickness, who coldly met Simon’s gaze without saying anything. You had the impression he was unable to speak or do more than just babble when you examined his mouth, which lay helplessly in his face as though it didn’t belong there, as if it were merely pasted on and hadn’t always been his. The boy’s hands, though, were very beautiful, they looked as if they bore all the pain and dishonor of his illness, as though they’d taken it upon themselves to bear this enormity, the entire beautiful burden of weeping sorrow. Simon couldn’t help gazing lovingly at these hands for a moment longer than was permitted; for at once he was commanded to follow the lady, who led him down a corridor to the kitchen, where she said that when there were no more important tasks for him, he was to make himself useful to the cook. Most gladly, Simon replied, looking at the girl who appeared to be mistress of the kitchen. Thereupon — the next morning to be precise — he took up his service, that is, this service strode up to him and demanded this and that of him and no longer left him a minute to think about whether or not such service pleased him. He’d spent the night in the room with the boy, his young master, sleeping and constantly waking up again; for he’d been instructed to sleep only lightly, softly and superficially, that is, intentionally poorly, so that he’d get accustomed to leaping quickly out of bed when the sick lad called in even the faintest whisper, to receive his orders. Simon believed he was the man for such sleep; for when he swiftly thought it over, he despised sleep and was glad to avail himself of an opportunity that compelled him to disdain all solid, deep sleep. The next morning, he didn’t feel in the least as if he’d slept badly — though he also couldn’t have said how many times he’d leapt out of bed — and went to work in good spirits. His first task was to run down to the street with a fat white pot in his hands and have a woman there fill it with fresh milk. While performing this duty, he was able to spend a moment observing the awakening, damply gleaming day, letting this spectacle intoxicate and ignite both his eyes before he ran back upstairs. He made the observation that his limbs obeyed him supplely and well as he hurried up and down. Then, even before the woman had arisen from her slumber, he and the girl had to tidy the rooms assigned to him: the dining room, the parlor and the study. The floor was to be swept clean with a broom, the carpets given a brushing, table and chairs dusted, windows breathed on and polished and all the objects located in the room touched, picked up, cleaned and returned to their places. All of this was to be performed with lightning speed, but it seemed to Simon that when he’d done it three times, he’d be able to do it with his eyes closed. After this work was completed, the girl indicated to him that he might now clean a pair of shoes. Simon picked up the shoes — indeed, these were truly the lady’s shoes. They were beautiful shoes, delicate shoes with fur trim and made of a leather as soft as silk. Simon had always adored shoes, not just any shoes, not stout sturdy ones, just delicate shoes like these — and now he was holding just such a shoe in his hand, and it was his duty to clean it although he didn’t actually see anything that required cleaning. Women’s feet had always appeared holy to him, and to his eyes and senses shoes were like children, happy favored children who knew the happiness of clothing and enclosing the delicately mobile, sensitive foot. What a lovely human invention a shoe is, he thought as he wiped the shoe with a cloth to pretend he was cleaning it. He was caught red-handed by the woman herself, who now came into the kitchen and looked him over sternly; Simon lost no time wishing her a good morning, to which she responded with a mere nod. Simon found this utterly charming, indeed ravishing — to be bid good morning and reply only with a nod of the head, as if to say: That’s right, dear boy, yes, thanks so much, I did hear what you said, you said it nicely, I’m pleased with you!

“You must clean my shoes better, Simon,” the woman said.