The Tanners

“Whom did you write to?” the woman asked, worn out by her newspaper reading, when she saw Simon had finished his letter.

“A friend of mine who now lives in Paris.”

“What does he do?”

“At first he was a bookbinder, but since he didn’t have much success with this profession, he’s become a waiter in a restaurant. I love him very much, we went to school together, and that’s when I got attached to him, because he was unhappy already as a boy. Once I saw him being taunted by his classmates, who then threw him down a flight of stone steps, and I caught a glimpse of his beautiful, terrified, sorrowful eyes. Since that day I’ve been his closest friend, and if pity truly binds people together, I shall have to feel bound to him forever without even thinking about it. He’s one year older than I am, but in his manners and lifestyle he’s years ahead of me, for he’s always made his home in great cities where a person matures more quickly. In the old days he was always going on about painting, and during the time he was pursuing a bookbinder’s career, he often tried to paint pictures, but — painful as this was to him — he never got terribly far with his paintings and one day he confessed to me shamefacedly that he’d resolved to throw himself into the maelstrom of life and forget about art and his dreams, and so he became a waiter. What a washout, but at the same time: What an admirable leap forward! I told him how I admired and loved him for his decision, hoping to console him for those quiet, lonely hours when he might find himself surrendering to pangs of memory. Clearly he would often long for that better world while all around him life was raging. But you see, madam, my friend is a proud and worthy man. Too proud to mourn a life that’s slipped through his fingers, and too worthy to be able to just lay it to one side. Each of his sentiments is known to me. Once he wrote me that he was about to die of monotony and boredom. That was his soul. And another time, he wrote: ‘All these stupid daydreams! Life is what’s sweet. I’m drinking absinthe and am filled with bliss!’ That was his masculine pride. Let me tell you: Women are mad for him, there’s something heart-beckoning about him, but also something icy-cold. Everything about his appearance, the waiter’s tailcoat notwithstanding, radiates love and tact.”

“What is the name of this unhappy wretch?” the woman asked.

“Kaspar Tanner.”

“What? Tanner? That’s your name. So he’s your brother, even though you called him your friend just now.”

“Of course he’s my brother, but much more than this he’s my friend! A brother like that has to be called a friend if you want to use the right terminology. We’re brothers only coincidentally; but our friendship is quite intentional, and this makes it far more valuable. What is brotherly love? Once back when we were still brothers, we grabbed one another by the throat and tried to do each other in. What charming love! Among brothers, envy and hatred are perfectly ordinary phenomena. When friends hate one another, they part ways; when brothers hate — brothers whom fate has ordained to live beneath a single roof — the outcome is not so tranquil. But this is an old story and not the nicest one.”

“Why haven’t you sealed your letter?”

“I’d like you to look over what I’ve written.”

The woman smiled:

“No, this I will not do.”

“I speak of you inappropriately in this letter.”

“I’m sure it’s not so bad,” she remarked, rising to her feet: “Go to bed.”

Simon did as she commanded, thinking as he left:

“I’m getting cheekier and cheekier. One of these days she’ll send me packing for good!”—

— 13–