I
WE ARE SAD. WE DONâT HAVE A FERRYMAN ANY MORE. THE ferryman is dead. Two lakes, no ferryman. You canât get to the islands now unless you have a boat. Or unless you are a boat. You could swim. But just try swimming when the chunks of ice are clinking in the waves like a set of wind chimes with a thousand little cylinders.
In theory, you can walk round the lake on foot, keeping to the bank. However, weâve neglected the path. The ground is marshy and the landing stages are crumbling and in poor shape; the bushes have spread, they stand in your way, chest-high.
Nature takes back its own. Or thatâs what theyâd say in other places. We donât say so, because itâs nonsense. Nature is not logical. You canât rely on Nature. And if you canât rely on something youâd better not build fine phrases out of it.
Someone has dumped half his household goods on the bank below the ruins of what was once Schielkeâs farmhouse, where the lake laps lovingly against the road. Thereâs a fridge stuck in the muddy ground, with a can of tuna still in it. The ferryman told us that, and said how angry he had been. Not because of the rubbish in general but because of the tuna in particular.
Now the ferryman is dead, and we donât know whoâs going to tell us what the banks of the lake are getting up to. Who but a ferryman says things like, âWhere the lake laps lovingly against the roadâ, and âIt was tuna from the distant seas of Norwayâ so beautifully? Only ferrymen say such things.
We havenât thought up any more good turns of phrase since the fall of the Berlin Wall. The ferryman was good at telling stories.
But donât think that at this moment of our weakness we ask the Deep Lake, which is even deeper now, without the ferryman, how itâs doing. Or ask the Great Lake, the one that drowned the ferryman, what its reasons were.
No one saw the ferryman drown. Itâs better that way. Why would you want to see a person drowning? Itâs not a pretty sight. He must have gone out in the evening when there was mist over the water. In the dim light of dawn a boat was drifting on the lake, empty and useless, like saying goodbye when thereâs no one to say it to.
Divers came. Frau Schwermuth made coffee for them, they drank the coffee and looked at the lake, then they climbed down into the lake and fished out the ferryman. Tall men, fair-haired and taciturn, using verbs only in the imperative, brought the ferryman up. Standing on the bank in their close-fitting diving suits, black and upright as exclamation marks. Eating vegetarian bread rolls with water dripping off them.
The ferryman was buried, and the bell-ringer missed his big moment; the bell rang an hour and a half later, when everyone was already eating funeral cake in the Platform One cafĂ©. The bell-ringer can hardly climb the stairs without help. At a quarter past twelve the other day he rang the bell eighteen times, dislocating his shoulder in the process. We do have an automated bell-ringing system and Johann the apprentice, but the bell-ringer doesnât particularly like either of them.
More people die than are born. We hear the old folk as they grow lonely and the young as they fail to make any plans. Or make plans to go away. In spring we lost the Number 419 bus. People say, give it another generation or so, and things wonât last here any longer. We believe they will. Somehow or other they always have. Weâve survived pestilence and war, epidemics and famine, life and death. Somehow or other things will go on.
Only now the ferryman is dead. Who will the drinkers turn to when Ulli has sent them away at closing time? Whoâs going to fix paperchase treasure hunts for visitors from the Greater Berlin area, in fact fix them so well that no treasure is ever found, and the kids cry quietly on the ferry afterwards and their mothers complain politely to the ferryman, while the fathers are left wondering, days later, where they went wrong? Those are mainly fathers from the new Federal German provinces, feeling that their virility has been questioned, and once on land again they eat an apple, ride towards the Baltic Sea on their disillusioned bicycles and never come back. Whoâs going to do all that?
The ferryman is dead, and the other dead people are surprised: whatâs a ferryman doing underground? He ought to have stayed in the lake as a ferryman should.
No one says: Iâm the new ferryman. The few who understand that we really, really need a new ferryman donât know how to ferry a boat. Or how to console the waters of the lakes. Or theyâre too old. Others act as if we never had a ferryman at all. A third kind say: the ferryman is dead, long live the boat-hire business.
The ferryman is dead, and no one knows why.
We are sad. We donât have a ferryman any more. And the lakes are wild and dark again, watching, and observing what goes on.
THE FUEL STATION HAS CLOSED, SO YOU HAVE TO GO TO Woldegk to fill up. Since then, on average people have been driving round the village in circles less and straight ahead to Woldegk more, reciting Theodor Fontane if they happen to know his works by heart. On average itâs the young, not the old, who miss the fuel station. And not just because of filling up. Because of KitKats, and beer to take away, and Unforgiving, Orange Inferno flavour, the energy drink that takes East German fuel stations by storm, with 32 mg of caffeine per 100 ml.
Lada, who is known as Lada because at the age of thirteen he drove his grandfatherâs Lada to Denmark, has parked his Golf in the Deep Lake for the third time in three months. Is that to do with the absence of a fuel station? No, itâs to do with Lada. And itâs to do with the track along the bank, which in theory is highly suitable for a speed of 200 km/h here.
The lake gurgled. At first Johann and silent Suzi, up on the bank, thought it was funny, then they thought it wasnât so funny after all. A minute passed. Johann took off his headband and plunged in, and heâs the worst swimmer of the three of them. The youngest, too. A boy among men. All for nothing; Lada came up of his own accord, with his cigarette still between his lips. Then he had to lend a hand with rescuing Johann.
FĂŒrstenfelde. Population: somewhere in the odd numbers. Our seasons: spring, summer, autumn, winter. Summer is clearly in the lead. The weather of our summers will bear comparison with the Mediterranean. Instead of the Mediterranean we have the lakes. Spring is not a good time for allergy sufferers or for Frau Schwermuth of the Homeland House, who gets depressed in spring. Autumn is divided into early autumn and late autumn. Autumn here is a season for tourists who like agricultural machinery. Fathers from the city bring their sons to gawp at the machinery by night. The enthusiastic sons are shocked rigid by the sight of those gigantic wheels and reflectors, and the racket the agricultural machinery kicks up. The story of winter in a village with two lakes is always a story that begins when the lakes freeze and ends when the ice melts.
âWhat are you going to do about your old banger?â Johann asked Lada, and Lada, who is no novice at the art of fishing cars out of the lake and getting them back into running order, said, âIâll fetch it one of these days.â
Silent Suzi cast out his fishing line again. He had barely paused for Ladaâs mishap. Suzi loves angling. If youâre born mute, youâre kind of predestined to be an angler. Although what does it mean, mute? Saying his larynx doesnât work would be politically correct.
Johann gently tapped out a rhythm on his thigh. He has his bell-ringing exam tomorrow, and heâs going to play a little melody of his own composed specially for the Feast. Itâs to be performed by striking the bells instead of making them swing. Lada and Suzi donât know anything about it. Itâs better that way or theyâll make fun of him.
They stripped to their underpants, Johann and Lada, so that their clothes could dry, Suzi out of solidarity. Ladaâs flawlessly muscular build, Suziâs flawlessly muscular build, Johannâs skinny ribs. Suzi combs his hair back, he always has a comb with him, a custom now verging on extinction. A dragonâs tail on his forehead, the mighty dragonâs body round the back of Suziâs neck, the dragonâs head on his shoulder-blade, breathing fire. Suzi is as handsome as the stars of Italian films in the 1950s. Suziâs mother is always watching those films and shedding tears.
Grasshoppers. Swallows. Wasps. Tired, all of them, very tired.
Autumn is on the way.
Today was the last hot day of the year. The last day when you could comfortably lie on the grass in your underpants, with beetles climbing all over you as if you were a natural obstacle in the terminal moraine landscape, which in a way you are. If you come from here, you know that sort of thing: itâs the last hot day. Not because of the swallows or the weather app. You know it because youâve stripped to your underwear and youâre lying down, and if you are a girl youâve burrowed your toes into the sand, if youâre not a girl you havenât done anything with your toes, youâre just lying down. And, lying like that, you looked up at the sky, and it was perfectly clear. Todayâthe last hot day. If by some miracle there should be another one after all, it wouldnât mean anything. Today was the last.
Lada and Johann watched Suzi and gave him tips, because he wasnât catching anything. Try under the ash tree, itâs too hot for the fish here, that kind of thing. Suzi put the rod between his legs and gestured wildly. Lada understands Suziâs language quite well, or rather, he doesnât know it all that well but he has known silent Suzi for ever.
âWe have all the time in the world,â he translated for Johannâs benefit. Johann looked at him enquiringly. Lada shrugged his shoulders and spat into the lake. Anna came along the lakeside path on her bike. Wearing a dress with what they call spaghetti straps or something like that. Johann spontaneously waved. Heâs a boy, after all. Anna looked straight ahead.
âWhat are you waving for?â Lada punched Johannâs shoulder. âLet me show you how itâs done.â An excursion boat was chugging over the lake. Lada whistled shrilly. The tourists on board were moving under the shelter of their roof. Lada waved, the tourists waved back. The tourists took photos. Then Lada showed them his middle finger.
âThat doesnât count, theyâre tourists waving. Theyâll wave no matter what,â said Johann.
Lada punched him again. Thereâs a wolf baring its teeth on Ladaâs shoulder. The wording on Ladaâs back says The Legend. The lettering is almost the same as in the ad for the energy drink.
âWhat are you staring at?â
âIâm going to get a tattoo as well.â
âHear that, Suzi? This wankerâs going to get a tattoo. Fabulous.â
One thing Johann has learnt from knowing Lada is not to lose his nerve. To stick to his point. Letting people provoke you shows weakness. âDoes that mean anything?â he asked. Suzi has a wolf on his calf as well.
Lada looked him in the eye. Spat sideways. âThe wolves are coming back.â He spoke very slowly. âGermany will be wolf country again. Wolves from Poland and Russia, they can cover thousands of kilometres. Wonderful animals. Hunters. Say: wolf-pack.â
âWolf-pack.â
âWicked, right? Such power in that one word! Suzi and I support the wolf.â Lada grabbed Johann by the back of the neck. âThis is just between ourselves, okay? Weâve brought wolves. From Lusatia. Because once there were wolves here too. Ask your mother. In the Zerveliner Heide, near the rocket base? We set them free.â
Stay cool. Ask more questions. Sometimes Lada just goes rabbiting on like that to scare Johann. Suzi has turned round, listening intently. Johann cleared his throat.
âHow many?â
âVery funny. I thought youâd ask how. Four. Two young wolves, two adults. Listen, you: itâs no joke. Keep your mouth shut, understand?â
âSure.â
âGood.â
Suzi had a fish on his hook. It put up a bit of resistance. A small carp. Suz...