Read Online Absence by Peter Handke - Free Book Online Page B

and gathers the cards as eagerly and excitedly as if he had been a mere onlooker until then and had now at last been given a chance to play. He puts much too much energy into his movements for a friendly little game that is not even being played for money. The perspiration drips from his hair, and his shirt is plastered to his chest and back. He has taken to biting his nails when pausing to think; once or twice he tries to take back cards that he has already played—but here his opponent stops him, laying a firm hand across his fingers; and after losing he clasps his hands overhead and emits a loud curse. The woman, in a dressing gown, sits with them, applying makeup and taking it easy. The game, in which there is a winner but no winnings, has slowed all movements around it—in it they find their time measure—and, conversely, seems fenced in by slow time. What is outside the fence has lost its attraction, it frightens; there only the usual time can prevail, daily happening, history, “bad infinity,” never-ending world wars great and small. There beyond the horizon deadly earnest sets in, the treetops mark a borderline beyond which the lips of those who have just died quiver in an attempt to draw one more breath; bands of men and
women, outwardly using words of endearment, inwardly mute, join forces, zealots of every kind, from whom there is no escape, who move even the highest mountains into the lowlands. One would like to regard the card game as reality and, thus fenced in, remain at the peak of time. The card players sit in the grass facing each other, as though they have shed their armor and for once are showing their true faces.
    The old man is the spoilsport. Suddenly he steps in, gathers up the cards, and throws them far out into the river. As though he had been absent a long time, his face is covered with stubble and sunburned. His cape, reversed, has become a bright linen sail. Wearing ankle-high shoes, a water bottle and haversack slung over his shoulder, he is equipped for a long march. On his head a bright checked woolen cap with fringed edges; in one hand an unfolded map, in the other a freshly cut hazel stick. Wearing baggy, clownlike trousers, he has thrust one leg forward and seems to be standing on one foot. Despite his violent action, he is in a cheerful mood; it’s just that he has made a decision and throwing the cards away was a part of it.
    After letting himself be inspected, he speaks: “The joyride is over. From here on we walk. No more riding. When people ride, there is no departure, no change of place, no sense of arrival. In a car, even when I myself was driving, I was never really traveling. My heart was never really in it. When I ride, I’m confined to a role that is contrary to my nature: in a car, that of a figure behind glass; on a bicycle, that of a handlebar holder and pedaler. Walking is the thing. Treading ground. Having my hands free. Swaying to my own rhythm. Only when absolutely necessary should
one drive or be driven. Places to which I have been driven are places where I have never been. Only through walking can a place be in some measure repeated. Only through walking do spaces open up and the spaces in between sing. Only when walking do I turn with the apples on a tree. Only a walker’s head grows on his shoulders. Only a walker experiences the balls of his feet. Only a walker feels a current run through his body. Only a walker perceives the tall tree in his ear—silence. Only a walker overtakes himself and comes to himself. Only a walker’s thoughts have substance. We will walk. Walking is what wants to be done. And you mustn’t walk like other people who, anyone can see, walk only when they have to or by accident. Walking is the freest of sports. And now it’s time to get going. Places get their virtues from walkers’ virtues. Oh, my undying appetite for walking, for walking out of a place and walking on forever!”
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