Read Online The Karnau Tapes by Marcel Beyer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marcel Beyer
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dogs emerging from sleep. Their hair is thoroughly dishevelled after only two nights here. The housekeeper and I have both proved incapable of plaiting it neatly. I let Holde crawl under the covers and she promptly sets to work on my hair with her doll's comb: 'That's so you don't look so shaggy.'
The children laugh. The rag doll dances in front of my face as Hedda sings me an aubade in a squeaky doll's voice. But after only a few bars she gets muddled, or the doll does, so she sings the first two lines again and again. Helmut is doing gymnastics at the foot of the bed. Coco, who approves of all this activity, jumps up and joins us.
Helmut collapses: he slowly buckles at the knees and lies there for a while without moving. Then he gets up again, extends one arm, takes aim at Helga with his forefinger, and loudly clicks his tongue. Helga collapses too, but much more slowly, and lies so inert that her body would be motionless but for the bedsprings' undulations. Holde watches expectantly as Hilde follows suit after Helga has aimed a forefinger at her and made the same gunshot noise. Helmut has another idea: 'We won't use our fingers as pistols, we'll pretend our pillows are grenades and have a pillow-fight.'
Hedda and Holde emerge from under the covers and run after the others, who are fetching their pillows from across the way. Only Helga stays behind with me. 'You have to be careful to do it right,' she says. 'It isn't so easy to fall the right way when you've been shot.'
Soon they've had enough of dying and want to play something else. Helga whispers something to the others and tells me, 'You've got to guess what we are.'
The children line up beside my bed. Holde gives an involuntary giggle, but Hilde shushes her and tugs at her nightie, looking cross. Holde shuts up at once. The children stand there in silence. Then they wave their arms about and look at me as if to convey something, but they don't say a word. After a while they lose patience. 'Well,' says Helga, 'haven't you guessed yet?'
'No. Swimmers? Birds?'
'Wrong.'
'Windmills, maybe? Characters in a silent film?'
'No, silly, we're deaf-mutes on parade.'
They turn about, all five of them, and march silently out into the passage.
III
IT ' S VERY QUIET IN THE APARTMENT NOW THE CHILDREN HAVE gone. Too quiet, for my taste, as if the floors are close-carpeted and the walls padded with cotton wool. They reflect no echoes of childish laughter, no childish comments or questions. The dog's snuffles, too, sound strangely unreal, like a vague reminder of louder and livelier days. My recordings are no substitute. No matter how I turn up the volume, they produce no sounds capable of soothing me. I wander restlessly from room to room as if visible traces of the children's voices may be lingering on the wallpaper or furniture. But no, nothing.
Their voices made so distinct an impression on me during the few hours we spent together that my inward ear can recall them all. Each has its own, unmistakable acoustic image. Even the piping voices of the youngest can be clearly differentiated, although they still sound ill-defined and will only develop fully as the years go by. Not that vocal development is dependent solely on physical growth. Physical mobility, too, plays its part. Children's voices develop as they romp around with their brothers and sisters, as they pit their strength against that of their peers, as they scuffle and pant and cry. They develop as the individual limbs become adjusted to each other while their owners walk, jump, and co-ordinate the movements of their hands. They also develop during those self-absorbed games on the floor, when the child, almost without knowing it and wholly undistracted by the extraneous noises in its vicinity, mutters a running commentary on the state of play.
At present, while their vocal cords are still supple, the children speak quite uninhibitedly. They're altogether unaware, I imagine, of the freedom with which they form
The children laugh. The rag doll dances in front of my face as Hedda sings me an aubade in a squeaky doll's voice. But after only a few bars she gets muddled, or the doll does, so she sings the first two lines again and again. Helmut is doing gymnastics at the foot of the bed. Coco, who approves of all this activity, jumps up and joins us.
Helmut collapses: he slowly buckles at the knees and lies there for a while without moving. Then he gets up again, extends one arm, takes aim at Helga with his forefinger, and loudly clicks his tongue. Helga collapses too, but much more slowly, and lies so inert that her body would be motionless but for the bedsprings' undulations. Holde watches expectantly as Hilde follows suit after Helga has aimed a forefinger at her and made the same gunshot noise. Helmut has another idea: 'We won't use our fingers as pistols, we'll pretend our pillows are grenades and have a pillow-fight.'
Hedda and Holde emerge from under the covers and run after the others, who are fetching their pillows from across the way. Only Helga stays behind with me. 'You have to be careful to do it right,' she says. 'It isn't so easy to fall the right way when you've been shot.'
Soon they've had enough of dying and want to play something else. Helga whispers something to the others and tells me, 'You've got to guess what we are.'
The children line up beside my bed. Holde gives an involuntary giggle, but Hilde shushes her and tugs at her nightie, looking cross. Holde shuts up at once. The children stand there in silence. Then they wave their arms about and look at me as if to convey something, but they don't say a word. After a while they lose patience. 'Well,' says Helga, 'haven't you guessed yet?'
'No. Swimmers? Birds?'
'Wrong.'
'Windmills, maybe? Characters in a silent film?'
'No, silly, we're deaf-mutes on parade.'
They turn about, all five of them, and march silently out into the passage.
III
IT ' S VERY QUIET IN THE APARTMENT NOW THE CHILDREN HAVE gone. Too quiet, for my taste, as if the floors are close-carpeted and the walls padded with cotton wool. They reflect no echoes of childish laughter, no childish comments or questions. The dog's snuffles, too, sound strangely unreal, like a vague reminder of louder and livelier days. My recordings are no substitute. No matter how I turn up the volume, they produce no sounds capable of soothing me. I wander restlessly from room to room as if visible traces of the children's voices may be lingering on the wallpaper or furniture. But no, nothing.
Their voices made so distinct an impression on me during the few hours we spent together that my inward ear can recall them all. Each has its own, unmistakable acoustic image. Even the piping voices of the youngest can be clearly differentiated, although they still sound ill-defined and will only develop fully as the years go by. Not that vocal development is dependent solely on physical growth. Physical mobility, too, plays its part. Children's voices develop as they romp around with their brothers and sisters, as they pit their strength against that of their peers, as they scuffle and pant and cry. They develop as the individual limbs become adjusted to each other while their owners walk, jump, and co-ordinate the movements of their hands. They also develop during those self-absorbed games on the floor, when the child, almost without knowing it and wholly undistracted by the extraneous noises in its vicinity, mutters a running commentary on the state of play.
At present, while their vocal cords are still supple, the children speak quite uninhibitedly. They're altogether unaware, I imagine, of the freedom with which they form
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