By Marian Pankowski
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Extra resources for Rudolf (Writings from an Unbound Europe)
He’s mountaineering up at the steps o f that tomb . . . ” “What’s he bought in his hand? sturdy grief! no longer a knife, surely?! ” “Nooo! It’s catching the sunshine . . . an eye fixed . . . he should have a teach to trap . . . no. ” “He’s conserving it in entrance of him and placing on right gent’s airs for the grave’s profit! ” “Good grief. . . wish his brains haven’t scrambled . . . ” “M y God . . . ” “Oh glance . . . he’s placing it as much as his eyes . . . why, it’s— opera glasses! ” “Quiet, don’t shout! ” “Vm shouting?! It’s you that’s yelling healthy to bust. . . ” “Hide, simply because any minute he may . . . ”— they usually either conceal in the back of their terrazzo pigsty. After a second one leans out, then the opposite, and so they examine the newcomer loosening his tie, stooping down, plucking a fern frond from the grave and placing it in his buttonhole. Now he’s obviously felt the 1st drop on his bald patch, simply because he’s stretching his hand skyward yet subsequent minute lowers i t . . . And there’s now not any have to indicate or make certain of whatever, as the rain’s leapt over the woods and is right here now, dashing throughout meadows, kitchen gardens, the noise of it transforming into from power to energy until eventually it’s a reg ular deluge. in order that even the clay, the dust this guy was once fooling with a little while in the past, is shining, even the stones gather a sheen, those mendacity providers and those status upright. until eventually even the bricklayer’s fled below a juniper along with his shovel or even the pigeon at the acacia has tucked his head into his grey feathers. Then the newcomer places his hat on his head, starts off swinging his palms in readiness for an extended march, yet earlier than he is taking a step, he squats down back via the grave. He’s as much as whatever there, yet nobody’s spying on him any more, keeping track of him, looking him down, as the rain’s smoked out the Peeping Toms. He rises from his knees. He stretches his muddy correct hand out in entrance of him, now not rather begging a prefer, now not particularly pointing on the mountains, and he strikes off alongside the trail, so battered by way of rain that on the cemetery go out his palm’s white back. in order that nobody will learn his final gesture off it. And he’s no longer making for town yet for the park at the hill. and never through means o f the most front— like that point he went jogging throughout the evening after a wretched smoked fish— yet he clambers uphill throughout a pathless tract. He’s twisted his hat around so it squints zanily at his shoulders. He’s strolling with knees bent. And so like a buffoon, trailing and trawling his toes uphill, following the float o f the dri ving rain that’s been pelting down and is now giving the city a silver whipping. And from that fern slicing grafted on his buttonhole— a may well garland already, a hunchback garland around his physique. in order that there’s no professor yet a toad spurting its personal laughter. And by means of this time the flood’s passing him via, dashing throughout the sky. And once more the air’s broad open. loads in order that the sun’s a mass of buttery maize within the sky-blue bowl of a reaper from the farmhands’ quarters. And under, within the valley’s hole— town has burst into speech.