Free Concrete by Thomas Bernhard Page A

shouting out the word mad. The Melia or the Timeo, Christina or the Cañellas, the Fiat or the Mercedes, I speculated, unable to stop myself, as I sat in the iron chair, drawing refreshment from these ridiculous speculations — the Melia with all the hundreds and thousands of yachts outside the window, the cosmopolitan atmosphere of Palma — the Timeo with its bougainvillaeas flowering at the window - the Melia and the incredible sea breeze - the ancient bathroom at the Timeo — Christina or the Cañellas — the bougainvillaeas or the sea breeze — the Cathedral or the Greek theatre, I thought, sitting in the iron chair, the Mallorcans or the Sicilians — Etna or Pollensa — Ramon Llull and Ruben Dario or Pirandello. At present, I finally told myself, since I want to start my work on Mendelssohn Bartholdy, I need a cosmopolitan atmosphere — more people, more activity, more excitement, I thought as I sat in the iron chair, not a place with just one street — and on a hill at that, hence requiring exertion — and just one café, but a place with many busy streets - and squares! - and many cafés, and as many people around me as possible, for at present I need nothing so much as to have people around me — not that I want any dealings with them: I don’t even want to speak to them, I thought, sitting in the iron chair, but I must have them around me. And so for all these obvious reasons I decided on Palma and against Taormina, in favour of the Cañellas and against Christina, and generally in favour of a climate which would be positively beneficial to me in my condition, a summery climate such as I might expect in Palma even in February, but not in Taormina, where in February it is still wintery and rains nearly all the time. And in February, I thought, sitting in the iron chair, Etna is seldom to be seen, and even then it’s covered in snow from top to bottom, a constant and harmful reminder of the Alps, and therefore of Austria and home, which could only sicken me again and again. But suddenly this all appeared to me as senseless fantasizing, indulged in by an overwrought invalid sitting in his iron chair; it did little more than make me sadder than I already was, and ended in dejection. Yet there was no longer any way of escaping it, even though I tried to convince myself, still sitting in the iron chair, that perhaps all I needed to do was to go and call on some neighbour or other. So I got up, put on some clothes, and walked to Nie-derkreut, which is close enough even to be reached by one in my pitiful condition. Niederkreut is a four-hundred-year-old pile, damp and unprepossessing, occupied by a former cavalry officer from the First World War, who, like all such people, calls himself a baron — an old eccentric in other words. I went to call on him, not because I found him particularly interesting, but because he was of all people the one who could be reached most quickly and easily from where I lived. He is something of a curiosity. Whenever I visit him I have a cup of tea and listen to his stories about the First World War -about how he was wounded on Monte Cimone, how he spent three months in hospital in Trieste and then got the gold medal for bravery. In fact he always tells the same story, and he tells it to everybody who goes to see him on whatever occasion. The old man has the merit of being able to make excellent tea and also of not having bad breath, even though he is so old — getting on for eighty-five — for there is nothing that makes me dread visiting old men so much as the smell of their breath. The old man hasn’t let himself go, even though, as I say, he’s getting on for eighty-five, and he’s not in the least unappetising. He has a housekeeper who looks after him and whom he calls Muxi — nobody knows what that stands for — and who withdraws to the kitchen when he has visitors. Every half hour or so she puts her head round the door and asks the old man if there is anything he wants.