my neighbor. And then back to me "Very well, my friend. I will tell you — I, who am not chosen and therefore probably need to be alert, but not afraid of what the choosing has in store for me. The consequence is that it is a lie — the way we sit around this well-set table and act so certain, as if nothing had happened. And the way we are together today for the last time."
After these words, one might have expected everyone to jump up from the table in order to start out immediately and prepare themselves. But nothing of the sort happened. The hand with the opal settled on my hand, and everything remained calm. They joked back and forth about what everyone would do if the Deluge came tomorrow. And eventually, one of the young women said amid general concurrence: "Tonight, I will fix some sandwiches and pack my new dress. After all, we want to look attractive when the time comes."
We had gotten together to be happy.
I often had such conversations with the man who was my friend. Usually, he talked away at me, and I held my tongue. I held my tongue because I always felt that he was right. Often I thought: Why am I not like him? It might be better now too. Yes, I am astonished that he is not here instead of me. After all, everything pointed to his future success. He was bolder and prouder and always stuck to his purpose, while I frequently had no idea what I would be doing from one moment to the next, and I then had an endless amount of trouble orienting myself. Granted, he would not speak like me now, he would find himself ridiculous and poke fun at himself; but, in the same situation, he would not for an instant hesitate or doubt what step he must promptly take as the most necessary.
However, he perished, and I stand here. I probably always knew that he would perish. That was why I loved him, and he hated me.
For when I held my tongue while he spoke, he mistook my silence for scorn and grew even sharper in his formulations. He simply would not believe me when I agreed with him. He thought I was merely trying to silence him. He viewed me as more intelligent than I am, but he would never have admitted it.
For example, I would never have talked to him about my father, or about the others who sometimes visited me. At the very start, I must have betrayed myself. "How can that be?
The man is dead!" he instantly retorted to my allusion. And when I told him that my father was not dead, he irately flared up: "He died on such and such a date. That can be proved at any time." And he named a precise year. Naturally, I held my tongue; for it was painful arguing about my father in this way. But my friend thought I was making fun of him, and he angrily stormed out.
Although I henceforth kept silent about my father, my friend did not hold back with concealed attacks; I often got to hear: "What does your father say, your father, who is moldering in the grave and, incidentally, is not your father?" Yet I am firmly convinced that he knew my father as well as I did. Why else would he have fought so hard against him? After all, he would not have had to do so if my father had really been dead. Also, my father often sat there when my friend was in the room with me, and he listened to him silently as was his wont. At times he sat quite near him, and my friend was undoubtedly talking not to me, but to my father. Yet always as if trying to prove to my father that my father was not there. Even if my friend did not really see my father — which is possible; for his movements towards him were those of a blind man — he must nonetheless have constantly sensed that my father could hear him.
My father and I had a tacit agreement not to speak about my friend. We treated him like a sleepwalker, at whom one should not shout if one does not wish to make him fall. And indeed, he lived in a very fragile glass envelope. Everything was always bright and clear and orderly. But no light shone on the outside, and that was why when anyone who lived
After these words, one might have expected everyone to jump up from the table in order to start out immediately and prepare themselves. But nothing of the sort happened. The hand with the opal settled on my hand, and everything remained calm. They joked back and forth about what everyone would do if the Deluge came tomorrow. And eventually, one of the young women said amid general concurrence: "Tonight, I will fix some sandwiches and pack my new dress. After all, we want to look attractive when the time comes."
We had gotten together to be happy.
I often had such conversations with the man who was my friend. Usually, he talked away at me, and I held my tongue. I held my tongue because I always felt that he was right. Often I thought: Why am I not like him? It might be better now too. Yes, I am astonished that he is not here instead of me. After all, everything pointed to his future success. He was bolder and prouder and always stuck to his purpose, while I frequently had no idea what I would be doing from one moment to the next, and I then had an endless amount of trouble orienting myself. Granted, he would not speak like me now, he would find himself ridiculous and poke fun at himself; but, in the same situation, he would not for an instant hesitate or doubt what step he must promptly take as the most necessary.
However, he perished, and I stand here. I probably always knew that he would perish. That was why I loved him, and he hated me.
For when I held my tongue while he spoke, he mistook my silence for scorn and grew even sharper in his formulations. He simply would not believe me when I agreed with him. He thought I was merely trying to silence him. He viewed me as more intelligent than I am, but he would never have admitted it.
For example, I would never have talked to him about my father, or about the others who sometimes visited me. At the very start, I must have betrayed myself. "How can that be?
The man is dead!" he instantly retorted to my allusion. And when I told him that my father was not dead, he irately flared up: "He died on such and such a date. That can be proved at any time." And he named a precise year. Naturally, I held my tongue; for it was painful arguing about my father in this way. But my friend thought I was making fun of him, and he angrily stormed out.
Although I henceforth kept silent about my father, my friend did not hold back with concealed attacks; I often got to hear: "What does your father say, your father, who is moldering in the grave and, incidentally, is not your father?" Yet I am firmly convinced that he knew my father as well as I did. Why else would he have fought so hard against him? After all, he would not have had to do so if my father had really been dead. Also, my father often sat there when my friend was in the room with me, and he listened to him silently as was his wont. At times he sat quite near him, and my friend was undoubtedly talking not to me, but to my father. Yet always as if trying to prove to my father that my father was not there. Even if my friend did not really see my father — which is possible; for his movements towards him were those of a blind man — he must nonetheless have constantly sensed that my father could hear him.
My father and I had a tacit agreement not to speak about my friend. We treated him like a sleepwalker, at whom one should not shout if one does not wish to make him fall. And indeed, he lived in a very fragile glass envelope. Everything was always bright and clear and orderly. But no light shone on the outside, and that was why when anyone who lived
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