He wound the hair around his index finger and placed it in one compartment of an ice cube tray. He poured a splash of water onto it: a tender alga. In each compartment he laid a hair.
He threw off the comforter, contemplated the water stain on the ceiling. He tried to remember his dream. It had been something really funny, he thought he remembered laughing inordinately loud in the dream. He concentrated, listening to the Schubert quartet. For days he’d been listening to every possible interpretation of the Schubert quartet, probably to distract himself from the fact that at the moment, he couldn’t think of a single interpretation of Schubert. By midday somehow he was supposed to have interpreted Schubert. He stared at the water stain. Lili would notice immediately that he hadn’t made one bit of progress where Schubert was concerned, something about Schubert remained barred to him, it literally eluded him even in the listening. He wasn’t—it wasn’t a pleasant revelation—but presumably he simply wasn’t deep enough for Schubert. Perhaps he should just appropriate the interpretation of some other interpreter, but with more profundity. He fished for the record sleeve: Casals was bending profoundly over his cello, the first and second violinists nestled in his shadow, the violist dreamily looking somewhere else entirely.
Violists—Stanjic pulled the blanket up to his chin, set down the record sleeve—violists had it easy, violists lived in their own parallel universes anyway, no one ever wasted a thought on the profundity of a violist’s interpretation. Whatever—in any case no one could dispute Casals’s depth. He sighed, closed his eyes. Lili would notice that too.
He felt somehow uneasy, he opened his eyes, stared at the stain on the ceiling. Something wasn’t right. He looked at the turntable: not right at all. Perhaps—he moved the lever down to raise the rotation speed: the musicians’ fingers raced over their instruments at an alarming pace, the violist broke his fingers, Stanjic quickly switched back. No one could blame Casals, anyway.
Something wasn’t right at all. He looked: the stain hadn’t grown, nor had it shrunk. He rolled over a bit, closed his eyes in horror, rolled back. He was lying in shadow again, just barely. He turned his head, looked at the hollow next to him, thought that the sun must have woken her up, rooted her out of a deep sleep. Eyes open: sun. The sun wasn’t right. Yesterday it had been the depths of winter and now this. The sun brought a smell with it, and wind. He propped himself up, looked around. Clothes strewn around the room, records, scores on the bookshelves, everything pure and rich in the light, but suddenly dusty. Since spring had begun, everything was suddenly dusty. He ran his hand along the hollow, picked a hair off the pillow, held it up. She must have opened the window before she’d gone, a gentle wind was coming in, he held the hair by one end and let it wave in the breeze. Where had she gone, anyway, to the university? To Café Neugröschl? Was today that field trip to—wherever, somewhere outside of the city, some stony place, some place with a ridiculous name. Newradish? Something similar anyway. Underturnip or the like. He was slowly developing the terrible suspicion that Klara’s professor chose his field trip destinations exclusively for their silly names. He stood up, found some pants, and slipped into them.
He went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, at his face. He felt as if he’d never met himself. He recognized the beard. Without the beard he wasn’t sure whether he’d have recognized himself at all. He looked at himself, marveled, at a loss. He combed through his beard, bent toward the mirror, touched the foreign hair with the tip of his fingers and picked it out. Everywhere, he thought almost stunned, she’s everywhere. He went to the shelf with the towels, turned on the stereo, and put in a new CD. He let the bathwater run, turned the volume up, and began to brush his teeth, looking at his face. He looked absurd—with the toothbrush he looked downright hopeless. He looked. A hair on her perfume bottle; he plucked it off with two fingers.
He slipped into the hot water, submerged himself, listened. Also nice. The Kronos Quartet was also making a good effort on the Schubert. From below he watched the clouds of suds floating by, he saw his own hair billowing next to him, he emerged. A hair, a meter-long hair on the wall tiles. He fished other hairs out of the bathwater, where they were gliding among the bubbles like delicate water snakes, sluggish in a warm pond.
He climbed out of the tub, wrapped himself in a towel, and rubbed his hair dry. It was just that the Kronos Quartet sounded first and foremost like the Kronos Quartet and only secondarily like, in this case, Schubert. He pulled on his pants, went to the kitchen, filled the espresso pot with coffee, and turned on the stove. He opened the cabinet under the sink, rummaged through the records. He pulled one out, took a look at the cover. Just great, he murmured. The sun was sleeping on the sideboard, a brilliant blue, the windows shiny and freshly washed. He went over to them. An illusion: completely unwashed, the panes weren’t even one bit washed, he put on the record, watched as the needle slowly extended, cautiously dropped, crackling. He felt the warmth on his back, listened. Or Mischa Maisky, that was another possibility, surely there was no fault to be found with Maisky’s Schubert interpretation. Not to mention—he looked at the beard on the cover, the hair—the mere physical similarity between the younger Maisky and the concrete Stanjic, maybe he should just tackle the problem from that angle, follow his beard.
But—Stanjic raised his voice, took a cup from the sink and washed it—this isn’t your personal ego trip here, David, this is about the group’s interpretation. We, the quartet, have to find a translation of Schubert. The thing is just that until you find a solution for yourself, for your instrument, the whole thing will be pointless.
Thank you, Lili, I forgot to say. He lifted the needle, put on a different record. Thus, he said unctuously, let us look less toward the great cellists who just happened to stumble into a quartet. Rather, let us turn our attention to the great ensembles of quartet history, for example here—he glanced at the record sleeve—we have the fantastic Alban Berg Quartett with the really not excessively well-known Valentin Erben on the violincello. Erben is no Casals but, it really cannot be denied, he found a solution for himself, for his instrument, and thereby made his contribution to the group’s interpretation. He turned up the volume, dried the cup, and set it next to the stove.
He opened a drawer in the sideboard, shoved aside the bills and pens, searched for the magnifying glass.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a turn through the apartment. The violins were diligent, diligent fiddling came from everywhere: from the kitchen, from the bathroom, from the bedroom—a lovely jumble of Schubert. With the magnifying glass there were even more hairs: on the curtains, on a jam jar, on the medicine cabinet; in the bathroom he picked a hair off the CD player, blew into the speakers, and pushed some buttons. He sat down on the toilet lid and took a sip of coffee, contemplated his toes. He looked into the faces on the CD cover. The violist—Stanjic put down the picture, emptied his cup—the violist, judging from the rapturous look on his face, had just experienced some sort of epiphany. He too would like to experience an epiphany. He rested his head against the toilet tank, closed his eyes, listened, wait, there was a crackling and crisping coming from somewhere, a hop, hop, hop from the kitchen. He stood up and walked over, lifted the needle, and put it back down again a few grooves further. Schubert—he would, presumably by the end of this week at the latest, be playing just like Schubert himself, he would feel like Schubert, he would finally have achieved that incredible Schubertian profundity.
Looking forward to it, he murmured as he crawled along the corridor. With the magnifying glass, his apartment looked unbelievably dirty; he stuck it in his pants pocket. He laid the hairs out in front of him on the kitchen table, stretched out straight and flat next to each other like the strings of an instrument, holding them in place with his Guide to the String Quartet Literature. He dumped the rest of the pot into his cup, opened the bread drawer, and put a stale croissant on the hot burner. He sat down on the kitchen chair in front of his row of hairs. The mild wind from the open window caressed his bare feet. He considered the gooseflesh on his chest. The trombone that hung over the table turned, spun left for a while, stopped for a moment, then untwisted; he watched the light reflecting in the brass, gold flitting across the walls; he considered. The air from outside smelled new. He went to the stove, turned the croissant. He looked at the sunlight on the floor. Across from him, now at the same height, was the trombone, turning, untwisting, reflections on the walls, like little ponds, he stuck the note in his pants pocket, jumped down.
He dunked the croissant in his coffee, stood at the window, and looked out. Kron had all his windows wide open across the courtyard, the rooms lay in shadow. Stanjic warmed his hands on the cup and his gooseflesh spread, he felt it climbing up his arms, his back. He let his gaze wander through the apartment across from him. Not there. Presumably Kron was already pottering busily somewhere between his flower beds, dusting the seedlings. Below Kron’s bedroom window, one story below him, a window opened.
Good morning, the woman called. She leaned out; she was wearing a loud red housedress. Wouldn’t want you to catch pneumonia, Mr. Musician, all naked like that.
Stanjic looked down quickly at his legs, no longer sure whether he had pants on. It’s OK, he said, and took another sip of coffee.
A cat’s head appeared next to the woman, followed shortly thereafter by the whole cat.
That must be Minna, he thought—the thing’s gotten fat. Now she practically lives with, ah what’s her name, really fat, and probably an alcoholic.
You’re not practicing, the woman shouted over, scratching the cat’s head. You’re not going to rehearsal today.
I am. Stanjic stuck the last bit of croissant in his mouth, briefly raised his hand. He shut the kitchen window and went into the bedroom.
He took off his sweatpants, put on socks. That’s really all I need, he murmured. To have whatsit, come on now—Brösel—on my case, next thing she’ll start leaving beef roulades outside my door. He cast a glance in the mirror: socks, naked. Mr. Musician, he repeated; he lifted his arms, took up the position of the dying swan, that’ll teach her to snoop at her windows. The Alban Berg Quartett began the “Rosamunde” again. Allegro, he said to his reflection admonishingly, ma non troppo.
He buttoned his shirt and tightened his belt. He took one of Klara’s hairbands from the night table, gave himself a high ponytail. Newradish, he said to his reflection. He hunkered down a bit, squinted his eyes. Never seen you here before, cowboy, he hissed, hands on his belt, ready to draw. On the ground or you’ll wish you’d never set one rotten foot in Underturnip. One sudden move—he drew his pistols, fired—and it’s curtains, my brass-playing friend. He blew off the smoke, grinned at himself, holstered his Colt, his smile disappeared. My dear Alban Bergs, he said sternly. If I hear you fiddling away at Schubert one more time today I’ll blow your brains to outer space, I swear to God.
He turned off the record player, took his cello out of the case and started tuning. He sat down by the window. He played an étude, two, he started slowly and got slower and slower, non troppo, non troppo. Fingers of warm sunlight fell on his face. He closed his eyes, embraced the smooth wood. It seemed almost fragrant in the warmth. Hadn’t he fought his way through snowdrifts just yesterday, was it yesterday? He felt for the strings. He desperately needed to practice. For a pretty long time he had pretty desperately needed to practice. He laid the instrument on the bed, went back into the kitchen, listened.
He changed the record, looked out the window—another possibility—he looked at the picture on the record cover, the violist was fumbling something on his instrument while the rest of the band grinned at the camera. He turned down the music, stared at the hair-strings on the table. He pulled one of the strands out from under the quartet guide, wound it around his index finger, and placed the hair-ring in one compartment of an ice cube tray. It looked disarmingly tidy. A hair in each compartment. There were still many more hairs, and he resolved to buy more ice cube trays.
“Strands,” excerpted from Verlangen nach Drachen by Verena Rossbacher. Copyright © 2009 by Verlag Kiepenheuer & Witsch, Köln. Translation copyright © 2023 Anne Posten. By arrangement with the publisher.
