In Babylon. Marcel Moring

      ‘So it’s nonsense. It’s illogical.’

      I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Sex is nonsense and illogical, too. For the preservation of the species it’s enough just to …’

      ‘Nathan, shut up. What’s the point of doing all that if you don’t believe in it?’

      ‘Because I don’t believe in believing. That’s what I call nonsense. But the rituals, the washing of hands, the berakhot over bread and wine, we’ve been saying them for centuries. They don’t serve any particular purpose. We only say them because we want to say them. It’s an exercise.’

      ‘Exercise?’

      ‘In self-perspective. In humility. In transcendence. When you say the berakhah over bread, you’re reminded of what a miracle our daily bread really is. You didn’t make it yourself. You didn’t till the land. You didn’t sow the seeds and reap the grain. You didn’t grind the wheat and bake bread with the flour. But it’s there.’

      ‘You worked for it. You bought it.’

      ‘But it’s still a miracle. People in other countries work for it, too, but they can’t get it.’

      ‘You’re a believer.’

      I shook my head. ‘I’m a non-believer, through and through. I distrust every form of religion. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see what’s extraordinary about the world.’

      ‘The world is there.’

      ‘And the world is extraordinary. Such a sophisticated … machine. So many people. So much technology. So many structures and forms.’ I hesitated. ‘For something that complex, it runs amazingly well.’

      I leaned over and piled up the empty plates. ‘I’ll be right back.’

      Nina nodded. She lay curled up in the chair, one side lit by the orange glow from the hearth, the other bathed in shadow.

      In the kitchen, with only a faint glimmer of light from the chinks in the oven door, it was a while before I could see anything. As I waded through the darkness, something shot past the window. I froze. I stared at the black square above the sink, searching. For the first time today it fully dawned on me where I was: in an enormous hunting lodge in the forest, on top of a densely wooded hill in the middle of the countryside, a hill straight out of some dark fairy tale. A bird, I thought, it was a bird flying past the window. I put the plates down on the draining board and went into the hunting room to light a fire in the big stone hearth. If Nina hadn’t returned I would have wrapped myself in a sleeping bag and spent the night in the chair in front of the fireplace in the library.

      ‘We’re running out of wood,’ said Nina, when I came back in. ‘There are a few more of those black chunks, but not an awful lot. What is that anyway, that black stuff?’

      ‘The piano.’

      ‘The …’ She was remembering the piano. I could tell by the look on her face. The image loomed up deep within her of the black colossus that had been hanging above the stairs, like a guard before the barricade of chairs and cupboards and tables. ‘My God, how did you get it down?’

      ‘Let it fall,’ I said. ‘Sliced through the ropes and let it fall.’

      ‘Wow …’ A glittering flickered in her eyes. ‘What a shame I wasn’t there.’

      ‘Yes. You don’t know what you missed.’

      It had been quite spectacular. Under any other circumstances, if I hadn’t been so cold and it had been of my own free will, I’d probably even have enjoyed it.

      

      After I had abandoned my hunt for Nina, I’d staggered up the stairs like a wounded deer and immediately begun throwing things down. Fire. The word blazed before my eyes. I grabbed chairs, seizing them by the legs and hurling them to the ground. One of them smashed to pieces on the stone floor of the hall, another bounded up and down a few times like a young stag on mahogany hooves, and then broke. It was followed by a hatstand, a stool and the drawers from a sideboard.

      The sideboard was the first piece of furniture blocking the way upstairs, a sturdy oblong, four drawers high, old oak, wrought brass handles. I knew nothing about antiques, but it looked Dutch, early nineteenth century. On top of the sideboard was a small red sofa, covered in plush right down to its squat wooden legs. On the seat were marks left by the chairs I had already hurled into the depths. Various odds and ends were scattered over seats and tabletops: a pendulum clock, a pile of framed photographs (Uncle Herman and Enrico Fermi, our family on board the ship to America, Sophie, Molly, my first wife). To the left of the sideboard my way was barred by a secretaire, and above that, a wooden colonial-style desk chair with padded green leather seat. The space on the right was completely filled by a mahogany china cabinet, taller than I was, the colour and gleam of fresh dung. I lifted up the desk chair and flung it over the banister. For a brief moment it occurred to me that I was standing here before a collection of antiques which had not only been assembled with great care, but which was also quite valuable, and that I had judged this construction of chairs, cupboards and knick-knacks on its wood content alone.

      It had taken me a while to decide what to do next. The barricade was as much of a puzzle as it was an obstruction. If I removed the sofa, I’d have access to the linen cupboard, I could bash in the doors and side panel and dismantle the rest. Then I could cut through the ropes and the piano would go crashing down without hurting anyone. I reached forward, grabbed one of the sofa legs and tugged carefully. The sideboard under the sofa groaned. When I looked up at the piano, slow patches of light were gliding across the gleaming black lacquer and the sideboard began to move. The piano needed the sideboard to stay up, the sideboard needed the sofa to hold it down.

      I walked downstairs to gather up the bits and pieces of wood, carried them into the kitchen, lit a fire in the Aga, and went outside.

      It was snowing harder than ever. I had to grope my way to the gardener’s shed. There, tired and wet and cold, I rummaged through the tools. I chose a rake, a hoe and a shovel, cranked up the grindstone and placed the blade of the hoe against the grinding face. Minutes later it was sharp as a knife. I threw a hammer, a chisel, a pair of pincers, and a couple of screwdrivers into a burlap sack, tucked the tools I had set aside under my arm, and walked back.

      Lucky for me, the shed was only about a hundred feet away from the kitchen door and I wasn’t so tired that I’d lost my sense of direction, but even at this short distance, anyone else would have been in serious trouble. The icy wind whipped up thick whorls of snow and drove the flakes in high banks against the back of the house. If it continued snowing like this, in a few hours’ time I’d no longer be able to get the doors open on this side. I’d have to climb out the window to dig a passageway through a bank. From what I could tell, the snow was about two feet deep, much deeper in places where the wind had blown drifts. That shovel would certainly come in handy.

      Back inside, at the top of the stairs, I climbed up onto the sideboard and the sofa. I straightened up and, balancing precariously, raised the hoe. Night hadn’t fallen yet, but dusk hung heavy in the hall and I could barely see the ropes. It was a long time before I finally got the blade in the right place. If I cut through the left rope, the one farthest away from me, the right side of the piano would come down. The piano would land next to me on the stairs or, by the force of its own weight, tighten the rope around the left side and hang there, at least for a while. Then I could cut through the remaining rope and let the piano fall on the stairs. I pushed the hoe upward and began to make cutting movements. The blade was so sharp, it sliced through the rope in almost a single stroke. There was a loud bang, the creaking of wood, the groaning of the rope as it was pulled tighter. But the piano didn’t just hang there. It swung forcefully to the right, seemed to come to a standstill, and then, with a powerful heave, came swooping back. It was a terrifying sight, the great gleaming black instrument swinging back and forth up there from the ceiling. The rope groaned loudly and you could faintly hear the singing of the piano strings. Then the barricade began to move. The sideboard shifted. Wood moaned, slid past more wood and