The Discovery Of Slowness. Sten Nadolny

to keep his shilling in his pocket. It tasted cool, sour and salty, and was to the gullet what the bells were to the ears and fine-ribbed sand to the eyes. He ate with deep pleasure, smiling through his meal, unbothered by the greedy flies. The future, too, now looked rich and beckoning; he could view it all in a single glance, like a meal arranged on a plate. Already he was off to faraway continents. He would explore and learn speed. He had found a woman who had given him food. So a good ship couldn’t be far away.

      ‘What’s this called?’ he asked, pointing his fork at the plate. ‘That’s a jellied dish,’ said the landlady. ‘Brawn, made of pig’s head. It’ll give you strength.’

      Now he had his strength, but no ship was to be found. No further luck in Skegness. Brawn, yes; frigate, no. But that couldn’t deter him. Not far off should be Gibraltar Point, and many ships passed there on the way to the Wash. He’d look around there. Perhaps he could build a raft and get himself out to the shipping-lanes; they’d see him then and have to take him along. He wandered out of the village and turned south: Gibraltar Point.

      After half an hour of walking in the glistening sand, he turned to look back. The town had already become blurred again in the haze. But just in front of it a point moved, clearly recognisable. Someone was coming very fast. John watched this movement with concern. The point became more and more oblong; it hopped up and down. That was no person on foot. Hurriedly, John stumbled to hide behind the wood pilings of one of the breakwaters, crawled flat on his stomach up to the water line, and tried to burrow in the sand. Lying on his back, he scratched the ground with his heels and elbows, hoping that the sea, with a few long, licking waves, would let him sink into the sand with only his nose showing. Now he heard barking dogs coming nearer. He held his breath and stared fixedly at the sky, woodenly, as though he himself were the breakwater. When the hunting dogs yelped in his ear, he gave up. They had him. Now he saw the horses, too.

      Thomas had ridden in from Great Steeping; Father had come from Skegness with the dogs. Thomas pulled his arm; John didn’t know why. Then Father took over. The thrashing came at once, right here under the afternoon sun.

      Thirty-six hours after starting out on his escape, John was on his way home, sitting in front of his father on that ever-swaying, jolting horse, and through swollen eyes he gazed at those distant mountains riding back with him to Spilsby as if taunting him, while hedgerows, brooks and fences which had cost him hours flickered past, never to be seen again.

      Now he had no self-confidence left. He no longer wanted to wait till he was grown up. Shut in with bread and water so he’d learn something, he didn’t want to learn another thing. Motionless, he constantly stared at the same spot, unseeing. He breathed as if the air were loam. His eyelids closed only once every hour; whatever went on, he let it pass over him. Now he no longer wanted to be quick. On the contrary, he wanted to slow down until he died. Certainly it wasn’t easy to die of sorrow without help, but he’d do it. Outside the passage of time, he would force himself to be late and soon drag himself along until they’d think him dead. The others’ day would last only an hour for him, and their hour would be minutes. The sun raced across the sky, splashed into the South Seas, zoomed over China, and rolled over all of Asia like a bowling-ball. People in the villages twittered and wriggled for half an hour; that was their day. Then they fell silent and dropped with fatigue, and the moon rowed hastily across the firmament because the sun was already panting up on the other side. He would become slower and slower. The alternations of day and night would eventually become just a flickering, and at last, since, after all, they thought him dead, his funeral. John sucked in the air and held his breath.

      His illness grew more serious, with violent stomach cramps. His body cast out whatever was inside it. His mind became cloudy. The clock of St James’s – he saw it through the window – no longer told John anything. How could he still be identified with a clock? At half past ten it was still ten o’clock. Every evening was just like the evening before. If he died now, everything would be as it had been before his birth. He would never have been.

      He was feverish, as hot as an oven! They laid mustard-plasters on him, poured tea made of mullein and linseed into him. In between he gulped down barley water. The doctor ordered the other children to stay away. They were told to eat currants and bilberries; that was supposed to prevent infection. Every four hours a spoon passed across John’s lips with a powder made of Columba root, cascara rind and dried rhubarb.

      Illness wasn’t a bad way to regain one’s perspective. Visitors came to his bedside: Father, Grandfather, then Aunt Eliza, lastly Matthew the sailor. Mother was around all the time, silent and awkward, but never helpless and always peaceful, as though she knew for sure that now everything would be all right after all. They felt superior to her, but they needed her just the same. Father won, but always in vain. He constantly assumed a lofty position, especially in his talk, even when he wanted to say something kind: ‘It won’t be long before you’re at school in Louth. There you’ll learn declensions; they’ll knock those into your head, and a lot more besides.’ Protected by his illness, John could study them all with detachment. Grandfather was hard of hearing. He regarded anyone who lisped or mumbled as a provocateur. And anyone who dared to understand what a mumbler said was a traitor: ‘That’s how he gets into the habit.’ During this lecture, John was allowed to see his pocket watch. On its richly decorated face, the watch bore a Bible quotation starting with ‘Blessed are they …’ It was in a crabbed script. Meanwhile, Grandfather told him that when he was a boy he had run away from home to the seashore. He, too, had been caught. The report ended as abruptly as it had begun. Grandfather touched John’s forehead and left.

      Aunt Eliza described her journey from Theddlethorpe All Saints, where she lived, to Spilsby, a trip on which she had seen nothing. Still, her speech droned on like an unravelling kite-string. Listening to Aunt Eliza, one could learn that when people talk too fast the content becomes as superfluous as the speed. John closed his eyes. When his aunt at last noticed this she left, exaggeratedly quiet and a little hurt. Matthew came on another day. He spoke sensibly, with pauses. By no means, he maintained, does everything have to go very fast at sea. He only said: ‘One has to be able to climb ropes on a ship and learn many things by heart.’ Matthew had an especially strong lower jaw; he looked like a well-meaning bulldog. His eyes were sharp and sure. There was no doubt where he was looking and what caught his attention. Matthew wanted to hear a lot of what John had to say and waited patiently until his answers were ready to come out. John, too, had many questions. Evening came.

      Knowing about the sea was called navigation. John repeated that word several times after Matthew. It meant stars, instruments and careful thought. That pleased him. He said, ‘I’d like to learn how to set sails.’

      Before Matthew left, he bent over John more closely. ‘I’m shipping out to Terra Australis now. I’ll be gone two years. After that I’ll get my own ship.’

      ‘Terra Australis, Terra Australis,’ recited John.

      ‘Don’t run away again. You can become a sailor. But you’re a bit too caught up in thought, so you must become an officer or your life will be hell. Try to make it through school until I come back. I’ll send you some books about navigation. And I’ll take you on as a midshipman on my ship.’

      ‘Please, say it again,’ begged John. When he had understood it all clearly, he wanted to get better again at once.

      ‘He’s much better,’ the doctor announced proudly. ‘Against cascara rind no bad blood can win.’

       3

       Dr Orme

      Buttons done up wrong: start all over again. Neckerchief tied neatly, breeches fastened properly? Before breakfast, the outer person was checked by the assistant master. Caught out: no breakfast. For every wrongly done button: a slap on the nose. Hair not combed right: knock on the head. The collar of the doublet outside the frock-coat, stockings pulled up tight. Innumerable dangers lurked already at the beginning of the day. Shoes with buckles,