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Yes, I have one friend marked with a cross – it’s Cash, of course.
Suddenly, some bird starts singing. It’s a thrush. It’s sitting on top of a tombstone with a cross, which Heinrich Krol bought so cheaply; the bird clearly has too big a voice for such a small, black ball with a yellow beak. This voice is both joyful and complaining, and it tugs at the heart. And I think about how its song tells me about life, about the future, about dreams, and about all the unknown, unusual, and new things that await me; but for the worms that crawl out of the damp earth and laboriously climb onto the base of the tombstone with a cross, this song is a menacing signal of death through quartering with fierce pecks of its beak; and yet, involuntarily, it carries me away like a wave, dissolving everything, and I stand helpless, confused, marveling at the fact that I don’t burst or fly up, like a balloon, into this evening sky; but finally, I come to my senses, stumble, and walk through the garden and its nocturnal fragrance back to the house, up the stairs, to the piano, I collapse on the keys, caress them, trying, like the thrush, to thunder and tremble, to express my feelings; but in the end, it only turns out to be a jumble of arpeggios and some fragments from popular and folk songs, from “The Cavalier of the Rose” and from “Tristan,” some kind of mixture and wild confusion, until someone’s voice shouts to me from the street:
– Dear man, learn to play at least!
I stop playing and slam the window shut. The dark figure disappears into the darkness; it’s already too far away for me to throw anything at it, and what’s the point? The stranger is right, I don’t know how to play properly, either on the piano or on the keyboard of life, never, never have I known how, I’ve always been in too much of a hurry, too impatient, something has always interfered with me, I’ve always had to stop; but who really knows how to play, and even if they do play – what good is it? Will the great darkness become any less black, and will the unanswered questions become any less hopeless? Will the burning pain of despair from the eternal inaccessibility of answers be any less agonizing, and will it ever help to understand life and master it, to ride it like a tamed horse, or will it remain like a giant sail in a storm, which carries us along, and when we want to grab onto it, throws us into the water? Sometimes, it seems to me, a chasm opens up before me, it seems to go down to the center of the earth. What is it filled with? Longing? Despair? Or happiness? But what kind? Weariness? Resignation? Death? What am I living for? Yes, what am I living for?
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