Excerpts from
Random Encounters
By Stig Dalager
The Snowman
In the morning, as Latiffa is hurrying down Schottensgasse with her children to catch the tram, Joachim steps out of the building opposite, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He wants to play with her son, he calls out but too late, his soft call is drowned by the sound of traffic.
Disappointed, he stands watching them as they disappear into the tram.
Last night he dreamt he had built a snowman but every time he came to the head, it fell off. He lay tossing and turning in his sleep and when he finally awoke he got out of bed, dressed clumsily and passed through the gloomy flat, locking himself out with difficulty and ran downstairs.
In the dawn light, he turns into the street and hurries through the entrance gate to the neighbouring house with short, brisk footsteps. He continues on past the back of the house where there is a small garden. Here the snow lies thick and smooth, waiting for him. He crouches, gathers up some snow and forms a large snowball between his hands. This is the way the big boys do it, he has watched them, even though they wonīt let him join in their game. He canīt understand them, for his father says he has good hands that can make lots of things. He has never made a snowman with his father though, because he is too busy.
He hasnīt made a snowman with anyone and now he wants to make one all on his own.
He rolls the snowball over the snow and it gets bigger and bigger, but he has forgotten his gloves and his fingers are already aching, so he blows on them before continuing. Now there is a big lump of snow at his feet, he pats it and it grows rounder and rounder. He lifts it up and carries it to the centre of the lawn with great effort; this is where a snowman should stand, right in the middle.
Then he fashions another snowball, stopping briefly to blow on his fingers and rolls another big lump of snow. He forms this too with his small hands and carries it to the other one. With all his strength he lifts it on top of the other snowball but it falls down and despite his efforts to support it, it smashes to the ground breaking into four large pieces. He is just about to cry, standing rubbing his hands under the dark sky as light is slowly breaking. Yet something urges him on, he bends to pick up the pieces, refashions the block and lifts it up once more. This time it stays in place.
He is tired. Suddenly, he sees a cat between the dark trees encircling the lawn. Its large, yellow eyes are staring at him; if only he were a cat then he could go where he pleased and the older boys couldnīt catch him and rub snow into his face. He slowly approaches it and he begins to talk to it, words with no meaning which come from a far place at the back of his mind. For a moment it stands still, then it is gone and he stands rapped staring into the empty space between the trees which sucks him in and makes him part of the darkness, the trees and the sounds; he is a mere animal without consciousness at one with his surroundings. Then he turns suddenly and the whiteness of the snow blinds him, he staggers a few steps and bends determinedly and forms another snowball, rolling and patting it with his hands so that it looks like the round lamp in his fatherīs office. He carries it across the white lawn and finally succeeds in placing it on top of the column of snow.
But it hasnīt any mouth or nose or eyes or anything, even though it seems like it, for he feels it is watching him, slowly moving towards him. Suddenly he is afraid of it and steps backwards, then he laughs and goes up to it poking holes with his fingers, those are the eyes and they must be big for there is a lot to see, and he makes a long line for its mouth. He canīt see whether it is laughing or crying, it must decide for itself, for it will be able to think when he has finished. Now all it needs is a nose and he approaches the trees once more, breaks off a twig and goes back to stick it
into the lump of snow just below its eyes but he is too forceful and the twig goes through the whole head and pokes out on the other side. Thatīs not what he wanted, it hurts the snowman, he bends down quickly and plasters snow over the twig.
Then he steps back and looks at its head.
It is saying something but he canīt hear what.
He has a pounding sensation in his ears and shakes his head backwards and forwards then listens once more.
Itīs singing, heīs sure of it, he lays his ear to its frozen mouth but he doesnīt feel the cold.
He starts suddenly at the sound of something else. He doesnīt know where it is coming from and he takes some nervous steps backwards, falls and quickly gets up. When he looks up he sees a man several metres away with a shovel in his hand, the man is old and pale he is wearing a black cap.
"What are you doing here boy?" the man says.
Now he recognizes the man. It is Herr Klinsmann, the janitor, the one the big boys call shovel, he doesnīt know why. The man is staring at him, he wants to run away but he canīt and he canīt say anything either.
"Iīve been keeping an eye on you," says Klinsmann, "youīre always snooping around here but youīve no right to be here because you donīt live here and your parents donīt pay me for that mess youīre making, get rid of it immediately!"
He doesnīt understand what the man means by mess.
"What?" he says.
"That rubbish, there!" says Klinsmann lifting his shovel and pointing it at the snowman.
"Itīs my snowman!" he suddenly shouts.
Klinsman suddenly shakes his head laughing strangely, then he lifts his shovel again and takes two steps forward, knocking off the snowmanīs head. The lump of snow lands on the lawn and falls apart.
"Itīs not your snowman anymore!" he says turning towards him.
He stands for a moment looking at the ruined head, then he looks at the snowman who can no longer sing and without thinking he goes up to the remains and begins to press them together again.
"Away with you!" shouts Klinsmann, but he doesnī t care, he doesnīt even hear him, he smoothes the head with his hands and lifts it up and carries it over to the column of snow.
"Didnīt you hear what I said?" shouts Klinsmann and moves towards him a few paces with his shovel raised. Then suddenly his legs give way under him and he sinks into the snow, here he lies moaning and making strange sounds. Joachim lets the snowmanīs head drop to the ground, turns walking tentatively towards him, perhaps he is ill or perhaps he has broken his leg. Heīs not sure whether he should go right up to him and stands for a long time watching him, his face is completely white, like the snow and he has spittle around his mouth. He canīt understand what the man is saying, heīs whispering. He goes right up to him and strokes his cheek just as his mother does when he is ill. Now he can all of a sudden hear what he is saying, heīs saying plum tree, he keeps repeating plum tree. Why is he saying that and why are his eyes all white and now heīs not saying anything? He shakes his arm and shouts:
"Klinsmann!"
But he says nothing at all, he is frightened and gets up. Everything is spinning, the snowmanīs head which is lying in the snow and Klinsmann whoīs lying there in the snow saying nothing, all white and snowy and the darkness between the trees. Then he starts running. He runs out of the garden, out of the entrance and up into the stairwell and up the stairs. Now heīs at the door, he grabs the handle and presses it down and now heīs in the hall. He runs into the dark bedroom where his father and mother lie sleeping and he shakes his father who is still fast asleep, he says:
"Klinsmann is lying in the garden, heīs saying plum tree, plum tree all the time!"
His father raises himself on one elbow in the bed.
"What are you saying?"
"Klinsmann is dead" he says suddenly.
"Stop it" says his father "let me sleep."
"But itīs true, heīs dead."
His father gives him an angry look.
"Stop all these fantasies. Go into the kitchen and find something to do, weīll come soon."
His father pulls the bedclothes over his head.
He stands for a while looking at the lock of black hair sticking up from the covers, he thinks about going over to his mother but then heīll only wake her and he mustnīt, heīs been told so many times not to.
He goes into the kitchen. He switches on the light and finds some paper and the crayons he has used so many times and sits at the kitchen top and begins to draw.
But he canīt draw properly, he keeps seeing Klinsmann and the crayon falls out of his hand.
He stares for a long time at the few unidentifiable strokes on the white paper.
Perhaps Klinsmann is not dead after all, itīs probably just his imagination as his father always says. "You have too much imagination", his mother says so too and even though he doesnīt quite know what imagination is, itīs something heīs not supposed to have and which makes them tell him off. It is probably like the time he awoke and thought there was a dead bird in his bed because he had dreamt it and it turned out to be his toy car.
Perhaps Klinsmann had just hurt himself, got up and gone home and...
You canīt die from just falling.
But what about the snowman, he made that, yes he did and itīs still got no head.
If he draws the snowman with its head on, then itīll be just like he had a head after all.
Yes, he can do that. He can draw the snowman then thereīs no one who can tell him off because he doesnīt have to show it to anyone, he can hide it in his box with the other secret drawings. The ones of monsters and creatures and flowers he has never seen but which exist anyway.
He quickly takes off his coat and throws it onto the floor, then he grabs a crayon and begins drawing.
He smiles dreamily to himself. Everythingīs going to fine again and he hopes his mother and father donīt come before he has finished.
The light from the window grows stronger and soon fills the whole room.
Translated by Jean McVeigh Pedersen
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