Zbinden's Progress Read online

  Last Wednesday morning, I was walking around the local area here. That early in the morning, no one feels like a conversation, apart from Bobby who distributes the free papers at the tram depot. Once, in the snow, my feet slipped away from under me, I fell on my back, and Bobby helped me up again, saying, ‘A less agile old man would surely’ve got a broken neck.’ With this flattering remark began a casual friendship that both of us cherish.

  I sit down beside him. The pile of free papers he’s supposed to be handing out is on his lap. I inquire about his well-being; Bobby, bleary-eyed, inquires about mine. Then he asks if I’d like a paper ‘for the tram’.

  Bobby’s dressed the way, in his opinion, someone doing his job in early summer should be: trainers, jeans, baseball cap, a windcheater, to which his ID is clipped.

  ‘People aren’t going to come up and snatch the paper from the hands of a seated distributor,’ I say.

  Bobby sighs.

  ‘Give me the rest. I’ll hand them out in the Home. There’s your tram coming.’

  ‘That’s good of you, Herr Zbinden.’ Bobby raises his baseball cap and calls back ‘Thanks’, over his shoulder.

  The stop empties, the tram drives off. Then the stop fills with people again. A girl sits down beside me: a girl with braces and a school bag and dangling legs. I ask would she like a paper ‘for the tram’. The girl declines, politely. She doesn’t read newspapers, so I ask what she normally reads. Then I wait: I can see she’s examining me, taking her time before she answers. I’m dressed the way, in my opinion, someone going for a walk should be: a sailor’s cap; a tucker bag with tassels; shoes, badly worn at the heel.

  ‘I like reading fairy tales best,’ the girl says, finally. ‘Hansel and Gretel at the moment.’

  ‘Breadcrumbs were supposed to lead them home,’ I recall.

  ‘The witch gets burnt to cinders,’ the girl says.

  ‘Do you like school?’

  ‘I’m good at Arithmetic and Writing. Really fast – like a machine. I’m top in GIS too.’

  ‘What’s GIS?’

  ‘No one knows, exactly. To do with maps.’

  ‘I used to be a teacher. GIS didn’t exist in those days. What age are you?’

  ‘Eleven. And you?’

  ‘Count the wrinkles on my face. Like the rings on the horns of an antelope.’

  ‘Do you know what I want to be when I’ve finished school? I want to have a jewellery shop in every single country in the world.’

  ‘Every single country in the world? That’s great!’

  ‘Maybe not New Zealand. I’ve nothing against New Zealand. We were there last year. But it’s too far away for a jewellery shop. What are you doing with all those papers?’

  ‘I want rid of them.’

  ‘Give me a few. I’ll hand them out at break time. There’s my tram coming!’

  ‘That’s really kind of you!’ I raise my sailor’s cap and shout ‘Thanks!’ as she walks away.

  A businessman sits down beside me, and for the next ten minutes fends off my questions. Would he like a Gazette ‘for the tram’? – a hand waves it away. What his favourite subject at school was – a suspicious look. Why, in his opinion, New Zealand is avoided by jewellers – he moves away, as if I’d something contagious. Whether, professionally, he’d made it to where he’d dreamed of as a boy – he stares straight ahead. Many I encounter find it difficult to come out of their shell.

  Today seems quiet, at least. Other days, activation therapists and nurses in white tunics and great-grandchildren whizz past at such a rate, you have to cling to the banister as you would a ship’s rail when huge waves crash on board.

  Listen, Kâzim, I don’t want to keep you back, but would you do me a favour, young man? Would you accompany me on a walk outside? I know you’ve lots to do, but I assure you, you won’t regret a walk! Precisely because you’ve lots to do. Walking is the oldest form of mental and physical exercise. Adam and Eve walked out of Paradise. Socrates strolled along a newly inaugurated street on the look-out for curly-haired boys to kick. Jesus and the Devil took a walk in the desert and, inspired, talked shop. Eighty-seven-year-old Lukas Zbinden may no longer be strong enough to pull a plough; not wanting to plummet into the void, he does a recce before each step; still, he strides along the street undeterred, avoiding its many dangers, like Moses through the Sea of Reeds. I give an example that contradicts the view, very prevalent here in the Home, that old people would surely suffer heart attacks were they to subject themselves to the exertions of a walk.

  What is granted, do you think, Kâzim, to those who go for walks? Incredible joie de vivre, that’s what! Happy – in a way that’s almost laughable – relationships! Incredible solutions to problems of Physics! Icelanders walk, naked, in the snow – and manage to maintain their body temperature without ever breaking into a run. And do you know the best of it? Out walking, you could meet a partner for life, one who won’t want to marry you just for tax reasons and your pension.

  As a young man, a trainee teacher, I visit the home of a fellow student. Before the shoe rack is a pair of – muddy – high boots. When, furtively, I lift them, I see the sole’s almost completely worn out. I put the boots back and later – it’s a big family – ask, ‘Whose boots are those?’

  ‘They belong to our Emilie.’

  We look at each other – and in no time engagement rings are being exchanged.

  But will you accompany me outside, Kâzim? Into the fresh air?

  I have to tell you: I’m a social animal, not a loner, I like to have company when I go for a walk. For many, being alone may be the point of a walk. They don’t want to have to bow to others, prefer to walk when and where they please. They don’t want to hear other people’s commentaries on views; they’re unsociable. Herr Ziegler, for example, in Room 219, will protest, defiantly, ‘One walker is a walker. Two walkers are half a walker. Three walkers are no longer a walker at all.’

  Have you already come across Herr Ziegler? He says hello to no one, and wouldn’t thank you for saying hello. He’s not in the least interested in meeting people. A small, dry figure who makes his way around the Home careful to keep at least two steps between him and anyone else. His head’s always lowered a little, as if he’s just solving the last mysteries of humanity – the origins of the Nazca Lines, the significance of the stone heads on Easter Island and the crop circles in Wiltshire. On a mild day, he’ll sit down on a remote bench in the courtyard with an archaeology book, and if I join him and start to speak, he’ll clap the book shut and get up and go, without a word in reply. He frightens me a little. His wife lives not far from here, in Domicil Elfenau. For reasons you’re best not asking about, they wanted to be assigned to two different homes. You can believe me when I say this, though: at least occasionally, even lone wolves like Herr Ziegler like to go for a walk with someone else, or as part of a group of like-minded people. As you know: no one is so perfect as not to need someone else to point out a charming bed of red carnations on Florastrasse, or a delightful little wind from south-south-west up on the Gurten, or a sleepy sawmill in Bümpliz.

  The person waiting for the lift back there is Herr Furrer. Former engineer. An open, broad-minded man, and much more friendly to you civvies than Herr Ziegler, say. He’ll take the greatest pleasure explaining to you how the fountain in the courtyard works.

  Among the advantages of walking in company is that it’s not so easy to accost yourself. That’s especially important for walkers who are easily distracted by their own thoughts. Those who brood over the slights suffered at the Police Headquarters on Waisenhausplatz, and so crash straight into the hapless pensioner who chooses that very moment to shuffle his way round the Oppenheim Fountain.

  Take two sociable coun
try walkers – my late wife and me: we experience, together, the shift from colourful natural meadows to shady pine forests. We talk about the upheaval in the last Ice Age when the glaciers pushed way beyond the borders of our cantons, creating prominent moraines. Emilie describes the din of the massive rock slides that filled the valleys with debris when the glaciers retreated, and suddenly we’re back in a vast moor. We walk along narrow boards, half submerged, jumping from one firm patch to the next. The boggy ground beneath our feet squelches, sometimes, and gives a bit. Wooden crosses mark spots where someone lost their footing and got bogged down, but what’s Nurse Alessandra doing there, in the corridor? Why’s she crawling around on all fours? Come along this way, Kâzim. Alessandra! You see, she’d like to run off, but she’s kneeling on her tunic.

  Nice to find you here, Alessandra. What are you doing on your knees? Don’t you feel well? – Pardon? Well, what if you were maybe to squeeze your hand in carefully, who knows? Have you met this young man already? Our new civilian-service carer, it’s his first week here. His name is Kâzim. Side by side, we’re taking the stairs, one at a time. – Correct. You said it. A substantial part of my life takes place on this staircase. I’ve passed this plant so often, I can already call her a close friend. – Good question, Alessandra, I don’t know, do you like it so far, Kâzim? – You should try to feel at home here. It’s not half as bad as you imagine, maybe. Perhaps you’re a little afraid, I was the same. The first time I stepped into the entrance hall and saw all the old people, I’m telling you, I felt quite scared. Alessandra, what if you were to get back onto your feet? You could join us. – No, no, don’t let us disturb you then. See you later! Back to the staircase, Kâzim.

  No doubt you’ll soon take a shine to them all: the respectable ladies and eccentric gentlemen, the talkative widows and the taciturn bachelors, the seasoned walking-frame users, shuffling stay-at-homes with faces like dried meat. The confused ones, whose thoughts roll around like peas on a plate. Those on medication, with a cocktail in their veins of which blood’s just a minor ingredient. Veteran engineers, tradesmen and -women, office workers, housewives, civil servants, army personnel, fire extinguisher inspectors, bus drivers, over-achievers, service workers, stationery shop staff. People who started allowing themselves a holiday only once it became a legal entitlement. Therapists and kitchen staff. Great-grandchildren that are always skipping two or three steps. Nurses, with a resident in each hand, leading them to the lift, taking the trouble not to forget we had a life before we moved here. Anxious sons and daughters who – on an excursion to the mountains – phone the management here and ask them to keep an eye on the money their elderly relatives have with them.

  I was sitting in my room, yesterday, on the stool with the woven seat, waiting for Nurse Lydia who had promised me a walk to the Zoo. She comes in, still wearing her cagoule, and says, ‘Herr Zbinden, the walk’s cancelled. We’re going for a coffee, in the Cafeteria,’ and, linking her arm in mine, pulls me to my feet.

  ‘I don’t mind rain,’ I say, shuddering at the thought of ordering a coffee, only to be given a Nescafé. For which, by the way, we all pay ten francs a month into the kitty. At ten in the morning, the place is always full to the brim with people trying to get their money’s worth without dying of heartburn.

  So I put my cap on and leave Lydia to Frau Rossi, who needs pushing to the Prayer Group. – Tired? At Lydia’s age, you aren’t tired, Kâzim. – The air? The air here in the Home, you mean? That’s what makes Lydia tired? If Lydia were to go for a walk and have to avoid all the umbrellas put up by visitors to the Zoo, she wouldn’t have the time to feel tired.

  I then had a rather long way home ahead, carrying my tucker bag with unused umbrella in it, to boot. The benches in the Zoo were long out of sight, there was no market square decked with flags to rest in, and the only person to pass by was a young, maybe forty-year-old man. When he got close enough, I asked him would he do his good deed for the day and carry my bag for me? He took it without a word, then, after a few steps, he took my arm too, and, a few steps further on, he ordered me to ‘Stand still and take a deep breath!’

  I did what I was told, which he clearly liked, for, every few steps, he repeated his command. Though I got my strength back, he insisted on accompanying me to the Home. Which was where I wanted to go. In reply to his question – what the most difficult thing about old age was – I answered, ‘Falling down.’

  You trip, Kâzim, you lose your balance. You get up out of the armchair, feel your knees give and fall on your belly. In a few decades, you’ll fall down too, there’s no avoiding it. Old people fall easily – my brother-in-law Ignaz, while putting out his organic waste; my grandfather while jumping off a tram. It’s a great temptation just to remain seated wherever you sit yourself down. Let me tell you how dangerous that is. That can very easily be the end for a walker. Herr Feuz, Room 302, has got into the way, instead of standing up, of greeting a guest by simply saying, ‘You don’t mind if I remain seated?’

  Of course, no one is cruel enough to reply, ‘No – kindly get to your feet’, and yet that’s what you should do, for the person’s own good.

  Apart from this battle against falling too frequently, I don’t take my frailties all that seriously. Losing or misplacing things, spilling something, forgetting a lot. How I put on my coat now is very different from what I did a year ago, and more than once I’ve left my bag lying somewhere. As an old person, however, you shouldn’t think you’re any less important than when you were younger. Emilie always said the one really essential thing was to remain lively, active and interested, and always open to whatever’s going on both in nature and within oneself. We could talk much more about that, Kâzim, if we went for a walk.

  My wife was a keen country walker, I should tell you. Emilie liked dizzying heights, old wooden bridges, scenic pastures and orchards on riverbanks. Intuitively, she’d abandon paths and climb up stony rocks that offered a view of yellow fields and the hills all around them. She liked gravel banks, how their whitey-grey patterns served as camouflage for the nests of little ringed plovers and sandpipers. Emilie’s sharp eye made nonsense of every camouflage. Her eyesight was astonishing. Right up to the bitter end, she could discern motionless birds – invisible to my eye – in trees and shrubs in the local nature reserve. It always pained Emilie if a hollow was filled up with building rubble, a path was tarmacked over, a wooden fence replaced by metal railings. If elderly barns gave way to a car park, or the edges of forests and streams were rectified. Or mountains, once craggy, now levelled off.

  Emilie! She had a thin face, red from the sun, eyes that were level when they rested, a pointed nose, and she was lean as a lamb. The daughter of a forest nurseryman from Ostermundigen. I tell you: she was full of vim and vigour. Had we not married, I’d have chased her all my life. Careful. There’s a wonderful creature at your feet. What’s a caterpillar doing here? Did the smell attract it, floor wax with a hint of limonene? – Pardon? Don’t mumble to yourself like that, Kâzim. But yes, onto the ficus. Good idea. Do you think the Home smells odd to visitors?

  I’m maybe a sociable, but not a really keen country walker, I have to admit. Crossing monotonous meadows or exposing myself to ticks in the forests is not my thing. A horse out to grass isn’t something I’d notice. Only when bridled and decorated and in a parade would it have my full admiration. Emilie liked trees standing randomly in a landscape; I like trees in rows. I’ve nothing against cow pastures being built on, even to be replaced by hangars and shopping streets providing free entertainment. I yearn for tranquillity, but can’t actually bear it.

  Emilie used various means to tempt me out of built-up areas. She’d turn the radio up, ask an incomprehensible question, and I’d nod in agreement. Once out and about, she’d explain the fascinations of nature to me – while, for her sake, I was happy to be bored.

  ‘Do you see, Lukas,’ she might say, ‘the fir tree might not have much time for leaves, but it’s green, nonetheless, from top
to bottom … Not every bird migrates to Africa … And now I’m going to show my husband the last dewdrop falling from the last green leaf on the last branch of the last tree on earth …’

  Grumbling, I walked along forest edges, counting the paces. After a country walk, I generally thirsted to do something technical, something very clearly unnatural. So I’d climb on a chair and clean the extractor fan.

  Often, I accompanied Emilie to ensure she didn’t roam alone. Once, Emilie was out and about on her own in the Simmen Valley, when a Mercedes stops and an arm waves out of the window to her. She goes over to it, expecting maybe long-lost relatives, but finds there’s no one in the car she knows. ‘Would you like to go swimming, young lady?’ a voice from within asks, opening the passenger door, invitingly. ‘I’ve just driven past a splendid little lake, fifty metres back.’

  If you’re married to a country walker, you fear on a daily basis she’ll be brought home in eighteen blood-soaked bags.

  I don’t know how the climate conditions vary from floor to floor, but the difference between the ficus on the ground floor and this one, above the second, is striking. – This one grows better, much better.

  Have you already introduced yourself to Frau Beck, of the cleaning team? She mops the floor, wipes my shelf, hoovers my carpet, airs my room, and I make the time pass more quickly by telling her about the things going on around her. Frau Beck replies, wearily, ‘Oh, Herr Zbinden, you and your constant talk about going for walks. There’s no accounting for taste, they say. The same must go for hobbies.’

  ‘Frau Beck, you amaze me. Going for a walk isn’t a hobby! Do you know what it means to go for a walk?’

  She rushes off with my dirty washing before Zbinden the Walker can enlighten her.

  Do you know what it means to go for a walk? Going for a walk is: acquiring the world. Celebrating the random. Preventing disaster by being away. Speaking to the bees though you’re already a bit too old for that. Not being especially rushed on a street that’s like an oven in the afternoon sun. Missing the tram. Remaining within earshot of gloomy lads whose voices haven’t completely broken yet. Reading, with Bobby, the skid-marks left in the snow by people who slipped. Going at your own pace. Going for a walk is: saying hello to more people than you know. Losing Frau Dürig amid the turmoil of the Christmas Market. Sensing a storm brewing, from a distance. Avoiding damage to property. Being amazed at how much you can cut away from a tree without killing it. Having to become aware, together with Emilie, of the planets above us. Going for a walk is: always wishing for a little more than a walk can offer, but never wishing it so much that you get discouraged. A walk can cure a troubled soul and a broken heart. The door’s open; step out and be blessed.