Epitaph for a Working ManO Page B

pocket money plus beer, bread, and a cervelat sausage.
    Afterwards, those same people did not turn up at the cremation, nor did they send condolence cards. Because they didn’t happen to need him at the time, they didn’t notice his death and departure. They only knew Haller the stonemason: Haller, stripped naked, without his toolbox and his stonemason’s hammer, meant nothing to them. We never heard from any of them, not even from Estermann.
    If you have nothing to offer you’re worthless. And as for being worthy of affection, don’t even think of it.
    *
    â€œThere’s someone I’ve been keeping waiting for ages too,” he said gesturing with his head. “Window-sills.”
    The man was making his way on two sticks through the hall toward the exit. “He had a car accident last spring. He was in a bad way, several fractures. Perhaps he’s also been to see Dr Boren.”
    â€œOr having physiotherapy.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” he asked.
    â€œDidn’t you have something like that done to your leg when you were in hospital?”
    He looked at me, not quite sure. He stuck out his chin. “You mean making you move your broken ankle, that kind of thing? Yes, they did that. At least, as long as I was in the hospital. Now I remember. I should have gone on with it. But what does it matter? I’ve had enough exercise all my life. And I learned to walk again, didn’t I? The health insurance doesn’t need to pay for you to learn to walk, does it?”
    After a moment he came back to the man who had hobbled past. “His name’s Adam. He’s got three or four farms. One of them’s a pig farm now. Another specialises in chickens. But his main business is dealing in animal feeds. It’s so profitable that he could easily have bought up a few more farms. – If he’d seen me he’d probably have offered me a lift home. I’ve done jobs for him. Last autumn, the ground-floor window-sills. Now those on the first floor should be done. But he’d have to have scaffolding put up for me. With broad, comfortable planks. I could climb on to it from the balcony. Because, you see, I’m not capable of clambering around on ladders any more. Each time he sees me he asks me when I’m coming. If he put up scaffolding I could get it done before winter sets in. Otherwise it’ll have to wait until next year.”
    We lapsed into silence.
    â€œIf only they were all like him,” he started up again. “Last autumn, when I was working on the window-sills, I used to have lunch there. It wasn’t bad, I must say. In any case, there was always enough drink.”
    A prominent Christian Democrat from the Brühl district. And Haller, an old Socialist. But anyone who offered him decent food and drink found favour with Father, whatever his politics. – However, it had seemed to me that, as he hobbled past, the wealthy farmer and feed merchant had caught sight of his journeyman stonemason at the table in the entrance hall, and that he had made a real effort to look the other way. Well, be that as it may, we drank another cup of tea before it was time to go for the bus.
    *
    How lively he was, chatting to the two women! For once they were not old acquaintances of his but distant acquaintances of mine. Mrs Köppel, an office colleague of Sophie’s but from another department; Maria Annaheim, a colleague of mine years ago when I was working as a compositor for Arn plc.
    A friend had just had a baby, said Mrs Köppel.
    Having a baby wasn’t an illness, said Father. It was nice for him to meet people here who had no ailments themselves and who weren’t visiting people afflicted with ailments. And what was the child’s name? Claudia, I see, not Claudio. So it must be a girl. And how much had it weighed at birth? Could it scream loudly? Was it being breast-fed? Or were they giving it a bottle?
    Mrs Köppel was happy to