THE LAST BUS by S.Y. Agnon1
I
and placed a pot on it in order to
heat up some water to launder my garment. My neighbor saw me
and said, “You’re lighting the stove, but there is no kerosene in
it.” I was astonished: How could she say there was no kerosene when
it was so heavy? I removed the lid and saw that it was actually the
truth. There was only a small something on the bottom, shining like
the scales of a fish in its tank on the nights of Tishrei when the moon
is new.
I left the stove and went to Mr. Schritt’s house. This is the Mr.
Schritt who was a close friend of my late father. When father went to
his eternal rest, Mr. Schritt was appointed executor of the orphans’
estate. I had wanted to visit him many times, but had not managed it.
Mr. Schritt lived in a large stone house whose equal did not
exist anywhere in the city. People said of this house that a horse and
rider could ascend its staircase with ease.
At that hour Mr. Schritt was stretched out on his bed, for it was
his custom to get into bed at nightfall.
When I entered, he reached out his hand and greeted me with
affection, saying, “You did well in coming to see me.” He looked at
me as if he had been anticipating my arrival for many days in order to
tell me something. Once he began to talk, he spoke of things that
were not at all new. For example, he spoke of the city’s elite who
don’t involve themselves with the public and don’t take up the
burden of civic duty, but rather they take a title in order to adorn
themselves with it. He was especially angry with his landlord, Isaac
Montag, who idled away his days, his cigarette never leaving his
mouth and poked his nose in everyone’s business in order to harm
them. All this time, I sat there saying nothing. Perhaps I should have
defended Mr. Isaac Montag, who had drawn me close and took walks
with me as if I were his friend, even though he is old and rich and
important. Or perhaps I did well in remaining silent, for Mr. Schritt’s
LIT THE KEROSENE STOVE
.)‫ הוצאת שוקן‬,‫ "האבטובוס האחרון" – סיפור מתוך "ספר המעשים" (נמצא בתוך סמוך ונראה‬,‫ש"י עגנון‬1
Translation © The Toby Press. Forthcoming in Forevermore and Other Stories by S.Y. Agnon.
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heart ached and in speaking he released his anguish and lightened his
pain.
The house was filled with beds, tables, chairs, wardrobes, and
other wooden furniture. The smell of turpentine wafted from one
end of the house to the other, for Mr. Schritt was a furniture
salesman and whenever he could find no more room in his store, he
placed the overflow in his home. There was a linen chest there just
like the one in father’s house, which mice had gnawed under the
upper molding and which Mr. Schritt had sold to father cheaply. This
chest and father’s were identical, except this one was damaged on the
right side and the other on the left. Or perhaps they were both
damaged on the same side, but I had confused the directions.
The furnishings of the house gave off their scent and Mr.
Schritt talked on and on. Sometimes he raised his voice and
sometimes he lowered it. One could tell from his speech that he had
carefully considered his words, for they emerged from his mouth in
an orderly fashion.
After a while I got up to leave to give Mr. Schritt some rest, for
he was scrupulous in regard to his sleeping schedule and would not
delay sleep even for an important matter. It is good to spend time
with people who go to bed early for one is not denied one’s own
sleep because of them.
As I got up to leave I told Mr. Schritt what had happened to
me with regard to the kerosene stove. His eldest daughter from his
first wife, a smiling, hefty maiden, the same age as her step-mother,
came and stood on the doorsill and smiled, as was her wont. And
when she smiled, two greenish sparks shone from her small eyes and
threw me into a state of confusion. This same confusion entangles
my soul every time that lass appears before me. When I was a child
she and I had clapped hands, like I had clapped at the celebration of
her younger brother’s circumcision, and I feared that she might do so
again now.
Mr. Schritt’s wife entered. Mr. Schritt wrinkled his brow and
told her what had happened to me. Mrs. Schritt left, brought back a
laundry paddle and gave it to me. I nodded, thanked her, and took
my leave.
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As I descended the stairs I was surprised that I didn’t lose my
way. For this house was very large and no one had shown me the way.
I could have gone astray, continuing down to the end of the stairway.
Then I would have been in the dark cellar that stretches all the way to
the Black Bridge over the Strypa. But I didn’t do that; rather I
descended the steps to the street. Perhaps since I knew the owner, I
didn’t get lost in his house, even though I had never been there
before.
The evening was pleasant, the weather mild, neither cold nor
hot. Since my home was far and not likely to provide comfort, I said
to myself, I’ll stroll about for a while and find contentment in the
outdoors.
I began to circle Mr. Schritt’s house, counting the windows.
Afterwards I took myself in another direction and arrived at the
Black Bridge. Thus did I stroll on and on until I was tired of walking
and ready to return home. My house is located in the northern
neighborhood, connected to the city by a bus. From six-thirty in the
morning until eleven-thirty at night, this bus runs back and forth,
sometimes on the hour, sometimes on the half-hour, depending on
the diligence of the driver and the volume of riders. When I arrived
at the bus stop it was midnight when all travel stops and all buses lie
at rest. Nevertheless, I neither rushed nor ran, for a group of young
girls stood waiting and I knew that one more bus was yet to come. A
new play had opened that night and most people had lingered in the
theater. When a new play is mounted on the stage, additional buses
are provided to return the suburban dwellers to their homes. These
girls standing and waiting for the bus were my neighbors. Even
though I had never spoken to them and they had never spoken to me,
I recognized them and they recognized me. One who is a regular bus
rider, even if he does not speak to the other passengers, gets used to
seeing them every day and they begin to seem like beloved
acqaintances. I had given up my seat several times for some of these
girls, in particular for the statuesque blond whose tresses hanging
down on her shoulders were braided in the middle and unruly at the
ends. She wore her pants in the way of a beautiful, young worker
who knows that pants become her. Since the bus wasn’t coming and
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time wasn’t pressing, I began speaking with my grandfather, telling
him that I had visited the big house. Nevertheless, I did not tell him
that I had seen Mr. Schritt, for my grandfather would have found no
pleasure in it, as he was a quarrelsome man and liked to provoke the
city’s elite. Among other topics, I thought of Isaac Montag, who is an
expert about all that goes on in the city, who knows all the
tombstones in the old cemetery and can chant the verses engraved on
the tombstones in the very melody of each generation of those lying
beneath them.
At that moment I heard the bus and saw that it was
approaching. I didn’t have time to reach it before all the girls had
jumped on and were carried away.
I yelled out to the driver to wait for me. He stopped and
waited for a little while. The laundry paddle came loose and fell to the
ground. I bent down to pick it up. The driver turned the steering
wheel and drove off. I stood there, bereft, looking after him.
Great was my distress! Here I needed to return home and was
tired, but the last bus had departed without me! I had hoped that the
girls would have held it for me. But they did not do so; rather every
single one of them sat in her place and gave no thought to me. Now
they were all returning to their homes and climbing into bed, while I
was standing in the street with no idea how I would return. If only
they had told the driver, he would have stopped and waited for me. I
don’t presume to say that the girls gave me much thought, but I was
astounded that they had not mentioned me to the driver at such a
moment.
What could I do? I would hire a car and not go on foot, for the
roads were perilous, and the distance was far, and I was tired. My
grandfather took me by the arm and walked me to the bus office and
asked the clerk if there would be another conveyance going to the
northern suburbs. Really, my grandfather had no need to ask, for the
bus that I had missed was the last one. No other bus would depart
before morning.
The clerk rubbed one hand against the other and smiled
maliciously at my grandfather, who did not know the ways of the
world, and at me, who had been too late for the last bus. I was pained
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that he had insulted the dignity of my grandfather who had gone to
great trouble to come from another world. When he had departed
this world, buses were not yet in use. I was filled with sorrow that I
had brought insult upon my grandfather.
I looked around in despair. The clerk nodded in the direction
of the wall and said, “There is a solution.” There is an old wagon
here ready to take me, except he doesn’t know when I would arrive
home. My grandfather seized the table leg and urged the clerk to get
going. Oh, the innocence of the elderly, he was convinced that this
was the bus of which the clerk had spoken. I knew that it was not
worth riding in the old wagon and wanted to hire a taxi. My tongue
stuck in my mouth and I wasn’t able to say a thing.
The clerk looked at me and said, “The fare will cost you three
grush.” Three grush were not the twelve that I would have paid for a
taxi, but it was doubtful if I would arrive home before the next day in
that ancient wagon. Since speech had abandoned me, I nodded my
head and went over to the old wagon. My grandfather went ahead of
me and slipped. Since he was dead, his fall did not frighten me, for
the dead do not feel physical pain.
Since I was in a rush, I left my grandfather lying where he was
and prepared to climb into the wagon. The clerk sneered and said,
“Wait until the driver comes.” From his smile it was clear that no
driver would be coming soon. Nevertheless I waited. The clerk
locked up his office and went off.
What could I do? A driver would not come and it was
impossible to hire a taxi now that the clerk had gone. I got to my feet
and took off.
The night was pleasant, the air neither cold nor hot. Anyone
not rushing to get to sleep would lose nothing by taking a stroll on
such a night.
I took off my hat and wiped my brow. A peaceful silence
enveloped all of the roads. It was the peaceful silence of after
midnight when people sleep and heaven and earth whisper stories to
one another. I forgot my fear of the journey and went on my way.
Near my neighborhood I saw five people walking in a line.
They were all of stately mien, of normal height with healthy bodies,
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not fat and not thin. Their clothing was that worn by distinguished
Jerusalemites in the rainy season. I knew four of the five, but not by
name. The fifth one I knew as well as his name. He had been insulted
by me many times and yet had done me no harm. To his right walked
a young man with one eye smaller than the other, I can’t remember
which, adding to his charm. It seemed to be drowning in a smile of
love.
I knew that this group held nothing against me, that even the
man whom I had offended wished me no harm, yet sorrow entered
my heart like a man who walks alone and doesn’t know what awaits
him.
A man came towards me, dark and thick, with a small rounded
beard, mostly white. His hands were in his pockets, his face shining
like one who is asking for a donation and certain that he will soon get
one. He was not one of my crowd, but I knew that if I approached
him, he would join me and accompany me. I ran and greeted him.
Oh, how I needed to be rescued at that moment from those who
disliked me, one of whom was my enemy! But the one who might
have come to my aid was buried in his own affairs. He returned my
greeting and dismissed me with a dull smile. And I followed after the
one who was my enemy and the rest of his friends who were not my
allies.
— Translated by
Herbert Levine and Reena Spicehandler
© The Toby Press