Herr Bamberg held Elsie’s hair up to his nose and sniffed it: wood smoke and lavender. So this was Elsie, little Elsie with hair as white as snow, a child he would never know. And this son of his, this Herr Magistrate Bamberg of the Municipality of Konstanz, was it possible that he had ever been the same age as this little Elsie? He remembered little of Hermann as a child, not even the color of his hair. They had been living in this very house when he was born, when all the children were born, but he couldn’t recall any little boy crawling along these stone tiles or burning his hands on the iron grate near the fireplace. He remembered no tantrums, no laughter, nothing except the boy’s love of this holiday that he was choosing, once again, not to spend with his father. Unless, maybe, he was remembering his own childhood? Was it little Werner Bamberg who had so loved Saint Martin’s Day that he couldn’t sleep for days beforehand, who had spent weeks gathering tinder for the bonfire and keeping it in a secret pile near the latrine, hurrying it inside at the merest scent of rain? Or was it another of his sons, or even a daughter? He could no longer say.
Herr Bamberg put the hair down and picked up the letter. He sniffed it. Nothing. No feeling came at all when he contemplated it: no sorrow, no anger, no regret. He put it down and picked the hair up again. Did he feel anything now? Tenderness? Pain? He did not. A thought hit him. The only pain he’d felt in over twenty years, almost the only sensation he’d had in all that time, was when these teeth had come ripping into his mouth. And almost the only pleasure he’d had was the pleasure of the food these teeth were enabling him to eat. He put the lock of hair down. “These teeth,” he said aloud, “these good new teeth.”
He picked up his fork, placed the metal tines between his teeth, and bit down hard. Then he flicked the handle with his finger, so that a metallic vibration shot through his gums and into his sinuses. He put the fork down and took a drink of wine, biting the glass rim as he did so. It was an awkward shape and unsatisfying to bite, so he put it back down.
He stood up and went to blow out the candles. After the first one he paused, twisted it out of its stand, put the butt into his mouth, and bit it. Now this was satisfying. He left four teeth marks in the white wax and returned the candle to its place. He did this to each candle, blowing them out and then biting them until they were all notched. Now the room was nearly dark, with just a faint glow coming from the next room. He turned to join Käthe there, but then his eye caught the letter from his son. He picked it up, placed a corner between his teeth, bit, and pulled. A large piece came free in his mouth. He spit this out and did it again. Soon the letter was in several large, wet pieces scattered on the table and floor. He gathered them all into a ball, then he bit down on the ball. A couple of pieces came free in his mouth, and he began coughing and spitting, trying to get them out.
Käthe rushed in. “Herr Bamberg! Is everything all right?” She had come from a bright room into a dark one, so she couldn’t see him picking the scraps of paper out of his mouth, couldn’t see the bright, wet scraps clinging to his vest and fingers.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Be off. I’m coming to bed soon.”
“Dark in here,” she said. “I’ll fetch you a light.”
“No! I am not a child. I can find my way.”
She started to leave, then paused and said, “What news from your son?”
“Be off!”
There was a scrap of paper hanging from his beard. Käthe spotted it as her eyes adjusted to the light. “Herr Bamberg. Your beard.” She made a brushing motion below her chin.
He slammed the table. “I said be off!”
“Yes, Herr Bamberg… Shall I—Shall I help you into bed this evening?”
“Great God, woman. Alone! I want to be alone!”
“Yes, Herr Bamberg.” She left the room.
He gathered the wet scraps and shoved them into his pocket. He found the lock of hair and was about to put it into another pocket when he brought it, instead, up to his mouth. He held it there for a moment, imagining the hairs pulling free between his teeth, the downy strands furring his tongue and gums and inner cheeks. Then he shook his head, put the lock into its intended pocket, and went up to bed.