The Diver: A Novel

The Diver: A Novel

by Alfred Neven DuMont
The Diver: A Novel

The Diver: A Novel

by Alfred Neven DuMont

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Overview

"A wonderfully melancholy, tight and precisely constructed novel." —Berliner Morgenpost

The Diver is a beautifully written and observed novel about Albert—eighty-two and suffering from Parkinson's, following the death of his beloved twenty-year-old daughter, Glorie, who disappeared during a scuba dive off the Cayman Islands. Glorie had suffered from a potentially inherited and untreatable depression, and her death effectively destroyed her father and his marriage.

The Diver is a tender and insightful look into Albert's struggle with faith, his attempts to come to terms with retirement, his failing health, and the difficulties in his ossified marriage to his wife. DuMont leads him on a journey to selfdiscovery, acceptance, and under-standing, as well as a fleeting glimpse of love with Glorie's best friend's mother, Lena, late in life.

This is a story about variations of love: the desperate love of an older man for this daughter, the stagnant love in a long-time marriage, and the surprising and rejuvenating love that can't last. DuMont has delivered a delicate and sure-handed debut, elements of which are based on his own life.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781429927857
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Publication date: 12/07/2010
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: eBook
Pages: 224
File size: 202 KB

About the Author

ALFRED NEVEN DUMONT has had a long career in the theater as well as in book and newspaper publishing in Germany. He holds an honorary chair at the Martin-Luther-University at Halle-Wittenberg, is an avid diver, and lives in Cologne.

Read an Excerpt

The Diver


By Alfred Neven DuMont, David Dollenmayer

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2010 Alfred Neven DuMont
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-2785-7


CHAPTER 1

The old man opens his eyes. Still groggy from sleep, he searches for a ray of light, the smallest glimmer. But the night has lost nothing of its deep darkness and keeps jealous watch over its gloom. And as he knows from last night, and the night before last, and many nights before that, he still has a long way to go, an eternity of waiting. Much too soon, blessed sleep has deserted him, throwing him back into loneliness. Soon the relentless questions will close in on him again, silent as bats on powerful, beating wings with an unerring instinct for the quickest way to their goal, their tiny heads and bulging eyes thrust forward. The same sharp pain again and again: Why did she go? Was it me? Was it my fault?

Then she's with him again. His heart thumps as he hears her bright laughter ring out, followed by the twitters and coos only she can make. When she laughs, he thinks happily, she is happy, released from the depths of her sadness. Released at last from weeks in that ink-black sea, she exultantly proclaims her freedom. Only someone who knows the endless, forlorn blackness — the unending plunge into the chasm of nothingness, the abyss that awaits us from which there is no return — can have such a bright, angelic laugh. His eyes blur and tears run down his wrinkled cheeks. He cannot speak. He hears a certain sound in the distance. His lips tremble. For a long time he clings to the apparition, won't let it go, won't surrender the lost happiness that has long since vanished. And he knows that he has fallen asleep again and been rewarded in his bitterness, if only for a short time. Time, that intangible, incomprehensible mass.

Is that Ann bending over him? He senses her face nearby. He thinks he can hear her breathing. Her eyes look at him through the darkness, observing, questioning, searching. She doesn't speak and he doesn't speak. Silence can last longer than death, he thinks. He turns his head to the side on the damp pillow and thinks of Gloria, his beloved daughter, and how she has just made his heart leap with joy in the middle of the night.


* * *

The old man sat up. His forehead was sweaty. His pajama shirt stuck to him. He shivered from the cold. Was it raining outside? Did he hear something? No, it was nothing. He swung his legs to the side, put his bare feet on the floor. He got used to the pains in his feet long ago. He didn't need any help — all that pushing and pulling, forward backward sideways, her cold hands on his shoulders, his arms, his back. What is he, a baby? No, God knows he's not. Just an old man. He thought, What have I done that I don't know where I'm going anymore? When did I lose my way? When did everything inside me get bogged down in endless questions and worries, senseless stammering? Why does this inscrutable God have no mercy? Why should he demand understanding, sympathy, forbearance, and compassion when he closes himself off from all such hopes? When he doesn't even acknowledge, much less reward, the humility I struggle to maintain day in and day out. What sort of a God is it who makes me his servant, his slave? My Lord, my distant master, not answerable to a single soul. Hasn't he ever heard me laughing in the night? He who punishes the innocent, the honest, and the devout and lets escape, unscathed, the dark, guilty figures — the drones, the flatterers, the facile, the secret thieves and sanctimonious murderers — or even rewards and honors them, gives them a place beside him at his table up above?


* * *

The old man walked through the garden with Ann. Her voice came to him from far away, as it often did, "Did you take your pills on schedule?"

His steps were quite hesitant today, his progress labored. He wobbled from one side to the other, stopped, then hurried on after her. Curious, he thought, is the garden getting bigger, or am I getting smaller? I think I am.

"Did you say something?" asked Ann sharply.

"Yes, darling. I think the garden is growing every day — getting bigger."

"No, you're wrong. The borders haven't changed for decades. We did buy a piece of land from the neighbors once. You wanted to plant a vegetable garden and some trees."

She walked at his side, straight-backed as always, a slim, stately woman not about to defer to anyone. She seemed to be growing, too. Would she soon be taller than he? Her face with its clearly etched lines, more deeply engraved with each passing year, severe, as if in the years and decades past one hadn't given her enough — he felt a pang of guilt.

"I remember two trees I planted, Ann, a cherry tree and an apple tree. The cherry died and the apple hasn't ever borne much fruit, I admit, but I think it's coming along. It just needs time. And then the vegetable garden: together we were going to —"

"Yes, that's right. But you left me in the lurch and I was on my own."

"You're right, darling, I didn't have the time. The company was insatiable."

"You allowed the work to devour you." He listened as her laugh turned into a deep, barking cough he thought would never end. Finally she said, "You were too good to your people. You got too involved with every single one of them. When you're the boss you have to put your foot down sometimes, like Father did."

"That was after the war. Everybody was in awe of his toughness."

"He was a model boss, a wonderful man. He wasn't about to kowtow to anyone. The Nazis made him pay a price for that, and it almost cost him his life. I was still a child but I remember at home we almost died of fear. The Gestapo came to the house, asked Mother questions, and once they took her away for a whole day. My sister and I and my aunt who'd been bombed out and lost her husband on the Russian front — we were all trembling for her safety. They'd already sentenced Father to death for his connections to the Resistance. He only survived because the Allies liberated us. My life began anew. He was my lodestar."

They had sat down on two wooden chairs, recent purchases of Ann's. He leaned back in his.

"Not everyone was as courageous as your father, that's for sure."

"Your family was more cautious. Your father was a fellow traveler and marched in their parades. He made accommodations, like most people."

Her voice had its sharp edge again.

He gestured toward the far end of the garden. "Look at that, the raspberry bushes are still there. They'll be blooming soon. You planted them when the children were still small, darling. We were eating raspberries for half the summer."

They walked slowly back to the house. A cold wind was picking up. The willow's bright green was the first delight of spring. Its thick roots ate their way deeper and deeper into the earth, then reappeared as new shoots. The root system spread out farther than the crown, overcoming the earth's crust with its thick arteries and then erupting again. He stumbled, quickly thrust his cane forward while his left hand clutched her for support.

He squinted at her, her body bolt upright as always. A soldier, he thought, a soldier. His Ann, perfect as always in her elegant, close-fitting cape over which she'd thrown a wide, light-colored shawl. Her hair bright silver, her lovely face uncommunicative. It wasn't really a mask, he thought. No, but there was something like a mysterious varnish spread over it, a protective coating.

"Did you take your pills?" she persisted.


* * *

Anton came over on Sunday with the children, his three blond boys. They ran to their grandfather, hugged him with their skinny arms, whispered something he didn't understand into his ear with their hot mouths, then disappeared into the garden like a whirlwind. Soon thereafter he heard Anton's deep voice scolding them.

"Get out of that pond right now! Immediately! You'll catch cold. Put your shoes and socks back on! Do you hear me?"

It was like hearing himself yelling. At Gloria. She's standing up to her skinny knees in the water, with her skirt hitched up and bending over to watch the fish. She pays him no heed. Her brows are knit. He says nothing more, otherwise she'll reply, "Papi, please be quiet! I'm sad."

Why hadn't he answered, "Me too, Gloria, I'm sad too. ..." Perhaps that would have healed him, to say that to her. No one else would have understood, least of all Anton. Ann might have. But she was sick in those days. Her hip was hurting her — the operation, the long recovery — she needed his help. Why did I remain silent, never talk about myself? Yes sure, the business successes. It was easy to report good news: their wedding, Anton's birth and then Gloria's, the good grades they got — Anton did — the Order of Merit pinned to his chest by the prime minister, then that time in Greece when he pulled the little boy (his face was already turning blue) out of the sea and the mother kissed his hands in gratitude and made the sign of the cross on his forehead. And what about his doubts? His fears? His loneliness? Long ago, yes, at boarding school, he could talk to his friend Egon about them. They would pull their beds close together at night and lie there whispering to each other: one's mother hadn't written, the other's father was on a trip with his girlfriend. One couldn't understand the Latin homework, the math teacher hated the other. Luisa, his first love, a chubby-faced classmate asleep in the girls' dorm, hadn't looked at him but had smiled at another boy instead. Egon had died young. It had taken him a long time to really understand the loss. He needed a long time for a lot of things, too long to really understand them. Daily routine held him in thrall.

I just flutter around, he thought. No ... I crash to the ground. I'm like a reptile, only looking out for myself, always just trying to survive. Is that what life is? He understood nothing. Now he tortured himself: It's too late now. Is it too late for me, old and sick as I am? It's very late, he thought. All is gone and forgotten.

In the dining room, his son sat down in Albert's usual seat and with a laugh directed everyone else to their places, beginning with the three boys. Who did Anton think he was, claiming the chair at the head of the table with such assurance when he had been the head of the family for decades, the paterfamilias? At some point, just once, in a fit of generosity, he had ceded the head chair to his son. It was a friendly gesture for that one day, nothing more. But Anton, endearing as he always was but not very sensitive, had continued to sit there Sunday after Sunday when they celebrated the family dinner so precious to Ann.

Should he say something? Not seriously, no, but more offhandedly — a little humorous remark? Not today, but sometime in the future, to put a stop to it once and for all. But he never got around to it. Anton was showing off today more than usual, playing the boss, talking about "my company" as if it were his and his alone and he'd been the one who'd built it up and made it strong. Even though his father — the predecessor and longtime head of the firm who had only ceded the position to him a few years ago — was sitting two seats away from him, eating his appetizer and taking his first sips of the Sunday Riesling.

Were his hands trembling again? Was that starting up again? He put them under the table, resting them on his knees. Don't get upset now, he thought, that will just make it worse.

"Prost, Anton!" he called out. "I've already had a taste. Nice to have you and the boys here. It's a great joy, a nice change of pace for Ann and me."

"What do mean, Father? You're the one who always puts so much store in tradition and family solidarity."

The old man could hear all too well the recrimination in his son's voice.

"It's a lovely way to honor the mother who took care of you ... you and Gloria ... so lovingly."

"Thank you," said Ann firmly. "Enough pretty speeches for now! And let's take life as it comes. We have to make peace with it ..."

Her words grew indistinct in his ears.

He thought, I don't have to talk. It's not necessary. But I have to think of you, Gloria, I can't help it. Forgive me, dearest, for not leaving you in peace, the peace you so much deserve. But if you too refuse yourself to me, I won't know who else to turn to. Tell me, what shall I do?

Again, Ann's compelling voice rang out across the table, "Please eat, Albert. You're holding us all up. The children can hardly wait to get to the lamb."

Anton's inquisitive glance didn't escape him. The boys giggled. He said to Anton, "I hope you'll all come again next time! It's been weeks since Lori was here. She should make some time for us too ..."

Anton seemed annoyed and not in the mood for jokes. The old man saw his wife's frown, the reproach in her eyes, her lips slowly parting to speak. "All right, Albert. Of course we miss her today, but we understand. Today's world has cast off our old-fashioned narrow-mindedness and replaced it with tolerance. Everyone has a right to their own fulfillment. ... Let's not ruin this nice day, shall we? Let's be cheerful!"


* * *

That evening he was in the bathroom trying to unbutton his shirt, but his fingers had lost their strength and were fluttering wildly again. He sat down heavily on the chair that had been shoehorned into the cramped space just for him. His pants had fallen to the floor and were bunched around his ankles He bent down to free his feet, tugging impatiently at the pant legs until they finally gave in and he was holding the wrinkled pants in his hand trying to decide what to do with them. Should he get up, go into the dressing room, and hang them on the valet stand, or was it simpler to just drop them and undo the shirt buttons that were so uncooperative today? He heard her steps.

"But, darling, why didn't you call me? How was I to know you were getting ready for bed so early today? How many times have I told you I'm happy to help? You need me!"

He could hear the reproach in her voice. Ann stood next to him and had the shirt unbuttoned in a flash.

"I wanted to do it myself. I just needed more time."

"Admit that you can't do it alone anymore. It takes you forever!"

"It depends on the day. I don't usually need any help. I can handle things by myself."

"Why be so stubborn? Is it so hard to let someone help you? Don't be so pigheaded."

"What would you know about it?" he croaked, scratching his head.

She handed him his pajamas, picked up the pants, took his arm, and walked him into the bedroom.

"Why did you have to bring up Lori? You know very well how it hurts Anton's feelings. And in front of the boys ..."

"Why doesn't he go get her back? I thought they were married." He was already lying down and Ann was sitting on the side of the bed.

"You have to understand. Times have changed. Women today don't want to be put on display the way we were. Nobody wants to make sacrifices anymore the way we did."

Was that another reproach?

The old man stared at the ceiling. "Maybe you're right. We men always thought of ourselves first. That's all different now. Everything's changed. That's what you mean, Ann, isn't it?"

She stroked his forehead and gave him a weary smile. "Maybe so, my dear. My life has just passed by at your side."

"I need to sleep now, Ann."

"You should sleep. I'll turn out the light and leave the door open a crack, as always, so a bit of light gets in."

"I'm not a child."

"No, of course you're not."


* * *

His hand, calm and obedient, felt for the light switch, reached over to the shelf, and felt for the notebooks: Gloria's diaries. The old man passed a hand over his eyes. "Gloria, thirteen years old," his lips whispered. His fingers glided across the wrinkled pages with their awkward handwriting. The letters danced before his eyes. He could recite entire pages by heart. And yet he read the entries again and again just as one never tires of looking at a treasure again and again, with beating heart and undiminished joy. There were some passages he was especially fond of.

Had a fight with Mami. She can be so critical sometimes. She stepped on my left foot and I screamed. She claimed it was an accident. I don't know if I believe her — no, I don't believe her. But that's just it: she doesn't believe me, either. It's not like it used to be. Later, Papi came home. He came straight up to my room and comforted me, gave me a hug and kiss. He understands me. I'm so lucky to have such a wonderful Papi. My friends all think he's great.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Diver by Alfred Neven DuMont, David Dollenmayer. Copyright © 2010 Alfred Neven DuMont. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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