Moving Parts (8 page)

T
HOUGH IT WILL NOT BE A SIMPLE TASK
, let us try to imagine the continuation of this tale – for the moment, let's say, only the next paragraph, which begins with the buzzing of a fly. The buzzing ought scarcely to be audible at first; then it grows
louder and louder. Only recently released from the trap that the Feuchtmeiers' hallway proved to be for it, the fly finds its way to the ceiling of their cellar and taps in vain against the firmly closed vent. Yet even if it breaks out finally into open space, it will not find freedom there, but merely another prison. And so there, too, it will agitate its wings without respite until it enters some open window. The succession of places from which there is no way out, to which open spaces also belong, is brimming with a combination of regret and desire. The world, obviously, does not end with the Feuchtmeier's cellar; beneath it there extend further floors. And if the narrator claims that he is stuck in the cellar, he is not entirely wrong, though in essence it is not there that he is stuck, but in something significantly larger that is also firmly and hopelessly enclosed. But even if he has been imprisoned in a dead zone of the story, it is only partially. For his being is given continuity by the volatile essence of longing, and not by the sluggish weight of a body that could equally well belong to someone else and be located somewhere else. The level of this essence is evened out in the long series of rooms like an arrangement of linked containers. Whereas if there should be a lack of connections, it must quite simply penetrate through the walls or ceilings. It's already drifting in places where the narrator has yet to set foot. And in this way the words ‘already' and ‘yet' which have no obligation to reckon with anything at all, thus demonstrate their absolute superiority over the substance of concrete and summon accomplished
facts into being. And the narrator, who controls virtually nothing here, ought only to note that somewhere beneath the turf of the garden, below the layers of earth in which worms and moles dig their tunnels, lie the platforms of a local rail station. Livid graffiti appear there. Painted on dirty plaster, the initials of last names compete for one's attention: an elaborate S, which a spray paint wielding Schmidt unknown to the narrator has left stealthily on the wall, and an extravagant B put up by some Braun. They may have been the ones who tried out a new can of paint by adding a blotchy commentary to a film poster pasted up on the platform. In it the narrator recognizes the man's black sweater and the bright highlights in the woman's red hair. The film couple, John Maybe and Yvonne Touseulement, is kissing on a steeply sloping roof, beneath a firmament that has come slightly unstuck from its base.

The bench on which the narrator has taken a seat is not short; nevertheless a certain old man in a red dressing gown announces in a schoolmasterly tone that this place belongs to him alone, and has since time immemorial. He apparently deserved such a privilege out of consideration for some damp trenches where he ended up contracting rheumatism; that is, in remembrance of a past that he grumpily harps on. If the narrator continues to remain silent, in a moment they'll be joined by a hobo wearing an earring. Someone in charge of the course of events evidently casts all the parts with the same characters. Perhaps out of simple laziness, or perhaps because details make
no difference to the public. Universal inattention and apathy, on which one can always count, make it easy to cover up any shortcoming. The army surplus jacket emits the odors of the dumpster, something that the narrator could not have known when he observed it through panes of glass. The hobo will demand the bottle that is supposedly hidden in a plastic bag on the narrator's lap. With an efficient wave of the hand, he's able to describe the shape of the bottle, which he has guessed at correctly; he even knows which kind it is and seems quite determined to drink the brandy even before the train arrives, in the company of the old man in the red dressing gown and possibly of the narrator himself, if the latter should only wish to join them. The hobo is prepared to assure the narrator that either way it will not be his lot to take the bottle where he is going, insofar as he is going anywhere at all. In his view, this is in any case a triviality compared to all that a person has to give up in life, not to mention life itself, for life, too, cannot be kept for oneself, for instance, by thrusting it surreptitiously into a plastic bag. The narrator sits still, his hands on the bag in question. In it is a cool bottle taken from a certain kitchen. Omniscience inspires respect. The old man praises his best student and gladly gives him credit for the course; he will not do the same for the narrator, citing considerations of an ethical nature. Specifically, it is a question here of a lack of magnanimity, a very serious failing, and so no credit will be given either now or ever, as the professor informs the narrator with a regret tinged with malicious
satisfaction. The one figure that the narrator cannot recall is a grinning hipster in a studded leather jacket. He's just sitting down on the bench, pushing the other two aside unceremoniously: That's enough of that, now me. Because here everyone is simply waiting their turn, shuffling their feet; this is more or less how the leather-clad wise guy explains his loutish behavior to the narrator. As he does so he plays with a glass marble. A tiny opalescent light flashes between his fingers. But he doesn't look at the marble. His gaze taxes the narrator; it has already consigned him to the category of people who prefer to drive brand new cars of different makes moving one after another across the pages of an illustrated weekly left behind under the bench. There at least the spray can-wielding Braun and Schmidt will not intrude, and the gleaming bodywork will not be defiled by a vulgar addition. The wise guy wants to explain to the narrator the hidden mechanism of the event in which they are both taking part, revealing its course, well-established and known by heart, and its obsessive repetitions, and even telling how people keep themselves entertained here and at whose expense. Thus for instance the professor gladly has his palm greased for his worthless credits, while the hobo turns a buck from time to time with his chicanery. Though the narrator asks no questions, he might be interested in knowing what tricks the leather-clad wise guy plays on the other passengers. I slit throats, says the latter; the marble disappears, and there's a sudden click of a spring and the glint of a blade held to the narrator's neck. It'd
be a pity if something bad happened; the man in the leather jacket will be content with a hundred. He's in a bit of a hurry now; his buddies have just arrived and are waiting nearby. The narrator reaches for his wallet; the plastic bag slips off his lap and there comes the sound of breaking glass. The wise guy's buddies burst out in raucous laughter, the echo of which reverberates beneath the concrete roof. The hobo waves his hand regretfully – after all, didn't he warn him ahead of time? The grinning leather-clad hipster sticks the bill in an inside pocket and walks away with an ironic bow.

And so the narrator possesses a wallet. Anticipating inquisitive questions about where he got his money, who gave it to him and what for, he ought to mention that he is incurring considerable personal expenses – the hotel, for example, is not cheap. And the one who is paying him does not expect services for free. The tips that the former hands out left and right for the tiniest thing in any case come back to him eventually. The narrator could now point to the row of ticket vending machines on the platform, from which the cash drawers are certainly removed from time to time. They end up in the same hands as the check for the commission collected by the real estate agency that took on the sale of the house with the garden; the same hands as the income of the shipping company, and the rich flow of profits from the hotel. Is it not the case that the lion's share of circulating cash ends up in the pockets of the master of all circumstances, who lies around all day in his crumpled bed-ding,
his back turned on the world, and would he not prefer that nothing be said here about what he spends it on? And if someone simply had to know what currency these sums are calculated in, the narrator would explain calmly that it's the same currency in which he paid a hundred to the insolent wise guy. The banknote came from the envelope left for him at the front desk of the hotel. These were old Polish zlotys, withdrawn in the nineties. And let's agree right away that only old Polish zlotys are in circulation, absolutely everywhere – in the German towns where the Feuchtmeiers live, in the Balkans, even in the ports of the Far East. Various denominations, always in muted pink, pale blue, and green. The homeless denizens of the station platform do not have direct access to Polish banknotes, and so they have no need whatsoever of wallets. They may not even have any documents at all. If they bear last names, it is to their credit that they keep them to themselves so as not to worsen the confusion in the story. It's not out of the question that they, too, consider themselves narrators. The all-knowing hobo with the earring – he definitely does, and perhaps also the decrepit old professor in the dressing gown. Who would not want to be a narrator? Who wouldn't wish to have a guaranteed income, calculated in zlotys? The leather-clad wise guy, earning a little on the side with his switchblade, would not scorn it either.

At this point the narrator could give an assurance that he wouldn't have stolen a bottle from the house with the garden if
he had not unwittingly gotten stuck in the ruts of other tales. It may be that all three men on the platform – each in his own way – would be glad to carry out a task that exhausts the narrator and fills him with aversion; furthermore, they do not receive one zloty for their pains. They do not have personal expenses; they don't pay for hotels or dinners; their stories are cheap. Despite this the sight of money must have nettled the two of them who got nothing. They toss scathing gibes aimed at the third, who is just disappearing with his retinue at the end of the platform: Rumor has it that somewhere or other he made a thorough mess of a job and now he's penniless and is given no more work. They recall the two unnecessary corpses from when a hotel door was destroyed; and they imagine the fury of his employer, who gave him his marching orders on the spot. In the meantime, a train is approaching the platform with a rumble; it's covered with bright zigzags of graffiti – assuredly the work of Braun and Schmidt, the elusive vandals, transparent as air. The hobo and the senile old professor enter a car along with the narrator, holding him by the elbows in case he should suddenly decide to abandon the trip. The train sets off; the response to the question of why it isn't moving in the opposite direction should be that this direction and the opposite one are of equal worth, and so it's all the same. Here then is the interior of the car; on the floor is a sticky patch gathering dirt, and there are only two people sitting on the ripped-up seats. One of them is a young woman wearing provocative makeup.
From her handbag she has taken a small mirror that reflects the highlights in her dyed red hair. Pursing her lips, she studies the outline of her flashy lipstick. Nearby sits a sullen youth with a shaved head, in a black T-shirt and camouflage pants with dangling suspenders. His grandfather stomped the rhythm of a military march in heavy boots, as an exemplary German soldier in dark green uniform. His father, for instance a locksmith, slaved his whole life from dawn till dusk. Three beers will always console: Such was his adage. He had a heavy hand. The boot and the hand will lend both men the appropriate weight. The grandfather and the father appear here as ballast; they have been brought in primarily so that the character with the dangling suspenders remains on solid ground. But aren't the face and silhouette taken directly from Feuchtmeier? The theft of a bottle of liquor is nothing compared to such an abuse. The youth does not know this. He did not pick this body for himself; it was assigned to him. He is younger than Feuchtmeier and younger than his redheaded traveling companion; he is probably called Schmidt or Braun, whatever. His wrists and forearms all the way up to the elbow are covered in deep scars; it could be wagered that many times he has grown sick of life. But not completely, since in the end he lacked sufficient desperation. It's not clear whether this couple got on the train together and if they have anything in common. It's possible that they only just met, and that they're already working out how to part on any pretext. He's toying with a dark metal object of familiar
shape; the magazine keeps popping out with a snap. So there's a gun, whether the narrator likes it or not; this fact may have its consequences. The owner of the gun slowly raises his eyes. For a moment he stares at the red dressing gown, perhaps asking himself the inexorable question of why such people live and why they are tolerated. He's already stood up from his seat at the end of the car; he's approaching at an unhurried pace, swaying as the train rocks on the rails. Time to get off, bum – such words would not shock anyone now; they could be guessed at if only from the movement of his lips, when nothing can be heard over the clatter of the wheels. It's well known that red provokes. The oxidized barrel, jabbing the old man's ear, shows him which way to go. The latter would get off right away if it weren't for the fact that the train is hurtling along and the doors are locked, and so he just blinks repeatedly and tries to say something; it can be seen that he is missing several front teeth. He completely agrees with the owner of the gun; lisping slightly, he acknowledges that everywhere you go there's too much trash like himself, an old fogy in a red dressing gown. Reaching the end of the sentence, he swallows hard. The owner of the gun looks about with the glazed eyes of a madman. He moves slowly, and equally slowly considers what to do with the old man before the train arrives at the next stop. Now the hobo will interject his own comment. Ain't that a thing, he snickers, the mad have gone mad. They've joined those who'd finish off the mad right at the outset. Finish off all the maniacs, the
psychopaths, the transvestites and, it goes without saying, idiots like Schmidt and Braun, too. They'd crush them beneath the soles of their hobnailed boots. The mad'd bear the brunt of it since Jews are harder to come by. And homeless winos'd be let off the hook in the end. Winos can never be eradicated. The barrel turns unhurriedly toward the hobo; the owner of the gun must want to make sure his ears are not deceiving him, especially since the clatter of the wheels muffles speech. The hobo himself didn't properly hear what he said a moment ago, so he's unable to repeat it. If that's the case, he'll have to crawl under the seat and bark when he's told to: woof woof! But the reedy falsetto he produces from his dry throat is not enough; the owner of the gun won't let up until he hears a prolonged yelping of the kind he knows well. It goes without saying that he'll get everything he demands. The ease with which a person can insist on his own way in the railroad car can only inspire disgust, and so at this moment Schmidt or Braun has had enough; he'd like to put an end to this pathetic spectacle as soon as possible. But he knows no other way than to take aim and pull the trigger. There is a deafening bang; all the witnesses of the scene close their eyes, and for a moment all they can hear is a buzzing in their ears. Then, when the moment passes and the clatter of the wheels returns, everyone realizes that the gun is just a starting pistol. Now they laugh, they laugh fit to burst, including the pretty woman in the provocative makeup, and the scruffy old man who could have died from fright and at this moment is still
clutching his heart. The hobo emerges from under the seat, his clothes gray with dust, and rakes cigarette butts out of his hair. His mouth, set in a foolish grin, does not utter a single word of complaint.