Moving Parts

And the four characters of this story — at least one too many — shouldn’t count on anything more as they wander through the murky space. Wasn’t this supposed to have been a short tale of betrayal pinned on a three-sided frame? The fewer the characters, the simpler the narrator’s task. He could still pretend that he has forgotten about the desk clerk, and ignore her existence the way he ignores the leather armchairs in the hotel lobby. But all that was needed was a moment of distraction, the confusion that arose as he was gazing at the smooth and clear panes of glass, seeking a good way out for himself, for additional, redundant figures to appear; they’ve already dispersed among the walls, among the furniture, considerably more than the four which should have been consented to at once, like it or not. Moreover, the narrator may be sure that if any one of them is overlooked, gaps will emerge and the story will stop running smoothly. It’s too late now to get rid of the hobo with the earring, the retired gentleman with rheumatism, or the little boy. And also the workmen in overalls, even if appearances suggest that from where they were sent by an unfortunate combination of circumstances, they will no longer return. They can’t be expected to content themselves with the gentle presence granted to those who are dead and are reconciled with death, free of resentments or hidden intentions, their silence concealing nothing. Even less can a courteous passivity be counted on from the alleged paid killer, and there is no hope that he at least, lurking unseen, can be excluded from the subsequent course of events.

Every turn of affairs has its price, enforced as relentlessly as the prices of goods placed on a slowly moving belt at the checkout counter of a store. Not even a fiasco is free. And in fact it costs the most of all. The thrifty customers compare price tags with cool calculation, figuring out how much they can afford and denying themselves one thing or another. And it’s only when they are thoroughly embroiled in the ups and downs of their stories that their heads start to spin, their reason is impaired and they choose courses of action for which they lack the wherewithal. If the balance sheet is to add up, someone else will have to pay. And best of all would be if that someone just disappeared from view immediately afterward. No one wants to be in debt. Are narrators made of a different clay than everyone else? They would wait in vain for gratitude and compassion, and thus they themselves are also essentially ungrateful and feel no compassion for anyone.