Moving Parts

Such comments prefer the muddy waters of the present tense; they wallow in them, especially if they’re unwilling to enter into details and merely wish in their slapdash way to grasp the essence of things. And so no end is in sight for the torments of associating with the present tense. Its waves, now descending into the clownish rhythm of generalizations, now bearing like dirty foam the words ‘probably’ and ‘let’s say,’ wash over the clauses of complex sentences, one after another, immersing them in uncertainty and ignorance. The narrator remains calm, having nothing to lose in the surging waters. Only the scrap of life that is his lot, and the unpleasant burden of an imposed duty. The present moment is a hotbed of confusion through which one treads without seeing a thing. The hand and the head float separately in it. Shoes appear alternately to the rhythm of the steps, now the right, now the left. And one may feel more or less as if between head and feet there was absolutely nothing except the roiling depths. The present tense commands life and death, but it is plagued by indistinct outlines, undulating shapes, and hazy backgrounds, and so the decrees of fate are capricious and blind. Of course, the metaphor of the waters has its limitations, like everything. The narrator’s clothing has not absorbed its moisture; nor do his shoes, never mind what make they are, leave wet footprints. Though he does wear shoes. This doesn’t mean that he bought them in a store, that for example he sat on the little measuring chair, that for him boxes were taken down from the shelves and opened and he was shown successive choices until at last he decided on a pair. Nothing of the sort — he was called into being complete with shoes, and now they are stepping softly across the middle of the lobby. In a moment they’ll go down some narrow stairs. The iron structure twisting in a spiral might surprise an eye that had previously admired the interior of the lobby, glittering with gaudy newness. But in any case it’s out of sight, well hidden from the gaze of guests lounging in the leather armchairs. These are old walls; what is new are only the panes of glass and the slabs of synthetic stone, so smooth that the sediment of memories doesn’t settle on them. Was mention not already made of levels of cellars in which one can walk along passageways amid a tangle of piping and cables? And why should one walk there at all? Why should one then take another staircase, wooden this time, over which there hovers the musty smell of turpentine floor polish? A burgundy carpet, fixed to the steps with blackened brass rods, muffles the sound of footfalls. The somewhat timeworn paneling has taken on the dark hue of mahogany in the light of bracket lamps with chiffon shades reminiscent of the days of narrow-waisted dresses for women, and for men the opposite — loose-fitting jackets with padded shoulders and wide pants with cuffs. Nothing else should be expected in the oldest wing of the hotel, given over in its entirety for the use of permanent residents.