Moving Parts

This time, so far the narrator has managed to limit things to three characters. The acrobat’s partner is absent, though she knows this scene in the sunny garden; she’s seen it many times in the movies, the same one or something similar. She knows how it could have come about and what is still to happen in the best or the worst case. Let’s say that right now she is sitting in the dentist’s chair, her mouth wide open, her jaw numb and beads of sweat on her forehead. The whirr of the drill leaves no doubt: If anesthetic has not been administered, it’s going to hurt. It’s even possible to imagine tears running down her cheeks; the reason seems understandable and the dentist would have to know a little more to guess that the problem lies rather with the patient’s heart. And yet there is nothing to cry about; those three people, too, are only dreaming of the summer’s day. They’re dreaming that they are sitting in the garden; they’re dreaming of a romance. How can they possibly have a romance when they haven’t even been given a real life? It could be said that they do not have the garden either, the green, nor the blue, nor the gold luster. And even if it were all actually taking place — what on earth could the acrobat do in such a garden for the whole morning? Perhaps he could carry the rubber ball around on his head, or walk about on his hands, whistling; or in case of necessity, he could even swallow burning matches and breathe fire like a dragon. That cannot have been what he came for. But the boy would have been enthralled. Probably. Had the car not come to an abrupt stop, with a squeal of brakes, before reaching the main road. Turning around, it races back at breakneck speed, as if F-meier, who is behind the wheel, had suddenly gone mad. Almost smashing into the gatepost, he leaves the key in the ignition and the driver’s door open. As he walks, with an impatient gesture he takes off his glasses, which may have misted over. He’s already back on the terrace; he puts the glasses on the edge of the table and says something to Mozhet, but what? The latter slowly raises his startled eyes at him and stands hesitantly from his chair; he seems a little taller than the other man. F-meier’s tie is awry; its jokey pattern no longer matches the scene. He punches the other man in the face. Now the woman turns and casts a quick glance at the window of the room where the boy is in bed. The previous evening, for a long time he was unable to get to sleep; he cried and moaned. It’s certain that several stitches will be needed over the eyebrow, though the tightrope walker seems not to realize it. Blood streams over his eye and cheek. It’s already stained his striped T-shirt; he’s smeared it across the back of his hand and has even managed to dirty the tablecloth as he reached for a packet of disposable tissues. He opens the packet clumsily and tries to wipe the blood from his face, as if unaware that the situation is serious and requires surgical intervention. Wads of bloodied tissue multiply. Mozhet doesn’t know what to do with them; they fall at his feet one by one. He has not looked back at Fmeier once. He gazes only at her, through one eye, because he can no longer see through the other. Half a look must now suffice for a farewell. He takes a step back, and his chair overturns behind him. He wants nothing, not even his leather traveling bag, it seems, which is standing on the floor in the guest room somewhere upstairs. From the first phone booth he finds, he’ll call a cab; evidently he has his wallet with him. He’s on his way to the gate when the woman pushes F-meier away from her, simply tears herself free; perhaps there is a shout, but it cannot be heard. She gets into the car abandoned on the driveway and burning with a metallic glare in the blinding sunlight; she picks up the man in the striped T-shirt and takes him to the hospital, and that’s all. Meanwhile the tightrope walker’s blood soils the light-colored leather upholstery of the car. And yet it is F-meier, her husband, who has gone mad and needs help. He sits motionless on the terrace, his forehead resting heavily on the edge of the table, not knowing how he will live through the next quarter of an hour. It would be better if the boy were not to wake up now. A soft breeze begins to rustle the newspapers scattered about the table. They include, let’s say, the German edition of the Financial Times and an illustrated weekly with a well-known title, also German. Or perhaps Austrian? The narrator does not know; he doesn’t read the German-language press, and in fact does not know German at all. Then what was the language of the spoken parts, which in any case could not be heard?