Moving Parts

Feuchtmeier’s thirtieth birthday has long passed, while his fortieth is far enough in the future for him to believe that it will never come — after all, it was no time ago that he was playing basketball for his university team. He probably still meets with his old teammates. They shoot hoops in a local gym one evening a week, after work, and so with no detriment to their careers. Every so often one of them leaps over the heads of the others and, with a glint of madness in his eye, dunks the ball in the basket, rattling the backboard and making the steel rim quiver. Then in the changing room they crack jokes as they pull off their sweaty T-shirts. After the container ship disaster and the distress of the inquiry, which was eventually discontinued, Feuchtmeier changed jobs. In his applications he presented himself as an expert in maritime transportation. A pure formality: His name was known in the business and the circumstances of the disaster had been the subject of rumors circulating around the offices. He does what he was doing before, and again is successful, but now he works for a different company, which has expanded its share of the freightage market thanks to the damage done to its rival’s reputation. Recently he has been tired. He’s been sleeping poorly, and has been dreaming of a container ship split in two and going to the bottom with its cargo of crushed rocks — the image of his marriage. After the game he tends to disappear right away, going back home to the bachelor pad he found in a modernized building close to the head office of his company. One of the shortcomings of this otherwise pleasant apartment is the lack of a convenient parking garage in the neighborhood. Feuchtmeier leaves his silver five-door hatchback with sunroof, whose leather upholstery barely came clean, on the street in front of the building. He ought to reckon with the fact that one of these days it could be stolen. But he doesn’t want to think about the future; he turns on all the lights in the apartment and opens a can of beer from the refrigerator. He falls asleep with it in a hot bath. When he wakes up an hour or so later, the water is cold and the can is lying at the bottom of the tub. Feuchtmeier doesn’t feel like beer anymore; he’ll pour himself a glass of something stronger and, teeth chattering, will go to bed. But he is no longer sleepy. Long after midnight he turns on some music — what kinds of records could Feuchtmeier listen to? — then makes himself some green tea and looks through ads for yachts in a thick advertising catalog. Outside the window the street is dark; the only light comes from signs over doorways and window displays, all without exception in the language of the narrator: Credit Bank, Dental Clinic, Irene Travel Agency. Substantial five-story buildings with rounded corners faced with granite.