Moving Parts

As for the woman, it’s clear from the beginning that the surname will create problems for the narrator. That’s right, precisely that disciplined column of letters under the command of the capital F, falling into line by any predicate imposed by fate, as if it were only a matter of a drill, though they are ready for anything. But not fit for anything. For in the narrator’s language it isn’t possible to bring even the most adroitly mustered Feuchtmeier under the control of the feminine declension; the mechanism grinds to a halt as early as the genitive and does not work even once all the way to the prepositional and the vocative. If one were to beat a retreat and to relinquish all case-endings — Feuchtmeier’s wife would herself prefer such a solution, her unfamiliarity with the narrator’s language rendering her oblivious to its drawbacks — all the sentences through which her character passed would sound equally stilted. In any case she shouldn’t appear under this name unaccompanied by the word ‘Mrs.,’ which in the narrator’s language at least declines, though it’s as unbending as an elderly chaperone when Feuchtmeier himself is absent — he of the expression “the Feuchtmeiers,” who left and moved into a bachelor pad. In the last resort the language allows the conventional feminine form “Feuchtmeierowa,” ordering a subunit of the female auxiliary corps comprising two syllables to reinforce the deployed column. Only with this reinforcement will it be possible to cross the barbwire of the genitive and push on. But such a procedure, mentioned here only for the sake of thoroughness, smacks of abuse, and introduces an unwarrantable excess of familiarity, not to mention untruth. For the feminine form of the name is based on a possessive adjectival form, which expresses perfectly a narrow-minded ideal of possession and belonging, whereas it’s already established that a divorce is in process. The name is a perfect fit, but assuredly for him, not for her. By itself it invariably evokes the image of Feuchtmeier, his jackets and neckties, and so out of necessity let us give the female character some kind of first name. Let’s call her for example Irene, after the blue neon sign of the travel agency; why not? And so Irene Feuchtmeier. Here it might be interjected that a name carries its own weight; it encumbers like a piece of excess baggage. The wife cannot fail to notice that the husband alone has the privilege of traveling with only one item of luggage. If she wished to enjoy the same convenience, for the reasons given above she would have to be content with a first name. In fact, in a pinch the first name alone could suffice for her needs. Such an assumption inheres in the conservative nature of speech patterns, which are indulgent and humbly discreet toward Feuchtmeier, but which, in their well-worn mechanisms, aim at imposing on Irene an exemplary moderation in all things, and at overcoming the individual nature of her avid and frantic desires. Irene now lives with her father, a retired university professor, in a room in which little has changed since her school days. She graduated from ballet school but never became a professional dancer. While she had an undeniable if unexceptional talent, her endlessly practiced pirouettes would not have been rewarded with a solo career; in the best instance she could have looked forward to a regular position in the corps de ballet. Now, it is only occasionally that a dance step sets her body in motion between mirror and wardrobe. From the window of her room a small square can be seen, where women sit with infants in baby carriages — a view utterly devoid of gravity. In the evenings Irene avoids solitude. She goes out, meets with friends, usually drinks a little too much and enjoys herself, though never to the extent that anyone could hold it against her. Nor has it ever happened that a couple of friends or an old acquaintance has not driven her home. Up until now life has spared her from being accosted in the subway and from the equivocal glances of cab drivers. But the very phrase ‘until now’ manages, like a window left ajar, to let in among the words clinging together a gust of air that gives one gooseflesh, and one thinks with a shudder how easily the well-established state of things can change. When Irene comes home, the boy is already asleep under a quilt patterned with small flowers in the former study, which out of necessity has been converted into a child’s bedroom. She tiptoes in and stands for a moment by his cot without turning on the light. She hears his untroubled breathing. She doesn’t think about the ordeals that await the boy in the future; she doesn’t even want to know about the anxiety he was prey to before falling asleep. She leaves his room and goes to bed, but she does not turn out her bedside light. She doesn’t feel sleepy. Sometimes she reads a book, and sometimes she just cries. Over time she even forgets exactly where the grand piano used to stand in that other living room. In a draft, that much was sure. Memory is not essential to her. Forgetting offers more freedom.