Moving Parts

The man often remembers her still, especially at night, when he can’t sleep and he stares through the window at the blue neon sign. But each of his recollections is overshadowed by an event at which he was not present and yet which nevertheless is liable to emerge fresh at any moment from his tormented memory. The shocking scene, bathed in the same blue glow as the corner of the street, is infused with the cold passion of pornographic films — it is there that he has seen the event many times; he knows how it could have come about and how it must have ended. His wife thinks that he would have been better off acting magnanimously; she can’t understand why he chose vindictive obstinacy. If he had been asked about this, he probably would have said that she had no need of his magnanimity, since she had unscrupulously protected herself with deceit. Perhaps she or he still thinks that their first chance encounter will change everything. But what can they really expect? To pass one another at a crowded party, with glass in one hand and plate in the other, amid the murmur of other peoples’ conversations, over which can be heard, for example, a jazz trumpet? When such a meeting finally takes place, it will not occur to either of them that something in their lives is over; rather, they will think with a dull pain that it never existed.

And that’s all. It’s high time for the words THE END. If the hobo with the earring is still drifting about in the background, looking for an opportunity to play his part, at this point he ought to find out that it’s too late. The narrator hopes that events that have not yet happened will be called off and that he’ll be permitted to forget about the characters left on the margins. After the epilogue he truly cannot imagine what more could be expected of him. He believes he deserves a respite from the affairs of Feuchtmeier, his wife Irene, and the tight-rope walker Mozhe along with his partner, whose name didn’t even manage to surface before the uncomplicated plot came to an end. Because no one could be found who is not thoroughly familiar with this story, told thousands of times before. The parts, always the same ones, wait like traps into which new characters will continue to fall, irrespective of their own wishes, promises, and misgivings. The story runs things with an overwhelming force. It makes the narrator dodge about among floors and passageways until the outline of the plot is given substance. It tosses obstacles beneath his feet. In such a way the narrator comes upon a chest filled with gas masks — a new detail that appears out of nowhere and promises nothing but complications. The masks are piled high; most have no cover, and some are hanging out of the chest, hooked to the pile by their tin respirators. Further on, the hallway leads straight to some stairs, but there’s no sign of an elevator, no sign of a shaft by which an elevator could descend, and no trace of a button by which it could be summoned. The absent elevator spoils the order of the entire paragraph, like the edge of a page torn out along with some of the text — the remaining fragments of sentences suddenly lose their meaning and come face to face with emptiness. In consternation, the narrator understands only that he has to withdraw and try again, but that means he does not understand anything, and it even seems to him for a moment that here there is nothing to understand. Before he collects his thoughts the automatic light switch turns off. The narrator’s job is to push forward no matter what. He does so, illuminating his way with his cigarette lighter; shadows jump ahead of him into dark corners. In this manner he comes to a grille barring the way. In his bunch of keys, none fits the lock: The grille evidently does not belong to this story. Next to it, on either side, there are old hotel sofas piled on top of one another. Their pink stuffing, dirty and wadded, with crumbs of memories sticking to it, pokes out of bursting seams. The narrator averts his gaze in disgust. He looks down the inaccessible hallway and can see nothing unusual in it: On both sides of the grille, in this story and that one, there are the same low ceilings, the same shabby walls, and puddles under the moist joints between pipes. Having satisfied his curiosity, he retreats. He finds it hard now to keep his bearings and to maintain clarity in his weary mind; it is only the familiar sight of the fire extinguishers and the windup telephone that brings temporary relief. The attic filled with old copies of the Financial Times also appears in its former place, and even the window at the head of the stairs; by simply cracking open the trapdoor in the attic floor it’s possible to glance at the terrace, where a restless Feuchtmeier is just on the point of putting his glasses on the edge of the table, and Mozhet is looking up at him in surprise.