Moving Parts

He lifts the flap. But now he sees rooftops, smoke coming from chimneys, walls of houses covered in black soot in the desolation of a sweltering summer. He cannot believe his eyes. Determined to return quickly through the bar to the train station, he crawls out onto the steep tin roof. He gazes around in confusion, not knowing himself what he is looking for. At the foot of the apartment building — seen from above — stands a coal cart. The Percheron that is hitched to it lifts its tail and drops brown lumps of manure onto the cobbled roadway. The day is just as hot as in the garden situated several floors higher, though the air is even more oppressive. The heated tin burns. Seeking to escape the swelter, the narrator finds himself in an attic filled with bed linen drying on clotheslines. His lighter is nowhere to be found; it’s vanished. The wet white sheets seem to be steaming beneath the roof. The pillowcases exude the heady, fleeting innocence of lace. In the corner of each piece of bedding is an embroidered monogram in the form of a large F. From the attic it’s possible to get out onto the staircase. From behind a half-open door on which a business card has been pinned in lieu of a nameplate, there comes the sound of a trumpet, like a golden thread uncoiling in leisurely fashion from a skein; in the space of a few bars it stretches from floor to floor. The thread must be strong, for on it hangs the fate of the unseen trumpeter, which depends on future contracts; he undoubtedly plays swing in nightclubs. The trumpeter has a short, simple name — let’s say, without even looking at the business card: John Maybe. Nightclubs don’t need excessive talent and are not prepared to pay for it; they’re content when there is a trumpet in the band and it’s played in tune; and if the owner himself sits at a table for no other purpose than to listen to the trumpet solos, he keeps this to himself. In such a way John Maybe will never get the recognition he deserves.