Moving Parts

Upon cursory inspection, their apartment seems unexpectedly comfortable — much more so than the room with the balcony that the narrator occupied in the wing of the hotel set aside for permanent residents. The narrator notes the hard-wood floors smelling discreetly of polish; the lofty, sunny interiors; and the bathroom with a window and a large china tub. He can imagine their satisfaction when they first moved into this apartment, no doubt a good few years ago — long enough for them to have grown attached to its virtues. But now, it seems, they left it at a moment’s notice. The narrator lifts the telephone receiver and calls the internal number of the hotel’s front desk — he’s set on taking the apartment. As a consequence he wants to check out of the room with the balcony. From the receiver there comes nothing but a hollow silence suggesting in the best instance a problem on the line. It will be even better this way, without unnecessary formalities, the narrator concludes upon reflection. In the drawing room, on the turntable of the phonograph that those departing forgot to turn off, a record is still spinning with the irregular hiss of the needle. They were fond of American jazz bands. On a side table there is a circular tray; on the tray an open bottle of brandy and three emptied glasses, one with a trace of red lipstick. In a vase there is a pink rose, perhaps chosen by the person who also brought the matching box of chocolates lying next to it. So there was someone who came to bid them farewell, probably a man. Why should it not have been the owner of the trumpet living upstairs? A newspaper left behind contains reassuring news from the previous day. Clearly they gave it no credence. An inscribed cigarette lighter, a gift from the staff at Fojchtmajer’s printing press on some special occasion, had been hidden under the newspaper and remained there. If Fojchtmajer doesn’t buy himself some matches, he’ll have to ask strangers for a light.