Moving Parts

The voice at the other end of the line informs the narrator dryly of his dissatisfaction, supposedly arising from the fact that up to this point there have been nothing but muddled descriptions of scenery, presented moreover from the wrong side: not from the front but from behind, without the slightest effort to conceal the joins between wood and pasteboard, the running paint, the drab canvas, the braces made from untreated beams that shore up the structure. Who cares if the world exists? Let it look as if it does. The deceptive impression of reality — that is what is expected of the narrator by his taskmaster. A story, like anything else, ought to flow smoothly from beginning to end, never once straying from its course. The Fojchtmajers! How did they get in here? Who gave permission to open the veneered door with their name on the plate? And to do so, what’s more, using the key to the house with the garden. True, it happened to fit here, too; there’s any number of doors that key will open, are there not? After all, this is a story about betrayal, and betrayal lies in human nature. The task was an easy one; there was no shortage of words, and with words anything at all can be set in motion. The narrator was to tell an uncomplicated plot culminating in the violent moment in the garden. Omitting that final scene was an unpardonable blunder, shouts the voice. But he included what happened in the garden, the narrator tries to interject; he didn’t omit a thing! He suddenly realizes with astonishment that his interlocutor, so self-assured in his authority, is hopelessly misinformed. He missed the ending; a critical episode escaped his notice. And so it was his inattention that brought about the confusion. Story lines got mixed up. That’s why they are now proceeding unchecked through train station and bar, headed goodness knows where. But the narrator doesn’t manage to say a word; he’s interrupted by the voice at the other end of the line, which knows what it knows and has its own lines to deliver. The voice asks rather arrogantly if it can count on the story being put in order, pronto. Yes or no. The narrator isn’t able to answer succinctly. Stumbling over his words, he mentions the torn-up envelope he was given without a letter; the disarray in which elevators and hallways go missing without a trace; and all the instances of negligence over which he had no control. The voice calls him an utter moron, period. What negligence, whose negligence? Did the narrator expect that everything would be done for him? Has he completely lost his marbles? This question, posed in a sharp tone, could have been regarded as rhetorical, had the voice not insistently and implacably demanded an answer. The narrator will finally stammer one out in absolute humiliation, but then it will transpire that he didn’t get it right, as often happens in an examination, when the candidate attempts in vain to guess what is wanted of him, and performs worse and worse. Fury seethes at the other end of the line. The narrator’s interlocutor now demands explanations: Who in fact is he, a garden-variety bungler, or perhaps he’s actually a saboteur, a reprobate. Yes, once again he is categorically demanding a reply. A returning wave of anger sweeps the narrator up; he starts accusing the supreme authority of sleeping through the ending, and mentions the neglectfulness and sloppiness that are the cause of the whole mess. And all this is nothing compared to the unfeeling way in which he has been cheated by being assigned a cookie-cutter story, a trite divorce tale devoid of any deeper meaning. His speech ends abruptly and is followed by an ominous silence. At last, after a long pause, the voice at the other end of the line begins to spit out words one by one: The story deserves to be told with feeling; he who pays the piper calls the tune. No one forks out for something he could do himself. There is a crash; at the other end of the line the call has been terminated. The bang of the receiver being slammed down by the narrator concludes this pathetic scene.