Moving Parts

But when the moment passes and it becomes clear that it was not yet its last, the heart gradually calms down and the body already starts to look for something better. If the narrator were to drag himself downstairs, he could probably have his wound dressed by the doctor from the ambulance; but the dark blue police would not spare him their official questions and sensational hypotheses, not to mention their habit of checking documents. He squeezes through the opening of the trapdoor; with his good hand he pulls a monogrammed sheet from one of the clotheslines and, with the aid of his teeth, he fashions a makeshift bandage. The loose sleeve of his jacket dangles at his side; beneath its open tail his arm hangs inertly. Somewhere round the corner there must be a doctor’s office. The narrator decides to look for it, disregarding the fact that he has no wallet. In any case, the banknotes it contained would have been useless here. On the far side of the attic there is a wide-open door with its lock shot off, a memento of the recent presence of the three figures wearing German uniforms. He reaches the door, staggering and bumping into the beams of the sloping ceiling. Beyond the door another attic can be seen. From there one can access the staircase of the neighboring apartment building, which is decorated in marble, with an elevator lined with mirrors. The narrator touches the buttons of the elevator, doubting whether any of them are meant for him. Certainly there exist first-aid stations for the wounded, for those shot by the soldiers in the gray-green uniforms of the Wehrmacht. Frenetic surgeries where no one asks any questions. But the nearest such place is undoubtedly situated many floors beneath the foundations of the apartment building; for the heavier the burden of life, the lower it descends. The narrator, who has grown familiar with the way of things, can imagine the confusion, the stale air, and the uproar that reign there. He selects a button marked First Floor. The mirrors surround him on all sides; this time he has nowhere to retreat in protest at their idle inquisitiveness. Here he will no longer be able to evade the awkward question of his reflection. Everything can be seen in the mirrors: the parting on the top of his head; the white collar, no longer fresh; the knot of the necktie. The tie is crooked, and the narrator straightens it with his good hand. Above the tie, gold-rimmed glasses. The discolored fingers of a smoker rake through his hair. That’s right. There’s no sense denying it: The features, silhouette, and gestures are easily recognizable. In general, the narrator is embittered by the lack of privileges that he ought to enjoy; he is touched to the quick by the supercilious way in which his privacy has been invaded. He would prefer to remain silent, but since certain inconvenient details have come to light, he is forced to admit that the body does not belong to him alone. It was issued to him, like a hospital gown or an army greatcoat. He can only speculate as to where this appearance came from, and guess whose image was the basis for all the copies in circulation.