Moving Parts

The narrator’s heart sinks. Whose arm is leading him? All around there is a blinding glare, but the bowler hat has slipped down over his eyes. Nothing can be seen. Yet drumrolls are heard. The band plays a flourish. The other sound, resembling the roar of foaming waves, is applause. A moist whisper at his ear informs him that the tightrope walkers’ act has just finished. Mozhet has recently been working with Irene. Yvonne was better, but what of it, since she’s dead. So which of them was eating breakfast with him in the hotel? Bright, cheerful makeup hurriedly paints a broad crimson smile on the narrator’s cheeks. In his memory the name of Irene Feuchtmeier is lit up, originating from a blue neon sign; the narrator should admit that the news has taken him by surprise. But he cannot linger over it even for a moment. Propelled toward the lights, he’d like at the very least to have his fly fastened. But this can’t be done. He trips over something soft. It’s his guide’s leg, held out deliberately. The narrator flips over and lands on his nose in the yellow sawdust, losing his glasses. A burst of laughter rings out. The echo gives an indication of the size of the place; it’s rather large. The guide’s helpful hand sticks the bowler hat back on his head as he struggles to his knees, brushing sawdust from under his collar. He gropes his way to his feet, his crimson grin stretching from ear to ear; then he falls down once again. This time the guide has stepped on his pants leg and given him a clownish boot up the backside. The narrator has no choice but to get up again, this time without his pants. Despite the shame it’s easier this way; the hand that had to hold the pants up is now freed and has already managed to straighten the battered bowler hat in a gesture closely resembling an obsequious bow. Bewildered, he stands in his checkered boxer shorts amid the whistles and the applause. The perimeter of the ring extends around him. Beyond it are rows of seats, and in the seats the audience, all lined up. Nearby the wise guy in the studded leather jacket is prowling around — the one who apparently once botched a job and was given his marching orders — a man of all work whose powers are not entirely clear. It seems he has finally been forgiven the two unnecessary corpses; it was evidently hard to get by without his brisk resourcefulness, devoid of any scruples. He was the one who put the bowler hat over the narrator’s eyes in the bathroom. Now, making faces for the audience, he makes a show of bringing in a chair. Sure enough, the narrator is to climb onto the chair to retrieve his glasses, which are hanging from a wire, their gold rims glinting. When he is up there he will suddenly remember something. A monologue? Who would have need of a monologue? Entirely sufficient are the shrill exclamations with which the wise guy gladly takes over his part — signs of comic terror that the narrator refuses the audience when the chair is pulled out from under him. The wise guy applauds him enthusiastically: bravo, bravo! He’s obviously enjoying the game; he can’t stop, and is already dragging in a rickety stepladder. To the delight of the audience the narrator now falls from the stepladder, waving his arms in every direction. Battered and bruised, but still wearing his garish crimson smile, he places the recovered glasses on his nose. Now he can see clearly. In the front row sits the retired professor with the small boy; next to him is Feuchtmeier, yawning and surreptitiously reading a newspaper, undoubtedly the Financial Times. The boy can’t sit still; he’s fidgeting restlessly, picking wads of fluffy pink stuffing from his quilted vest. He’s probably a handful in preschool, too. Gusts of wind whisk away the pink stuffing and lift it overhead in streaks of light toward the realms of shadow. There it disappears without a trace, in the blink of an eye transformed into a dark fleecy dust. There’s nothing more full of promise than fragrant pink stuffing, and nothing more hopeless than a ball of dust trodden underfoot.