Fiasco (13 page)
“At that point the new, blond chief administrator popped up from somewhere, her face white as chalk, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, and she hissed in my ear ‘You can’t resign! I have no staff and you have to keep going to the end of the day!’ I could even smell the stench of cherry brandy on her breath, just like in real life. I say to her: ‘And you can do me exactly the same favour. I’m free now, I already have my sentence!’ I took my apron off and hurled it at her feet along with the money that was rattling in the pocket. I was aware that this meant the ball was over. I had never in my life felt as light as I did then. I stepped over to the guardrail. I could see a vast crowd of people swarming down below, all wanting to get in to eat and drink. They were streaming along in long black lines, like ants, even in the far distance. It was already getting dark. The whole building was bustling and humming like a beehive; music was playing, people eating and drinking, and here and there some were already tight and warbling drunkenly. The staff was running ragged among them, slapping down the food and the drinks and then quickly disappearing down the stairs into the invisible kitchen. The food was flowing out from there faster and faster, and the oddest thing about it was that I knew all along that there were no staff in the kitchen, and it would only carry on until the bosses had cooked all the surplus …
“I can’t tell it the way I would like to …
“I’ve already forgotten many of the details …
“I have to get dressed or I’m going to be late after all that …
“It was actually a bad dream, but not as bad as having to wake up,” the old boy’s wife closed her words (in conclusion, so to speak).
A little later the old boy was standing in front of his filing cabinet and thinking that today he would not think.
In order to accomplish this plan (if, indeed, one may speak about a negative intention as a plan, and its occurrence as an accomplishment) (and what is more an intention which did not require any particular exertion on the old boy’s part since) (as we may already have mentioned)
(he had acquired such a routine of having a think that at these times he was sometimes capable of creating the impression of being in thought even when he was not thinking, and even when he himself might have imagined that he was thinking) he produced from the back right—northwest—corner of the lower drawer of the filing cabinet a small box of sorts, a case with a beige-coloured, pockmarked surface, seemingly of pigskin.
On an outer (undoubtedly at one and the same time also the upper) surface of the small, beige-coloured (pockmarked) box, in the middle of a round, embossed, stylized seal, in a beige darker than beige (one could say brown), the letter cluster MEDICOR could be made out (possibly the expedient abbreviation for a manufacturer of pharmaceuticals or medical instruments) (if we may place any reliance on pure logic, though) (in the absence of a more appropriate point of reference) (since the old boy himself had not the slightest idea when, why, or how it had come into his possession) (we can hardly do anything else), while its two inner compartments each contained a pack of regular playing cards (one blue and one red pack, each pack of fifty-two) (thus a total of one hundred and four) (red or blue playing cards) (each playing card bearing on its back surface a round, stylized seal, in a darker blue or red than that blue or red, in the middle of which was the letter cluster MEDICOR) (invariably in the matching colour) (it goes without saying).
The old boy took out the blue pack (since that had been used less).
After a brief shuffling the old boy laid out four sets of thirteen
(thus a total of fifty-two) playing cards—dealing them singly and always right to left—before him on the table (to be more precise,
the
table, the only real table in the flat).
This activity intimated, however surprising it may seem, that he was preparing to play bridge.
For to play bridge one needs four people (no more and no less).
Bridge is an English mental exercise, the old boy was in the habit of saying (for the sake of weaker spirits).
Its essence (one might say, its specific feature) is that two partners sitting across from each other play against two other partners who also sit across from each other (which is why the English call it bridge) (though this altogether too simple explanation) (along with the English origin of the game) (has been placed in question) (by recent investigations in Hungary) (in accord with others abroad).
As a result of which—for what else could he have done?—the old boy by himself represented the other three missing persons; in other words, all the players in the rubber or, to use the technical terminology, both the declarer and the defenders, which had its own undeniable advantages—for instance, it significantly reduced the obstacles to understanding between partners—though one drawback which might be raised is that the open cards made it awkward for the old boy; this may have accounted for the fact that, after announcing as declarer an otherwise easily achievable contract of four hearts he relied on outscoring rather than on finessing the red cards—a tactic whose success could be predicted—and thus ended up losing on the black cards anyway (although, as partner, he had been aware of this well in advance), as a result of which one remaining issue was left to be decided—namely, whether he would rather identify with the losing declarer or with the winning defenders (after brief vacillation the old boy decided in favour of the winning defenders) (yet he was still annoyed at not achieving
the easily achievable four hearts)—before he could put the pack of cards back in the small box, and the box in its place (the back right—northwest—corner of the lower drawer of the filing cabinet), shut the filing cabinet and allow his arms—now idle—to fall, by virtue of which what, in the end, was actually a well-established, customary—indeed, one might say, very nearly ritual—position was all at once restored, which is to say:
The old boy was standing in front of the filing cabinet. He was thinking. It was midmorning (relatively—getting on for ten). Around this time the old boy was in the habit of having a think.
He had plenty of troubles and woes, so there were things to think about.
The truth is—not to put too fine a point on it—he should long ago have settled down to writing a book.
Any old book, just so long as it was a book (the old boy had long been aware that it made no difference at all what kind of book he wrote, good or bad—that had no bearing on the essence of the matter).
So with a gesture of irritation (as though he now truly did not have too much time to squander) he snatched the folder furnished with the title “
Ideas, sketches, fragments
” from the upper drawer of the filing cabinet and then tugged out from roughly the centre of the pile of paper scraps and slips and scribbled sheets, practically at random (as though it did not matter to him whether he drew the ace of spades or the two of clubs) (or perhaps more accurately, as though he were well aware that he would not be able to draw either the ace of spades or the two of clubs, since he had shuffled the pack himself) (which already predetermines the strength of the cards that can end up in our hand) (with allowance for the far from consubstantial chances of the just slightly better or slightly worse) (and thereby leaving at least some scope, after all, for the action of the instantaneous planetary constellation) a sheet of note-paper that
had already somewhat yellowed at the edges.
On the sheet of note-paper (already somewhat yellowed at the edges), written with a green felt-tip pen (a type he had not used for some time), he read the following note (idea, outline, or possibly fragment):
Köves had twice submitted a passport application and three times they had it turned down. Although it was obvious there must have been an administrative error, Köves nevertheless discerned a symbolic significance in the occurrence, so that he finally made up his mind: now he had to leave whatever might happen.
“So there it is,” the old boy muttered to himself.
“Just my luck.
“I remember.
“I didn’t have any job recommendations.
“That was a long time back,” he wandered away from the subject (mentally).
“But what in hell’s name can I make out of this?” he returned again to the subject (mentally).
“Although,” he thought a bit, “it’s not such a bad idea at that.
“There are some interesting elements in it.
“I could make a start with this.
“One can make a start with anything.
“What matters is what you aim for.
“So then what is Köves aiming for?”
The old boy sat down in front of the filing cabinet and pondered (evidently on the question he had posed himself, which) (as we have cited above) (was what Köves was aiming for).
“What could Köves have been aiming for, anyway?” was the next question the old boy posed to himself (and from the expression
that gradually lit up his face it seemed he was beginning to guess the answer as well).
The upshot of which was that he got out the typewriter (from the upper drawer of the filing cabinet) (thereby leaving in the drawer only a few files, two cardboard boxes, and behind them a grey box file, on which there was, as a paperweight so to say, a likewise grey—albeit a darker grey—lump of stone), and at the head of the sheet of paper that he fed in, set in the middle, in uppercase type (as a person customarily does) (by general convention) (when writing down the title of something) (his book, let us say), he tapped out the following:
and beneath that, after some further pondering, he tapped:
“For fuck’s sake!” The old boy abruptly broke off his typing at this point, while raising himself halfway from his seat as he reached toward the filing cabinet.
“Let the old goat shove all seven turns of that rigid corkscrewed poker …” the old boy intoned, unhurriedly and syllable by syllable, while carefully shaping the softened wad of fusible wax between his fingers as he crammed it into his ear, thereby placing himself beyond reach of Oglütz, the Slough of Deceit—in effect, the entire world.
1
Plutarch: “It is indispensable to sail, it is not indispensable to live.”
Arrival
Köves came to with a buzzing in his ears; he had probably fallen asleep, almost missing that extraordinary moment when they descended from starlit altitude into earthly night. Scattered flickers of light showed on the borders of a horizon which tilted constantly with the turns of the aircraft. For all he knew, he could be watching a bobbing convoy of ships on the dark ocean. Yet below them was dry land; could the city really present such a pitiable sight? Köves’ home came to mind, the other city—Budapest—that he had left. Even though he had already been flying for sixteen hours, it now caught up with him for the first time, like a slight tipsiness, the certainty of the distance which separated him from the familiar bend of the Danube, the lamp-garlanded bridges, the Buda hills, and the illuminated wreath of the inner city. Here, too, he had glimpsed a faintly glistening band down there, more than likely a river, and above it the odd sparsely lighted arch—those were presumably bridges; and during the descent he had also been able to make out that on one side of the river the city sprawled out over a plain, while on the other side it was set on hillocky terrain.
Köves had no chance to make any further observations. The plane touched down, and there was the usual flurry of activity: the unfastening of safety belts, a few quick tugs at crumpled clothing, but Köves was a little unsettled by the aptly brief parting word to
the English travelling companion in the next seat—the Englishman flitted all over the globe as a representative for some multinational company, and during the flight Köves had seen the great value of that travel experience—it was, after all, the first time he himself had crossed continents, and moreover he was the only one disembarking at this place. Besides which it seemed as if the strains of the journey were hitting him now, all at once; he could hardly wait to be relieved of his luggage—even though it consisted of just a single suitcase that he might still have need of, he would come back later to reclaim it, with the help of his renowned and affluent friend—and to relinquish himself to the attentions of the staff.
He waited in vain, however; no one ran up to meet him, the airport terminal was dark and looked completely deserted. What was going on here? Were they on strike? Had war broken out and the airfield been blacked out? Or was it simply apathy, foreigners being left to puzzle out where to go? Köves took a few hesitant paces in the direction where he fancied he could see more solid contours in the distance, just possibly the terminal building, but before long he lost his footing—evidently he must have strayed off the runway in the dark—and at the same time he felt as if he had suddenly been smacked in the face: it was the hard beam of a searchlight, directed implacably straight at his face. Köves screwed up his eyes in irritation. At this, almost as if it were acknowledging his indignation, the spotlight slid lower and, giving him a full-body frisk-over so to say, ran before his feet, darting a few yards ahead on the ground before again returning to Köves’s feet and starting all over again. Was this their way of showing him which way to go? A strange procedure at any rate; he could consider equally a courtesy as an order, and while he was pondering that, Köves caught himself already setting off—suitcase in hand—after the light beam dancing before him.
He had to walk rather a long way. The searchlight may have plunged everything around him into pitch-darkness, but Köves
noticed that weed-overgrown soil alternated under his feet with further stretches of runway. These, however, seemed to be narrower, perhaps unsuited for jumbo jets of the kind on which Köves had arrived; perhaps, mused Köves, the runway for the latter had been constructed not long ago, which would explain why it had been laid farther off than these stretches. Or could it be perhaps—he pondered further—that the people here didn’t want foreign travellers to see everything clearly straight away?