Moment of True Feeling (5 page)
In turning into Le Drugstore from the sidewalk of the Avenue Matignon, he suddenly felt saved, for the moment at least. The mere act of TURNING INâof deviating from his depressing rectilinear courseâsuggested a break in a journey, and as he moved through Le Drugstore along with many others, in a rhythm, determined by others, of stopping, dodging, and starting up again, his only movements now being Drugstore movements, performed in common with others, he was able to see himself leading a totally different life, derived from his Drugstore feeling, in which
all his problems would cease to exist. “That's it, I'll start a new life!” he said aloud, on a note of urgency. A memory came to him: Schoolchildren in shorts were standing in a row, in front of them the two team captains, each in turn calling out the names of the boys he wanted on his team. Those named stepped forward. The good players were soon taken, and only the incompetents stood there, squirming with embarrassment: please, please call my name! The next-to-last would still be takenâoh, don't let me be the last of all, don't leave me standing here by myself . . And here now, those crumpled paper napkins on ketchup-smeared plates, those young women sitting alone, rereading their love letters over their open handbagsâin such confusion a game in which someone had to be last ceased to be possible.âAt a bookstand Keuschnig bought three diner's guides. He would read them from cover to cover. One more thing to go by, he thought.
all his problems would cease to exist. “That's it, I'll start a new life!” he said aloud, on a note of urgency. A memory came to him: Schoolchildren in shorts were standing in a row, in front of them the two team captains, each in turn calling out the names of the boys he wanted on his team. Those named stepped forward. The good players were soon taken, and only the incompetents stood there, squirming with embarrassment: please, please call my name! The next-to-last would still be takenâoh, don't let me be the last of all, don't leave me standing here by myself . . And here now, those crumpled paper napkins on ketchup-smeared plates, those young women sitting alone, rereading their love letters over their open handbagsâin such confusion a game in which someone had to be last ceased to be possible.âAt a bookstand Keuschnig bought three diner's guides. He would read them from cover to cover. One more thing to go by, he thought.
He stepped out into the street again ⦠That sordid Drugstore with its trampled
pommes frites
on the floor and its already dog-eared magazines! Even as he watched itâwhile waiting to cross the streetâthe sky clouded over. He tried to remember the new feeling he had had just after turning in. Turning in where? All at once he couldn't remember anything at all, neither that nor anything else. He could list all sorts of things but remember nothing. He retained the facts, but not the feelings. When some years ago the nurse at the maternity hospital had shown him the child for the first time through the glass partition, something in him had undoubtedly stirred at the sight of that face, which the child itself had badly scratched. He had known a feeling of happiness, of that he was sureâbut what
had it really been like? He couldn't remember the feeling, what he remembered was the
fact
of having been happy. He had been moved, no doubt of it, but even with closed eyes he couldn't bring back the feeling. “Try inhaling slowly.” He tried ⦠but his breath went down the wrong way and he gagged.âHe saw an empty bus going by; the low-lying sun shone on it from the side, lighting up the serried nose prints on the windows. An animal, thought Keuschnig unremembering. The only way he could keep on walking was to count his steps
out loud:
one ⦠and two ⦠and three, as though he had to trick himself into moving.
pommes frites
on the floor and its already dog-eared magazines! Even as he watched itâwhile waiting to cross the streetâthe sky clouded over. He tried to remember the new feeling he had had just after turning in. Turning in where? All at once he couldn't remember anything at all, neither that nor anything else. He could list all sorts of things but remember nothing. He retained the facts, but not the feelings. When some years ago the nurse at the maternity hospital had shown him the child for the first time through the glass partition, something in him had undoubtedly stirred at the sight of that face, which the child itself had badly scratched. He had known a feeling of happiness, of that he was sureâbut what
had it really been like? He couldn't remember the feeling, what he remembered was the
fact
of having been happy. He had been moved, no doubt of it, but even with closed eyes he couldn't bring back the feeling. “Try inhaling slowly.” He tried ⦠but his breath went down the wrong way and he gagged.âHe saw an empty bus going by; the low-lying sun shone on it from the side, lighting up the serried nose prints on the windows. An animal, thought Keuschnig unremembering. The only way he could keep on walking was to count his steps
out loud:
one ⦠and two ⦠and three, as though he had to trick himself into moving.
As he crossed the playground in the Carré Marigny, which now, at the end of July, was deserted, the whole sky was overcast. A strong cold wind was blowing and the rustling of the chestnut trees was so loud he couldn't hear the traffic on the Champs-Elysées. Little dead twigs crunched underfoot. The horses of the merry-go-round had been covered with sacking and plastic for the summer and tied with heavy twine. It was beginning to get dark; Keuschnig was alone in the Carré, dust was blowing up his nose. By then the wind was so strong that he was suddenly seized with uncontrollable panic. He ran to the bus-stop phone on the Avenue Gabriel and called home. Agnes was thereâit was she who picked up the phone. Pleased with herself for answering, she bit into a piece of candy â¦
As he walked on, he remembered that he had just been afraid. A feeling;âremember it. What had it been like? His muscles and sinews had suddenly frozen into a structure of their own ⦠a kind of second skeleton. Yes, that's what fear had been like. I'll have to rediscover all these feelings! he thought.
Although the
Avenue Marigny, on which the Elysée Palace is situated, is in the very center of Paris, there isn't a single shop on it. The windows of an inhabited house are a rarity, all one sees is chestnut trees and high park walls until one comes to the restaurant and newsstand at the corner of the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. For an approach to so prestigious a residence the Avenue Marigny is neither very long nor very wide, but it is straight and open. Few cars park on it, not even on the sidewalks, which are blocked off by rows of concrete posts.âPedestrians, too, are rare; only policemen stride back and forth outside the high walls, their hands behind their backs. Involuntarily, as he turned into the avenue, Keuschnig reached for his passport, as if it were forbidden to enter such a thoroughfare without one's papers ⦠At the corner a policeman was standing in a sentry box, twirling a whistle attached to a long string. Luckily Keuschnig had to sneeze. Wasn't that a proof of innocence? Even so, he felt that with the face he had on him that day no one could forget him. Any attempt to seem natural would only make him more conspicuous. He saw a mosquito bite on the policeman's neck, and simultaneously another image from
his dream came back to him: the upper part of his body spotted with mosquito bites. He had been naked, he recalled; that often happened in his dreamsâbut in this dream there was a difference, he had
wanted
to be naked. For the first time it had given him pleasure to show his nakedness, not just to one person but to a whole group of people; and instead of merely running past, he had stood still in front of the whole lot of them.
Avenue Marigny, on which the Elysée Palace is situated, is in the very center of Paris, there isn't a single shop on it. The windows of an inhabited house are a rarity, all one sees is chestnut trees and high park walls until one comes to the restaurant and newsstand at the corner of the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. For an approach to so prestigious a residence the Avenue Marigny is neither very long nor very wide, but it is straight and open. Few cars park on it, not even on the sidewalks, which are blocked off by rows of concrete posts.âPedestrians, too, are rare; only policemen stride back and forth outside the high walls, their hands behind their backs. Involuntarily, as he turned into the avenue, Keuschnig reached for his passport, as if it were forbidden to enter such a thoroughfare without one's papers ⦠At the corner a policeman was standing in a sentry box, twirling a whistle attached to a long string. Luckily Keuschnig had to sneeze. Wasn't that a proof of innocence? Even so, he felt that with the face he had on him that day no one could forget him. Any attempt to seem natural would only make him more conspicuous. He saw a mosquito bite on the policeman's neck, and simultaneously another image from
his dream came back to him: the upper part of his body spotted with mosquito bites. He had been naked, he recalled; that often happened in his dreamsâbut in this dream there was a difference, he had
wanted
to be naked. For the first time it had given him pleasure to show his nakedness, not just to one person but to a whole group of people; and instead of merely running past, he had stood still in front of the whole lot of them.
What a lot of withered chestnut leaves have already blown into the gutter! he thought word for wordâas though thinking in words could protect him. Two other policemen were coming down the street, their leather gloves stuck in their belts, their trouser legs gathered into the tops of their high-laced boots. There being two of them made them seem less menacing, though united against him, the lone outsider. But even if he had been with more people, with lots of people, a witness would have pointed him out instantly in the line-up: That's the one!âHe envied the policemen their faces. How beautiful they seemed to him in their self-assurance; beautiful because they had nothing to hide; beautiful in their unmarred extravertedness. In an emergency they would both know exactly what to do next, and what to do after that. As far as they were concerned, everything was tried and tested; nothing could go wrong because the ORDER of things had been set in advance. Every possibility had been gone over, every eventuality provided for. He saw them as pioneers, as Americans, from Grand Rapids for instanceâand such men could only be immortal!
I too need an order, Keuschnig thought.âBut an order presupposed a system.âBut for him a system had ceased to be possible.âBut then again, what did he need
an order for?âTo conceal the fact that he no longer had a system.âThe only ideas that occur to me are ones I can't use, he thought.
an order for?âTo conceal the fact that he no longer had a system.âThe only ideas that occur to me are ones I can't use, he thought.
The next policeman he passed was aloneâbut even alone he was in harmony. Maybe the uniform does it, Keuschnig thought. Then he passed a solitary man in civilian clothes; his face, too, was in harmony. How human they all seemed in comparison with him. The wind upset a no-parking post, and again he began to see signs of death. He had already passed, but then he went back and set the post up again, as though that might invalidate something.âThe next thing he saw, through a slit in the park wall, was a row of empty, overturned sentry boxes on a gravel path. Again he retraced his steps, this time to examine the sentry boxes in every detailâthe sight slits on both sides, the little radiator on the rear wallâand turn them back into man-made objects. He even counted the ribs of the radiators: sixâthat couldn't mean anything, could it? The next omen was the restaurant on the corner: If it's recommended in one of the diner's guides, he thought, nothing can happen; if notânone of the three guides so much as mentioned the place! A police car approached with its blue light and siren operating, and turned into another street. At least the keeper of the newsstand he was just passing, who was putting plastic covers over his papers to shelter them from the impending rain, might for a few moments regard him as an innocent bystander, and for a short while they had something in common. A glass half full of beer stood precariously on a pile of newspapers! Keuschnig wanted to go on, deeper and deeper into space, twirling a cane like â¦
Borrowed life feelings, which that day the organism
instantly rejected. His organism had stopped doing anything but rejecting; once he had eliminated all simulated feelings, there was nothing left of his self, nothing, that is, except the dead weight of an unreality at odds with the whole world. Rejection as aversion to all impulses breathed into him from outside, to the charlatanism of internationally certified forms of experience! True, he could go to see a Humphrey Bogart movie; it was summer, the revival season;
Key Largo,
for instance, was playing all over town that week. After the picture he would climb the stairs side by side with Bogart and his troublingly moist upper lip, but he also knew that after his first few steps on the street, if not before, he would be alone again, with nothing and no one for a companion, asking himself why he bothered to go on, and where to. No, he wouldn't delude himself; for him the time of revivals was past; there was no article to be had for money that could help him to cope with his new situation, nor would any system whatever or any amount of research ever get what he needed off the drawing board. What then did he need? What was he looking for? Nothing, he replied; I'M NOT LOOKING FOR ANYTHING. With that thought, he suddenly felt in the right and wanted to defend his right against all comers. Why was he still going under false colors? Was he a public menace? Almost all that day he had only wanted to do thingsâto bellow, to show his nakedness, to bare his teethâbut except for the one incident with the girl (no particular of which he remembered) he hadn't actually done anything. Coward, he thought. And at the same time he was terrified of giving himself away the very next moment.
instantly rejected. His organism had stopped doing anything but rejecting; once he had eliminated all simulated feelings, there was nothing left of his self, nothing, that is, except the dead weight of an unreality at odds with the whole world. Rejection as aversion to all impulses breathed into him from outside, to the charlatanism of internationally certified forms of experience! True, he could go to see a Humphrey Bogart movie; it was summer, the revival season;
Key Largo,
for instance, was playing all over town that week. After the picture he would climb the stairs side by side with Bogart and his troublingly moist upper lip, but he also knew that after his first few steps on the street, if not before, he would be alone again, with nothing and no one for a companion, asking himself why he bothered to go on, and where to. No, he wouldn't delude himself; for him the time of revivals was past; there was no article to be had for money that could help him to cope with his new situation, nor would any system whatever or any amount of research ever get what he needed off the drawing board. What then did he need? What was he looking for? Nothing, he replied; I'M NOT LOOKING FOR ANYTHING. With that thought, he suddenly felt in the right and wanted to defend his right against all comers. Why was he still going under false colors? Was he a public menace? Almost all that day he had only wanted to do thingsâto bellow, to show his nakedness, to bare his teethâbut except for the one incident with the girl (no particular of which he remembered) he hadn't actually done anything. Coward, he thought. And at the same time he was terrified of giving himself away the very next moment.
He realized that he wanted to look at the soldier with
the bayonet over his arm, who was standing in the sentry box at the entrance to the Elysée Palace. What's more, he thought, I'm going to do it! He watched the tip of the bayonet swaying back and forth; but when the soldier suddenly began to look at him, he quickly averted his eyes and looked at his watch. How imperturbably the second hand kept running along! There was something almost comforting in the passage of time. Keuschnig went on acting as if; he looked around as if ⦠No, no one to call out to as if he'd been waiting for him. What about that street sweeper âit must be all right to look at him? But in this neighborhood even a street sweeper seemed to sweep as a mere pretext, and someone who watched him couldn't be an innocent passer-by.
the bayonet over his arm, who was standing in the sentry box at the entrance to the Elysée Palace. What's more, he thought, I'm going to do it! He watched the tip of the bayonet swaying back and forth; but when the soldier suddenly began to look at him, he quickly averted his eyes and looked at his watch. How imperturbably the second hand kept running along! There was something almost comforting in the passage of time. Keuschnig went on acting as if; he looked around as if ⦠No, no one to call out to as if he'd been waiting for him. What about that street sweeper âit must be all right to look at him? But in this neighborhood even a street sweeper seemed to sweep as a mere pretext, and someone who watched him couldn't be an innocent passer-by.
He would have preferred to pass through the gate with other people. Could he be the last? Is that why there was no one else? What time was it? (He had looked at his watch before, as if a mere glance sufficed to tell you the time!) Had he come to the right place? In any case, he could see the French Television truck in the courtyard. He showed his invitation and was waved through the gateway. On the top floor of the Palace a window banged; behind another window a waitress in a white cap passed; the driver of a black Citroen limousine at one of the side entrances pushed down his radio antenna while looking up at the dark sky; a man on a motorbike disappeared through a small gate in the park wall. These happenings made the building seem almost homelike; looking at things was tolerated.âAn officer frisked him, another examined his attaché case. Looking between his upraised arms at the lid of the case as the officer carefully reclosed it, Keuschnig thought: At last something
is being done with no help from meâsomething I can watch without taking part. A free second! He wanted to be grateful to someone for something ⦠At that moment, to his surprise, the impersonal touch of the hands patting his shoulders had the feel of an encouragement, and in the next free second, under the spare professional movements of the officer feeling his chest, the ugly, prolonged suffering of that day dissolved into a pleasant, compassionate sadness. This time, thought Keuschnig, I mustn't forget everything so quickly. Today, at six o'clock in the afternoon, I experienced the touch of those hands, which were only doing their job, as a caress.
is being done with no help from meâsomething I can watch without taking part. A free second! He wanted to be grateful to someone for something ⦠At that moment, to his surprise, the impersonal touch of the hands patting his shoulders had the feel of an encouragement, and in the next free second, under the spare professional movements of the officer feeling his chest, the ugly, prolonged suffering of that day dissolved into a pleasant, compassionate sadness. This time, thought Keuschnig, I mustn't forget everything so quickly. Today, at six o'clock in the afternoon, I experienced the touch of those hands, which were only doing their job, as a caress.
He trembled. At the same time his face went blank with anxious self-control. The empty, pompous solemnity of a Fascist, he himself thought. The officer glanced at him in astonishment, then he and his fellow officer laughed very briefly at that stupid face.
Keuschnig had never expected to see anyone run in these surroundingsâand now he himself was running across the courtyard, past the potted trees to the main entrance. No one blew a whistle and summoned him to halt. Some men in dark suits approached in the opposite direction, and the moment he saw them he slowed to a walk. He remembered that, as a child, if people came along while he was running he had always stopped and continued at a walk until they passed. Then he had broken into a run again. Now the men had passedâwhy didn't he start running?âSo many situations, so many places in which he had stopped for people had suddenly occurred to himâso many different people as wellâthat in recollection he could only walk. And something else had surprised him: that with his first running
steps the surroundings, which had receded from him until nothing remained but a number of vanishing pointsânothing there for him to look at!âwere again surrounding him protectively. Where previously he had seemed to be passing the backs of things, he now saw details, which seemed to exist for him as well as for others.âRunning again, Keuschnig noticed glistening puddles in the gravel beside the freshly watered potted trees and in that moment he had a dreamlike feeling of kinship with the world. He stopped still outside the entrance and shook his head as though arguing against his previous disgruntlement. Now he was able to look freely in all directions. Before going in, he cast a last hungry glance over his shoulder to make sure he had missed nothing. How his surroundings had expanded! It took free eyes to see them so richâso benevolent. Now the sky with its low-lying clouds seemed to be sharing something with him. Keuschnig gnashed his teeth.âAs he ran up the stairs, he was surprised to find himself reenacting a run that had happened in a dream. Then, for the first time in a dream, there had been actual motion in his running.
steps the surroundings, which had receded from him until nothing remained but a number of vanishing pointsânothing there for him to look at!âwere again surrounding him protectively. Where previously he had seemed to be passing the backs of things, he now saw details, which seemed to exist for him as well as for others.âRunning again, Keuschnig noticed glistening puddles in the gravel beside the freshly watered potted trees and in that moment he had a dreamlike feeling of kinship with the world. He stopped still outside the entrance and shook his head as though arguing against his previous disgruntlement. Now he was able to look freely in all directions. Before going in, he cast a last hungry glance over his shoulder to make sure he had missed nothing. How his surroundings had expanded! It took free eyes to see them so richâso benevolent. Now the sky with its low-lying clouds seemed to be sharing something with him. Keuschnig gnashed his teeth.âAs he ran up the stairs, he was surprised to find himself reenacting a run that had happened in a dream. Then, for the first time in a dream, there had been actual motion in his running.
As a participant in a press conference devoted to the program of the new government, Keuschnig had nothing to worry about for the present. In such a place the omens of death seemed unthinkable. He no longer had to picture his own future, there was no further need to fear surprises; just to sit hereâand better still, to sit here ecstatically taking notes along with so many othersâwas today his idea of peace. Up front, far in the distance, the President of the Republic was explaining the program, and as he spoke Keuschnig was conscious of an animal certainty that everything would get better and better. When a journalist asked
if a certain project wasn't absurd, the President replied: “I cannot afford to look on what I am doing as absurd.” That answer struck Keuschnig's fancy and he wrote it down. Here nothing was said that was not meant to be taken down; that in itself was comforting! Keuschnig no longer understood why he had been so relieved some months before when after the elections the good old advertisements had replaced campaign posters on the city's walls. Had the campaign posters represented a threat that something would HAPPEN? Why at the time had he felt the elections to be meaningless and unreal? Now he felt strangely secure in the thought that a policy was being formulated for him. It was so comforting to be able to think about oneself in terms formulated by others; the program he, along with the others, was taking down told him what kind of person he was and what he needed; it even prescribed a specific order of succession! And that part of him which was not defined in the program could be ignoredâsince it was only a holdover from rebellious adolescence and he himself was to blame if he hadn't got it under control. I've been defined! he thoughtâand that flattered him. Being defined had the advantage of making him inconspicuous, even to himself. How could he have let a stupid dream upset him so? Who was he that he should presume to see meaning in life only on high holidays? He had indulged his strictly private caprices long enough! He set too much store by mental games that other people simply couldn't afford.âAnd what if he found himself in danger again as today? Then, if only he could learn to see everything in its proper place like an adult, he would have a foolproof system by which to redefine himself at any time.âIf I can manage that, Keuschnig thought contentedly, no one will ever
find out who I really am!âThe President's THOUGHT-MOLDED face ⦠Through the most tortuous sentence he found his way to a sure conclusion. To the most surprising question he had an immediate answer, and once it was uttered he shut his mouth as though EVERYTHING had now been said. Keuschnig felt he was in good hands. He heard the succession of questions and answers, the hum of the TV cameras, the baying of the Nikons, as utility music devised especially for him. But then a flashbulb exploded. A bird outside bumped into one of the high narrow windows, fluttered away, and collided with another window. A panic broke out in Keuschnig when he thought of the lengths he had again gone to in feigning to feel secure. There was no more room for diversions. This was really a life-and-death matter.âThe wind had died down, but when in the stillness a flock of pigeons flew up from the court, it sounded to him like the first squall signaling a hurricane. The President, who had been made up for television and wasn't missing a trick, thrust out his lips; he had planned every move in advance; that was his charm. Now Keuschnig knew what was troubling him: that the government's program existed for everyone and not for him alone. He took refuge, as he had done when attending lectures at the university, in looking out the window: the white, looped-back curtainsâbut that swishing soundâwhere did it come from? Ah, he thought with pleasure, it's raining. It had begun with a crackling, as when a heavily loaded hay wagon is set in motion. Then, high above the Elysée Palace, thunder rolled, and a sudden sense of security made his skin tingle.
if a certain project wasn't absurd, the President replied: “I cannot afford to look on what I am doing as absurd.” That answer struck Keuschnig's fancy and he wrote it down. Here nothing was said that was not meant to be taken down; that in itself was comforting! Keuschnig no longer understood why he had been so relieved some months before when after the elections the good old advertisements had replaced campaign posters on the city's walls. Had the campaign posters represented a threat that something would HAPPEN? Why at the time had he felt the elections to be meaningless and unreal? Now he felt strangely secure in the thought that a policy was being formulated for him. It was so comforting to be able to think about oneself in terms formulated by others; the program he, along with the others, was taking down told him what kind of person he was and what he needed; it even prescribed a specific order of succession! And that part of him which was not defined in the program could be ignoredâsince it was only a holdover from rebellious adolescence and he himself was to blame if he hadn't got it under control. I've been defined! he thoughtâand that flattered him. Being defined had the advantage of making him inconspicuous, even to himself. How could he have let a stupid dream upset him so? Who was he that he should presume to see meaning in life only on high holidays? He had indulged his strictly private caprices long enough! He set too much store by mental games that other people simply couldn't afford.âAnd what if he found himself in danger again as today? Then, if only he could learn to see everything in its proper place like an adult, he would have a foolproof system by which to redefine himself at any time.âIf I can manage that, Keuschnig thought contentedly, no one will ever
find out who I really am!âThe President's THOUGHT-MOLDED face ⦠Through the most tortuous sentence he found his way to a sure conclusion. To the most surprising question he had an immediate answer, and once it was uttered he shut his mouth as though EVERYTHING had now been said. Keuschnig felt he was in good hands. He heard the succession of questions and answers, the hum of the TV cameras, the baying of the Nikons, as utility music devised especially for him. But then a flashbulb exploded. A bird outside bumped into one of the high narrow windows, fluttered away, and collided with another window. A panic broke out in Keuschnig when he thought of the lengths he had again gone to in feigning to feel secure. There was no more room for diversions. This was really a life-and-death matter.âThe wind had died down, but when in the stillness a flock of pigeons flew up from the court, it sounded to him like the first squall signaling a hurricane. The President, who had been made up for television and wasn't missing a trick, thrust out his lips; he had planned every move in advance; that was his charm. Now Keuschnig knew what was troubling him: that the government's program existed for everyone and not for him alone. He took refuge, as he had done when attending lectures at the university, in looking out the window: the white, looped-back curtainsâbut that swishing soundâwhere did it come from? Ah, he thought with pleasure, it's raining. It had begun with a crackling, as when a heavily loaded hay wagon is set in motion. Then, high above the Elysée Palace, thunder rolled, and a sudden sense of security made his skin tingle.
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