László Krasznahorkai

The clock above their heads shows a quarter before ten but what else should they be waiting for? They know what the neon-light with its piercing buzz is doing on that ceiling with its hairline cracks and what the timeless echo of those slamming doors is about; they know why those heavy boots with their half-moon metalled heels are clattering down those strangely high, tiled corridors, just as they suspect why the lights at the back have not been lit and why everything looks so tired and dim; and they would bow their heads in humble acknowledgment and with a degree of complicit satisfaction before this magnificently constructed system if only it were not the two of them sitting on these benches polished to a dull glow by the rumps of hundreds upon hundreds of those who have occupied them before, obliged to keep their eyes on the aluminium handle of door Number Twenty-Four, so that, having gained admittance they should be able to make use of the two or three minutes ('It's nothing, just...') to dispel 'the shadow of suspicion that has fallen...'. For what else is there to discuss except this ridiculous misunderstanding that has arisen on account of procedures initiated by some no-doubt-conscientious but somewhat over-zealous clerk?... And so the words prepared for the occasion tumble over each other and begin spinning round as in a whirlpool, having formed the occasional frail if painfully useless sentence that, like a hastily improvised bridge, is capable of bearing only the weight of three hesitant steps before it gives a single crack, bends, and with one faint, final snap, collapses under them so that time and time again they find themselves back in the whirlpool they entered last evening when they received the sheet with its official stamp and the formal summons. The precise, dry, unfamiliar language ('the shadow of suspicion that has fallen') left them in no doubt that it was not a matter of proving their innocence, for to deny the charge or, conversely, to demand a hearing, would be a pointless waste of time, if only the opportunity might arise for a general chat where they might state their position regarding an all-but-forgotten matter, establish their identities and perhaps modify a few personal details. In the past, seemingly endless, months, ever since a stupid difference of opinion so slight it is hardly worth mentioning, had led them to being cut off from normal life, their earlier, now clearly frivolous, views had matured to a firm conviction, and if opportunity arose they could answer correctly any questions regarding such general ideas as might be grouped together under the heading of a 'guiding principle' with startling certainty and without any torturous inner struggle; in other words they were beyond surprise now. And as regards this self-consuming and constantly recurring state of panic they could take courage and put it down to 'the bitter experience of the past' because 'no man could have got out of such a hole without some injury'. The big hand is moving steadily closer to twelve when an official appears at the top of the stairs, his hands behind him, moving on light steps, his whey-coloured eyes clearly fixed ahead of him until they are drawn to the two strange characters sitting there, when a faint flush of blood enters his grey, hitherto dead-looking face and he stops, raises himself on tip-toe, then, with a tired grimace, turns away again to disappear down the stairs, taking time only to look up at the other clock hanging beneath the NO SMOKING notice by which time his face has returned to its normal grey. The taller of the two men assures his companion, saying, “The two clocks say different times, but it could be that neither of them is right. Our clock here,” he continues, pointing to the one above them with his long, slender and refined index finger, “is very late, while that one there measures not so much time as, well, the eternal reality of the exploited and we to it are as the bough of a tree to the rain that falls upon it: we are helpless against it.” Though his voice is quiet it is a deep and musical manly voice that fills the bare corridor. His companion who, it is obvious at a glance, is as different 'as chalk from cheese' from the individual radiating such confidence, resilience and firmness of purpose, fixes his dull button-like eyes on the other's time-worn, suffering-hardened face and his whole being is suddenly suffused by passion. 'Bough of a tree to the rain.....' he turns the phrase over in his mouth as if it were fine wine, trying to guess its vintage realising somewhat indifferently that it is beyond him. “You are a poet, old man, you really are!” he adds and marks it with a deep nod like someone frightened by the idea that he has inadvertently stumbled on some truth. He slides further up the bench so that his head might be at the same level as the other man's, sinks his hands into the pockets of the winter coat that seems to have been made for a giant and fossicks among the screws, sweets, nails, the postcard of the seaside, the alpaca spoon, the empty frame of a pair of spectacles and some loose Kalmopyrin tablets that are to be found in there until he discovers the piece of sweat soaked paper and his brow begins to perspire. “If we don't put the lid on...” He tries to prevent it escaping his lips but it's too late. The creases on the taller man's face grow deeper, his lips tighten, his eyelids slowly close since he too finds it hard to suppress his emotions. Though they both know they made a mistake that morning in immediately demanding an explanation and bursting in through the marked door, not stopping till they reached the innermost room: not because they received no explanation, they never even met the boss, since no sooner had they got there he simply told the secretaries in the outer office ('Find out who these people are?') and they found themselves outside the door. How could they have been so stupid? Was it a mistake? Now they were piling one mistake on top of another since even these three days were not enough to recover from such bad luck. Because ever since they had been released to breathe deep of the air of liberty and to cover every inch of those dusty streets and neglected parks, the sight of homesteads declining into autumn yellow made them feel practically new-born, and they had taken strength from the sleepy expressions of the men and women they passed, from their bowed heads, from the slow gaze of melancholy youths leaning against a wall, the shadow of some as-yet undefined ill fortune had followed them around, like something without a shape, and they would glimpse it in a pair of eyes that flashed up at them, or some movement here or there would betray its presence, admonitory, inevitable. And just to crown all this (“Call me Petrina, I call that terrifying...”) the incident last night at the deserted station when - who knows, who could suspect that someone else might want to spend the night on the bench next to the door that led to the platform? a spotty-faced lout of a lad stepped through the revolving doors and, without a moment's hesitation, strode over to them and pressed the summons into their hands. “Will there never be an end to this?” the taller one had asked the dumb-looking messenger and it is this that now comes to his shorter companion's mind when he timidly remarks: “They are doing this deliberately, you know, in order to...” The tall fellow smiles wearily. “Don't exaggerate. Just listen more closely. It's stopped again.” The other man jerks back at this as if suddenly caught in some guilty act, is embarrassed, makes a waving movement and reaches for his improbably large ears, trying to smoothen them down while flashing his toothless gums. “As fate dictates,” he says. The taller regards him for a while with raised eyebrows then turns away before registering his abhorrence. “Ugh! How ugly you are!” he exclaims and turns back from time to time as if he could not believe his eyes. The jug-eared one shrinks despondently away, his pear-shaped little head hardly visible above his turned-up collar. “You can't judge by appearances...” he mutters, wounded. At that moment the door opens and a man with a squashed nose and the look of a wrestler steps through with a considerable amount of fuss but instead dignifying the two characters who rush to greet him with a glance (and saying, 'Please come with me!') stomps past them and disappears behind a door at the end of the corridor. They stare at each other indignantly as though they had reached the end of their patience, hang about for a while desperate and ready to do anything, just one step from committing some unforgivable act when the door snaps open once again and a little fat man sticks his head out. “Whah are you waihing foh?” he asks mockingly, then with a wholly inappropriate gesture and a harsh, 'Aha!' he flings the door wide before them. The large office inside is like a stockroom with five or six plain-clothed men bent over heavy shiny desks, above them a neon light like a vibrating halo and a distant corner where the darkness has been squatting for many years, and even the light filtering through the closed slats of blinds vanishes and disappears as if the dank air beneath were swallowing it all. Though the clerks are silently scribbling (some of them are wearing black patches on their elbows, others have glasses slipping down their noses) there is a constant whispering sound: one or other of them quickly cast half an eye at the visitors, squinnying , sizing them up with barely concealed malice, as if speculating when one wrong move might betray them, when the well brushed overcoat might flap aside to reveal a flea-bitten bum, or under the shoes socks in need of darning. “What's going on here!“ the taller one thunders then stops in his tracks as he crosses the threshold of the stockroom-like space ahead of the other for there, in the room, he sees a man in shirtsleeves on all fours on the floor feverishly looking for something under his dark-brown desk. He keeps his presence of mind though: he takes a few steps forward, stops, fixes his eyes on the ceiling so as tactfully to ignore the embarrassing position of the man he must talk to. “Begging your pardon, sir!” he begins in his silkiest voice. “We did not forget, nor have forgotten our duties. Here we are ready to comply with your request, as described in your letter of last night, according to which you wish to have a few words with us. We were citizens, faithful citizens of this country and therefore - voluntarily, that goes without saying, would like to offer you our services that - if I may be so bold as to remind you - you have been kind enough to draw upon for a good many years, albeit in an irregular fashion. It will hardly have escaped your attention that there has been a regrettable intermission because of which you have had to do without us. We guarantee, as your agents, that, now, as always in the past, we reject all shoddy work and deprecate other, still worse errors. You may believe me when I say that we offer you the same high standards of service that you have been accustomed to. We are delighted to be at your service.” His companion nods and is clearly moved, barely able to prevent himself from grasping his comrade's hand and giving it a firm shake. The chief meanwhile has got up off the floor, gulps down a white pill and, after struggling a little, manages to swallow it without a sip of water. He dusts off his knee and takes his place behind the desk. He crosses his arms and leans heavily on his worn old mock-leather folder, glaring at the two strange figures before him who are standing loosely at attention, looking at something over his head. His mouth twists in pain and settles all the lineaments of his face into a sour mask. Without moving his elbows he shakes a cigarette free of the packet, puts it in his mouth and lights it. “What were you saying?” he asks suspiciously. his expression puzzled, his legs beginning a nervous little dance under the table. The question hangs uselessly in the air, as the two bumpkins stand stock still, patiently listening. “Are you that shoemaker fellow?” the chief tries again and continues blowing out a long plume of smoke that rises above the tower of files on his desk and begins to swirl around him so it is minutes before his face becomes visible again. “No, sir...” the jug-eared one replies as if deeply insulted. “We were summoned to appear here at eight o'clock...” “Aha!” the chief exclaims with satisfaction. “And why did you not appear on time?” The jug-eared man looks up accusingly from under his brow. “There must be some misunderstanding, if I may... We were here precisely on time, don't you remember?” “I understand.” “No chief, you don't understand anything!” the little fellow replies suddenly full of life. “The thing is that we, that is to say him next to me and I, we can do anything. Making furniture? Farming chickens? Castrating pigs? Real estate? Repair of anything and any matter thought to be beyond repair? Overseeing markets? Trade?... Come off it! Don't make me laugh! Oh and... well, supplying information, if I may put it like that. On your payroll, if you care to remember. Because the situation, if you know what I mean, is...” The chief leans weakly back, slowly examines them, his brow clears, he springs to his feet, opens a little door in the back wall and calls back to them from the threshold: “Just wait here. But no what's it... if you know what I mean!” Within a couple of minutes a tall, blond, blue-eyed man stands before them, rank of captain, sits down at the table, carelessly stretches out his legs, and gives a benign smile. “Do you have any papers?” he asks encouragingly. The jug-eared man searches in his enormously large pockets. “Paper? Certainly!” he announces in delight. “Just a moment!” He produces a slightly rumpled but perfectly clean sheet of writing paper and puts it down in front of the captain. “Would you like a pen too?” the taller man enquires and reaches for his inside pocket. The captain's face darkens for an instant then opens in a cheerful smile. “Really witty,” he concedes. “You two certainly have a sense of humour.” Jug-ears looks down modestly. “True enough, you don't get anywhere without it, chief...” “Yes, but let's get to the point,” the captain grows more serious. “Do you have papers of any other sort?” “Of course, chief. Give me a moment...!” He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out the summons. Flourishing it in the air with a gesture of triumph he puts it down on the table. The captain glances at it, then his face reddens and he bellows at them: “Can't you read!? Fucking idiots! Which floor does it say?” The question is so unexpected that they take a step back. Jug-ears nods furiously. “Of course...” he answers for want of anything better to say. The officer tips his head to one side. “What does it say?” “The second...” the other replies and by way of explanation adds, “beg to report.” “Then what are you doing here!? How did you get here!? Have you any idea what this place is?!” Both men shake their heads, feeling weak. “R.P. Register of Prostitutes” the captain bellows at them leaning forward in his chair. But there is no sign of surprise. The shorter man shakes his head as if to reject the information, and purses his lips in thought, while his companion stands beside him with his legs crossed apparently studying the landscape picture on the wall. The officer props an elbow on the table to support his head and starts massaging his brow. His back is straight as the path of the righteous, his chest is full, his uniform is crisply washed and ironed, his perfectly starched blinding white collar is in splendid harmony with his fresh, rosy-cheeked countenance. One lock of his otherwise immaculately wavy hair is hanging over his sky-blue eyes and lends an irresistible charm to his whole appearance that radiates a childlike innocence. “Let start,” he says in a southern sing-song voice, “with your IDs.” Jug-ears produces two ragged-edged packages from his back pocket and pushes aside one of those big towers of files so that he might smooth the package out before handing it over but the captain snatches it from his hand with a youthful movement and riffles through the pages with a military air without even looking at them. “What do they call you?” he asks the shorter man. “Petrina, at your service.” “Is that your name?” Jug-ears nods in melancholy fashion. “I would like to have your full name,” says the officer leaning forward. “That's it, sir, that's all there is,” Petrina answers with wide-eyed innocence then turns to his companion and whispers, “What can I do?” “What are you, a gypsy?” the captain snaps at him. “What, me?” Petrina asks, frightened and astonished. “Me, a gypsy?” “Then stop fooling about! Give me your name!” Jug-ears looks helplessly at his mate, then shrugs and stumbles as if utterly confused, as if unwilling to take responsibility for what he is about to say. “Well, Sándor-Ferenc-István... er... András.” The officer leafs through the ID document and notes menacingly, “It says Józef here.” Petrina looks as though he has been pole-axed. “Surely not, chief, sir! Would you mind showing me...?” “Stay right there!” the captain orders him, unwilling to put up with any more nonsense. The taller man's face shows no sign of anxiety, not even interest and when the officer asks him his name, he blinks a little as if his mind had been elsewhere and courteously replies: “I beg you pardon, I didn't get that” “Your name!” “Irimiás,” the answer rings out, as if he were proud of it. The captain puts a cigarette in the side of his mouth, lights it with a clumsy movement, throws the burning match into the ashtray and puts it out with the matchbox. “I see. So you too have only one name.” Irimiás nods cheerfully. “Of course, sir. Doesn't everyone?” The officer looks deep into his eyes then, when the office head opens the door on them (and asks, “Have you finished?”) waves to them to follow him. They follow him a couple steps behind past the clerks and their sly looks, past the desks of the office outside, into the corridor and set off up the stairs. It is even darker here and they almost trip over at the turns of the stairs: a crude iron balustrade runs alongside them, its polished and worn underside streaked with rust as they move from step to step. Everywhere there is the sense of everything having been thoroughly cleaned and not even the heavy fishlike smell that follows them everywhere can quite mask it.