Tor Ulven

Replacement

REPLACEMENT

A twitch, a nervous tic, so to speak, in the light (or the dark), an occasional spasm, a breeze fingering the gap between the curtains, letting in a faint hint of the summer night, creating a narrow slit that gapes for a moment and then vanishes, leaving behind a provisional darkness, before a new twitch and a new darkness; this happens every time the wind (he’s purposefully left the window open on account of the heat) parts the gap between the curtains, which ripple and bulge (like curtains on stage when actors or stagehands bustle by behind them) before settling again into relatively still, skirtlike folds. A skirt with a high slit and the whole world hidden behind it. In theory, you just have to open the door and go to find everything, absolutely everything.

It’s dark. He’s lying almost motionless in the dark, he’s motionlessly heading toward rest and sleep. He’s used to it, he’s friends with it, he’s darkness’s friend, the short dark period, that is, after the curtains have been drawn, but before he turns on the reading lamp. So long as everything’s in its usual place, he can make his way, like he’s just done, across the room from the window to the bed. Besides, it’s not completely dark, but only halfway dark; the sun, after all, is still a bright, burning reflection on the high-rise’s topmost windows, while darkness, or half-darkness, or shadow thickens below and slowly rises (he knows) from floor to floor, like water up a ruler: soon to be submerged. In the evening he entered into the apartment’s odors as a stranger might, but now he recognizes the comforting, metallic scent of gun oil again; it’s within reach of the bed as usual, loaded as usual. He’s ready. Of course, the ammunition is half his age, so around forty-something years old. Maybe he should just give in and buy new bullets. Still, if he’s never going to fire them, they’ll bring him no pleasure, and the money will have just been wasted.

The night inside is as muggy as the day outside. He could’ve gone to the beach. Does he regret it? He doesn’t know. He could’ve bought a package of cookies (they just need a little softening up in the mouth) and a bottle of soda before negotiating the difficult path down to the beach, where he could’ve sat in the grass, jacket and cane to one side, his sleeves rolled up, eating his cookies and drinking his soda slowly and with relish as he watched the waves roll in and felt the wind in his hair, or rather, across his bald pate, and tasted the scent of salt, iodine, and rotten seaweed. He remembers the last time he went to the beach, it must’ve been around ten years ago, when he saw something (as if sharp eyesight could somehow compensate for his missing voice), something that at first looked like a bottle (with a message?), and then a cigar case the wind blew landward, until finally it resolved into a wooden plank, a lone, waterlogged board that came to rest against the rocks, where it beat time to the waves, a sign without message, a smooth plane lacking all trace of the saw that had cut it. He remembers how relaxing it had been to sit and watch that meaningless object drift toward shore, the feeling that if you just wait long enough, something is bound to come drifting along — some stupid, meaningless thing, to be sure, but something, something will eventually come drifting, floating, bobbing along, a plank, say, all you’ve got to do is wait for it, he thinks, it’s him, he’s the wooden board that beat time on the rocks one summer day ten years back. No. That’s not him. He’s alive. He’s sitting here watching the board in the water.

No. He watched the board in the water ten years ago. Or seventy-three years ago. On the beach. His hand on her thigh, up her skirt, and so on, no, not that, he thinks, but he could see flecks of light thrown from a sailboat as it drifted past a tangle of branches and leaves, disappearing and reappearing again, unbearably slow, and he could smell the acrid scent of roasted hotdogs coming from the bonfire up the beach (though by then the fire had burned down to a glowing, reddish-orange tangle that occasionally sent a shower of bright sparks gyrating upward with a snap), and he’s glad those days are past.

No, he really isn’t. Take an apple, for example, or any other fruit or vegetable that rots, that withers, shrivels, and wrinkles, as human bodies wither, shrivel, and wrinkle more and more as they age, so that rotting can be considered the lowest common multiple of all fruits (or vegetables), just as people too are only really revealed in decline, he thinks. He’s sweating, especially his back, a heavy, clammy sweat that feels like syrup on his skin. What was that he read once, something about an artist hanging a row of bananas from a rack along the wall, how all the bananas were painted white, so they all looked identical, and how they were all artificial, except for one, and how once the exhibition opened, one banana, the real one, of course, began to rot, thereby revealing its true face, while the others, the artificial ones, of course, stayed white and pristine. No, no beach today. How long has it been? Four months. It’s been at least four months since he was last outside. It’s a gamble every time. But worth it. Never during the winter, though, that’s too dangerous. It’s bound to be quite the experience, though, after four to six months of looking at the same view. It doesn’t really matter what he sees, just as long as it’s something different.

True enough, but not through a telescope: a gyroscopic mobile aluminum pipe mounted to a solid base with a platform and a coin slot (there’s nothing to see, he knows, until you’ve paid; coins rattling in the box are the sudden aha that opens up the new and unexpected, making it appear magnified, recklessly close, crystal clear — just so long as you’ve paid; he imagines a blind man with a rattling box for a stomach, who constantly feeds himself coins just to buy himself a few more minutes of sight, though when the river of change dries up, he’s blind until he can fish up some new coin; sight isn’t free, you’re indebted to it, he thinks, and he laughs softly to himself there in the dark, and luckily there’s no one who can hear his gasping, choking, hissing, throatless laughter). No, not through a telescope. First of all, he couldn’t balance on the small platform (it’s no more than a small step, really); second of all, he’d probably be too crooked and shriveled to reach the telescope itself; but most of all, he’d have to discard both crutches, or at least one, to put in coins.

It’ll have to be the naked eye. When he’d gotten both of his elbows situated on one of the café’s terrace tables, the kind made of a white lacquered metal that buzzes when you slap it, when he’d settled into a stiff folding chair, which was nothing more than a collapsible iron framework with wooden slats attached, when he’d settled there, though it was hard and uncomfortable, in the shadow of a fringed plastic umbrella advertising a fruit drink, he’d drunk coffee and eaten waffles with butter and strawberry syrup (never mind that he’d had to repeat every single syllable of his order three times before the girl behind the counter finally understood what he wanted, and on the third time watch her unconsciously form the words with her own mouth, as if she were the ventriloquist and he was her dummy, and he’d seen how frightened and embarrassed his amphibian croaks and gurgles had made her). The rotating fan on the counter had given off a pleasant breeze, as he’d stood in the empty restaurant listening to clinking sounds coming from a dish cart in the back. When he went outside again, the first thing to happen was that a sugar-cube wrapper blew away before he got the chance to wad it up.

This evening the rug next to the bed stays put, which means that he can sit there and unbutton his shirt without having to worry about keeping his balance, a good thing, because unbuttoning his shirt is a real task, it’s a project in and of itself, his stiff and shaking fingers struggle with every single button, because the tiny, flat discs are always slipping away, but today he manages it, despite the fact that he’s sweating and that he can’t see too well in the darkness, or half-darkness, or shadow; it’s a relief every time the stubborn friction between a button and its hole gives way, and the button slides out with only a slight nudge, it’s a triumph every time, to split his shirt steadily in two. Now it’s dark and he’s lying in bed next to the firewall. First there’ll be a heavy thud inside the chimney, followed by a rapid, intermittent hissing, and then the whole business will repeat itself, and then will come the thump of feet on the attic stairs; the chimney sweep arrives early in the morning and the sounds are made by his tools: an iron ball on a chain, and attached to the chain a broom with flexible metal bristles, the ball probably forcing the broom to the bottom of the chimney, while the bristles knock the soot off the walls: ball, chain, and broom are then drawn up again, while the more or less pulverized soot drifts down to the basement, where it’s swept through a special hole. But not today. The chimney sweep comes in the spring, in the spring and in the autumn, two times a year. The older you get, the easier you are to entertain. He wonders if he’ll ever hear the sounds made by the chimney sweep’s tools again.

It’s better to sweat than to freeze, he thinks, but it’s not good to sweat. From where he’d sat beneath the umbrella on the café’s terrace he could almost see it all, a cartographic perspective, a bird’s-eye view, and the sand didn’t look like it had steadily crept up from the coast, as it’s done for centuries, but like a dull, sluggish river of glass had flowed down the valley to harden at the bay, and through the heat haze he could just make out a flock of small, white, apparently motionless sails framed by two green land masses; it was only by focusing on one of them that he could see how the distance between a boat and, for example, one of the islands steadily decreased, until the sail was completely lost to sight behind it.

It’s dark now. But not completely dark, because a little light still slips in through the curtains, both through the small gap in the middle (which is only a few centimeters wide, and on either side of that bright slit the hem stands out as two thick, dark streaks that shrink or vanish when the fabric is twisted inside or out) and through the fabric itself, whose pattern (stylized clowns, sea lions, circus horses, and elephants repeating at regular intervals) is almost invisible, as if it’s been washed out. This creates an unusual effect, something you can’t see when it’s light inside and dark outside (although now it’s dark inside and light outside), namely a trace of the weave, the crisscrossing threads that together make up the curtains, like when someone draws a shirt over your head and you struggle against it, and you can see light through the fabric, but not anything else outside the fabric, and your breath leaves a stain on the cloth, and when your head finally emerges (with force) through the neck you can see a damp spot on your breast. You immediately forget it, and when you remember it again, the spot is already gone.

Not complete darkness, but a kind of darkness would descend after she’d placed her thumb with its long, red nail upon the switch (like a stubby, round nose that grows when the light goes out), after she’d closed the book and leaned over you, and her pearl necklace had brushed the hollow of your neck, which had felt cold and ticklish, so she’d had to hold it up with one hand, while she’d pressed her cheek into yours, and you could smell her perfume and also a hint of the day’s dinner (mutton stew with a sickening, sludgy, grayish-white consistency, with tough, cartilaginous pieces of meat and hard peppercorns that explode like firecrackers of taste when you bite into them; you can’t leave off, you do it until they tell you to stop, spit them out, and put them on the rim of your plate); so a hint of mutton stew on her hair and clothes. If she’d left the door open, light would’ve fallen into the room, but she won’t do it, she refuses, she says you’ve got to get used to being by yourself in the dark, otherwise you’ll never get used to it, you’ve been in school for two years now, there’s nothing dangerous in the dark; so no light comes in from the living room, only a little from the window.

You’ll build a machine. You’ll have it finished by tomorrow or at the very least the day after. Of course, you could also practice jumping so far from the bed that you won’t need a machine, but that strikes you as impossible, you can’t even keep up in gym class; therefore, you’ll build a machine. There’s no point trying to tell yourself that darkness changes nothing; maybe she believes that, maybe she doesn’t, but in any case it’s wrong, because darkness happens, it fills a space, and it could also be full of something, like the way a drawer is full of silverware, or the earth is full of insects that scatter in panic when you lift a rotten log, even though darkness could also be a balloon, a balloon filled with black air. But every time your bare feet touch the ground (or, rather, the Mickey Mouse rug beside your bed), the same fear grips you, because something could be down there, there’s enough room beneath the bed to hold skinny, bony arms with long, calloused fingers (or claws) that’ll stretch out and grab you by your ankles, just like aunts do when they want to see how scrawny you’ve gotten (their fingers clamp around your legs like iron shackles for a few long seconds until they let go), but these will never let go, instead they’ll jerk you back hard and fast so that you tumble to the ground, and then they’ll drag you into the darkness beneath the bed, and you don’t want to imagine what’ll happen then, the very thought makes your palms sweat and you have to dry them on the bedspread; but it’s hot in here too, so maybe that’s why you’re sweating, it’s still summer, after all. It’ll be a sweeper machine with two long, crablike arms, but the arms will end in rotating steel brooms instead of pincers, and they’ll be mobile, and the brooms will scour the space beneath the bed from corner to corner, and if they actually find something, they’ll sweep it up as mercilessly as a street sweeper clearing the roads in spring, and the machine will open wide and swallow the thing whole, securely trapping it within its metallic breast, and the brooms will stop sweeping, and a red light on top will start blinking, and an alarm (like a clanging bell) will start to ring. Then it’ll be time to call the police, so they can come fetch whatever’s trapped inside, though you’ll have to keep away any careless or curious people, since they might accidentally open up the machine, and then the thing might escape, and then the police will have come for nothing; but when they’ve hauled the “monster” away, then maybe you can see it down in some animal pit (like a bear pit in a small-town zoo, round concrete holes that let you watch from the rim while big, snarling bears pick their way across rocks and claw-marked stumps), where it can’t get at you, you think, where despite its horror it’s powerless, and perhaps you’ll get to poke it with a long stick or a ski pole, and when it whimpers in pain, you’ll know it’s just getting what it deserves, neither more nor less than that, that its reign of terror is truly over, that now there’s nothing beneath the bed, that the space is empty, and that in emptiness lies safety.

It’s not completely dark yet, though you can see how the light outside (not sunlight, just a weak, vague gleam coming from nothing and nowhere) steadily dims, so the difference between the light of a few minutes ago and the light right now is like the difference between a wet and a dry sock, or to put it differently, darkness is beginning to overgrow the room, as grass, weeds, and rushes overgrow a forest pond, if darkness were a weed, it would definitely be overgrowing the room, but light still slips in through the curtains, especially through the slit in the middle.

It’s still summer, but it gets dark earlier. If you’re really quiet, you can creep to the window and peek out (outside it’s still daytime, or rather, it’s the remnants of the day (late evening) that you don’t have access to, all you can do is stare, like you stare at unattainable, expensive model airplanes in store windows), like you stared through the hospital window after visiting hours were over and they left without looking back. They had no idea you were watching, they seemed to be talking, once they even stopped and exchanged a glance, he looked back toward the pale yellow building (like he was thinking of returning?), but only back toward the entrance, which was beneath you, not toward the window way up where you stood, and then they grew smaller and smaller, like pieces on a pocket chess board, you’d thought, before disappearing down the stairs behind the hedge with its round, white flower bulbs (the bulbs were just a blur from the window). The stairs and the sidewalk were empty, but you’d still stared, stared at that emptiness, until two white hats had appeared, surfing along the hedge like paper boats in a stream, and two nurses, arms crossed and jackets over their shoulders, had come strolling along, until finally they were so close you had to press your nose against the glass to see them, and then you’d seen the door (or rather the last third of the door) shut behind them. It was before that, though, while your parents were still walking down the sidewalk, but before they’d disappeared behind the hedge, that you’d thought about death; or rather, you’d understood that if you hadn’t gotten the operation, you would’ve died. And your scar, which itches beneath your pajama shirt, that long, forceful line crossed by a bunch of smaller lines and surrounded by red, swollen skin, looks like a zipper (as if you could unzip yourself and look inside), or a rough seam (you’re a sack someone ripped open so they could take something out and maybe put something back before sewing you up again), anyway, your scar makes it look like you’ve been given a stamp of approval to live, as pigs in the slaughterhouse are given a blue stamp of approval to die.

You can’t see the curtains’ weave any longer, and you certainly can’t see the pattern (stylized clowns, sea lions, circus horses, and elephants repeating at regular intervals), though the small slit down the middle retains an echo of the day. If you listen closely, you can hear the clatter of plates and silverware in the sink, as well as the distant sound of a radio playing low, probably in some other apartment. When you get home late from a walk, you always notice that some windows in the building are dark, while others are light, and that there’s an absolute boundary between the dark ones and the light ones, though now it seems like every window in the apartment, no, in the whole building is part of a blazing spaceship en route through a dark cosmos endlessly far from earth, where you find yourself once again, in the dark.

Whenever you want. Nothing’s physically stopping you, nothing, that is, but the prohibition itself. Whenever you want, for example at the very moment the light leaking through the curtains changes from pale yellow-white to pale violet-white (that is, when the street lamp comes on, which will probably be soon), you can, without getting up, but just by stretching out your arm and extending your body as far as it will go, so far that it pulls at your scar, reach the switch (the knob that looks like a little round nose) and flip it, and be blinded by light suddenly filling the lampshade, your face, the bed, and part of the room. Now is the time you can’t take any more darkness. Now is the time you do it. You do it and hope that she doesn’t decide to poke her head in to see if you’re sleeping, and find that you’re not sleeping, that, quite the opposite, you’ve turned on the light, and, with a reproachfully startled, deeply disappointed exclamation, switch the light off again, this very moment, right now, before your machine is even complete. At first the bright sphere blinds you, and the stinging light forces you to blink and shut your eyes, as if they were full of soapy water, but eventually you grow used to the strong, dazzling glare, and it strikes you that if you stare at it long enough, you might go blind, completely blind, and then you’ll never have to see darkness again, not the darkness under the bed nor any other kind of darkness, and it won’t matter if the light is on or off, but then a terrifying thought hits you, namely, that if you go blind you’ll see darkness and nothing but darkness for all eternity, and it won’t just be dark under the bed, in the closet, in the corners, and so on, but dark overall, the same darkness that, you know, sits in the center of your eye like a hole in the ice, a hole covered by a transparent film, and if you go blind the film will break, and all the darkness that’s stored in your eye, and all the darkness stored in your mind’s eye, will come flooding out to drown the earth.

Once you’ve reached this terrifying point in your train of thought, you’re forced to continue staring at the light, because now you have to make sure that you’re not going blind, and so you continue to see a circle (the bulb) within another circle (the lampshade’s interior), a circle within a circle, like a yolk floating in an empty eggshell, a round bright ball seemingly held in place by some unknown magnetism or a gravitational force, and on the bulb’s matte surface (condensated white, like a breath fossilized upon the glass) you can distinguish a few letters and numbers, though they’re indecipherable, especially because the chance way the bulb’s been screwed in means you’re seeing them upside down; as you stare, the symbols appear to flicker and fuse, and within the dazzling, milky white field, some spots even appear brighter than others, but you know that those smoky-blue, ill-defined, irregular regions are actually plains, valleys, and craters on the surface, and that the biggest ones are called “seas” (one, you remember, is even called the Sea of Tranquility, and a sea with no water must indeed be tranquil); from the earth, these dark spots appear to form a rudimentary face, the so-called Man in the Moon, but as you’re walking along, you recall that in another part of the world the (supposed) shape formed by these spots is called the Rabbit, and that whatever pattern the spots actually form is no real shape at all.

They’re sleeping? Could they be out looking for you? No. They’re sleeping. The idiots are asleep, you think. As you can see, it’s not completely full yet, because the circle is broken by a dark smudge down on the lower left, as if part of the chalky surface somehow got erased (like a piece of chalk gets a flat edge when you write with it on the sidewalk), leaving behind an irregular surface, or as if it’s being gnawed to pieces by a giant cosmic moth (drawn to the moon like insects are drawn to lit bulbs). Still, you can clearly see that it’s not a flat, two-dimensional shape, because the shadow hints at a sphere, and you can almost see it rotating on its axis high above the vacant, unlit stretch of ground you’re just now approaching, a bright spot against a bluish-black, late autumn sky. When you take your eyes off the sky, where the first stars are starting to show, the very roadside you saw earlier is visible in the controlled, muscular light of a street lamp, and you remember that earlier in the day it was a yellowish green, rectilinear mess of grass and weeds along the side of the road, and that the plants had thrown long, sharp shadows across the sand, or had cast their reflections into puddles, swaying (as blade after blade gets caught in the draft and bent double, violently rocked until the shaking subsides to a small oscillation, then to a relative calm, until the next car passes or unless there’s more wind; like a wave passing through the grass on the roadside, up to the point at which there’s no more median and the side road joins the main road) in the wake of a passing car.

The grass, which hasn’t completely turned yellow (and the weeds and the flowers, which are missing this time of year: dandelions, bush vetch, wild mustard, English throatwort), grows right up to the roadside, spilled from a neglected garden through a rusted chain-link fence and separated from the asphalt by a narrow strip of bare ground. You consider the road’s uneven surface, its cracks and its craters, the random clumps of asphalt that have been torn loose from the surface (by passing cars?): black, granular, and irregularly shaped as raisins; scattered across the relatively smooth strip of bare ground, which is a mixture of sand, dirt, and mud, where upon closer inspection, and besides the occasional footprint, you can see tracks left by car tires (closest to the asphalt), motorcycles, strollers, wheelbarrows, and so on; but late on an autumn evening, the only thing you find are faded bicycle tracks across a dried puddle (it rained a few days ago), made up of two seemingly independent lines, the first nearly straight, the second one cutting through, weaving around the first like a worm, like the caduceus’s intertwined snakes, or like the textbook twisted rope-ladder shape representing a DNA molecule, the fundamental genetic code that determines if you’ll have a stubby nose, green eyes, ears like a fox, big feet, thin hair, knock-knees, a small mouth, bad teeth, a bull’s neck, narrow shoulders, big rump, low IQ, low forehead, reduced lung capacity, a harelip, bad breath, a bird’s chest, a paunch, a sway (or the opposite: a crooked) back, stunted growth, a piercing voice, freckles, flat feet, bony and dry (or the opposite: thick and sweaty) hands, crooked toes, nearsightedness, a tottering step, strong BO.

That particle of dirt hidden in the lettuce-like folds of her navel gave you a nasty shock, and while she’s gone (on vacation from school, even though it’s her last and most important year), you’ve wondered if you should have let her know about it; this problem, oddly enough, has occupied your thoughts lately, although you wish you could just forget it now; you forget it this very moment. The tiny, terrifying genetic time bomb, like a microscopic, venomous snake lurking in wait, imperceptible, invisible, ignorant of the fatal role it’s going to play, ignorant, you think, until it divides in all its majesty at conception, thereby determining whether (according to the universal tendency to quantify beauty) you’ll go through life as attractive or unattractive or something in between, some indefinite thing that, according to the more or less chance observer, will either be considered attractive or unattractive or neither (one will, naturally enough, be inclined to believe those who insist on the former, although one can never be entirely sure). And no doubt those people who have been, according to the cosmetic Rassengesetze, classed as definitively, hopelessly unattractive, and who appear to have resigned themselves to their fate, undoubtedly still hope that one day they’ll meet someone who can overturn the verdict by declaring that they are, in fact, attractive, or that they can at least appear attractive in someone else’s eyes (“I think you’re beautiful”), yes, that they can actually, objectively become so.

The faint, steady drumming of unseen horse hooves upon a gravel surface is interspersed with a few other scattered sounds, like droplets of water thrown up by a fountain, seeming to hover for a brief glittering moment above the drumming: the creaking of carts, cracking of whips, whinnies, snorts, drivers’ excited shouts, you’ve heard how those sounds, especially the beating of hooves, slowly rise out of the silence, starting on the long stretch and reaching full pitch where the track curves, though the carts will still be hidden by the high wooden fence, and afterward, as horses and carts come out of the turn and head for a new long stretch, subside and disappear. Everything is silent now. Your ears, however, clearly recall these sounds as you walk.

A light, obviously belonging to an old, rickety bicycle, is getting closer (there’s a squeak each time a pedal grazes the chain stay, though the bike is making steady progress, the motion-powered light grows brighter and whiter with every pedal push, which ends in a slight forward jerk, and then yellower and dimmer until the next push), and a strange thought occurs you, a thought so strange it deserves a place in some wax museum for thoughts, namely, that there are people out there who’d rather spend a day gambling at the track, gambling for money, trying to make a fortune, trying to make themselves happy by making a fortune, or maybe just gambling for the sake of the suspense, the suspense, that is, of winning or losing a fortune, rather than just go to her, the woman you’re on your way to see, or to someone like her, and you laugh out loud at this thought, a liberating laughter at other people’s folly, no, a suppressed laughter, because the laboriously peddling cyclist is slowly passing you, each pedal squeaking as it grazes the chain stay, and as he rides through the pool of light cast by the street lamp, you catch sight of an old gaunt face beneath the shadow of his cap. It reminds you of wooden steps, the kind that have been dented, scuffed, and scratched countless times, which are so old that their knots and rings stand out in near bas-relief, his sunken eyes are nearly obscured by their own darkness, his near lipless mouth gaping, panting, and also somehow chewing, smacking, you hear him hawk and spit when he’s already behind you, as if he’s in the final stages of a terminal lung disease, as if he’s dying, and you forget him the moment he’s out of sight.

Exactly where you’re walking now, just a few weeks ago. The fading light of a late summer’s day seemed to make everything glow gold from within (a grove of trees is struck by a mild, golden-orange light that, as it creeps lower, singles out a tree from a cluster of dark trunks set way back in a forest or a park, sending flecks of light scampering up, until only the topmost leaves retain an orange glow, and they tremble in the wind until darkness overtakes them). You knelt while she supported herself on your shoulder, and after you’d removed her shoe, she tottered a bit, because she was only standing on one leg (it was a gallant scene, pleasantly reminiscent of an old, romantic story you’d once read, a throwback to an era of bustling brocade skirts, scanty décolletage, allonge perruques, false beauty marks, women’s “squeals of delight,” and so on), while you’d emptied her shoe with an energetic shake, like you’d shake a spice container, while you (hand cupped and fingers splayed, as if frozen around an invisible guitar neck) held her bare foot (she didn’t have socks and didn’t want to get dirty). The day was warm and dry, and from where you were kneeling you could see straight into the tall grass, which was green, backlit by a setting sun that seemed to hold the whole of summer, while each individual blade was stirred by a weak breeze, and you could see how this motion affected the play of shadow across the grass, and through your hand you could feel the warmth of her foot, and you’d watched the sunlight on the waving grass, and suddenly you’d felt as if you were a live wire, a relay between her foot’s warmth and the sun’s warmth (or maybe the reverse), but anyway, you were the connection between the reserve of beauty in her and the straightforward, endlessly complex reality around you, beginning with the sunlit grass and ending everywhere and nowhere. Did the landscape’s late summer light come from her or did her foot’s warmth come from the sun? Both.

You can’t make her understand. It’s like she’s on a different wavelength, a more objective, almost mathematical one. Who cares, you think. As you walk, your safety reflector knocks against your thigh, a constant irritation, until you finally break the chain and hurl the prismatic, plastic knickknack toward the burnt ruins; no one, you think, can force you to endure this type of maternal idiocy again. Could they be out looking for you? No way, it’s just been a little over half an hour. Anyway, they’re old and stupid. The TV’s off. They’ve gone to bed. They’ve gone to bed thinking you’re in bed too, while in reality, not in dream, you’re picking your way across the ground, careful not to trip or step in the mud, trying to stay on the small stone path (which, outside the circle of light cast by the street lamp, is nothing more than a darker ribbon silhouetted against dark grass) along the ground, past the half-burnt barn, where, despite the darkness, you can see the outline of the collapsed roof and the dirty white foundation wall, although you’ve come this way so many times before, both by day and by night, that you can picture the sooty bricks littering the ground, and above you the gaping window (a black stain on the wall below, it looks like a negative image of flames jetting out); you’ve seen how the stucco walls remained standing, like a gigantic, empty tool chest, long after the wooden roof had caved in. It’s not empty, though, but is filled with a shapeless tangle of rafters and beams, like a heap of broken bones; while shingles, both shattered and whole, are scattered around in colors ranging from ochre red to scorched black, and metal scraps in colors ranging from blistered white to charred black are also strewn about, as well as mattress feathers, an iron bed frame, barrels, a car body (the last animal had already left the building long before the fire started, only to be replaced by a jumble of furniture and machinery — flesh-and-blood animals driven out, almost literally, by steel ones), twisted, warped, buckled by the heat, and you’ve seen how the burnt crossbeams (or, rather, those parts not already reduced to gray and white ash) have a glistening, bluish-black sheen, like crow feathers or dried tar, and how they’re also knotted, ribbed, and cracked, how they’re splitting along seams in the wood, like they’re disintegrating into eyeless dice or irregular polyhedrons, and as the long, wet grass begins to soak your thin shoes, you think about how the barn might’ve looked before it burned. Of course, you never saw the barn before the fire, and so you resign yourself to the fact that some things, the things that came before you, like a war you have no direct experience of, can only be known by their aftermath, once they’re already in a state of decay; of course, you think, since she’s lived here for years, she could probably tell you what the barn looked like before the fire, but even as you think it, you realize that this is a dumb question, because she’d probably say, Like any old barn, just with a roof, or something along those lines, and in order to imagine what the barn looked like before the fire, you’d have to have seen it with your own eyes, or at the very least seen a good picture of it.

You leave the path abruptly and push your way through the tall wet grass, which stubbornly resists (and soaks your already damp shoes, causing the leather to change color, something you know is happening even if it’s too dark to see), before you drop to a half-crouch behind a hedge and pause to observe the building, or rather, to observe the apartment on the bottom floor. Aside from the kitchen window, every other window is dark, but no, upon closer inspection, you realize there’s no light on in the kitchen, because neither the lamp above the table nor the one above the stove is lit, no, instead the gleam is a weak one, spilling, you realize, through the half-open kitchen door, probably coming from the entryway (a slanted inkling of light that’s brightest on the threshold, and that fades to an increasingly indistinct triangle of light further inside the room).

The thick drainpipe is icy cold and rough under your hand. Warily, you glance up, but every single window is dark, all except the living room, which has a sheen of indirect lighting similar to the kitchen (from the same light source?), before setting your foot on the pipe’s mouth and beginning to climb, because even though it’s on the lowest floor, you still have to climb to get there, though while you’re climbing, struggling to wedge the heel of your shoe into the small crack between two bricks while hauling your body up, hand over hand, right left right on up the pipe, like you’re hauling on a rope to hoist something aloft, making progress by fits and starts, it occurs to you that after all she could’ve lived on the fourth floor.

Again, no louder than the first time, even though the muscles in your back and thighs are starting to quiver, and you can’t hold this position much longer, but your cautious knock doesn’t get a reaction this time either, so you squint into the seemingly empty dark, where nothing stands out any more than anything else, before switching on your flashlight, which you don’t keep in your hand like a detective, or on your head like a miner, but around your waist, fastened to a carbine hook, which dangles from a smooth leather strip attached to a bandolier (made of a woven, viscose material like the kind you find in seatbelts), and you see a stack of I-beams, or rather, one end of a stack, and catch a glimpse of the rusty brown, chili-pepperlike dust that coats the whole floor (if you can call this a floor) in a layer that varies in thickness and that forms little hills in the corners, like sand invading a rundown farm house. It’s hard to keep the heavy metal door open while lifting your bike over the high threshold, but you’ve had plenty of practice (after a while it hit you that it’d be far easier to force your bicycle through the stubborn metal door than to patrol the enormous building on foot). The door slams shut behind you, an earsplitting crash like a peal of thunder echoed from every piece of metal stored here, seeming to hang in the air a few long moments afterward, like a clock chime will sing even after the last strike is done.

Every time you lift your right foot, you feel its weight hanging parallel to your thigh in an oblong pouch especially sewn into one leg of your overalls, just a lead kernel encased in a black rubber sheath. Unlike a nightstick, it can’t be used to break heads, nor can it land precise blows, it’d mold itself to the shape of a skull, for example, rather than splitting it open (though the instructions explicitly forbid strikes to the head), and the blow would, therefore, be less destructive, but perhaps more effective. Personally, you’ve never had to use it. The round, cheese-wheel shaped thing knocks against your left thigh, and if you hold it to your ear, you can hear it ticking, time cocooned in a black leather sheath, whose only opening is for the key, although you also know that a narrow strip of white paper (like the kind that streams from a telegraph to an excited click-clacking in old Westerns, at which point a bald man in a green visor examines the message with greater or lesser intensity, depending on how important the incoming Morse is to the film’s plot development), a strip, that is, slowly circulates around the clock, and every time you twist a dial (with its numbers and letters), it puts a stamp on the paper to show where you were at what time; the Edam-shaped thing is, therefore, a kind of foreman, an overseer tagging along on your nightly rounds, a boss dangling from two leather straps. You never see the strip of paper yourself. That right is reserved for the supervisors at watch central.

You’ve got a squeaky voice. The counterweight dangling from the right side of your belt takes the form of a rectangular bag squirming with leather cords, which look like writhing worms and which hold more than forty different keys separated into bundles; each time you come to a new building or industrial complex, you have to fish out a new cord with a new set of keys, keys that unlock alarmed cabinets, garage doors, warehouse doors, office doors, freezer doors, doors leading to production rooms and printers, doors made of iron, wood, safety glass, brass, Plexiglas, doors with handles made of plastic, bakelite, or stainless steel, fire doors with no windows, doors with windows of various shapes and sizes, an infinite procession of gates and doors that aren’t just supposed to be opened, but also carefully shut, and you always jiggle the handle to make sure they’re locked before continuing on your way.

A tentacle of light gingerly feels its way through the dark room, extending and contracting as it tentatively explores its surroundings, or maybe a finger of light executing ornate patterns, signing its name with a flourish as it wanders across the asphalted floor (if what’s asphalted can be called a “floor”), gliding over grimy, silvery gray surfaces belonging to the building’s stash of corrugated steel, finding a pair of discarded work gloves or some lopsided work boots, illuminating girders of reinforced iron that lie arched in perspective like giant strands of clumped spaghetti, falling on rust-flecked, splintered planks browning with age (totally different from the blond, resinous wood found in new buildings). Carefully, your eyes follow the beam thrown from your pocket flashlight (your bicycle light doesn’t work), so you don’t accidentally bump into a stray rafter or a piece of iron jutting out from a pile. The light hits the capper machine, whose red paint is flaking, and which apparently forces, with its thick hydraulic pistons (the only things that sparkle, polished, shining, and new, almost shockingly so, when the light strikes them, against all the worn-out, rusty, dirty, or greasy blackness about), pistons that force two moving edges toward each other with such power that iron girders snap in two like flower stalks.

Something completely different than what one normally associates with the word “office”: polished desks with intercoms, appliances that hum or clack, flickering computer screens, men in suits who cradle receivers while they bark information to a colleague: no, this is more like a cabin or barracks set right in the middle of the huge hall; you grasp the loose door handle, which creaks as you turn it, and recall that the light switch is off to your left. Turning off your flashlight, you flip on the overhead light (though between the first light’s disappearance and the second’s appearance, there’s a moment of total darkness, so short you don’t actually see it, even though it was there): a simple wooden desk, whose scratched and stained surface is covered with papers loosely organized into haphazard piles, some of which (all the same color) are stuck on a spindle; a telephone, a small portable radio, two ball-point pens (blue) marked with the firm’s logo, not to mention tape, scissors, twine, sundry other low-level bureaucratic paraphernalia; a regulation desk chair, whose seat is so worn that both the foam-rubber padding and the plywood base are showing, which is shoved up against the desk; and, hanging on the walls, shipping lists organized by code, price tables, pictures of sports cars and half naked women, a medicine cabinet marked with a faded green cross. Besides a spindly metal stool, the rest of the meager furnishings consist only of a radiator, a gray metal locker, and a porcelain sink with a mirror. The latter is probably the reason there’s another station key back here (danger of leaks), located next to the valve and fastened by a chain to the water pipe; as instructed, you insert this key into the mechanism, your portable overseer, and turn it clockwise, making a creakcreak sound, just like an antique mantle clock makes when it’s wound. When you stand up and release the station key so that it clinks against the water pipe, you can’t resist looking into the dirty, faded mirror. Man, you wish you had wrinkles. You want to be old as soon as possible.

You make faces in the mirror, all by your lonesome inside the vacant warehouse inside a vacant industrial complex surrounded by a dark spring night (the scene unfolds before your inner eye like a film would, like a film shot from an airplane, a bird’s-eye view: first there are rooftops and roads, street lamps, the whole district spread out before you like a map, then the lens zooms in, closer and closer, until finally the camera pierces the warehouse’s ceiling, the office’s ceiling, and finds you standing there in front of the mirror, and there’s not a creature stirring); of course, no one in the world can actually see or know what you’re doing here, you’re alone with your reflection. The thing is, however, you really, really don’t want to be alone right now, you wish that she were lying awake and thinking of you now, right now, no, you wish that she’d walk in now, right now, right this second, that she’d miraculously walk in and say hello and say your name, because now, right now she couldn’t help but see you, and not just see you, but talk to you, since it’d just be the two of you alone in the little barracks-office right in the middle of the vacant hall, then you could talk to her uninterrupted, face to face, and not just talk, no, you could take her hand, tenderly lift it and say, Oh look, you’ve got a scratch, this is no place for you, you’d take her hand and she’d smile ruefully as you did it, and you’d pull her close, and you’d put your arms around her and kiss her, gently, gentlemanly at first, but then harder, and she wouldn’t pull away, no, you’d stroke her neck, stroke the hairline at the base of her neck while you kissed her mouth (at this point you couldn’t use your wretched voice, not even if you wanted to), you’d dig your fingers into her hair and kiss her, just a cautious peck on the lips at first, but then with your tongue, harder and harder, and. You’re embarrassing yourself. You break off your own fantasy. You think that there are too many people in the world, people overshadowing one another, tripping each other up; in the huge, uninviting cafeteria or in the institute’s break room, she can talk to anyone she wants, look at anyone (any man, that is) she wants, but here, here in this warehouse, if she’d actually been here, she’d be forced to talk to you and you alone.

You have a really odd voice. She had hardly ever said a word to you, but then she’d said that, the thing about your voice, and she’d blushed when she realized what she’d said, because what she’d actually said was, You have an awful voice, an unbearable, squeaky, whiny voice, it’s like a saw, like a hacksaw cleaving straight through the listener’s skull, and you know it’s true, unfortunately, you’ve had to endure your own voice on tape, it’s dogged you since you were small, that squeaky, whiny voice that forced all the adults around you to cover their ears whenever you threw a tantrum, and later, when you were all grown up, your (few) girlfriends made a Herculean effort, you saw it, not to stick their fingers into their ears and scream Shut up shut up whenever you got irritated or excited or nervous, all because of your stupid, whiny voice, a hysterical woman’s voice trapped in a man’s body. Maybe you should’ve been a mute reflection, the reflection of a tall and powerfully built man in his early twenties, maybe everyone should just be mute reflections so they could avoid hearing the awful voices trapped inside.

It’s like the sound of a thumb paging rapidly and nervously through a phone book. You tense your body and strain your ears, as if the auditory sense were a muscle too, though at first you figure that you must’ve heard wrong (being a night watchman has taught you that darkness and silence can transform the most insignificant, harmless little sounds into terrifying giants), but then you hear it again, almost exactly the same sound, and it even lasts longer this time, you still can’t pinpoint its location, and you feel a vein begin to pulse against the sweatband on the inside of your helmet. (We had three burglars last winter and they all got away scot-free; if you look close, you can still see the crowbar marks (he’d pointed at the door and sure enough there were some small, rectilinear marks chipped into the light wood around the lock), one of them was always skulking around nearby, anyway he came in through that window there (he’d pointed) but since I always have my dog with me now I hope I run into him again someday I’ll just say Get ’em King and King’ll be on him and he’ll take a hunk out of his arm and if the guy puts up a fight he’ll take a hunk out of his other arm and I bet the thief’ll thank God when the cops finally come to haul him away (he’d chuckled in enjoyment at the thought, the night watchman, that is, who’d trained you on your rounds)). You finger the barrel of your gas pistol, but you leave it holstered, perhaps out of pride (or perhaps because your fear of looking like a stupid coward is greater at the moment than your fear of the unidentified sound, or perhaps because you’re trying to keep calm by underreacting), but still you walk at something resembling a hurried pace toward the sound (which you can’t hear anymore). Narrowing your eyes, you focus on the conical beam of light cast by your flashlight as it darts here and there at a staccato pace, tapping its way forward like a blind man’s elongated cane, though not tapping at random, since you already know the location of all the different machinery, as well as all the cabinets and doors; you fumble your light over the cabs of the big trucks parked in front of the garage doors, and you catch a glimpse of fuzzy dice hanging from a rearview mirror, but otherwise you find nothing out of the ordinary. Then you hear it again, a steady fluttering sound, and then you see it, a shadow that transforms from a vague dark clump to a circling body, when it takes off from a steel beam and begins to fly, a dark silhouette against the transparent fiberglass panels way up on the ceiling (dawn is apparently underway), you search with your light and, finally, you find the bird, which immediately (you even catch a gleam off its beady black eyes) flies off into the half-dark.

If you wanted to you could flip a switch and open all the big, electric garage doors at once. Instead, it’ll stay trapped behind closed doors until the day after next, while the hours pass away and the early summer light, filtering down through the fiberglass panels overhead, reveals the room in more and more detail, and it’ll be forced to navigate in a closed space, like a fly trapped in a shed, you think, as you ride your bike (and watch for stray scraps of iron in your path) toward the last station key, which you turn in a clockwise direction (and which results in the ubiquitous creakcreak). You open the heavy metal door (it’s almost identical to the one you entered by, although this one is located at the far end of the hall), and lift your bike (with difficulty) over the threshold. The door slams shut (it’s a loud sound in the silence, but not quite as loud as it’ll be inside the building itself: you imagine the trapped bird fluttering back and forth in terror as the thunderous echo rolls away and dies). You’re outside, the weather is mild, you smell wet grass, the day will be cloudy, but even so you can still tell that, during the short time you were in the warehouse, it’s gotten lighter out, the artificial lights are in the process of weakening, it’s gotten so that beneath the streetlamps you and your bike cast sharp shadows across the asphalt; you forgot to turn it off. That’s a bad sign. Once again, you’ve left the light on while you slept, and once again, you’ve managed to sleep with your eyes open part of the time, part of the time with your eyelids drooping, but in any case with eyes that are swollen, heavy, and exhausted, though the minute you close them the room will begin to spin like a wheel of fortune (no, like a wheel of misfortune), it’ll spin uncontrollably with the lights on, the curtains drawn, the closet door half open, your socks strewn about, the whole room a centrifuge with you in the middle, and bile rises in your throat like water being pumped, or rather regurgitated, out of a washing machine, that’s exactly how it is, you think, and it’s only by keeping the light on and forcing your eyes to stay open that the spinning can be stopped, or rather braked, held at bay anyway, though as usual you’ve somehow managed to sleep, so to speak, with your eyes wide open, starring stiffly out into space like a manikin.

Your arms are covered in white. A white shirt, which you can see to the extent that you’re able to keep your (squinting) eyes open, but you realize that it’s unbuttoned at the throat and that you’re apparently missing a tie; at least you’ve managed to keep your pants on (a brief glance confirms this), and both, or actually, one black shoe; this latter realization is made possible by the fact that the blanket, which should’ve covered you, is lying like a heap of mashed potatoes on the floor. After a moment’s hesitation (a frozen gesture), you reverse the direction of your hand, reverse the painful, unfinished gesture toward the light switch, and it feels like a metal grill has slammed into your skull, when you instead stretch your upper body toward the blanket, grab it by one end and haul it, little by little, toward you; although it feels as heavy as a bag of sawdust or sand, you finally manage to somehow pull it onto the bed and up over your body. You don’t know if today is bleak and gloomy, silent and snowy, or ice cold and clear, but nonetheless you scowl at the new morning, you despise the thought of a new winter’s day, of a new day in general, there’s no way you’re just going to let yourself be wheeled into a new day, like they’d wheel you into an operating room, where a painful and debilitating surgery is waiting. You fall sleep again.

The next time you wake up, it’s light enough to see the numbers on the alarm clock: three minutes after eight. Did you remember to go shopping? You might as well get up. Is today the day they’re launching the campaign for the new retirement accounts? You don’t remember. What you do remember are those bank employees in their bleak gray or midnight-blue suits, those dour, obsessive-compulsive, humorless, bean-counting, anal-retentive pricks, arriving at the office and clutching their coffee mugs with grave and arrogant expressions, while they stuff their faces with free pastries, only theoretically able to find even the slightest bit of humor in his proposed newspaper ads, but definitely capable of worrying about how much the campaign will cost, whether they’re being scammed, whether corners can’t be cut, whether a cheaper medium can’t be found, those puritanical penny-pinchers, those fossilized calculators, holdovers of old-school capitalism’s pray, work, and save philosophy (like the bank president’s inevitable story about his father, the man whom “waste not, want not” made rich, who’d find used nails, straighten them out, and put them in a special box for a rainy day, the same way he stuck every fucking spare shilling in the bank he’d one day be president of, feeding an account that grew, bit by bit, into a gigantic, glittering load of dough, a constipation of cash, a horde of money he could loan out to desperate farmers and broke businessmen at interest rates that amounted to highway robbery, until his account was bursting at the seams, until it had swelled to monumental proportions, until it was a golden erection pointed straight at heaven, and all the while he continued to pick up used, even rusty nails, straighten them out, and put them in a special box for a rainy day); you remember those bank employees and their mind-numbing ad campaign, and still you get up, pressing your hand to your forehead, like that’ll help, only to find it’s covered in sweat, even though you’re freezing. You use your feet to feel around for your slippers. They’re not where they should be, but then again they never are (she always managed to keep them corralled). You eventually discover them way back under your double bed, you can’t possibly reach them without half-crawling underneath, something the throbbing in your head and the stiffness in your arms makes impossible; you look for a tool of some kind and find an old-fashioned wooden hanger (the name and address of the clothes store it came from are stamped symmetrically, heraldically to both the right and the left, and you remember reading a long time ago that some animals, chimpanzees to be precise, use tools, like plant stalks or sticks, that they can poke into anthills, encouraging the ants to march up the stalk or the stick, while the ape, or rather, the chimp slowly pulls the tool out, licking off the ants and swallowing them). Although it takes a monumental effort, you finally succeed in coaxing out your slippers with the help of the hanger: they seem to have accumulated a beard or lichen-like ring of dust on their yellow, suede skin.

You remember then that you’ve already got one shoe (and one sock) on, and, therefore, you’ll have to take your shoe off before pulling (both) slippers on, but then again, you could always wear a shoe on one foot (the left) and a slipper on the other, which would probably be uncomfortable, because the shoe has a heel and the slipper doesn’t, forcing you to limp, or you could try finding the other shoe (no doubt a hopeless task). You finally decide to take the shoe off and pull the slippers on, and so you do that, careful to avoid sudden movements. When you’ve got both slippers on, you miraculously discover your robe beneath a pile of dirty clothes, which soundlessly avalanches off the chair when disturbed, and because you’re freezing, you pull the robe on over your white shirt and pants.

A pattern that repeats itself with slight variations: one last car manages to sneak by the yellow light, and the next car, arriving too late to slip by, resignedly applies its brakes (the going is slow, the roadway slick), coming to an abrupt stop and forcing the car behind it swerve a little into the bike lane, a movement more or less evenly transmitted on down the line (to which you can see no end), something that (from your bird’s-eye view) makes the line of cars resemble a lazy, segmented worm bunching up, until all the cars have come to a complete stop a few meters closer to the intersection; in the meantime, the other traffic light has turned green and the first car either gets underway smoothly or with a slight jerk (analogous to the abrupt stop made by the cross traffic), and this movement is transmitted from the first car on down the line, something that (from your bird’s-eye view) looks like a segmented worm slowly lengthening out, until one of the cars resignedly applies its brakes as the light turns from yellow to red, so that the same process begins again in the opposite direction. Slight variations in the pattern result from cars putting on blinking orange lights and then turning right or left. Seen from your window (while you’re quickly pulling on your robe and fastening its belt around your waist), the whole thing resembles an enormous cross, a cross whose arms are in constant motion, first one way, then the other, like a kinetic memorial marking the spot of a deadly crash.

Did you remember? The possibility you could’ve forgotten causes your palms to break out into tiny beads of sweat (you could inspect them, but you don’t), and you feel your pulse throbbing in the veins of your wrist, and your muscles tensing for no good reason, and you move somewhat more stiffly, but you move, you have to see for yourself, you direct your tottering steps toward the kitchen, trip over a pile of newspapers (they lose their precarious balance and slide out into a rough fan shape), though you manage to keep your balance, you pause in front of the refrigerator door before you jerk it open, causing something (bottles?) to rattle. Milk, cheese, butter, margarine, ketchup, Swiss cheese, yogurt, caviar, geitost, eggs, cucumbers, mayonnaise, sausage, orange marmalade, tuna salad, parmesan cheese, capers, cauliflower, Thousand Island dressing, cheese spread, garlic spread, chocolate syrup, even apple juice, but no bottle of beer, not so much as half a bottle of beer in sight, that can’t be possible, you begin to pull the potpourri of glasses, plastic bottles, squeeze tubes, and random packages out of the refrigerator and to set them on the counter (while you stupidly and against your better judgment think that if she were here now, she could’ve told you exactly where the beer was) to discover whether, for some unfathomable reason, the bottles might be hidden behind something else; it’s possible, but the refrigerator is empty, or rather, it’s empty of all the basic necessities, or, to put it another way, it’s full, full of everything but the one thing it should be full of.

You’re waking up, or rather, you’re sobering up, your tongue feels thick and your mouth feels parched, your throat feels like a rubber hose that’s clogged with dirt or something similar, something that’s wedged in there good and tight, the hose coiled like a corkscrew, and in a last-ditch effort you wrench open first one smoke-colored drawer and then the other, rummaging through the so-called vegetable drawers that usually hold forgotten edibles, rotten carrots, moldy tomatoes, soggy cucumbers, all of them in the process of liquefying into a viscous green scum, and where, at the bottom, you miraculously discover (you must’ve put them there for safety’s sake, so to speak, because you were expecting guests, or, more precisely, because you didn’t want your guests drinking them all up) five squat, more or less neckless bottles, dewy with cold, your hands are beginning to shake, but not too bad, you’re able to unscrew the lid, there’s no point in fetching a clean glass, or a dirty one for that matter, you chug the liquid straight from the bottle, while your hands quiver like some electrical gadget, rivulets of cold foam streaming out of your mouth, down your neck, dripping onto the white breast of your shirt, but you get most of it down, you’re drinking beer, naturally, only losers stoop to hard liquor, how disgusting, you think, you’d just puke it right back up again, but this is beer, cold beer from the fridge.

They swell and fizzle, the small, thin, transparent membranes form domes that then burst all along the glass’s rim, extending out almost over it, so that it looks like foam rubber, no, you think, something living, something that’s in perpetual motion, a motion that is actually a decline, because the number of gas bubbles entering the liquid itself (perfect miniature globes that ascend quick as lightning, one after the other, virtually single file, as if they’re following an invisible thread, which is completely perpendicular or maybe slightly bent) is less than those departing (the foam spheres that burst), and you notice how the soft pillow of foam begins to sink together in the middle, and you know that if you wait long enough the whole crackling, quivering blanket of foam will be reduced to an irregular whitish margin around the glass’s inner circumference, with a few tendrils extending down toward the drink’s surface, where a similar whitish streak will float like sea scum at the beach’s edge, and the streak will waver when you lift the glass to take a drink; but right now the foam is still high, the bursting bubbles are large, and when you lift the glass to your lips, the fizzing gets louder, and you get a foam mustache on your upper lip, which you wipe off with the back of your hand as you set the glass down.

Tranquility. A feeling of deep tranquility sets in after you finish your second bottle, and you uncap the third with ease. A cheerful feeling is bubbling up inside your breast, a profound relief that the anthropophagic winter morning can no longer eat you alive, that you can simply watch the intersection from your window, where the morning rush is just starting to thin out, and it’s beginning to snow, and new-fallen snow is swirling around car tires like goose down, and in a sparsely trafficked side street there’s a pale mist, like cigarette smoke distributing evenly across a surface, or like sheer gauze, hanging over tire marks in the old snow, and if you press your nose and cheek against the cold window and squint down to the end of the street, as far as your eyes can reach, you can see how the contours of the building and street disappear into the warm vagueness of falling snow, hundreds of thousands of swirling flakes culminating in gray opaqueness, which after nearly three bottles of beer strikes you as poignant and beautiful. Suddenly, you remember (and feel a burning pain well up inside you, like northern lights shooting across your emotional horizon, like a form of emotional rheumatism) that once upon a time you stood exactly as you’re standing now and watched her change from a leisurely strolling shadow to a clearly defined individual, as she was emerging from the falling snow: first she was just an anonymous, dark shape, who could’ve been any Tom, Dick, Harry, or Jane (as most people are Tom, Dick, Harry, or Jane to you), and it was just a simple, more or less random spark of intuition that told you to focus on that shape in particular, and as she got closer, you realized that there was a chance, an increasingly good chance that it might be her, and then you’d recognized her clothes and her walk, and finally you’d felt the eureka that comes from recognizing a face at a distance (when the face is still alien, simply a schematic face, a face that could belong to anybody, but at the same time uniquely individual), and then you’d seen her stop at the door. A moment afterward, after you’d spoken with her on the intercom, that is, you’d pondered the seemingly enormous chasm (in time as well as in space) between the nameless shadow you’d first observed and the familiar voice that belonged to her and her alone.

Why not? Why can’t a person do exactly what he or she wants? Because a person is supposed to act “normal”? But no one’s normal, you think. It’s just that everybody has a deep-seated fear of the things that should be said aloud, but that never are, you think. So go ahead, call her. Eat something first, though; no, grab a smoke, that’s far more important, and you start searching through pants pockets, jacket pockets, suit pockets, briefcases, and so on (all while thinking that if she were still living here, she could’ve told you exactly how many cigarettes you had and where they were), until finally you find a crumpled pack containing one smashed and two unsmashed cigarettes in the pocket of the robe you’re wearing, but then the search begins again, this time for matches or a lighter, and again you search through pants pockets, jacket pockets, suit pockets, briefcases and so forth, as well as through the three pockets of your robe, though this time you come up empty-handed, so you broaden the search to include tables, cabinets, various nooks and crannies (so to speak), but still you come up empty-handed.

You turn one burner (the smallest one) to high. You hear a phone ringing (and you can’t picture how the ringing telephone looks, since you have no memory of it, since you’ve never been there, on the other end, it’s like calling out to someone in the dark), it rings a second time, no answer, a third time, no answer, a fourth time, no answer, a fifth time, no answer; the sixth ring is abruptly cut off by someone picking up. An irritated and sleep-drunk female voice demands What? and you can’t be sure it’s her, but the voice reminds you of her, and so you say your name, and she exclaims, Oh God, not you! I though I was done with you for good; and you mumble something like I was sitting here thinking of you, thinking of the time you just appeared out of the nothingness of the falling snow, and how your voice on the intercom. and she interrupts you with Do you realize I got home at five o’clock this morning the flight was hell fucking weather we had to make an emergency landing and wait six hours before continuing on the passengers whined like little babies and some famous fuck got drunk and threw a fit and wanted to get into the cockpit and force us to land someplace or other and he insisted he had a conference to get to and to top it all off you at nine fifteen in the morning what the hell do you want? and you say I just wanted to tell you I was sitting here thinking of how beautiful you were when you came in from the snow, you had rosy cheeks and drops of melted snow in your hair, and the others (you hesitate) they were nothing, absolutely nothing, I’m completely and truly yours, and she says Pain and solace, that’s all it is with you, pain and solace, but I’m definitely not interested in your pain and there’s no way I’m going to be your solace you’re a sentimental fuck like every other brutal, sentimental fuck you get real emotional when you’re doing something shameful. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if at nine o’clock in the morning and twenty-five years of age you were already drunk, are you drunk? don’t you have some job to go to? you’re off today? why in the world would you be off today? never mind, it’s not my business, right now my business is sleeping do you hear that SLEEPING without being interrupted by your idiotic whining and your pseudo-nostalgic crocodile tears no it doesn’t help to say you’re sorry at least when you’re sober you can still remember that I don’t give a damn about you all I want is to be left alone shut the hell up, and suddenly, rage shoots through you like an electric current and you say You fucking cow you prima donna you two-faced bitch it was you who. with two. oh so sweet and charming when your ego’s telling you you’ve got the upper hand. cynical as fuck when you have nothing to gain you’re just a cash register with. though your last word, a vulgar epithet for female genitalia, doesn’t travel any farther than the microphone in the receiver, because when the conversation degenerated from dialogue to monologue, a click on the words “cash regist. ” told you she’d hung up.

You really need a smoke. Unfortunately, you remember that you have neither matches nor lighter, and you know it won’t do any good, but you go into the kitchen to have a look around. To your surprise, you see that one of the burners on the stove has changed from a rusty gray to a bright yellow-red. Hmm. Without turning it off, you spread your fingers and reach toward the glowing circle until your hand is hovering only a few millimeters above the surface, and you feel the heat scorch your palm and the underside of your fingers, until the pain grows stronger than your will. You shake your hand and blow on it a couple of times, before fishing a cigarette (one of the unsmashed ones) out of the crumpled pack, placing it between your lips and bending over until the end of the cigarette touches the burner (and you feel the heat again, this time against your face), at the same time taking a few quick puffs until both tobacco and paper are burning, and you can feel the bitter smoke enter your lungs, first in short, stingy pulls and then in longer drags, you hold the cigarette up and examine its glowing tip, good enough, you turn off the burner but you remain standing there, spellbound by the glowing metal disc, which looks as though it should be flowing (like the images you’ve seen of molten metal flowing like orange juice in a smelter), but at the same time it seems thick and syrupy, a wheel of molten metal, a flat, red sun, metallically glinting through passing clouds, now covered, now visible, with an unreadable inscription, like a worn copper coin from a long-dead empire. Sunset, but still daytime, you’d gone to the last stop on the line to meet someone (you’ve forgotten who), and that person wasn’t there, and then the trolley had arrived, making a last loop and coming to a shuddering halt, as the tin cans tied to its bumper had stopped their rattling. And then everything was still.

The trolley was black, and it looked like it had been through a fire or an explosion or maybe both, a wreck with no real route, but with a red cross on the door, and then the doors had opened (the red cross had folded back and disappeared) and out had stepped a short, stocky, bareheaded (and bald) little man dressed in a shabby overcoat; his fingers sparkled with large rings showcasing various small gems. You thought he looked threatening, and you tensed yourself for a fight, but upon closer inspection, you decided that his face was actually warm, gentle, and a little sad. Rings sparkling, he’d approached you and asked in an encouraging tone, Are you looking for someone? and, suddenly uncertain, you answered, Yes, but she’s not here, there must’ve been some misunderstanding, I don’t think either the clock or her heart works at night (it was suddenly night) and he said, Don’t worry about that, that’s not the reason you’re here, that was just an excuse; no, what you’ve got to understand is that meaning can be found in meaninglessness, and that these meaningless words hold all you need to know. Then he turned and vomited all over the platform. After that, he climbed back into the disfigured trolley, the doors closed (you noticed that the red cross was now a skull), and the trolley had descended toward the city and disappeared.

It’s not your first step off the bus but your second that finds the ice, though it’s crushed, of course, since it’s pretty late in the day and plenty of people have visited this stop in the meantime (and one, or rather many of them have one by one crunched their way over the crisp autumn ice covering the puddle’s surface); all that’s left is a crusty, dull, sugarlike coating around the edges, but it still crunches beneath your weight. You’d have thought the puddle ice would surely melt during the day, but obviously it didn’t, which, you think, is a definite sign of late fall, early winter. You reach up to tighten your scarf, but find you don’t have a scarf. Your tie doesn’t help at all. As a result, your throat is doomed to stay cold on your walk across the big, mostly empty parking lot (it’s nearly always empty, you don’t know why it’s even here, every now and then it gets used by a driving school, which sets up a row of blinking plastic cones that look like witch hats for future motorists to drive slalom through at a slow, almost walking pace). The lot seems bigger than usual. Cold increases distance, you think; the colder you are, the farther you’ve got to go. Enormous rayon brushes, like electric, Brobdingnagian dish scrubbers, are separated into festive colors: yellow, red, blue, black, though now they’re hanging idle, a fact you observe on your route past the car wash. Although the sliding glass doors leading into the garage are also closed, you see a couple of mechanics inside, one bends over and points with a tool, the other makes a dismissive gesture. It’s not snowing yet.

Still, every ape, every goat, every frog is conceived and born, every one of them started out as a clump of cells, a little gob of life, you don’t have to be mammalian to begin life as a clump of cells, you think, continuing your train of thought, everything’s conceived and born unmetaphysically, in the most vulgar biological way possible, ergo, on the most basic level, there’s nothing separating a human being’s conception and birth from, say, an ape’s, or a goat’s, or a frog’s. (Animals are only interesting to you insofar as they can be used as examples in this argument.) Furthermore (and this is an incontrovertible fact), life has evolved from simple forms to increasingly complex ones over billions of years, though the complex ones are made up of the same basic material as the simple ones, they’re made up of cells, that is, where life, so to speak, is housed, and to make a long story short, you think, everything that now exists came from something that existed before, every complicated life-form from simpler life-forms, all intelligent life from unintelligent life. Given that apelike creatures, the so-called primates, emerged along with other mammals after a good hundred million years had passed, you summarize to yourself, while you see (without seeing) a stack of motor-oil cans (SALE ON OIL), and these primates developed into primitive man, and these into modern men (physiologically speaking), one encounters a real brainteaser, namely: when, at what stage was the immortal soul suddenly and without warning implanted, or better yet, injected by divine syringe into human beings, probably into their brains; at what stage in the evolutionary game did this happen, since evolution implies biological continuity? On the other hand, if the soul wasn’t suddenly, miraculously injected into the more or less apelike, mortal human body, then how can the soul be free and immortal, if, that is, it evolved with brain cells? At exactly what point did human beings become immortal? Is Homo sapiens neanderthalensis, for example, doomed to bite the big one for all time like any hyena or louse, while Homo sapiens sapiens has divine, immortal substance and will enjoy eternal life? Therefore, you conclude (once again), human beings don’t have immortal souls, it’s flat-out impossible, which means she can’t be in hell.

To you, a gas station is a foreign country. You’ve never learned to drive so-called motor vehicles, and if you don’t actually enter the gas station as an illegal alien, you certainly do so as a rather nervous guest (you remember with discomfort the time someone asked you, even though you were only a passenger, to put gas in their car; you didn’t even know how to hang the nozzle, or whatever it’s called, back on the pump, it wouldn’t fit, and you just stood there holding it, like it was some kind of exotic life-form, feeling ridiculous). Once you’re inside the store, you’re on more solid ground. You know you don’t want hubcaps, windshield wipers, sponges, ice scrapers, first-aid kits, warning triangles, chains, battery chargers, roof racks, rear-view mirrors, seat covers, window shades, steering-wheel locks, gas cans, jacks, or exhaust-pipe repair kits, hell no, but you also don’t want milk, porno mags, Phillips screwdrivers, Swiss cheese, boxes of chocolate, applesauce, backsaws, ice cream, tiger-striped lap rugs, badminton sets, comic books, key rings, ballpoint pens, coffee mugs, adhesive yellow letters, flashlights, rice cream, clamps, oranges, snuff, baseball caps, or breath mints. You walk up to the cash register and get in line. You see (without seeing) a shelf with chewing tobacco, and while you wait you decide (once again) that you don’t believe that dreams contain any signs or portents, although you can’t get the fat man’s dictum out of your head, which can be interpreted in two contradictory ways, namely, 1) that once things are gone, they’re gone, and that once people are dead, they’re dead, and that what’s dead and gone is beyond all meaning, and has, therefore, entered into the realm of the meaningless, and therein lies the solution to the problem; or else 2) that the most absurd, most meaningless thing a person can dream up is that there actually is such a thing as an immortal soul and that that soul can go to hell.

The dream trolley. It’s got the following association for you: you were standing at a trolley stop (a real one, not a dream one), it was a sun-warmed and robust summer evening, you were on your way to town to meet some friends, and the young woman (was she young? it was hard to tell, you think, she might’ve been in her early thirties, like you are right now) next to you, who had a scarf wrapped around her head (maybe because she had lost her hair?) and an odd dark, reddish-brown cast to her face, had suddenly turned toward the wall and vomited, once, twice, three times, then had simply wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and continued to wait for the trolley. She didn’t speak, didn’t sway, didn’t tremble, didn’t smile. She’d just turned around and vomited. She seemed silent and grave, but it wasn’t the gravity of deep thought or true conviction, she was simply solemn, as if she was in a lot of pain. You pay for two blank, ninety-minute cassettes with exact change.

Someone is standing motionless on the footbridge. As you get closer you see that it’s a middle-aged woman in a gray coat, and that she’s thrown something, it’s impossible to say what, over the rail, and that now she’s following it with her eyes. Afterward, she turns around and walks toward you. As you pass one another, you seem to see a secret smile of forbidden pleasure playing across her face. Since you aren’t wearing a scarf, you tighten your tie and turn up your jacket collar, it’s especially cold in the middle of the bridge where you’re now standing, since it’s unprotected from the natural wind, and since the cars perpetually passing beneath you create a kind of artificial wind, an intermittent breeze, as you continue to lean against the railing, positioned almost dead center on the bridge, right where the arc reaches its apex, as if the bridge were made of elegantly carved marble with lion sculptures adorning either end, instead of concrete, steel, and asphalt, and as if the highway beneath you were a peaceful river winding through some famous tourist town.

She doesn’t have a soul, she’s dead, she’s not in any pain. The kicker, though, is that you can’t be sure, you can never be sure, it’s a perpetual uncertainty on both the universal and the individual levels, you think, and not only can’t you be absolutely certain she doesn’t have an immortal soul (that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it: if you said there was a faraway planet with aliens who’ve got anthills for heads, and every ant is omniscient and eternal, and each ant has a smaller anthill for a head, and every ant is omniscient and eternal, and so on, no one could disprove it; oh well), you also don’t even know if she’s really dead; even now, with the two year anniversary of her disappearance coming right up (you don’t have to look at the calendar to know it’s coming up, you think, like it’s tattooed across on your brain in red ink, like it’s been written in bright neon letters that never quit, that glow day and night). Theoretically, she could just reappear out of nowhere, she could return from adventuring in an exotic land, she could come back from a steaming jungle chockfull of cackling beasts and strangling vines, and be exactly the same, just two years older, the same exact person, large as life, herself, exactly the same.

You don’t believe it, though. You’re not one of those people who still carry around a futile hope after five years, twenty years, twenty-five years have passed, and you remember what the psychiatrist said, how when someone finally convinces themselves to do it, they get excited, cheerful, they seem happy, energetic, and everyone thinks they’re getting better, but in fact they’re not getting better, they’re just grimly, morbidly happy because they’ve finally decided to do it, and you remember what that train engineer said, how the bright headlights had shown a woman headed straight for the tracks, how she’d had a great big smile on her face, an apparently happy smile, a last happy smile, before she got splattered all over the front of the train, but it wasn’t her, that was just a documentary you heard on the radio, and it was awful to listen to, but you listened to it nonetheless. It couldn’t have been her, because her body was never found, although you’re sure she’s dead, and the worst part is, you can’t be sure she doesn’t have a soul, and, therefore you can’t be sure she’s not in hell, you don’t think she is, it goes against all reason to think that, but what really gnaws at you is that there’s no way to be absolutely one hundred percent sure. It doesn’t help to tell yourself that these aren’t thoughts you’ve freely chosen, that they’re thoughts that have been forced upon you, they’re thoughts that think against you, they’re thoughts like an executioner’s tongs around your limbs, they’re thoughts that push and shove and herd you into a corner, though you have no idea why they want you there, only that they do in fact want you there. You realize now that you’ve got a death grip on the aluminum metal railing, and that you don’t have your gloves on, and that your fingers are freezing. You shove your hands into your pockets. A big trailer with a flapping tarpaulin throws ice-cold air your way as it vanishes beneath your feet.

The dog is enormous, it comes to above his thigh, it has thick gray fur, it looks like a cross between a musk ox and a wolf, and even though the young man with the leather jacket has got it on a leash, you can tell the older man with the gray beard is still afraid. The young man’s voice is low but intense; all you can hear are snippets. we don’t own the exclusive rights to joie de vivre. and . some must sacrifice so that others. You see that the bushes and trees out in front of the building have been swaddled in burlap against the coming winter. Religious people, you think, drone on about the mortal coil and the soul shaking off its earthly bonds, and in a way she is free, because she’s well beyond the reach of all sickness, all injury, all breast cancer, arthritis, psoriasis, kidney failure, angina pectoris, blindness, hemiplegia, appendicitis, diabetes, brain tumors, blood clots, slipped discs, muscular atrophy, fractured thighs, cuts, cerebral hemorrhages, the list would go on forever, you think, if you cataloged every misfortune that could befall someone over a long lifetime; when you come right down to it, she’s as invulnerable as a fluffy white cloud floating over a bloody battlefield on a bright summer’s day, but she’s not floating, you think, because she’s not in heaven, she’s lying in the ground, waiting, maybe she’s lying in the same ground you walk over every day, just lying there waiting, because if she’s going to go to hell, then she’s not there yet, in fact, she’s got no idea hell exists, she’s past all earthly experience, to put it bluntly, she’s dead, literally dead to the world, and, therefore she has no concept of time, which means that the time spent waiting is like no time at all, and even if thousands of years were to pass between Judgment Day and the resurrection, it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference to her, and the fact that you can be walking around knowing that Judgment Day and the resurrection haven’t happened yet doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference to her, because she has no knowledge of it, and when she’s raised from the dead and wakes up in hell, the transition will be instantaneous, speaking phenomenologically, it’ll feel like she was never gone at all, the transition from her very last moments of life on Earth to an eternity in hell will be direct, after all, the dead don’t care if only ten days or a whole ten thousand years have passed between the moment of death and the day of resurrection, which just goes to show, you think, that these religious hypotheses are presumptuous, to say the least, because they nullify time as a dimension, and they punish those sins and reward those good deeds that were committed in time outside of time.

Though most of it has come off, the price tag on the windowpane doesn’t completely peel off this time either. The paper is still stuck to the glue in grungy, whitish strips resembling fuzzy mold, and it doesn’t help that the letters and numbers have become unreadable, that only one corner of the original surface, once a perfect rectangle printed with text, is all that remains (though there’s less of it now, since this time you’re able to scratch some of it away); graffiti and price tags, which can both be removed, and which both always spring up in another place, are like parasites, unconscious urban parasites, and they really bug you. You give it up. You unlock the door. The sight of your apartment makes you remember. You lost weight, you only slept three or four hours a night, that is, if you slept at all, you trembled uncontrollably, suffered through crying jags, you barely had enough energy to go to the store, your apartment was filthy, showering was a true Herculean task, your toothbrush felt as heavy as a hammer; it was like the combined weight of her disappearance and the high probability of her death rested on a piece of sandpaper that was in the process of whittling you down to nothing.

Since the bouillon is scalding hot, you drink it in small sips, though you clutch the bowl to warm yourself while you rest your elbows on the table. You shove the package of cassettes aside. You don’t know why you went and bought the damn things after all this time. It’s not like you’ve got anything left worth recording, you think; you’d originally planned to record moments of your life, but you’re not living life anymore, it’s like you’ve been shelved, placed in storage, stuck in a meat locker, and the only sound in a meat locker is the hum of the motor, the same hum day after day, never growing louder, never growing softer, just the sound of that motor, like a hum, almost a buzz, and the persistent cold wouldn’t register on tape anyway. It’s ironic, you think, that in order to keep food fresh, you make it inedible by freezing it. You’re not hungry. The water’s boiling. The two sausages in the pot have split their skin. You’re glad about that. It’s cathartic to watch something split apart. You lift your head and look out the window. It’s not snowing yet.

Sparklers. A ring of them around a bottle of champagne left to cool in the snow. Each small stick had sputtered, sparkled, and glowed with a pulsating white light, she’s the one who brought them, your hands were freezing back then, too, but it didn’t matter, you warmed them in her coat pockets while you watched the fireworks display in the snow. She had no head for the big picture, no, she had absolutely no head for the big picture, sometimes she didn’t know what year it was, or what country she lived in, but she was amazing with the little things, she was a wellspring of surprises, small gifts, which, you think, is exactly what you shouldn’t be thinking about right now, because you know where it’ll end, but you can’t stop yourself, the little hill leading down to the flat, snow-covered ground was slippery, so you’d held onto each other as you slid down it, and she was the one who patted down the snow around the open champagne bottle, stuck the sparklers in a ring and lit them, all but two, which you held in your hands. Two sparkling fountains, two miniature comets in the process of burning out, and there were brief flashes of light cast back from countless mirrors, from a different place each time; under the empty, cloudless, uneventful, intensely blue midsummer sky, you can see how the water on the horizon looks like a shimmering, rippling expanse of tin, which appears almost black in places, before it grows lighter (a long, narrow streak), then darker again, then greenish as it nears land, then yellowish, until, finally, it’s clear where water meets sand, when the waves, which a few minutes ago looked like a glittering streak on the water’s surface way out toward the small islands, are blown shoreward to break on the beach in smooth, foamy tendrils, constantly renewed, which are bowed and paper-thin, translucent membranes with even tinier ripples or wrinkles on their surface, an endless supply of waves rolling in, each casting thin films of water over the fine-grained sand, which is mixed with small pebbles that the sea has worn thin and satiny smooth, not to mention the last remains of creeping, crawling beach life (black and bone-dry above the high-water mark), namely, shell fragments belonging to mussels, lobsters, crabs, snails, barnacles, sundry tiny creatures, all these hard objects the sea eventually crushes and grinds to pieces after the life has left them, the same way the sea slowly turns stones to sand with a patience that only something completely insentient (and no animal driven by instinct) possesses. Aside from the small boats and the eternally restless sea birds, and despite the shimmering ripples and lapping waves, the whole thing gives you an impression of immutable tranquility.

Shred it, you’ve got to shred the newspapers and roll the sides up, otherwise it’ll be packed too tight and won’t burn well, or won’t burn at all, even with the wind blowing, which it does pretty much around the clock here at the seaside, constantly blowing your hair into your eyes, which irritates you, and you keep one foot on the paper so it won’t blow away while you toss the broken mahogany chair and the mangle, or whatever the damn thing’s called, onto the pile, followed by the cracked cupboard which has rosemaling and is stamped with a date, or at least it was, though after losing a battle with your axe it’s just a nice bit of dry kindling, you know your way around an axe, though you’re not quite sober, but then you’re not quite drunk either, your soul’s just a little empty (that’s how you like to express it), and you’re not afraid to use your fists, they’ve had calluses in their day is what it’ll say in your unwritten biography. You follow the flagstone path up the beach toward the open cabin door once more.

Bingo, Advent stars, pulse-rate and blood-pressure monitors, video tapes in cases, lace panties (black or white), video games played with joystick or light gun, a quartz clock, radios you can mount on your handlebars, a mountain tent, inflatable islands with palm trees, a pirate flag, a set of socket wrenches, a cuckoo clock, sun glasses, dildos (18 or 25 cm in length), leather slippers, a baseball cap topped with a bell, lady’s razors, musical Christmas elves, tennis rackets, a model airplane, rubber boats, and movies, the movies went up the best, the whole thing was a roaring success, you remember, but the movies definitely went up the best, each and every one of them, and in answer to the question of what exactly you were doing, you could confidently say Bissniss, immportn, and you remember exactly what you said next (for some reason or other, you have a much easier time remembering what you say to others than what others say to you) Yep, there’s some differences for sure for example people in the East can work their hands to the bone without demanding huge bonuses or silk pillows for their precious asses but you gotta get something out of the deal you know.

Nothing happened until the third day on the job, you remember, inside the warehouse, behind two boxes of dildos you never did manage to get rid of (the problem was they were too big, so customers kept returning them and demanding their money back); she pretended to resist, and you liked that, you’ve always gone for nice girls, you think, and you laugh as you take down a picture showing him dressed in a sailor’s outfit and sitting at the helm, one hand on the wheel and the other holding a champagne glass. Next to where the smiling captain was on the wall are a few “artistic” drawings; to you, they just look like the random doodles of some macrocephalic kid, they’re nothing but thick, coarse, black streaks and colorful dabs of red, yellow, and blue, sometimes following, sometimes crossing the lines, there’s a name in the lower right-hand corner, someone got taken for a ride on these, you think, but not you, no sir, not today, you tear the drawings off the wall, and for good measure you smash their frames along with the photo’s on the corner of a pine table; there are some pictures still left on the wall, and at least you can tell what these represent, but you don’t like them either, so you smash them, tear them up, kick at the last few shards of glass that hang like transparent fangs around the edges of their frames, though you’re not afraid of them, because they can’t bite. Next, you smash the brandy bottle and the two carafes against the opposite wall. Then you start hacking up the remaining bar stools, though you’re not in any hurry. Splinters already litter the rag rugs and the broad, sanded white floorboards, as if the furniture had fur and has been shedding.

You used to play with a drummer who pounded his sticks to splintery stumps, who banged away until slivers of wood were flying through the air after his maniacal rimshots, and you used to imagine him still drumming away when all he had left were a pair of flimsy stubs, no, a pair of broken toothpicks, and when he had nothing left he’d use his hands, he’d drum the flesh right off his hands, blow after blow, he’d drum them down to the bone, until all the bones in his hands were shattered, and after that he’d use his arms, then his legs, and, finally his head, he’d bang his skull against the snare drum, and it was only when his cranium was pounded to dust that the music would finally stop, or perhaps it would continue in the hereafter. What was it you read in the weekly paper? Oh yeah, that article about the guy who used a short-wave radio to listen to the dead, he even managed to record them, because the dead sent him special messages, messages he archived on meter after meter of tape, they’d prattle on about this and that, and, oddly enough, they spoke German, and even though the man didn’t understand a word of German, he knew what they meant when they said Wir sind die Toten, which the newspaper had translated. We are the dead.

You keep having to push the hair out of your eyes, it’s a constant irritation, in fact, it reminds you of a nagging woman. First comes the newspaper, carefully shredded (not the whole paper, mind you, especially not the pages printed on glossy paper, since they’d only choke the flame), then the kindling, then the larger pieces of wood (mahogany, pine), then the sailor suit, cap and all, then her bikini, because if they like it hot, they might as well burn, you think, burn on the bonfire. The pictures go on top of the clothes, good riddance, you think, to weigh everything down. You push your hair out of your eyes and look out (through your sunglasses) at the sea. They’re sailing (or puttputting, thumping, speeding, whining, etc.) past the bend, a whole drove of them, an armada, going in circles till evening, as though putting on a show, and you think that that’s exactly what they’re doing, they’re pretending to take it easy, pretending to enjoy the holiday, when in reality all they want to do is drink and puke and party till they drop.

The bottles in the woods. You’ll never forget them. Unbelievably, someone had dumped a bunch of empty liquor bottles beneath an overhang at the edge of the woods, there must’ve been dozens of them, scores, you remember feeling like you’d struck it rich, that you’d hit the jackpot and then some; you looked around to make sure you had them all to yourself, and sure enough you did; afterward, you moved every single bottle a suitable distance off the mountain path and then, after a short pause, during which you took in the true scope of your treasure, you began to break them, one by one, you didn’t hold back, no, you went to town, fast and furious, you were littering and it felt great. Every bottle that broke against the rock wall sent cascades of shards, like droplets of water, spraying in all directions, a sparkling shower that fell to cover the grass and moss growing on the forest floor (it reminded you of fountains down in the city, where you regularly went wading for change), you threw a bottle, it broke, you threw a bottle, it broke, until the last bottle had been shattered, and you sunk down on the grass to rest, exhausted by your day’s exciting work.

Driftwood, empty boxes, old fishing traps, leftover building supplies, and the like, or so it seems. The men are casting long shadows across the beach as they empty out the back of their pickup truck, occasionally hauling out some old furniture, which they carry two by two, while three or four eager boys scamper back and forth carrying lighter loads, though sometimes they choose things that are a little too heavy (tree stumps with clumps of roots still attached, an old outhouse door), which they have to drag behind them, leaving dark trails in the sand. The bonfire, pyramid-shaped, will be massive; one of the boys is climbing up the side of the pile, he’s got something in his hand, you can hear an adult voice calling to him, scolding him, he hesitates, looks up, raises the arm holding the object (a cardboard box?) above his head and tosses whatever it is up to the top, where it stays put, and now you can hear the boy’s excited, shrill yelp, and then the adult voice repeating itself, louder now, and the boy hastily scrambles back down.

It’s your duty to empty out the house, though the simple fact is that some items (like stereo equipment, cooking utensils, the fridge, the TV, to name just a few) won’t burn well, or won’t burn at all, and no one, you think, can expect the impossible. But you’ll make sure most of the flammable stuff burns, because the house is chockfull of superfluous things, you think, things that’ll eventually fall to pieces or be tossed out or be burned up in any case; it’s strange to think that everything that’s here will some day be gone, it’s only a question of time, after all, and therefore all you’re doing is getting a jump on time, lending it a helping hand, and when you get right down to it, you’re absolutely blameless, because everything in the house, you reason, will eventually disappear on its own, not partially, not selectively, but completely and all inclusively disappear, and in the grand scheme of things, the exact moment doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, that is, if it happens today or a thousand years from today. It’s happening today. In the grand scheme of things, everything you’ve tossed onto the fire (so you reason) has already been thrown out, and therefore it’s already garbage, it’s nothing but garbage. Once your thoughts reach this point, they go from being private and inaudible (and therefore inreferable) to being public and audible, and so you declare in a loud voice, which borders upon a shout, Down with junk! Down with junk!

The men stop their work on the bonfire, their Babylonian blaze, their tottering, tower-high edifice destined for destruction, which will be burned up in a matter of hours, and stare in your direction; you sneer (maybe they see it, maybe they don’t) and take a drink, and say in a low, uninflected voice, You high and mighty fucks sticking your noses where they don’t belong I’ll slice off your dicks and bury them together with your yachts and summerhouses so you can rot in hell. They don’t hear you. They just turn around and pick up where they left off. A white cloud draws back and reveals the sun. You undo your laces and kick off your tennis shoes. Since your fly is the button kind, not the zipper kind, you fumble at it for a moment, but at last you manage to get your jeans and your T-shirt and your socks and your underwear off. It’s like buying a used car, you’ve got to take it for a decent test drive, you think, and that’s what you said to her, It’s like buying a used car, you’ve got to take it for a decent test drive, and she’d gotten offended or hurt or (as you like to say) pissy; by this time you’ve tried it and she’s tried it again and again, in a variety of different sets, closets, backrooms, though always in new ones, belonging to plumbers and captains, steel guitarists and army colonels, foremen and lawyers, Punches and Judys, again and again, high-class places and low-class ones, poor ones and rich ones, you tried it out and tried it out, sometimes just briefly, sometimes for a little longer, but never for all that long. It bothers you that you can’t see your own back. At least the spots are fading, though, disappearing into a fresh layer of skin, going into hibernation, lying in wait until the next outbreak. Every so often they make an appearance, and when they do, sun and swimming help; even if your skin is somehow inferior, a worthless organ, right off the junk pile, that isn’t really the problem, you think, since they strike even the fair-skinned. It looks like the sun is having a positive effect and the booze is having a negative effect, so you’re 0 for 0, none the worse for wear, they cancel each other out. You laugh.

They sail past the bend, followed by a squadron of smaller boats full of people who wave at them as they pass, and the men on the beach shade their eyes and point, probably discussing the ship, the sails, its age, and so on: an antique ship, maybe what they call a brig, with tan sails. “Age, and so on,” he’s at least fifteen years older than you, you think, which puts him at about fifty or so, a geriatric captain setting sail through sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety mediocre years, your grandmother’s about to turn ninety-three, you remember, at this point she’s half blind and deaf, her head quivers, her hands shake, she has bursts of anger, then bouts of apathy, bursts of anger, then bouts of apathy, and so on, but at least she’s always willing to lend you money, it’s not like she needs it, she doesn’t know the difference between a hundred kroner bill and a sheet of toilet paper, you think, a one-hundred-and-five-year-old geriatric captain, a skeletal helmsman on a decrepit vessel sailing through the depths of the earth with lanterns extinguished, destination unknown.

You feel strangely sober, and you suppose you should do something about that, because the liquor is top shelf and free to boot. The smell of grilling meat wafts up from the beach; the men who set up the bonfire, as well as a few women, who must be wives or girlfriends or roommates or something, seem to be preparing food. You watch them through a blue-tinted, alcohol-induced haze, which has a slight distancing effect, and they don’t look like actors in a film, but rather like bystanders in a television news report (where a CEO or a politician or a bishop or a hockey coach has a padded microphone shoved in front of his face, while random, superfluous people go about their business in the background, shoveling snow, window shopping, eating ice cream, feeding the ducks, cycling, carrying packages, slamming car doors, pushing carts, leaning on canes, kicking soccer balls, holding briefcases, and so on; it’s only children and insolent teenagers who intrude into what you might call the camera’s private space by staring into the lens, making faces, and carrying on, which diverts attention away from whatever the CEO or politician or bishop or hockey coach is saying, but still, the majority of the people in the picture are only present as so-called chance passersby (as every person’s life, when viewed from his own perspective, is filled with chance passersby), and neither the questions asked nor the answers given are of any more concern to them than a newspaper article is to the fly that just happened to land on it). You’ve got about a fourth of a bottle left. There’s plenty more where that came from.

Flames. And in the distance, coming at you as if from a long tunnel, accordion music, sirens, fireworks, and laughter. And boats: thumpthumping motor boats, noiseless sailboats, dinghies, and so on, all blazing with lights, you see green starboard lights on boats leaving the sound, red port lights on boats entering the sound, and white lights ranging from bright to dim on all boats; it’s an orderly confusion of boats, as if an evacuation, or at the very least a regatta, were taking place in the mild midsummer night’s darkness. The smell of grilling meat continues to waft up from the beach. You realize you’re hungry. You’re also freezing, exhausted, and you have a pounding headache, and each separate discomfort pokes at you like a sadistic surgeon as you wake from your drunken doze, although (thank your lucky stars) you aren’t quite sober, and you notice that your own fire still isn’t lit; so go on and light it, you think. When you stand to piss (and feel drops of warm urine bouncing off the flagstones and splashing against your legs), you remember something you dreamed, it seems so obvious, it’s absolutely the right thing, you think, and you head for the cabin door, which is still open. Buck naked, you grab a bottle, any bottle at random (this time without examining your top-shelf options) and guzzle it, trying to get down as much as you can, though unfortunately it goes down the wrong pipe, so you end up spewing about half of it out (obviously you couldn’t take that much), but you take another swig, gulping it down as quickly as possible, gasping and choking and spewing it out again, until half the bottle is gone, and then, without missing a beat, you grab another bottle from the shelf, open it, walk into the bedroom and empty its contents over the bed in one expansive, sweeping motion before piling up the bedclothes, soaking them with more alcohol, and striking a match.

The bonfire on the beach rages unchecked, the flames whipped toward the water by seaward winds, it periodically gives you goose bumps, you’re naked, your hair is blowing in your eyes, you recall once again that your bonfire is still unlit, but you’re cold, you’re hungry, you drift slowly, almost instinctively, though at least on your own two feet, toward the blazing warmth down on the beach, toward the accordion music too (which, after a last measure, falls silent, so that you can clearly hear the noise made by the large crowd), but mainly toward the glowing bonfire, which will warm your body, and towards the smell of grilled meat, which will nourish it.

The landscape is dark, or half-dark, or a quarter-dark, a mild summer darkness, which means that all contours, all surfaces retain a reflection of the day just past, an unvarying quantity, a dawn (or a dusk) that lasts all night. The pause in the music extends. It seems endless. Sea birds shriek. A group is singing in chorus, though one person is off-key. You hear a car approaching behind you, its lights crawl up your back, pass you completely, stop, turn, and then shine right in your face. Blinded by light, you toast the car with your bottle, before continuing on. When normal sight returns, you see that it’s still a clear summer night; as you walk, the only anonymous shadows are the rocks at the water’s edge and the shapes backlit by the bonfire, as if they’ve been molded from a compact darkness, a darkness as black as the burnt bottom of an old frying pan, black as the pupils of your eyes (one could therefore say that you see the world darkly), all you can see in the mirror is the very top of the candle, a wick and a tall flame shooting upward like a bulb in springtime. Because the mirror is positioned against the wall, tipped slightly back so that it won’t fall over, the flame’s reflection is at a forward (or oblique) angle to the actual candle (directly in front of the mirror), and it looks like what you might (paradoxically) call the mirror’s interior is made up of another space, which has its own light, similar but not identical to the first, real one.

If you look closer, you notice that the candle has a glowing, horizontal ring around its top, or rather, around the wick, where the flame illuminates the wax, that is, right before it melts it down, and furthermore, that the wax running down the length of the candle glistens like snow covered with a thick layer of ice, although that’s only true of the rear of the candle, which you can see in the mirror, probably because the smooth (mirror) surface is casting a reflection back onto the candle, while the candle’s front (which you can’t see in the mirror) is nearly as dark and colorless as the imaginary space contained within the mirror itself — that is, aside from the illuminated wax (on top) and the glistening reflection along the candle’s length (below). The wick is a dark space (as dark as the mirror’s surface) within the innermost part of the flame, which is surprisingly tall, taller than the candle itself (the candle probably hasn’t been trimmed in a while, since the woman who should’ve done it got lost in thought and forgot all about it); it looks like the flame, with its tall, slender, yellow-white (red-tipped) fluctuating form, is lapping at the mirror’s extravagant and costly frame, which is gilded (or, rather, silvered, red-washed) by the light; and why, you wonder, interrupting your visual meditations, are you studying that painting with a mirror so closely? Why are you interested in paintings anyway? Is it because you see yourself in them? No. It’s because it saves you from having to look into a real mirror, and having to see that face, the face that could belong to any thirty-nine-year-old, unmarried man, the face that’s no longer yours after seven plastic-surgery operations, but is instead a cheap imitation or a bad caricature of your face. In paintings, you yourself are absent.

The frame’s solid, rich, and detailed ornamentation, with flora and fauna adorning the corners, volutes and cartouches symmetrically adorning each side, and the huge, teardrop stone (one earring) lying in front of it, or rather to the right of the candle, the long white pearl necklace, which looks like it’s been carelessly discarded, or wrung, as if in doubt, until it appears almost knotted, or like a segmented creature with a hard shell, or some mysterious undersea life form. You can see the sharp, rectangular shadow cast by the mirror (together with its frame) across the back wall, as black as the darkness within the mirror itself (and if it weren’t for the candle’s reflection, you would think it was just an empty gold frame against darkness); you can also see the woman, who’s dressed in a full white linen blouse, which is rich with folds (her upper arms and elbows are just shadows through the cloth), the woman sitting there and staring in the direction of the mirror, presumably without seeing her own reflection, the woman whose breath (or sigh) presumably sets the flame to dancing now and then; her face is half turned away, and you see her pale profile, as well as her blouse’s loose, V-shaped neck, which opens to reveal her breasts, her smooth, back-length, brown, nearly black hair, which is cast back over one shoulder, and the crimson skirt that falls over her feet and obscures them, and the strong, one might even say powerful, plump, folded hands (loosely folded, fingers slightly splayed, so that the fingers of her left hand cast shadows across the back of her right) atop the skull in her lap.

This time the candle is positioned on the seat of a red leather chair, which illuminates the woman on the stool at chest height. She’s clearly wearing a nightgown, which has been drawn up to her thigh and is also falling open, so that her breasts tumble out. Her hair is wrapped up in some kind of scarf or turban, her face wears an expression of mute concentration, she’s bending her head so her neck disappears and it looks like she’s got a double chin, her lowered eyelids tell you she’s focused on her hands, which she holds between her stomach and breasts, while she clenches them tightly together so that only the thickest finger joints are visible, entwined (taken out of context, they actually resemble horse teeth); her thumbs are bent and pressed together at the nail, where, if you look closely, you can see (or think you can see) the louse she’s in the process of squishing, hence the candle placed at chest height. You call to mind the popular theology prevalent in her century, the belief that from the dawn of creation it was already predetermined which souls would enjoy eternal salvation and which would suffer eternal damnation, so that the damned were damned long before they ever actually existed, and the saved were saved long before they ever existed too, and life, strictly speaking, was just a superfluous, symptomatic demonstration of what had already been decided and would remain so from eternity to eternity; in which case, you think, earthly life might as well be declared null and void, and the damned simply declared damned directly in the hereafter and the saved saved directly in the hereafter and then the damned sent straight to hell and the saved sent straight to heaven, from eternity to eternity, without letting ordinary life break out like a pox, and in that case your scars wouldn’t have had to wait millions of years to meet your face, instead they would’ve been standing there all along, distinct and clear as Cartesian ideas from eternity to eternity.

The small popping sound where nail meets nail and the louse meets its end. Maybe it’s audible in the otherwise empty room. Maybe she can feel the fetus moving inside her, as her hands rest upon her swollen stomach, where the fetus is growing, its cells continually splitting, while the louse, for its part, is dying between her thumbnails. In any case, at least this woman is focused on something real, something that actually is (namely, the louse), in contrast to the first woman, who sits by her mirror in apparently richer surroundings and meditates over death and transience, focusing all her mental energy on what doesn’t exist, or doesn’t yet exist, or once existed, or something that contains all these qualities, because she’s not staring at a louse, or at the mirror, or at the flame, or at the flame’s reflection in the mirror, no, she seems to be staring at the darkness, or at the contrast between the light and the darkness, as if she’s already anticipating the darkness that’ll fall the moment the flame flickers, flares up, and dies, or more precisely, the moment the red-orange glow vanishes from the wick, sending up a wisp of smoke (which will be invisible in the darkness), although she’ll recognize the strong, unmistakable scent of a candle gone out, but all she’ll see is the wavering afterimage left by the flame, and finally just a few flickering, fluctuating points of light.

That moment hasn’t arrived. There’s still time to wait and think, to stare into the mirror, as you’re doing now, without seeing anything but the glowing flame and its reflection, the elegant flame that flickers and writhes and shifts color, although it stays more or less blue around the wick, more or less red along the outer rim, or white, a white light filtering as though from a slit falling on a strip of paper, accompanied by a weak, rattling, grumbling, electrical sound, like the kind made by an old adding machine, and you realize you must have been traveling for a while now, though you don’t remember anything that happened after you stepped into the car. Obviously, it’s happened again, you’ve had a complete and total blackout without dreams or visions, and it lasted longer this time, as if your life were a film and some spiteful person had gone and clipped several minutes out of it, or as if it were a book with page after page of perfectly printed text, and then a blank page, and then perfectly printed text again, as if you’d been brain-dead, a dead brain stuck in a living body for about five minutes (or however long it’s been), and even though you’re awake, you’re in danger of disappearing again, it could happen any minute; you don’t like it, and you should probably see a doctor, you think, after you’ve done what needs to be done. There’s light enough (though the morning rush-hour traffic hasn’t even started) to see the buds on a birch tree, like little green tongues sticking out of dark husks, when the car stops at the next intersection, while, in answer to your question, the driver informs you that it’s a data feed with information about routes, mainly about routes, but also reports of bus stops with long lines, blocked roads, possible traffic accidents, hazardous driving conditions (for example, a drunk guy impeding traffic on this or that street), stolen cars, or other criminal activity.

The long, rolling Pacific thunder, which you can hear from your bungalow’s terrace up above the sandy beach, where blue waves gather themselves before being smashed to foam upon the sand, there’s no winter here, you think, no season but the long, endless summer, but even then trade winds ensure it never gets too hot. You ask if the machine lets him send messages out too, but the driver tells you that he has to use the radio for that. Your driver likes to go fast (he’s pushing the speed limit), but to keep the ride smooth, staying in high gear as he cruises along the four-lane highway. As you pass by, you see a store selling light fixtures, hundreds of them in every conceivable shape and size, and every one of them is lit inside the old, white, wooden house (probably a private residence once), as if the fixtures were a flock of odd creatures clumped together for the night, fireflies, say, or maybe a hive of bees, or else rocks, clusters of rocks containing gleaming crystals, precious stones, diamonds even, and, horrified, you contemplate the enormous electric bill this kind of extravagant advertising must produce, money that could’ve been better spent elsewhere.

Like white cliffs in the morning sun, right after the intersection with the two gas stations (competing businesses, one on each side of the street; a man in blue overalls is spraying down the asphalt with a long rubber hose in front of one), the massive high-rises, which seem lifeless and abandoned, a kind of gigantic monument of the past, temples, ziggurats, or mausoleums that cause explorers to speculate on why they could have been built and what function they might have served. Carefully, you slide your hand down into the brown bag and fondle the butt, with its well-rounded, ergonomic form, and your fingers close joyfully around it before you heft it, testing its weight, before abruptly letting the weapon drop back into the bag, without a sound, and instead rest your hand on the thick, padded door handle. You’re glad you know how to hold your tongue, otherwise they would’ve just laughed at you. You know the name of the island backward and forward, all of its weak, rolling vowels, like undulating waves, and the bungalow is supposed to be up the hillside a ways, with a view of lush green lava-formed ridges, and with the beach down below, located just a few minutes away down a winding path, a nice, leisurely stroll, you think, in the tropical warmth, which allows the perpetual use of shorts and sandals and a loose, short-sleeved shirt covered in flowers.

They work around the clock, probably to keep the ovens going: brown smoke floats on the spring breeze. You’ve seen the gigantic portal crane lower its circular magnet toward the veritable cairn of scrap metal, an amorphous pile of twisted shapes, old machinery, car wrecks (you take a moment to ponder whether the car you’re sitting in will ever end up there), tin plates rusted through, ruined vats, and so on, together with a random assortment of other pieces of metal, some larger, some smaller, whose original function is impossible to guess at now, and if someone told you the scrap-metal mountain was the result of an explosion, a terrorist bombing, a city at war, with such scrap pouring in day and night, the result of the perpetual war, you’d almost believe it; and it has a surprisingly subtle spectrum, which runs the gamut from soot black to snuff brown to brick red, though the predominate shade is dark brown, so that one could argue that the scraps are actually colorless, just as (until they’re smelted down) they’re functionless, superfluous; and you recall how the crane’s heavy, circular magnet was lowered like a safety harness from a helicopter toward the scrap heap, and how the powerful electric current was switched on (presumably by the crane’s operator, who sits in a compartment, like someone in a tree house, up at the top of the crane), so that a prescribed amount of scrap metal instantly became stuck to it, like pieces of Styrofoam stick to your fingers and are almost impossible to shake off (because of static electricity); at this point in the process, the crane would lift a trembling assortment of metal fragments off the large pile (although each time you’ve also noticed that a few pieces at the very bottom manage to free themselves from the magnet’s magical sphere, tumbling the few meters to the scrap heap below), up to a predetermined height, and (free now of hindrances) the crane (its huge portal shape spanning the factory complex) began to roll, accompanied by the squeaking, rumbling whine of its motors and other movable parts, especially from where its massive wheels met the tracks; at which point, when that crow’s nest of scrap metal had reached its target behind the foundry’s walls (something the crane operator could obviously judge from his vantage point on high), it was swiftly dropped straight down through a massive hole, where a fire was burning, you recall seeing the flickering reflection of flames and the puffs of smoke up along the walls; if you were more imaginative or more poetically inclined than you actually are, you could’ve compared the process to the descent of dead souls (the bits of scrap metal) into purgatory (the foundry), where, after a period of time, they’d emerge again in renewed, changed (purified) form, but that old-fashioned, forgotten symbolism simply doesn’t occur to you.

The capital. You’ll obviously have to take a boat to the capital every now and then to withdraw money from your account (the island might have its own bank, you’re not sure), to make any special purchases, swing by a bar, a restaurant, a brothel (if necessary), but otherwise you’ll spend your days swimming, sailing, fishing, organizing a shell collection, building a ship in a bottle, gathering breadfruit and hacking coconuts open with a machete, wandering along the beach, strolling through the woods, sitting on the terrace, sipping a drink while reading newspapers and magazines out of date by a week, a month, reading about events and people that don’t concern you now and that will never concern you again.

The men who are starting their workday or continuing their workday even before the day’s really begun, down there in the scorching heat and metal fumes, you imagine them sweating and toiling away, protecting their eyes with glasses, their heads with helmets, their faces with masks, their hands with asbestos gloves, their feet with steel-toed boots, their lungs with dust-absorbent cloths, down there in blue-collar hell, clueless idiots torturing body and soul for every red cent, and the worst of it, you think, is that they can’t imagine doing anything else, they can’t even fantasize about living a life without work, they’d never accept a paycheck for sitting on their asses (when people like that have a day or even half a day free, they throw themselves into any number of other projects, like carpentry, painting, wallpapering, brick or tile laying, car repairs, roof repairs, weeding, ditch digging, woodcutting, hedge clipping, lacquering, insulating, welding, finishing basements, furnishing attics, and so on, with a frenetic urgency, you’ve seen it, as if they’d been diagnosed with chronic work syndrome and knew their bodies would crumble to a fistful of dust if they stopped moving even for a moment) and therefore, you think, they don’t understand the true value of money, they think it’s only good for buying things, whereas, you realize, with a sudden flash of insight, what it actually guarantees is freedom from work (presuming you’ve got enough of it), from any and all work; a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you drive by in your taxi and think of all the stupid idealists who’d rather slave for the state than for a private firm, who think it’s better to crawl on their bellies through public shit than make a living crawling through private shit, who believe hauling a res publica baby grand up five flights of stairs will give you less of a backache than a commercially owned piano, and you smile as you think of all the people bitching and moaning about unemployment, as if idleness, not work itself, were the problem, as if standing in line to get by was more grueling than trying to maintain an earnings account (with all its attendant pleasures); all those idiots, you think, who don’t understand the fact that work itself should be abolished, who haven’t even tried to abolish it in their own lives. Sleepwalkers. Mice. Mice on little pink plastic wheels in a pet-shop window, mice expending useless energy on machinery owned by somebody else.

When the taxi starts up again, your head is sucked back against the seat, so your chin juts straight out, and the shopping center, which is still closed, vanishes behind you. Without taking the weapon out, you (silently) undo the safety and curl your pointer finger halfway around the trigger, just a hint at the gesture that will for now remain unfinished. Then you withdraw your hand from the bag. You see the driver looking at you in the rearview mirror, when he’s not keeping an eye on traffic, that is, but he seems to be watching your face (which probably looks flat and preoccupied; perhaps he mistakes you for one of the very few veteran drug addicts who’ve managed to reach their mid-forties), more than your hands. You tell him that you’ve changed your mind, that you don’t need to go all the way to the forest’s edge, that instead you can get out at the first bus stop (you point) after the light.

The morning sun has reached the empty white flagpoles that stick up out of the enormous soccer field, which together with its walls of bleachers and narrow windows resembles a medieval citadel, and you recall that people have actually died in similar sports arenas, which come to resemble battlefields, and in a way are built for war, although they’re not meant to keep invaders out, but to keep opposing sides in; a long time ago, soccer games (presumably) took place off the field, and were (presumably) played in different ways from village to village, including, but not limited to, kicks and punches delivered to your opponent; therefore, you think, it was ultimately the demand for order, for game regulation that has since led to scenes of catastrophic disorder, when a mass of spectators, or at least one part of them, decide to run amok behind the arena’s protective, citadel-like, Romanesque walls, whereupon the strictly regulated playing field, with its white lines and banners, becomes a scene of terrifying chaos. You also think of all the betting slips you’ve turned in over the last twenty years, and the fact that you’ve never won much.

They’ve begun their leisurely springtime detonation, they’re more than buds now, and you can see how each chanterelle-shaped shoot (which looks like a tiny frozen splash) will soon explode to form a clearly defined leaf, whose bright, hazy green will eventually outshine the sooty, greenish-brown tangle of twigs, like a spotlight with a colored filter being turned up little by little until it reaches its full brilliance; eventually the bush will be covered by countless clusters of green leaves, and you’re suddenly reminded of the bushes at school all those years back, and how you could slide your thumb and forefinger up a thorny twig with a quick, firm motion and end up with a little rosette of leaves pinched between your two fingers, like a handful of tiny, green bills that were worth less than Monopoly money, that were only good for tossing in a playmate’s face. Cheap laughs. This summer will be as cold and rainy as it always is, you think. Somehow or other you’ve got to come up with the cash. You’re getting impatient. The reflection of light from an awning window being pushed out (on the top floor of the office building opposite) hits you squarely in the face, causing you to shut your eyes instinctively (a second too late, as always), though this time it’s only an intense, bluish white burst of light, as if a bomb were going off outside your window, accompanied by an almost simultaneous report (which literally causes the panes to rattle), and sounds more like a canon shot in a shipyard (or something along those lines) than a rolling, peeling crash of thunder heard at a distance ever does.

Lightning: it’s as if you’re watching your own optic nerves light up and burn, light up and burn, cremated again and again, grotesquely magnified, an atmospheric neurology, there one moment and gone the next, there one moment, gone the next, remembered and forgotten, remembered and forgotten, deciphered and indecipherable, present and absent, living and unliving, somehow comparable to, no, somehow entangled with the delicate, nebulous skeletal outline (as if a breath would be enough to blow it away) that seems to float in a dark, secluded space, suspended in a glass brimming with darkness, a separate universe, made of a material both stiff and pliable, and (even in the irrevocably frozen images in your X-ray photographs) seemingly dynamic, as though in a state of perpetual, imperceptible motion (like a goldfish suspended in a bowl seems motionless until, upon closer observation, you find that’s it’s been fluttering its tiny, trivial body parts all along); from the side, it looks like your vertebrae are disconnected, drifting weightlessly (and soundlessly) apart; it reminds you of a building exploding in slow motion (although, in this case, it’s a pipe-like structure that’s being blown to bits), or, more abstractly, of a nebula or some other astronomical phenomenon (which exists in a state of continual expansion or contraction) as represented in an encyclopedia or popular science magazine; these formations are often named after the objects they resemble, and in the photo it looks like your vertebrae, stacked one upon another, are staring at you with large, round, black eyes, like a bumblebee’s. Suddenly, you find yourself thinking about flowers and honey.

As simple as this (accompanied by a date, the institute’s logo, the doctor’s name, and a signature that’s apparently handwritten, although upon closer inspection you realize it’s been stamped on): Normal result in lumbosacral column with iliosacral joint. Theoretically, you could examine the X-rays in the glow of the lightning, although in practice the bursts are way too short; twenty minutes ago (you were twenty when the X-rays were taken), while thunderheads gathered in the sky, you were forced to turn on the lamps. Outside it’s nearly black as night (but this darkness is different, it’s a leaky darkness, half-permeated by the sun, which leads to a realization you’ve never had before, namely that the sun must’ve been shining the whole time, completely unfazed by the storm raging below; maybe you’d assumed that storms somehow swallow the sun?), and your X-rays, scattered around the lamp’s bare bulb (you’ve taken off the lampshade), seem completely dark, their smooth, matte surfaces vaguely reflecting the brighter objects in their vicinity.

At first glance, they seem blank. It’s only when you, a balding, fifty-year-old man, hold them up to the light that you’re able to see your twenty-year-old skeleton, from a time when, aside from a mild case of hypochondria, you were still young and strong. After being blinded by an odd, double burst of lightning (as if the first bolt had been reflected off a giant mirror; you have to blink a couple of times, as after staring into a flashbulb), you turn back to the table. Zipper and button seem to float in the dark space above your hips and the lower part of your spine. You remember them telling you to undo your button and open your fly so that the skeleton beneath would come through clearer, the ghostly image of vertebrae gradually shrinking toward the tailbone, the bifurcated hip sockets that seem astonishingly round and thick, like chicken legs or like pale, round rolls, the groin, that is, though the X-ray machine, you think, was clairvoyant, it didn’t see the flesh, because it looked straight through your genitals and into the bare bones beneath.

Maybe that’s the reason you’ve always liked thunderstorms, because it was storming back then too. That was later in the year, though, toward the end of summer. Yes, that’s got to be the reason you love both thunder and X-rays, X-rays and lightning. Perhaps the lightning’s electricity could make the skeleton in the X-rays come alive. An umbrella. A red umbrella. The rain was streaming down, pouring down, roaring in sheets toward the ground, as if someone had turned on the power wash in a utility sink, water splashed over the asphalt in foaming, gurgling, bubbling waves; after only ten minutes the water in the gutter was so deep that cars (including an incessant stream of taxis, their signs all dark) were plowing meter-high angel wings of water into the air, and her umbrella, how she’d wrestled with it against the wind, which had pushed back at her so that she was swaying on her feet, and you helped her bend the umbrella back when the wind blew it out of shape, you had neither umbrella nor raincoat and you’d never seen her before in your life, though you didn’t really see her then either, not yet, not there at the taxi stand, not beneath her umbrella (you hardly noticed how exhausting it was to stoop and bend your knees; she was almost a head shorter than you), but you helped her steady the umbrella against the wind and the rain, though that was just an excuse of course, since she would’ve been fine by herself; every once in a while, your hand would brush hers (but only brush, at that point you were careful not to seem too forward); no, it wasn’t a strategy, not exactly, you just didn’t want to seem too pushy, you were terrified she’d get angry, or offended, and so you refused to get under her umbrella with her, which meant you had to make do with your squishy shoes and your pitifully thin summer jacket, which was totally soaked through (though that wasn’t what worried you). You shivered so much that your teeth chattered from the cold, or maybe you just shivered out of nervousness, and, finally, when there was only one person in line in front of her, or in front of you both, you were terrified she’d just climb into a taxi and disappear forever (since you didn’t even know her name), and so you cleared your throat and asked where she was going, and she told you, and you lied, you flat out lied, you feigned surprise at the amazing coincidence, and you actually had to repeat yourself, because a sudden blast of thunder had drowned out your impromptu falsehood, but repeat it you did.

Now, standing here listening to the thunder pealing outside, as you set down the X-ray and rub your tired eyes, you wonder what would’ve happened, or better yet, what wouldn’t have happened, if for some idiotic reason or other you hadn’t been brave enough to see the lie through, to repeat what you’d just said in a firmer voice: you wouldn’t have gotten to know her; simply put, you would’ve led another life; and you shudder, a shudder mixed with a strange, bitter joy, as you contemplate the extraordinary implications a few chance words can have, how a brief succession of syllables can become the slender strand of spider web holding up a whole theater, a theater, namely, with an empty stage, where soon you’ll both appear, each from your own wing, pause, and look each other in the eye.

Socially speaking, a borderland, or a no-man’s-land, neither the so-called good nor the so-called bad part of town, probably an area populated by social climbers hoping to get a firm foothold in the upper class (or, conversely, a stopover for the debt-ridden, the bankrupt, embarking upon a slow, ruthless migration down to the lower class?). Humble or modestly ambitious one- or two-story houses (their freshly manicured lawns occasionally decorated with sundry knickknacks, like yellow sundials, red wheelbarrows, big iron flowerpots overflowing with marigolds, small basins ringed by statuettes (which show that the owner has missed the mark in terms of the traditional, solid, respectable bourgeois taste he was no doubt aiming for), and, less often, a functional, rectangular swimming pool, whose shape gives it no-nonsense, down-to-business kind of air), houses, that is, interspersed with condos, multi-family homes, as well as small, isolated apartment buildings. It wouldn’t hurt to climb out of the taxi along with her, you decided with studied nonchalance (though you had no idea where exactly you were, just that it was one of those in-between places that was neither east side nor west side). As you stood in front of her door, she hadn’t tried to shield you with her umbrella, she hadn’t even opened it (though the rain was still pouring down), though she hadn’t hurried inside either; she’d just paused uncertainly as she looked you up and down a few times (or acted like she was examining you when maybe she’d already decided?; it’s only now, as you’re absentmindedly glancing from X-ray to the window, toward the lightning’s incessant phantasmagoria outside, that you realize you’d forgotten to ask her since), and, finally, she said Do you have far to go, and you said something like Hmm, Not really, or Yeah, a ways yet.

Luckily (or with halfway conscious premeditation?) you hadn’t sat in the chair across the table from her, that table which could have acted like a barricade, impossible to get around. When there are only two people in a room (two strangers, one of each sex, that is), it can be extremely hard to change seats. And the night, the lightning, the thunder, the rain, the sound of the rain on the tile roof of the building in which she had an apartment, compelled you to speak low, so low you were almost whispering, and it was only after the storm had (presumably) been over for a while that you finally noticed the light blue sky and the low if intense summer-morning — or rather, late-summer-morning — sun outside. And wasn’t it the shadow of that old-fashioned transom window that cast that shape, not across the floor, but upon the far wall, you think, and you’d spread your fingers and let the shadow of your hand move toward the cross in the middle, and just for the fun of it, she spread her fingers and let the shadow of her hand move toward the cross as well, though from the opposite direction, until the shadows of your hands conjoined and vanished there, as if they were meeting in secret, as if some unrecognized part of you had met some unrecognized part of her in some covert, hidden place, in some meeting place neither of you knew about, and that neither of you could know about, because there in the morning sun you didn’t even know each other; perhaps that’s the best stage, you think, absentmindedly glancing at the X-rays of your young skeleton, perhaps that’s the best of all stages when you’re falling in love: the stage, that is, where everything is still a cascade of unrealized potential, like when you’re standing outside an enormous amusement park of silence (just the distant sound of an orchestra tuning their instruments from somewhere beyond the trees), and you close your eyes and sigh in expectation, standing there before the main gate, where lightbulbs gleam brightly against the dark, before you go inside, where the few attractions will just become noisier and noisier, more and more vulgar, as the jostling crowd grows ever larger, the hawkers bolder, the entertainment simpler, the colors gaudier, the make-up shoddier, and the prices steadily higher, so that you’re shelling out more and more money for less and less fun, until your recreation becomes a nightmare, as though these fancy, traditional firework displays were going off inside a prison cell; or the exact opposite, it could well be the opposite, you think, the music dying down to a hesitant diminuendo, the Ferris wheel coming to a stop, until there are no more screams from the roller coaster, there is no more water for the squirt guns, no more electricity for the bumper cars, until even the haunted house is closed, unable to terrify anyone, and the gravel paths are completely deserted. Finally, the gleaming lightbulbs and the fantastic displays go out, one by one, until the miraculous wonderland lies empty and abandoned, and the leaves begin to fall, suddenly it’s autumn, then the frost comes, it’s winter now, it’s snowing, the amusement park is buried in snow, covered in darkness and buried in snow, until the snow is the only thing left gleaming.

You don’t say it, you only think it, because there’s no one to say it to, and anyway, it’d just sound pathetic, sentimental, self-pitying (because it implies that you haven’t been happy since then (and you haven’t been, not really, but that wouldn’t exactly make for sparkling conversation), since you broke up, that is, that you’re unhappy, that you’re complaining), it’d just sound like a line from those tearjerkers women love, like an obscure novel from another century, but you can at least say the words to yourself, and you do, and you wonder how many people out there are doing the same thing, how many people out there are saying to themselves or rather thinking to themselves those unbelievable words, Back then I was happy, and it never occurs to them (to the others, that is, to those people who are happy now, or who have never been happy, or been neither happy nor unhappy?) that it could happen like this, that for a (short) time you could be happy, and then not happy; it never occurs to them because the very idea is sinful, a thought so terrible that if they were church fathers (and perhaps they are, in a way), they would’ve declared it to be the eighth deadly sin, right up there with Pride, Envy, Wrath, Sloth, Greed, Gluttony and Lust — you’re talking about Nostalgia; that’s it, you think (to yourself, always to yourself), because those are the people who are going to build their hopes in the Future; a future, oddly enough, that they regard in nostalgic terms, because it’s something they yearn for, they yearn and yearn, it’s something they’re actively working to produce in a pleasant, large, though not overly large, happiness factory, the wheels are already running smoothly, therefore there’s no point in looking back, there’s just a compost heap of bygone days, days which to them are nothing but junk, rubbish, shit, good for nothing but fertilizing the ground from which their glorious future will spring. The Future. By definition, the future must contain everything good, because if you can’t be happy in the future, but only for a short time in the past, what’s the point of keeping the wheels spinning? what’s there to strive for? why bother whistling while you work up such a sweat? what happens to the idea that you’re building your own happiness? what happens to productivity? to the cheerful hum of productivity? to the sound of your good luck coming home to roost? It’d all go to hell in a handbasket, that’s what. As long as you only talk about it to yourself, though, and only to yourself, you’re welcome to stand around and remember.

The gaps between the vertebrae resemble laughing mouths. You stuff this black sheet back into the envelope, and the others too, reach up, stroke your chin, notice you need a shave, glance at the clock, glance at your crutch, glance back at the clock, use your crutch to twist yourself up off your chair (the hip arthrodesis worked like a charm; opting for a pain-free existence with limited movement over a pain-filled existence with unlimited movement was definitely the right choice, you think), and hobble toward the window. The day is regaining its equilibrium, it’s growing lighter out. To the north, a bluish-black wall of thick cloud forms a swift, traveling version of night; you can still see flashes of lightning, though they no longer come in blinding bursts, but only as thin, white fissures against the dark sky, and the crash is delayed by a few seconds now; practically speaking, the light flares up in tandem with the rasping sound, a striking sound, then settles back down onto the horizon, like a pennant snapping on a speedboat’s stern (where the match is the flagpole), flaring up (for perhaps a hundredth of a second), then retreating back down and finally going out, leaving behind a thin, whitish trail of smoke that seems to vanish before you’ve seen it: you stand with a burnt match (number two) between your fingers, and her cigarette is still unlit.

Something in English, something she’d half-laughed, half-hummed, probably something about fire, you think, something from a song that you, nearly fifty-six years old now, don’t know or can’t remember (you wonder how much younger than you she actually is), and you’re glad the darkness hides your chagrin, at least until you do what you’re supposed to be doing, that is, striking another match (at which point you’ll be revealed in its light). You take extra precautions this time: you fish the match out of the box and place it between the thumb and forefinger of your right hand (you’re left-handed), keeping it as close to your hand as possible, while you strike the head repeatedly against the box (which says: “A penny saved is a penny earned”) until you’ve generated enough friction to set the sulfur ablaze, at which point flame blossoms between your cupped hands, brightening their pink skin and causing light to slip out between your fingers, reminding you of a snow lantern; the flame flickers dangerously, threatening to go out again, so you carefully lift it up toward her lips, like you’d lift a spoonful of medicine, while she bends down, meeting you halfway, and because she’s holding her hair away from the fire it’s not her hair that brushes your hand when cigarette meets flame, but instead one long, heavy silver earring, which bumps against your skin in a curtailed pendular motion that resumes the moment she straightens up again, thanking you with what might be a touch of irony in her voice. She doesn’t smoke, you think. You also manage to light your own cigarette before the wind puts out the match again.

Nonetheless, you think, suddenly cheerful (and still a little tipsy), or rather: you feel, because the thought surfaces (and disappears) so quickly you don’t have the chance to examine it in detail (leaving it like a map with no place names): the earring is totally foreign to you, and the fact that it touched you (instead of her hair, or, better yet, her hand, like you might’ve hoped) means that an alien world has reached out and touched you, because the earring she chose for reasons unknown — you don’t think much of it — but, anyway, whatever reason she had for choosing that particular earring is based on her personal taste, which is based in turn on underlying parts of her personality (you assume she likes attention, perhaps she’s got a flair for the dramatic), which are based in turn on what you might call her inner self, which leads us all the way back to her so-called irrational needs and desires, vulnerabilities, fears, weak points, aggressions, which in turn are based on an extraordinarily complex constellation of collective determinants, the mosquito swarm of major and minor fates who together decree what a person will become, who together brought her to the point of choosing this particular earring; in any case, whether or not you take all that pretentious bullshit seriously, there was still something, you think, that made you shudder at the earring’s touch, namely, the overwhelming sense of foreignness (or, more precisely, the sense of a seductive, feminine foreignness; if she’d been ugly, you would’ve shuddered in distaste) surrounding her, the sense that she was (and still is now, a few seconds later) a strange woman (she is also a stranger to you), but chances are good that she’ll soon be a woman you’ll know better (although you’d prefer even her neck to this woman’s breasts); she asks why you’re laughing, but instead of blurting out this unflattering thought you say It’s nothing, but she insists, It makes no sense to laugh about nothing, every joke’s got a grain of truth in it, you could’ve been laughing at me, and you say Really, there is no joke, that’s the honest truth, and shifting your cigarette to your other hand, you put your arm around her shoulders. She doesn’t say a word, she just laughs.

A public space paved in flagstones, bordered by public flowers that are just starting to drop their petals, at least that’s what it looks like in the frugal gleam of the public lighting, the blossoms are half-rotten and shriveled. You’ve more or less smoked your cigarettes down to the filter, and she tosses hers onto the flagstones without bothering to stamp it out (when it hits the ground, it sparks and rolls a few centimeters before it remains lying in a fugue); you toss yours onto the flagstones too, and stamp it out, and then also stamp out hers. You’ve come to a halt next to a lamppost (which has a paper delivery cart with big rubber tires chained to it) for some reason, and you seize this opportunity to kiss her; at first she puts up a half-hearted resistance, so you only get a corner of her mouth, but second time’s the charm, more or less (and while you kiss her, you forget how you imagined what kissing her would be like), and as your tongue explores her mouth like a dentist’s finger, the image of her face (from the second before the kiss) disappears, but the afterimage, or rather your memory of it, still plays before your mental eye, like there’s a projector located somewhere in the labyrinthine structure of your brain: her sun-browned face, which the fresh air has made glow, forms a strange contrast to her elegant, narrow (undoubtedly plucked) eyebrows, (one is marred by a small wart, and you can’t believe she’s never had it removed), her heavy eyelids, seemingly echoed by the bags under her eyes, or no, as though the pupils are stones someone cast into a pond, sending out rings: first the irises, then the eyelashes (upper and lower), then the eyelids and the skin right below the eyes, then the eyebrows and the bags, and, finally, far away from the impact site, faint, dying away, the bow-shaped wrinkles above her eyebrows and along her cheekbones; you too could’ve been a stone, and someone could’ve cast you into that water, and you would’ve been lost for all time.

No. Not in her eyes, the eyes that are still closed when you draw back your face after you’ve decided that the kiss, or rather the kisses, have gone on long enough, the eyes that just now are slowly opening, blinking up at you, as though she’s waking up from a nap, while a (halfway tender, halfway ironic) smile breaks out across her face, starting with her mouth (bringing to mind ripples in water again), and it’s right then, as she’s standing there smiling at you, that she begins to age before your eyes, that her face wrinkles up like an empty bag, or better yet, like the surface of bread that’s been left too long in the bag, it cracks like the veneer of an old painting, the fine thread of wrinkles appear from nowhere, you think, or no, not from nowhere, from inside her, they were lying in wait, as if they’d been there all along, you think, as if they’d been inside her since she was born, although they were hidden for the first few years, but with time they (literally) begin to seep out, to grow clearer and clearer, creek beds being cut soundlessly into the surface of her face by an endless spring flowing right beneath her skin, as if time were a perpetual trickle of groundwater, or rather as if the old face with its thousand wrinkles had been there from the beginning, complete down to the smallest detail, as if it had simply been hidden beneath the deceptive mask of youth, which eventually falls away, yes, as if the length of time between a newborn’s chubby, wrinkled face and an old person’s sunken, wrinkled face (the expiration period: a single life span) were a negligible quantity, a meaningless hiatus, a forgotten interlude before the next newborn face appears, only to dissolve with incredible speed into a new old face (you can picture how the wrinkles and furrows will spread all at once, like cracks appearing on a huge rock a thousandth of a second after the dynamite has been detonated, but before the rock comes crashing down), and so on, at a relentless pace, until finally you don’t know who came first, the old person or the newborn, you don’t know if it’s a newborn face or an old face you’re seeing, or if just maybe they can emerge both at once.

But what really eats at you, as you stand there looking at a face that’s no longer young, a face that’s smiling (boldly, bashfully) up at you in the half-dark, isn’t actually the fact that her beauty’s fading (if she was even attractive to begin with), no, it’s the realization that the very same processes are at work in your own face (though in your case they’re much more advanced), though it’s not the fact that you’re no longer so easy on the eye that bothers you, not at all, instead it’s the nagging feeling that something important has been left undone, something it’s too late to do anything about, something (you’ve got no idea what) it’s too late to do over, something for which it’s just too late in general: a dreamlike scene is playing in your head, you’re walking down the main street of a small town, and as you’re passing by, each shop on the street locks its doors, one by one they lock their doors, close their shutters, and bar their windows, and after you’ve passed by each one you remember something that you needed, something that it was absolutely necessary to pick up, and it’ll take forever to reach the next corner store, and as you’re standing in the middle of an empty, windswept street on the far side of town, you realize you’re lacking everything, no, not everything, but the most important things, you lack the most important things. However, the allegorical distance of that dream image or parable can’t begin to express the raw pain you feel at this thought.

Did it hurt? You shake your head, bite your lip, and hobble resolutely on, since you were clumsy enough to bang your knee against the paper delivery cart. Insisting on taking a look, though, she grabs your leg, pushes up your pants (you’re suddenly conscious there’s an icy wind blowing) and examines your knee; imprisoned (by your own politeness, not by her physical strength) between her hands, you feel the icy touch of a late summer or early fall breeze against your leg (her hands are strangely warm, and you have to admit you like it); you glance around, because you haven’t forgotten that you’re too old for all this nonsense, but when you don’t see anyone, you let your hands rest against her head while you contemplate the distant hills, which are nothing more than dark silhouettes against the royal blue western sky, where the last slivers of daylight are (seemingly) being compressed into one thin, pale, glossy strip, like the fatty rind on a blue, celestial piece of pork, as if they’re being squeezed together by the massive weight of the oncoming dark, until the fatty rind of day between the hills and the sky finally disappears.

A short pause. Then a new unisonous round of laughter breaks out from the outdoor restaurant, though softer this time, and then all is relatively still. You can feel her breath on your injured knee, right before she kisses it, and you wonder what it’d be like if her hands and her lips were touching you now, you feel the pain in your knee subside, only to be replaced by the uncomfortable sensation of naked skin exposed to the icy air (a feeling made substantially worse by her drying saliva), and you tell her that everything’s fine now, and she believes you; she lets your wide pant leg fall of its own accord, gently pats your knee, and says with mock solemnity, What would your wife think about all this? but regrets it immediately and adds with drunken sobriety, That was stupid of me (you glance in surprise at your wedding ring, as if you’re objectively trying to confirm your married state; after a moment, it no longer interests you), and you answer No, she’d say (you distort your voice, imitate a drill sergeant’s in falsetto): Go back there and bang your knee against that cart again so I can see exactly how it happened and we can avoid these episodes in the future I’ve got enough on my plate already you know and to top it all off I have a terrible headache; and through the sound of your loud, drunken hyperbole, you can hear how spiteful the words are, but she snickers with half-suppressed delight, or with schadenfreude (the laughter seems too young for her, like she’s put on a little girl’s pair of jeans, which have been covered with the names of her idols), just like what you’d expect from an amateur theater’s overly enthusiastic, naïve local audience. You (implicitly) believe the world’s a stage, but you also find that statement deceptive, that the idea implies too much professionalism, amateur theater is what the world’s about, where every role is played in the same clumsy way, both suave and crass, overplayed and understated, frenetic and phlegmatic, rigid and unrooted, insulting to the eyes and ears, which gives rise to the discouraging feeling of having seen too much and too little, because the actors expose themselves in embarrassing ways while at the same time remaining inaccessible, as if they’re dressed in suits of armor, unable to really accomplish a single thing, blundering through life, and, you think, the attempt to challenge stereotypes is the greatest stereotype of all, the obsessively modish businessman, say, who stinks of expensive aftershave and grips his briefcase bravely, who has a head full of trite, pseudo-philosophical phrases that assure him that making money requires real genius, that guy’s just as laughably ridiculous as the righteously indignant student revolutionary, who out of pure ignorance dons dirty rags, which are like a badge of rank, and screams for attention from his much-mourned, imaginary, hyper-conformist, disciplinarian dad, who never got around to giving him a good, sound spanking; only pain and disgust and doubt and sorrow and fear are convincing, though they’re never expressed, you think, they stay locked inside a person, like a flock of stuffed vultures that only come alive when nobody’s looking at them (the vultures, that is), or possibly, on occasion, if fleetingly, when their victim forgets to look at himself.

What if I’m dangerous? you ask, and she says, Yeah, no one can see us down here in the dark. The wind is seriously picking up. The treetops (visible in silhouette against the sky) cast themselves back and forth, sometimes all in unison, in the same direction, other times asymmetrically, bowed in all different directions (as if a gigantic, invisible hand were ruffling a green patch of fur); caught by various eddies and currents of wind, the trees are blown this way and that, and the trunks and branches demonstrate varying elasticity, all of which makes for a surprisingly dramatic show, and the only elements missing from the scene, you think, are flashes of lightning, peals of thunder, and pelting rain, although in reality there’s very little sound save the hum of a car passing somewhere in the distance, and the sigh of the wind up above you.

The path is man-made, that much is obvious, it twists, turns, and slithers down the hillside in hairpin curves; low, steep mounds of dirt piled along the side are meant to keep you from sliding off, effectively giving the whole thing (to the extent that you can see it in the dark) a rustic, old-fashioned appeal. The path itself is covered in fine, hard-packed gravel, though where the gradient is especially variable steps have been cut into the earth and branches laid across them; this particular footpath (the word definitely has romantic undertones) is so steep, narrow, and irregular that you can’t walk it with your arms thrown around each other, locked in an embrace (so to speak), especially not when you’re drunk, so you have to content yourselves with holding hands, helping each other to maintain balance, yanking each other back where necessary, making the descent by fits and starts, sometimes with her in front and you behind, sometimes with you in front and her behind; she might suddenly trip and grab your jacket for support, forcing you to grab a tree branch to keep from going down, and it’s while you’re hanging in the balance, so to speak, wobbling in place, semaphoring with your arms, or more precisely, when you’ve just regained your balance, that she says Do you think you could fall in love with me? (you realize you’d answer her immediately, if she were to ask, but that won’t happen; this isn’t her, and so you answer:) Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that, but she isn’t listening, she just continues, You either will or you won’t there’s no point in discussing it further I think if left to themselves every single person would be screaming to high Heaven for someone to love if they could if they dared after all if you were lost in the forest and terrified you’d call out for someone anyone and hope they’d hear you no I don’t mean anyone but. and during this painful emotional diatribe, you glance up at the sky and see the silhouettes of trees cast back and fort, though down where you are there’s hardly any wind, it’s as if a cataclysmic event is taking place up there in the leaves, something wild, crazy, something that’s got nothing to do with you at all, like a news report about a hurricane hitting a foreign coast, and between the erratically waving branches you catch sight of a large passenger jet, or rather the lights from a large passenger jet, some static, some blinking, some red, some white, and when she finally quits talking, you can even hear the sound of its engine.

A creek. There’s a wide creek down there in the dark, an occasional weak glint (probably due to clusters of leaves being cast together and torn apart against the darkening sky, which still retains a little light, and then the current itself) speaks of water in motion. You stand there silently looking at it, until she bends down to inspect something on the bank, something reddish, roundish, and oblong; she picks it up, sees it’s an empty can, and lets it drop back down (a weak, metallic thud in the silence), as she says, without looking at you, Have you ever raped anyone? and you say, What? but she continues on, One time I met this guy in a bar when I was abroad and everyone said I was crazy to go out alone like that he described in detail how he’d rape me he was an expert he’d stick two fingers up my nose and hold my mouth shut so I couldn’t scream while he pinned my arms behind my back when I said there’s no way he could do all that and he didn’t say a word he just rolled up his sleeve to show me his forearm it was bulging with muscles he lifted weights at a gym he was very nice and polite before he left he bought me an orange juice and gave me his address.

You don’t know what she’s talking about, the only thing you understand is that you don’t understand, and you think that she’d never do that, under no circumstances would she ask such a question or tell such a story in such a way, or maybe you’re just kidding yourself, you don’t know her that well, in fact, you don’t really know her at all, maybe she really could (the very thought makes you sick) ask such a question and tell such a story in such a way, even though she doesn’t seem like the type, but maybe she’s just not as impulsive. If you’d foreseen this little adventure (or “adventure”), you think, you would’ve stopped taking the stupid medicine, you don’t know where this is headed, if it’s heading anywhere, and you don’t know what stopping the medicine would do to you; at worst, it’d be a choice between living and not having sex or dying and having sex, or more likely the reverse, and you suddenly, somberly say, No, I’m not the kind of guy who rapes women, if that’s what you’re after, and she says, That’s what I thought, and she puts her arms around you and rests her head against your shoulder, and says, again with drunken sobriety, You’re so sweet. That’s just the kind of phrase you hate. Or do you? You feel her breasts pressed against your chest. You hear the wind tear at the trees above you, the steady, faint, wild motion of leaves, branches, and twigs, like a roar fighting to escape the throat of a savage beast.

The small forest is nothing more than a dark indiscernible mass of growth now, and while you concentrate on what you should say or do (besides stroking her back and holding her tight), you stare silently into the growing darkness (literally growing, but then again not really, because nothing, neither the trees, the flowers, nor the grass, is still growing); the twig (or the top third of it) is completely drenched with fire, as blood drenches a bandage, a flameless smoldering, reddish orange and yellowish white; you imagine how the parts jutting out the farthest on the bumpy surface will change to creamy white every time he blows on the fire, before fading back to light red.

You watch him hold the twig up to the small iron lamp, whose chamber (shaped like a miniature bowl) is presumably filled with oil, though the oil is still unlit, because it’s the glow from the twig’s tip, not from the lamp itself, that hits the boy’s face, casting a triangular shadow up from his nostril and digging a deep furrow into the area between ear and cheekbone, leaving his whole head from forehead to neck in shadow, so that his face almost looks like a two-dimensional mask (why are you suddenly thinking of a “slaughtering mask,” which is a completely irrelevant association? is it because cattle killed with this instrument often have white facial markings that themselves resemble masks?), with only the irregular shape of the cartilage of his outer ear illuminated by a weak sheen of light. However, even as the twig’s glow brightens or dims depending on whether or not he’s blowing on it, so the sheen of light across his face likewise brightens or dims depending on this same exhalation; in other words, the illuminated areas of his face expand and the shaded areas contract every time he blows air out, and the shaded areas spread and the illuminated areas contract every time he stops to take another breath.

You’ve forgotten the exact numbers, but you can still picture the long covered table and the guests sitting beneath the leafy apple tree, which had just dropped its flowers, as clearly as if it were yesterday, though it was the summer of your sixtieth birthday, and with a touch of nostalgia you think that this boy is still young enough to find lighting an oil lamp an exciting process, even though it will eventually become a rather irritating and mundane ritual (lighting an oil lamp, that is, at the fall of night), though right now it’s an important, almost sacred task that’s been entrusted to him and him alone. You see nothing of the room around him. If something happened to the glowing twig, if it were tossed in a bucket of water, say, the room would be pitch black. (Sometimes you’re gripped by a sudden feeling of rage or scorn, if not to say shame, at the way you cling to this half-darkness, this century-old chiaroscuro with its warm, muted colors, this anachronistic-analgesic refuge, which, despite everything, is still comforting, where the grave is a cradle, cradling you with its soundless, seductive gondolier rhythm, though you’re not dying, you’re only sleeping with eyes that are open, thirsty, eyes that imbibe from the comfort proffered with darkness’s benevolent hand; all this while trying to forget the other thing, the terrifyingly white light, the blinding white light, which is neither natural nor artificial, and which shines in a corridor without beginning or end, without doors, without windows, without other people, just a plain concrete corridor where the white light will continue to torture you for the foreseeable future, because you can’t close your eyes against it, you race through it in panic, you race and race and never get tired, you can’t escape, you’re never any closer to the exit than you were when you started, and if you turned and ran the other way you wouldn’t be any closer to the entrance than you were when you turned around, it’s completely silent here, but still you hear an endless screaming, the air is unbreathable but you never suffocate, there’s nothing to see, but you can’t close your eyes, you’ll never escape the painful white light, the piercing white light without a cubic centimeter of dark, the light of terror, pain is light, and there’s nothing that can put it out, light is pain, darkness is peace, oblivion, it can never be lifted, you don’t know much, but you know that; you want to forget the corridor, and it works, it usually works, but it’ll always be dimly lit somewhere inside of you, as if you were a lamp someone had turned down low, a lamp that someone could just as well decide to turn up high again — namely, when you’re forced to race through yourself in a panic once more.)

His clothes are neither cheap nor expensive. His chest is covered by a mail coat or maybe by a leather apron. The glowing twig washes the two empty button holes on one shirt cuff with a reddish light, like two windows in a darkened building where the fire has gone out. The exertion of blowing on the twig shapes his face, as if it were made of wet clay or molten glass, and causes it to bulge out beneath his snub nose, not just in the cheeks, but also between his underlip and chin, and to a greater degree between his overlip and nose, giving his face an apelike appearance. When he blows upon the twig, that is, he bears a striking resemblance to an ape, or to a chimp rather, as if the physical exertion of blowing air out breathes life into a phrenologically demonstrable atavism, so to speak; just as anybody, you realize, when they’re not (or think they’re not) being observed (or else have an intimate relationship with the observer), or when they’ve just forgotten themselves — can unconsciously contort their faces into the oddest, most zoological expressions imaginable; for example, when they’re picking their nose or concentrating on a highly detailed task (and when the perpetrator is a loved one, particularly during the honeymoon stage, it can make the observer nervous, disappointed, embarrassed: because no one wants to believe that such faces, which at best resemble tasteless, offensive rubber masks, are contained, so to speak, in their beloved).

The little oil lamp, which isn’t lit (and which will never be lit), and his face, which forms an apelike mask and acts as a reminder of the close evolutionary relationship between man and ape (a horse or a bird, for example, doesn’t have the chubby cheeks it takes to pull off a convincing simian expression), of whose common origin you’re well aware, but not him, and not the people you imagine to be around him. If someone from the same time period were to see that fleeting apelike expression by the light of the burning twig, they’d never recognize the deeper genetic truth it contains; it’d just be an apelike mask, nothing more and nothing less, just a comical happenstance, but to you it seems like all the world’s apes, whether living or extinct, Dryopithecus, Ramapithecus, Loris, Colobus, gibbons, baboons, macaques, gorillas, chimpanzees, all the half-apes, ape-men, Australopithecus, and what have you, have formed an impatient, jostling line behind his face, behind the delicate mouth, hands, and eyes, which together control the flame (something no ape has ever done) by blowing on it, holding and examining it (consciously, not instinctively), demonstrating the highly complex relationship between the ability to hold things, the process of exhalation, and the thoughtful gaze, or the reflective gaze (eyes, that is, that can look in the mirror and can recognize themselves looking back), leading to the mastery of fire and thereby altering the relationship between light and dark, so that an individual no longer requires natural light to see, or, in other words, no longer needs hundreds of thousands or millions of years to perfect his night vision, but can simply drive darkness away by holding a burning twig up to an iron oil lamp, which will tranquilly burn through many nights to come. Unfortunately, fear of darkness follows close behind.

The oil lamp will stay unlit. All you can see is the endless, suspended second before the oil catches, while the twig still burns. As a result, you’ll never see the lamp come alive, you’ll never know where it’ll be carried, where it will get placed, what objects it’ll show (a book, piece of paper, handwork, coins, food, a clock, a harness, a deck of cards, some notes? or maybe just steps, the steps leading up to a bedroom?), you’ll never know who will use the light (the boy’s father, mother, siblings, grandparents, other relatives, friends, step-parents, another kind of guardian, a craftsman, priest, civil servant, orphanage director, or someone else entirely?); the next seconds or minutes, which could’ve resolved the question, are shrouded in darkness, just like the seconds or minutes before this one (apparent) moment, and if the twig weren’t lit, you’d see nothing, nothing at all. In the meantime, the first thing that meets your eyes is the light from the keyhole (though it isn’t the stereotypical shape of circle meeting trapezoid, but rather a single point of yellow light, like someone went and drilled a hole in the darkness) in a long line extending straight to your head, a keyhole in the door you can’t use, because you can’t get your wheelchair through it.

Noise, that’s what’s missing now. What noise in particular? The sound of her breathing, or rather the snorting, gasping wheeze of her breath (and you think how utterly ridiculous it is for someone to go on and on about the comforting sound of someone sleeping beside you), which by some miracle you’ve learned to ignore, or rather, the mere necessity of falling asleep out of pure exhaustion has taught you to ignore the deafening biological racket coming from the next pillow over — that’s what’s missing. (You’ve been planning a treatise on feminine snoring for quite some time.) Your arm extends like an antenna toward the other side of the bed, proceeding slowly and cautiously at first (as if your arm, like a snail’s slimy eye stalk, could suddenly retract at will), then in ever widening circles within your limited range of motion, with greater firmness and impatience.

A crumpled sheet, but no warm body. Your hand learns nothing more, aside from the fact that the other half of the bed is uncharacteristically unmade. You turn on the reading light, and instinctively squint your eyes again, although a quick, painful glance confirms what your hands have already “seen”: an empty, unmade bed half. Is the closet door open? Are there clothes on the floor? Where’s the telephone? Is it within reach? Is it beneath the bed? Is the wheelchair next to the bed or at least close to the bed? Or is it far away from the bed? It’s hard to tell in the dim light. The overhead light. If only you could switch on the overhead light. The white, rectangular plastic switch is a weak gleam on the far wall, that damned switch, for four or five years now you’ve been meaning to have an electrician come and move it within reach of the bed, and now it’s too late (what do you mean it’s too late? do you think the ceiling light will never be switched on again?), but you’ve got something else to think about, don’t you? Indeed you do.

A blowgun. With a blowgun, you could practice shooting dried peas (or better yet, steel ball bearings) from the bed until you were a perfect shot, until you could always hit, or, more realistically, bump the switch every time; oh well, and anyway, who’d gather up all the peas (or steel balls) afterward? assuming one hundred percent accuracy, that’d mean twenty-eight, that’s right, twenty-eight peas (or steel balls) a week, you think, that is, one every evening for lights on, one every evening for lights off, one every morning for lights on (during the winter), one every morning for lights off (during the winter) = 4 x 7 = twenty-eight, twenty-eight peas (or steel balls) a week, assuming, that is, one hundred percent accuracy, which isn’t guaranteed; with seventy-five percent accuracy, 3/4, add another fourth to the total, which makes thirty-five, five and thirty, that’s right, thirty-five ball bearings, and that’s just for one week, it’d take thirty-five balls a week to turn the ceiling light off and on, but then who would pick all those balls back up again? you, of course, while you’re sitting in your wheelchair, something to do while you’re sitting at home, slowly rotting in place, you’d do it with a broom and a dustpan, no, a sawed-off broom handle topped with chewing gum, that’d be more elegant, you could even invent a new handicapped sport, in time you’d no doubt hold the Olympic record for the hundred-pea (or steel-ball) dash, men’s division.

Sickly-green, shaped like a bowl, decorated with orange-and-custard colored butterflies, as well as rust-colored leaf-shaped ornaments, which are symmetrical, stiff as flatbread and look like they’ve been carved from paper-thin slivers of ice, not to mention the yellow knob below, with its fancy, tongue-shaped spurs, like a creation of baroque confectionery, triumphantly adorning the bowl’s underside, the ceiling light’s southernmost pole, a decorative pastie stolen from a dancer at some lugubrious night club. The ceiling light. You remember that on dusky summer evenings, when the window stays open to combat the heat, that light has a magnetic effect on mosquitoes, moths, and flies, especially on flies, which after a series of restless, aimless forays, usually come to rest up there with the dust and the other dead insects, which are silhouetted against the glass when the light is on, dead actors in a dead shadow theater. The flying clock. You’ll never forget that evening she went out (for a so-called girl’s night) and never came home, you think, and that fly, a run-of-the-mill housefly, had somehow picked your light out of a hundred thousand other city lights glowing through that wet summer twilight, it had begun to wander around the inside of the open bowl, or rather right along the edge, the periphery, and with the lightbulb behind it, its shadow grew to monstrous proportions, until there was a giant fly shadow sweeping along the ceiling, rhythmically, tirelessly, around and around, following the identical course in the identical direction, a living piece of clockwork, with the light and its dead counterparts behind it, working around and around the same pointless course, the same giant shadow sweeping along the ceiling, a living, or rather a dying piece of clockwork, around and around, the same giant shadow thrown from the same mindless little insect; blind donkeys on a creaking treadmill, horses or scrawny oxen totally ignorant of what they’re doing when they pump water from a well or grind corn by plodding around and around the same circle, completely ignorant, but no, that’s not right, you think, because this was an entirely useless exercise, no corn was being ground, no water pumped, on the contrary, little bits of the fly’s energy stores (assembled by feasting on sugar, sweat, shit, jam, nectar, carrion, whatever else it had happened upon in recent days) were disappearing with every lap, miniscule particles of energy vanishing with each pointless lap around the edge of the lamp, although there was no visible change in its velocity, its speed remained more or less constant, except for the occasional short pause, like a pause for thought (sort of), as if the fly were capable of assessing its situation, before resuming its pointless trek back to its starting point, the same point every time, or another point, any randomly chosen point on the circle, around and around; an unflagging clock, a flying clock, it had nearly driven you clinically insane, as if its circling had been accompanied by an unbearable, agonizing drone. And you couldn’t stand up to turn off the light and make it stop.

A buzzing, followed by the weak, shuddering gurgle of Freon gas wandering the manmade grottos and galleries of the air-conditioning unit and nothing more. There’s no meteorological peep from the world outside, no howling wind, no rain tapping against windowpanes. The day might be calm and snowy, or cold and calm and clear, but you can’t see it, you can’t stand up and push aside the curtain to see out, or look at the thermometer to find out what the temperature is. You’re just lying there. And you think, as you’ve thought countless times before, that given the fact that you’re just lying there, that you’re stuck lying down, and that you’ll remain in this position until further notice, the white light switch, for example, which you can just make out on the far wall, is quite as unreachable as a star seen through the window. However, stargazing isn’t a possibility either, because the window is as unreachable as the light switch, not to mention whatever’s outside the window, a solid dark mass, say, punctuated by scattered lights hugging the landscape’s slopes and inclines as if they were a part of it, whereas human development is, in reality, a kind of ad-hoc parasite, but be that as it may, the space between, beneath, and behind the lights is surging with people, who are invisible at this distance, but who are people nonetheless, people you’ll never see, never greet, and maybe that’s just as well, you think as you lie there, as you continue to lie there. With your grotesque body, which looks like a half-squished grasshopper; you could, you think, just as well be reduced to a head, a talking head, which could be carried out on a covered silver platter at dinner parties, at which point someone would lift the lid up and, miracle of all miracles! you could talk, talk to the guests, converse with them intelligently on all manner of subjects, as if you were a real person, and not just a head, which is what you actually are, before the guests finally leave, and you politely tell them good-bye, and someone replaces the lid and carries the silver platter with your head back to the cupboard. Or something along those lines.

It’s eight minutes after six o’clock. What on earth is she doing up, or better yet, what’s she doing out at this time of day? you ask yourself. You’ve lived as many years as there are seconds in a minute, plus seven. If a year were as long or even as short as a second, you would’ve lived a whole minute and seven seconds by now, and in that case, you wouldn’t bother asking the powers that be for another thirty seconds, say, in which to get older and grayer. Except for the possibility. Iffing. The subjunctive. Unless. All those people, you think, who can walk, walk on their own two legs; when someone yells go! get out of here! be off with you! to them, they can go on their way, get out of there, take off, even run, sprint if the situation calls for it, all those people who think you’ve simply resigned yourself, that you’ve faced your fate, as they say, with a brave and cheerful grin, that you’ve long since, once and for all, given up the thought of walking, although you, like every other cripple, dream at least twice a week that you can walk, and at least twice a month that you can run, and at least three times every quarter year that you can dance, although every day, while you’re still awake, you imagine what it’d be like to be healthy, you imagine miracle cures, new medical breakthroughs, revolutionary treatments, and the indigestible, sickly-sweet stuff of your fantasies gnaws at you again and again, every single goddamn day. But not now. At the moment, you’ve really got to pee.

You shout the hated name into the darkness beyond the circle of light cast by the reading lamp, shout it in the direction of the half-open sliding door, which leads to the living room, where, you figure, there’ll be a half-open door leading to the hallway, where there’ll be another half-open door leading to the kitchen, and possibly one to the bathroom. You imagine you can hear your voice moving through each room, searching, peering into the space between the countertop and stove (where lint and dirty dishrags tend to collect), like one of those little whirlwinds kicking dirt up off the sidewalk in springtime, climbing a couple of stairs, peeking out into the courtyard before giving up and vanishing entirely. Where is she? Where is the telephone? The effort is exhausting, but you manage to shift the upper half of your body — the part of your body, that is, that still works — into a position that allows you to fumble around the edge of the bed; after discovering nothing but the empty telephone base, with its four indentions that resemble a stylized face either singing or talking, you give up and wrench yourself back into a prone position; that means the telephone itself is in the living room, and that you can’t reach it, and that you can’t answer it if someone calls, that you’re stuck patiently waiting until the phone has rung a set number of times, until the caller finally gives up, all you can do is wait until the last ring you hear is really the last ring, one of them will be the last, after all, and then the silence will be like it was before.

You’re lying here. Your eyes, which have grown used to the half dark, have no trouble picking out the gleam of your wheelchair’s steel components. The chair isn’t next to the bed or at the foot of the bed, but over by the window, shoved into the corner between the window and the closet (and you curse the idiot who stuck it there for convenience’s sake, no, out of pure laziness, so that she, the healthy one, the ambulatory one, the one who can get around fine, wouldn’t keep tripping over that stupid handicapped contraption). Theoretically, you could lower yourself carefully onto the pink throw rug beside the bed (God, you hate pink!), haul yourself half-upright and drag yourself, ass first, toward the wheelchair, until finally you’re able to pull yourself into it by the strength of your arms alone; practically speaking, anyway, you could’ve done that thirty years ago, maybe twenty years ago, but you’re an old man now, an old cripple, and you know that the very attempt, not in theory, but in praxis, would leave you spent and gasping on the hard floor, instead of lying in a soft bed like you are now, and so until further notice, you’ll continue to lie here in bed.

The whole house is full of a ringing silence that makes it seem twice as large. What was it she said? Being married to you, she said, is like hauling around a sack full of rocks every hour of every day, rocks that aren’t good for a damn thing; and even though you can stop and rest for a moment, you can never put the sack down, she said. Is the maid coming by today or tomorrow? You can’t remember. She’s always been quiet and timid, you think, timid and quiet. She’s done everything you’ve asked of her. No, not everything. She’s done everything she was supposed to do. And not a lick more. You’ve never asked for whims. What she calls whims. Could it be? you think, that the whiny, two-faced termagant really? In that case, she could’ve at least put things back where they go, you think, at the very least the telephone, you think. What are you supposed to do, though, when both your wheelchair and the telephone are out of reach? Is the maid coming by today or tomorrow? You can’t remember. You feel an urgent desire to call for help, as if you’ll burst from the pressure of it building inside you if it’s not released through your mouth, but you manage to hold the scream back. You’re not going to panic. You try to focus on the advantages of the situation, namely that you don’t have to be up and about, indeed, you can go back to sleep in good conscience, since you’re stuck in bed anyway and can’t do a damn thing about it.

You’ve really got to pee. What if she? you think, is she really? for good? you think, that means that (and you feel a sudden surge of joy sweep through you like a breath of fresh air, a gleeful sense of nervous anticipation, as if, somewhere deep down inside of you, someone had taken a dust rag to a magnificent crystal chandelier and then lit it in celebration), and at that moment you realize that’s it’s finished, that there’ll be no more endless whining, endless gloom and doom, endless absence of imagination (you wonder if, in the end, that’s why she married you; she simply wasn’t capable of imagining what life with a cripple would be like), the stubborn efficiency, the perpetual attentiveness (broken by fits of cynicism, like when a faithful family dog suddenly turns around and, to the owner’s amazement, bites someone, and then, as if to avoid being put down, returns to being the faithful family dog it was before, watching both owner and maimed victim with the same friendly, mournful, almost human brown eyes), she’s done everything you’ve asked of her, no, not everything; she’s done everything she was supposed to do, and not a lick more; in which case, you think, you’re finally, in a word, free, free! from the miserable creature on whom you’ve been completely dependent for years, for far too many years, whom you (with clenched teeth, repressed rage, physical disgust) have had to let lift, hold, support, wash, push, turn, and wheel you, and so on and so on; in that case it’s over and done with, case closed, bye-bye birdie, you’re free! you think, free! to do what you want when you want, without her weighing you down, or rather, without you weighing her down, no, without her weighing you down, who’s weighing who down, would a normal man have filed for divorce a long time ago, you think? Definitely. In any case, you’re free.

These pleasurable thoughts keep you occupied, and the pictures you paint for yourself grow steadily more detailed, and this goes on for a while, or at least for several minutes, until you’re brought up short by the unpleasant fact that you’re a crippled old man no one wants, that you can’t just hop out of bed and conquer the world, that it’s too late, definitely too late to begin a new life, that you’ll never have enough money to do what you want, that not even the loosest nurse at the assisted living facility would let you grope her; and the more you think about it, the more you realize that your prospective, newly won freedom is useless, as worthless as a lottery ticket that’s managed to miss the jackpot by a single number (and it hits you that, in practical terms, that’s true of every lottery: someone out there is holding a ticket that’s only one number away from the jackpot, neither more nor less than that, all the other numbers match except for the number that, for example, should’ve been a four instead of a three, and so the ticket (the one ending in three) is as worthless as any other ticket, is as worthless as a ticket that missed the jackpot by five thousand and sixty-nine, for example).

You’re lying there in bed. Is the maid coming by today or tomorrow? You can’t remember. The telephone is out of reach. The wheelchair is out of reach. The toilet is out of reach. Within reach, however, are words, fragments, such as berth, spicy, every Tues., fine cuisine, all-you-can-eat buffet, special offer, the number to call, w/rice, salad, and sauce, 1:00 p.m., boa constrictor; these and others like them have been carefully glued to a purple background, a collection of torn, crumpled pieces of newspaper arranged almost (but not entirely) by chance on a piece of purple cardboard; the collage by your little grandnephew, who hasn’t learned to read yet, hangs beside your bed, a series of random fragments literally ripped out of their contexts, sometimes in direct opposition to a given word’s meaning, also words like Indian food, though he, the child who can’t read, is ignorant of the many Hindu gods, Shiva, Vishnu, Ganesha, Devi, Krishna, Rama, Kali (the two-faced goddess: merciful, loving mother on the one hand, and the terrifying destroyer who likes to dance on skulls on the other), of karma and metempsychosis; to your grandnephew, you think, all these signs, all these letters and numbers are still charged with a vague, childish sense of wonder, a magical kind of eminence; he also can’t read words like burning hate and evil (and even if he could read them, he wouldn’t understand them), because these words, you think, have come to rest where they are (on a purple piece of cardboard) thanks to nothing more than blind, analphabetic chance, right now they’re just raw material, and it’s only after many years have passed that your grandnephew will be able to understand their significance, that he’ll be able to look back on his creation (if it even still exists) and discover a meaning there that wasn’t his own.

You’re lying there in bed. You can turn the reading lamp on or off. What’s the point of that, you wonder, amused. You turn it off. You want to see if a hint of daylight is coming in through the curtains yet. Nope. You turn the lamp on again. But was there a ghost of winter light there after all? You’re not sure. You turn the lamp off again. You try to give your pupils (which have contracted against the bright glare) the chance to adjust to this (potential) new, weak light source, which is circular and vaulted (gleaming in the center of a well-nigh indestructible cupola), topped by a piece of fancy brass-work, whose small, black shadow, circular like the original, makes it look like a busted fish eye about two meters in diameter, and marching in radial lines out from the pupil’s center are the dark shapes of stones, organized like game pieces in their opening position, and the whole thing, in fact, resembles a game board, a roulette table, the gemstones are the lines extending from the rotating center, and the brass-work overhead is the wheel of fortune’s shiny hub.

The installation, indirectly lit by pseudo-mystical lighting leaking out from beneath the wide, polished wooden rim, which hugs the circle’s outer edge, is of course immobile, all that’s moving, a movement you can observe from your vantage point on the second floor, are the Sunday visitors, who stroll leisurely around, occasionally bending down to inspect the gemstones (like they’re genuflecting), some with noses actually pressed to the glass, others not, and read the labels, where each mineral’s more or less exotic-sounding, Latinate name is printed. From your position against the guardrail, you can see (with your one good eye) what seems to be a young man with a shiny bald spot right in the middle of his head (the prehistoric man’s fossilized skull has a large dent, or rather crater, about the size of an egg in the center of his forehead (presumably a mortal wound, possibly made by a hurled rock), and in the explanatory text at his side, the superfluous “g” at the end of Cro-magnong has been awkwardly crossed out with red ink), and you watch how small groups form around the installation, until every once in a while the whole thing is surrounded, as if the visitors are gathered around a conference table, except that most voices have been lowered to respectful whispers in the museum’s stillness (a modern skull, placed there for the sake of comparison, has no visible wound, it’s not fossilized, so it’s much whiter than the other, and the low pedestal simply says HUMAN).

An exit as big as a cathedral door, as if in homage to the venerability of knowledge. You can (with your one good eye) see that a few blue and yellow and white flowers, probably crocuses, have shot up from the earth around the south wall, and you blink in the late winter, early spring light and think that the museum hasn’t changed all that much since your last visit here (which must’ve been about twenty years ago): the same dark green linoleum, the same showcases of brown, polished wood, the same burlap background setting off the objects, as if the museum were a museum showcasing museumness. The botanical gardens out front are completely buried in snow. Not here, but across the street. Trailers with satellite dishes on their roofs, you can hear music broken by the sound of voices coming from one open window. You smell motor oil and grilled hotdogs. Entrance is free. Your indifferent eye glides over the attractions, which are gathered in a ring around the parking lot: an arcade, a carousel (the slow, old-fashioned kind with painted wooden horses), tossing and shooting games, keno booths, bumper cars, a carousel (the fast, modern, hydraulic version with gondolas shaped like spaceships that bob up and down as they go round and round), a Ferris wheel, and more, together with stalls offering roasted almonds, cotton candy, etc. You meander through the thin, periodically jostling crowd, beneath a light blue sky, only half-dressed in their winter gear, armed with thin jackets and thick boots, that is, but without the gloves, hats, and scarves, most are ten-year-old kids and preteens, along with small children who’ve got their parents in tow, all bearing the indefinite, unmistakable aura of the city’s east side, where the fair has just opened for the season, and you can’t help but wonder at the fact that it’s such a short way (right across the street) from the museum’s half-darkness, the twilit stillness of antiquity, to the amusement park out here in the spring sun.

The creak of the carousel, the clatter of falling tin pyramids, the music from the keno booths, the whining of the bumper cars, the thud of their collisions, the simulated battle sounds coming from the arcade, the sharp cracks from the shooting stalls, the creak and rattle of the Ferris wheel, the scraping of feet across the sand and gravel parking lot, the shrieks and howls of laughter, the sudden exclamations, the shouting of names or warnings, the children crying, the coughs, conversations, mutterings; all these sounds, you think, rising toward a calm, chilly, light blue sky, which is lightly covered by thin, white wisps of cloud (pale ones, which aren’t yet cottony, summery cirrus clouds against a bright blue sky); but nonetheless, you detect a sense of moderation and decorum in this recreational din, it’s nothing but a modest Sunday racket with no desire to boil over into Dionysian licentiousness or become an orgiastic synthesis of divine madness and ecstasy. None at all.

You watch a young woman tossing balls at a stack of tin cans; before each toss, she smoothes her hair back behind her ears, and you think: it was just by chance that you happened to see her name, you’re not one of those retirees who pour over the daily obituaries with an obsession bordering on the fanatical (like they’re hoping to see their own name: in the news at last!), no, although at first you didn’t recognize her new last name (the young woman strikes home, she lets out a little cry of triumph, although the bottom four cans remain standing), but when you saw her first name, the combination of her first name (which you’ve never forgotten) and the new last name, which you hadn’t recognized in combination with her husband’s first name (which you’d actually forgotten) printed beneath the cross (the girl has begun a new round, and a young man, who’s clearly her boyfriend, is giving her instructions, before stopping to condescendingly supervise the next attempt; after one failed throw, she succeeds in knocking the top cans over without disturbing the bottom ones, a feat as difficult as knocking the whole pyramid down and getting to choose a prize). After you’d recognized her name, you did a strange thing, something completely unlike you, you flipped through a phone book until you found her name and address and telephone number (the young woman misses on the next few tries, and the guy who’s clearly her boyfriend hands a few coins to the woman behind the counter before hefting a ball in his right hand and taking a step back; he hurtles it with all his might and misses). You stroll on, while your one eye wanders along the top of the bumper car rink, past the grimy fresco depicting racing cars, to the actual park in the background, which is located on the other side of the main street, where the sparse and dry grass has taken on a definite green cast that’s arrived about three weeks too early; when you close your eyes, you have to concentrate and really use your imagination to feel the sun’s warmth on your neck. The air is cold.

It’s not the thought of death. No, that’s not the reason you ache in the springtime, like the chill you get by drinking water after you’ve sucked on a cough drop, although it’s not really an ache either, but a sorrow, a stab of worry, over what? you wonder, and continue: over life unlived; not anger or angst about the fact that in the near future you won’t be experiencing anything at all (your fear of death actually decreases as you get older), but the nagging feeling that you haven’t experienced enough, that you’ve never really lived life, and even worse, that it’s too late to experience anything more, or rather, that the experiences you’ve had weren’t the experiences you were meant to have, that somewhere along the way you took a wrong turn, though you can’t say where exactly that was, and now it’s too late, and as a result your life has in one sense been wasted, like a losing game of blind man’s bluff. However, worse than that, you think, is the terrifying suspicion that your life wouldn’t have been any different, not in any substantial way, that it wouldn’t have helped to have made other choices, sought out different people, lived in new places, had a different career, been husband and widower to another woman, and so on, that a reorganization of all these different factors wouldn’t have resulted in less of an ache during springtime (now), although you actually hate the winter and love the spring, and are always glad when it comes. Why is that?

Stuffed top to bottom with strange nylon creatures in garish colors, most of them some variation on the theme of monkey or bear: the small, inconspicuous ones, which are either brown, turquoise, or bright pink, are shaped like fetuses and occupy the lowest shelf, followed by a row of slightly larger ones, which are green and orangish-yellow and covered in black spots, as if they’ve contracted the plague, and these also have pointed black collie noses and outstretched arms, as if they’re coming in for a hug, and on the upper two shelves are meter after meter of the really big animals, some of them elephants with blue-spotted trunks, although most of them seem to be a kind of raccoon with a horizontally striped coat, like a prison jumpsuit, like a bleak, abbreviated rainbow composed of dark green, yellow, and orange, though some of them also have dark stripes over their mouths, like a gag, or over their eyes, like a carnival mask, and there are also a few white bears with pink bows around their necks, although their (outstretched) hands, feet, and face are skin-colored, and they’ve got black snouts and round, black eyes; the white on their head and ears make them look like caricatures of Danton (wearing a powdered wig). A skinny, ungainly youth with a scraggly beard stands in front of the shelves and shivers (his hands are shoved in his pockets) as he waits for customers.

You know it by heart. Although you haven’t called her number, not yet. It would be unseemly, you’d look like a vulture if you did it now, so soon after her husband’s death, you think, and besides, you haven’t seen her for almost forty years, she’ll be old and ugly (like you). This argument isn’t entirely convincing, there’s something else there, and you realize, as the ungainly young man hands a stuffed animal (a plague-ridden one) to an older, well-dressed woman (who smiles happily), that you don’t want her now, you wanted her back then, you wanted her almost forty years ago, because if you got her now, it’d be too late, you’d only be getting the scraps, the leavings, the leftovers, the sweepings, the last remains of a life together, the so-called twilight years, during which you’d just sit and wait for the other to die; broken bones and heart attacks, prostate complaints and arthritic hips, hair loss and varicose veins are nothing compared to the fact that you have no future and no expectations. What’s left of you both isn’t enough to keep the dream of what you once were alive, you’re like a pair of candlesticks that have been burned down to the stub, flickering in time to the host’s rattling snore, shedding a little light on what’s left of the party, empty bottles and glasses, crumbs and greasy, crumpled napkins.

Without meeting your eyes, the tired man bearing all the signs of alcoholism stuffs the cork into the barrel and cocks the air gun before handing it over. No, your hand is still steady, you haven’t come down with old-age tremors yet, your vision (in your one working eye) is still good, and you remember the trick of pulling the trigger as you breath out, the second at which your body is relaxed and (theoretically) motionless (instead of holding your breath the whole time, like an amateur does); still, you’ve gotten too old and stiff to rest the elbow of the arm supporting the gun on your hip. You slip a tiny bit and squint when you shoot. You miss. Your target looks like a small tin container (brown), about the size of a matchbox, positioned about three or four meters away. The man behind the counter prepares the weapon again while his eyes follow someone or other, and he continues looking at whomever this is as he hands you the gun. You miss again. Upon closer reflection, however, you decide that that image wasn’t entirely accurate; the dog, you think, you’re like the host’s dog, sneaking into the dining room in the wee hours of the morning, after the candles have long since burned out, to greedily, clumsily gobble up the leftovers, the bones, the stringy pieces of meat someone left on the side of their plate, the congealed gravy, the cold potatoes, because in all the commotion, someone forgot to feed it.

You miss the third time too. And you realize then that all the concentration and technique and effort in the world won’t help, it’s simply impossible to hit a target with a cork, much less one that’s stuck directly into the muzzle, or, anyway, if you do hit the mark, it’ll be thanks to luck, the game you’re playing is just another type of fair-lottery, because in the first place, you can’t control the trajectory of a cork, unlike a real projectile, because it doesn’t rotate along its own axis as it leaves the barrel (as would a bullet shot from a rifle), and secondly, the cork is so light that it’s bound to follow an eccentric ballistic path, which must only rarely coincide with the location of whatever it is you’re aiming at. You might as well toss the thing by hand, or spit it from your mouth. No, dogs don’t know what a party is, and therefore don’t know when the party’s over; you’re more like the overly enthusiastic brother-in-law, who wakes up half-drunk in the wee hours of the morning and proceeds to drain whatever’s left in the bottles before moving on to the half empty glasses, who helps himself to a stale piece of cake in the meantime, dumping the crumbs from the desert plate onto his hand (gastroliths: smooth, black, fist-sized geological fragments; the label tells you that some dinosaurs swallowed stones to help them digest their food, and that these stones have been found along with fossilized skeletons), before tossing them back, so that he’s got a powdering of debris on his wrinkled, sweat-stained shirt and crooked tie, and after a while he’ll start trying to rouse his sleeping friends (or enemies) with cheerful cries, noisemakers, and hubristic exclamations, all of which sends stark, unrequited echoes through the room, where the morning light is beginning to pick out the last details of the party’s debris, an embarrassingly thorough examination, but that doesn’t cramp his style, for him the party isn’t over, the party’s never over. No, even at seventy-one years of age you haven’t given up, you want to use up every bit of the cloying, moldy remains of love (if it’s got anything to do with that at all) left at the bottom of your life; you completely lack the ability to let hope die. You’ve often wished you could just give up entirely, but that’s an inhuman task, you think, you’ve got to be a god, or at least a holy man, to simply give up, to resign yourself to the meager pleasures afforded by the daily grind, though even those pleasures are few and fading, swiftly fading until they’re almost out of sight, while you drool — and will most likely go on drooling all the rest of your days — over the last sorry scraps of time, of experience, of life, whatever the hell that means.

As expected, your final shots miss. The cork. Just meandering along. A stone making its way through an extinct animal’s intestinal tract. The alcoholic man behind the counter continues to follow someone or something with his eyes, although when you turn around to see, you can’t figure out who or what it is. All of the fair’s polite but insistent din returns in a rush after the silence that fell while you were concentrating on your shot; you see (with your one good eye) the rectangular parasol-like ceiling over the carousel’s gondolas being lifting on poles toward the pale spring sky, it’s bright red and spinach green, it rises then suddenly sinks rotating the whole time, rising and sinking, you see (with your one good eye) the riders’ hair blowing in the wind created by the momentum, and you hear their shouts as they ride through fearful pleasure (one might say) without getting anywhere (one can safely assume).

The long, complex, tangled shadows of tree trunks and bare branches across the edge of the lot, sliding imperceptibly (in spots of sun and shade) over the few people who, unlike you, are on their way to, not from the fair in the low light; the sidewalk is striped by the comblike shadow cast by the iron fence, which blends with the shadows cast by the trees, which in turn branch out to cover the open lot and the street, where they lengthen until they’re unrecognizable: together they form an almost complete negative image of the botanical gardens, which is projected across the asphalt, and you can still hear the shrieks from the carousel as you make your way through this image, pulling on a pair of knit gloves, which up until now were only a bulge in your pocket, and tucking them tight beneath the sleeves of your jacket; it isn’t spring yet, it’s just winter pretending to be spring.

When you lift it up, the receiver is cold against your hand (after you’ve removed your gloves again: apparently, you didn’t know the number by heart after all, or rather, you weren’t entirely convinced that you knew it, so to be safe you checked the telephone book (with your one good eye), but it’s nearly impossible to turn the pages of a telephone book with gloves on; therefore, you had to take them off again). You hear the dial tone, empty and urgent, like it always is in a telephone booth: a finger of sound pointed straight at you. No, you won’t call. You just stand there in the telephone booth, staring through the glass, which is smudged, scratched, and scribbled up, across the street toward a neon sign, which says BINGO in bright red letters, and which, in contrast to the decorative, oftentimes flower-shaped lights adorning the fair’s stalls, isn’t just lit but blazing, as if night’s fallen early. Probably because the façade’s already in shadow, you think, a wall of shadow against the low spring light, you see (with your one good eye) the sign blinking off and on, off and on at an irregular tempo, somewhere between lampposts twenty-five and twenty-six (calculated from the vulcanizing shop down the hill), or maybe, you think (horrified at the thought), it’s between posts twenty-six and twenty-seven instead, are you really going to have to go all the way back to post number ten (if the placement and numbering of the posts in the row is considered incontrovertible) if the post numbers are carved in stone, so to speak), just to confirm your count? no! you think, because you remember the location of number twenty quite clearly (next to the grocer’s loading dock), and with the aid of your excellent memory, you hold a lightning-quick review of the next five posts, picturing each one with absolute clarity, until you know with certainty that the pedestrian reflector (that’s got to be what it is) is flickering in the half-darkness between lampposts twenty-five and twenty-six.

No panting, no gasping, at least not too much, after you finally leave the steep, long hill behind you and follow the curve behind the fence onto relatively level ground, which means you’ve passed the endurance test with flying colors, although that was a given, considering your powerful heart, your strong lungs, your vigorous circulation, which is as strong now as a twenty year old’s, you think, well, maybe a thirty year old’s, but it’s definitely better than your stereotypical overfed, boozed up, nicotine-dependent couch potato of a forty year old, out of breath after hauling himself up the two flights of stairs to his stuffy apartment where he’ll devour his TV dinner or his meal-in-a-can, and then, enervated by the foul, uncirculating air, throw himself onto the sofa in front of the TV, a sickbed of a sofa, an unburied coffin, a type just as common as the indolent weakling who depends on the strong few to carry him through life, you think, they’re nothing but parasites, that’s right, disgusting parasites, you think, although they could’ve been saved, their lives and their health could’ve been saved if someone had just taken the time to give them a good shake, wake them up, snuff out their cigarettes, empty their bottles, throw out their junk food, and chase them outside for exercise, exercise, and more exercise, and raw food, and exercise, cross-country jogging for example, until the sweat was pouring off their brows, and after that a little more exercise to boot, couch potatoes can take a lot more punishment than you think, and then a cold shower afterward, how refreshing, talk about character building, you think, and jogging, always more jogging out in the fresh air, out in the resinous woods with the spruce needles, fresh earth, pine cones, moose shit, cotton grass drifting on a pleasant breeze; you’d love to give them all a good, swift kick, you think (you certainly have the strength for it!), you’d like to kick them out of their couchy quagmires, their sofas with seats like quicksand, sucking them in until all the poor saps can do is flail about with their arms sticking pathetically out of the cushions, and their heads, those wan, pale faces that have hardly seen the light of day, in no condition to do anything but watch TV or read dusty books (instead of taking a stab at the Book of Nature, which is always open wide!), really they’re miserable creatures with no legs and arms, they’re nothing but heads, they can only move their eyes, side to side, up and down, eyes helplessly rolling inside a head that’ll soon be lost to the couch’s quicksand cushions, what a horrible, cadaverous existence when they should’ve stood tall and strong and fought like men with wills of iron, they should’ve been wrestling against the lions and wild beasts, against the jungle! against distant mountains’ endlessly blue cliffs and valleys! against the great forests’ and their untamed expanse! against the last milliseconds of a race! they should’ve planted flags in the polar ice! South Pole and the North Pole both! without complaint! without a whine! without a whimper! you think, as you close in on the pedestrian reflector, which is moving (on foot) through the light of lamppost number twenty-five.

If only Garm were loping along beside you now. This guy is young, just a kid, probably not even twenty, and he isn’t dressed for the cold fall evening (especially since he’s walking (and moving fast, though at a lazy, slouching, shuffling stride) and not running, like he should be), you think; as if he’s pulled himself out of his leather recliner (where he’d probably been lolling, munching on candy and potato chips) and walked right out the door; yes, you hit the nail on the head, you think, he’s fat and awkward, he’s got a lazy, rolling stride, his face is remarkably ugly, he’s got small, narrow eyes (he’s probably nearsighted, but too vain for glasses), a pig snout for a nose, his nostrils so close as to be nearly vertical (like holes in an electrical outlet), a weak chin, puffy cheeks, though he has strong legs, a true hick, and to top it all off, you see and hear that he’s chuckling softly to himself, laughing in both his throat and his nose, and the question becomes, Is he insolent enough to be laughing at you, but hah! you think, you’re in such great shape for your age, you’ll have no trouble putting him in his place if he tries anything, this seventeen-year-old jellyfish; if he were, for example, to step into your path and try to prevent you from riding on to lamppost number twenty-six, you’d give that adipose pig one of your left hooks, it was famous in its time (no one ever expects it from a right-hander), right on his double chin, and after that you’d deliver a crushing right-handed blow to his fatty skull, and a respectable kick to his groin and one for his solar plexus, then you’d hop up and down on his chest, up and down, with your full weight (which, unfortunately, is only a fraction of his), until every bone in his body was broken, pulverized, that good-for-nothing waste of space, you think (as you steer your bike farther out to give him plenty of room), he wouldn’t have had a chance. He’s completely lost in his thoughts, though. He barely glances at you as you peddle on by.

If only Garn were loping cheerfully beside you. You’re heading straight for lamppost number twenty-six now (you can already see number twenty-seven), and you work to keep your wheel from veering off the cracked asphalt and into the sand and gravel, where it’s hazardous to bike, that is, you work to keep your wheel between the asphalt and the innermost clumps of grass, which, you see, are completely yellow, or brown, or yellowish brown, or brownish yellow. Like yellow peas. Or beige. The breathtaking play of muscle beneath a horse’s coat, the elegance, the power, the sleek, sweat-glistening hide, their skittishness (the slightest distraction can send them into a gallop), and the sound, which you’ve heard countless times before as you’ve cycled by, of lively movement behind the high wooden fence, hoofbeats, which initially resemble the sound of impatient fingers tapping on a table, becoming louder as they round the curve, though everything is still hidden by the high wooden fence, then crescendoing to an urgent, muted thunder, like the sound of a dozen invisible rubber mallets striking at once, then slowly fading as they finish the turn, as if all those hammering hands are getting tired, and then the fingers again, and then nothing, or next to nothing; such beautiful animals, and what an awful thought, you think, calling to mind the load they bear, the willowy racing sulkies (the powerful line of the shaft extended through the seat and back out again resembles a harp, and the horse’s muscles, tendons, and ligaments, not to mention the reins, make up the strings), a load composed of unhealthy, unshaven, sometimes overweight men in gaudy outfits, pure deadweight that causes the sulky’s slender wheels to sink, not to mention, you think, the disgusting pigsty around the podium and bleachers, the beer guzzling, the good-for-nothings, the hoarse shouting while the race is underway, the hands banging away at the rails as the horses are nearing the finish line, the nasty, wadded-up bills fumbled up from even nastier pockets in filthy, worn-out jackets, and the empty bottles of cheap booze tossed into corners, the foul language, the cesspool of language, not to mention, you think, the eternal rain of trash, the blizzard of trash, the tempest of trash, the monsoon of trash disgorged by gamblers, by fat ones and thin ones, ruddy ones and pale ones, the constant shower of tickets falling from grimy, unwashed hands, and after a few races they cover the whole area like snow, like flat snowflakes, expiring securities, millions of dollars in action made worthless in five minutes or less, and scattered, scattered everywhere, as if this were the gamblers’ natural element, as if it wasn’t enough to trample on it, wade in it, bathe in it even, no, as if they needed to bury themselves up to their armpits in it, no, as if they needed to dive, splash, and swim in it, bury themselves in the torrent of discarded paper, in the avalanche of dashed hopes and dreams, which is like a sewer whose contents have been whipped to a frothy lather resembling the foam on a glass of beer by sheer raw appetite alone. It’s an insult, you think, an unforgivable insult to those noble beasts, who once galloped joyful and wild through the virgin wilderness, untamed by man, as free individuals! as masters of their own destiny! as lords of the land!

After the hard climb, your mouth feels disgusting, you stop pedaling, hawk and spit (an extended, slimy blob, if truth be told) in the direction of lamppost number twenty-seven (and no other; you’re confident, for example, that it’s not post number twenty-six or twenty-eight, or, even more absurd! number thirty-five or ninety-seven!), the last lamppost before the lights on the big cross street begin, and you have to start the count anew (not forgetting, of course, to add the first and last lamppost numbers together and see if the total is divisible by two, which will tell you if you get to eat dinner tonight after you’ve finished all your squats. Or maybe if the result of your calculation is an even number, it’ll be ginseng, malt extract, rutabaga, and turnips for dinner; if it’s an odd number it’ll be turnips, rutabaga, malt extract, and ginseng; and if some night he doesn’t take the trouble, well, straight to bed without dinner).

It was a fine burial, you think. Out in the fresh air. Beneath the rustling pines. Amid the hopping rabbits. The flat rock was so heavy you had to go back and fetch a crowbar; yes, the burial was exhausting, truly exhausting, but worth it, since the heavy stone prevents vandals from disturbing his resting place, and since now, when you stop at his grave on one of your endless tours through the woods, you have a nice, flat surface to sit on (sometimes with a backpack cover), preferably in the springtime, when the sun is just starting to warm the earth, and you can take out your thermos and your lunch and eat carrots and drink hot cocoa, reflecting on the fact that you’re sitting up there on the rock, that you’re alive, in great shape, enjoying the spring sun and the spring air, and that he, your dead dog, is lying down there in the dark, where there’s no wind and no sun, how he, your steadfast companion, is now one with nature, recalling how he’d humbly bring you your rainboots (or in winter, your heavy boots), every Sunday morning at seven o’clock sharp, and drop them right in front of the bed without complaint, that was back in the good old days when you still worked at the slaughterhouse on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, but not on Sunday, no, Sunday was reserved for those wonderful, long treks through the woods; and as you sit there on top of the flat slab of rock and think of this and other things, you sometimes have trouble swallowing your carrot, even though it’s been well chewed, and you have to blow your nose, which sends a trumpet blast through the whispering woods, before you go your way, missing Garm, yet confident that he has a good final resting place. You’d like to come back as a dog. A police dog! Or a sled dog! Not as a guide dog, though. You’d be stuck breathing car fumes all day. But imagine catching a criminal with one ferocious bite! Or saving skiers with complicated fractures, bones sticking up out of them! You’d even be willing to trade places with Garm, so that in the next life you could be the dog and he could be the master, and when you died, he could bury you in the woods beneath a heavy flat rock and you, the dog, could lie there and be dead, content in the knowledge that your master regularly sits up above with thermos and lunch in remembrance of you.

Lamppost number twenty-eight, the last in this particular row; you’ve passed the curve, the tall wooden fence around the track has been replaced by a tall chain-link fence topped by barbed wire. If you push back the shadow of your cap, your eagle eye can pick out a swarm of insects circling around the lamppost above you, and you can see the small store clearly, which at this time of day is dimly lit by neon, and you can just pick out the large displays of garish, almost luminous colored paper, where various sale announcements have been written out in broad, thick strokes, and which are displayed in the glass and steel entryway between the outer doors and the store itself, whose boisterous voices, similar to those of fair vendors, have fallen silent for the night, and you can see the nursing home next door, a gray high-rise, as lifeless and neutral as the store, with its large windows, is colorful and appealing, and you think of the old folks who are forced to live there now, because they didn’t take care of themselves back when they had the chance, many of whom are at least ten years younger than you (you’re over seventy!), about how they (presumably) never go any farther than the store next door, how every day, or every other day, or only occasionally they take the elevator down to the lobby, and with the aid of a cane, or a crutch, or maybe even a walker, hobble down the flagstone path, perhaps supporting themselves on the gray metal railing, cross the parking lot and enter the store, the same store every day, and make their purchases, and then with a rolling bag, or with a shapeless shopping bag in hand or hanging from their arm, which in turn is supported by a cane, or perhaps dangling from their walker, they go back the way they came, back across the parking lot, along the flagstone path, through the main doors and up in the elevator, until they’re back in their own rooms, where they can look out over the whole city with its thousands of different stores, although in practice they’re unable to visit any store but the one next door to the nursing home, they’re stuck in a habitual, perpetual circuit between the nursing home and the store, the store and the nursing home, until one day the movement simply stops.

Yep, it’s one of those awful contraptions coming at you at full speed, and just to be safe, you decide to cross the street after the death mobile has already passed. In the meantime, you stand and listen to the rope on the flagpole in front of the store slap against the pole (a thwacking sound that’s drowned out by the passing car), while you slowly exhale again and examine the ground in front of you (where the first few yellow birch leaves are now scattered, pasted to the wet asphalt like memos put there to remind everyone of the coming cold), so that you can avoid staring at the annoying neon sign, but you can’t help it, you glance at the store window where the flickering neon sign has been blinking on and off the whole time, seemingly at random, but nonetheless with a strange tendency toward rhythm, so to speak, which is extremely difficult to predict; the window is dark, then lit, dark a short moment then lit, dark a longer moment, then lit a short moment, a longer moment, dark a moment so short it almost didn’t happen, in the blink of an eye, dark.

only to reappear on the other side after a long time had passed. From his high vantage point, he could see the transition point from city to country, where the green spaces became more frequent and the buildings fewer the farther one got from the city’s center, apartment buildings giving way to condos and single family homes, and the mass of buildings (no matter their type) gradually giving way to individual farms surrounded by large fields and ponds, in addition to wooded slopes and ridges, which toward the northwest stacked up behind each other and grew to form mountain rises and peaks, until they vanished at last into a distant haze.

Kingly. Like a king on high. Because when you (he thinks, lying there in the darkness, or half-darkness, or shadow, and sweating) see the city spread at your feet, it almost feels like you’ve already conquered it all, like you’re lord of the land, king of the city, like the whole shebang is at your beck and call, like the opening scene of a movie, where you’ve just come to the city from the provinces, from Hicksville, that’s it, from cow sheds and pigsties, that’s it, and from your vantage point up there on that mountain ridge you can see the city spread at your feet and you know all the wonders of the world await you there, that’s where you’re going to make it, somewhere in that promised land of banks, hotels, clothing stores, restaurants, advertising agencies, insurance agencies, supermarkets, car lots, shipping companies, oil companies, theaters, police stations, chocolate factories, publishing houses, funeral homes, airlines, gyms, film studios, travel bureaus, recording studios, computer companies, export and import firms, dance schools, and industrial cleaning companies, somewhere in all that, perhaps on one of the countless floors of a skyscraper (which look to him like dark towers framed by a bright harbor), that’s where you’re going to make it big, not to mention all the interesting people you’re going to meet, not to mention the fact that one day, somewhere down there in that urban Fata Morgana, El Dorado, Klondike, and Soria Moria, you’ll meet your heart’s desire. When he looked toward the hill, he could see a scoop of soft ice cream, partially melted and squished by a bike wheel, which had left smooth, creamy-white tracks, one for every rotation (and the tracks were clearly stamped into the ice cream, where the mass had been pressed into two small hills by the stiff, air-filled rubber, the same dynamics as when you bite into an ice-cream sandwich without taking the top off), the spots of ice cream documented the wheel’s circumference, though each spot grew smaller and fainter with each rotation, smaller and fainter, until at last there was only a grayish white smudge, then nothing.

He forgot to fluff the pillows, but he doesn’t have the energy to sit up. A flicker of light reflected in the wall mirror: a breeze parting the curtains. A telescope is sufficient not only to show one particular building, but precise enough to zero in on one particular window, and not just one particular window, but one particular individual behind that window, and not just that one particular individual, but, a microscope now, this individual’s thoughts, hopes, desires, mental states, memories, and so on, he thinks, and from way up there on that ridge, it could also show a throatless old man imprisoned in his two rooms and kitchen, lying there in bed, trying to remember an excursion he made in recent days walking with the help of two crutches, one for each arm, in the process of comparing the thrilling city view in his imagination to the lack of magic and excitement in his own life, thinking that if a young man was standing up there now, up there on the terrace in front of the restaurant, and looking out over the whole city (where streetlights, neon signs, and windows are just starting to come alive in the late summer evening), feeling a shiver of anticipation and a thirst for adventure, he’d be totally unaware that there’s a throatless old man lying there, not in “the whole city,” not in a city of boundless possibility, but right there in his bed in the dark, thinking that, unfortunately, to judge from experience, the young man’s expectations of adventure will probably wither for lack of nourishment, wither and sink, never to rise again. No, they’ll rise and fall, rise and fall, perpetually.

Too many people want too much. But at the very least. At the very least, to have a real voice, even the worst voice in the world, he thinks, a hideous, grating, unbearable, but nonetheless intelligible voice, not to whisper sweet nothings in a woman’s ear on a mild summer night, but to be able to order coffee and waffles loud and clear. Not to whisper sweet nothings in a woman’s ear on a mild summer night? Okay, that too. Or rather, the thought that a long time ago, he might’ve been able to do that, but couldn’t. He thinks and thinks. He thinks too much. He closes his eyes.

The thunder and the voices are audible. Some evenings they’re absent. It depends on what direction the wind is blowing, he assumes. A heavy, metallic thunderclap, followed by a long, percussive echo, then silence, which might last a while, broken every now and again by the clipped, authoritative sound of a voice over a loudspeaker, like an officer barking commands, but the orders or updates or instructions are impossible to understand, because the individual words all run together, although it’s clear the voice is human, even if it’s sometimes drowned out or accompanied by the thunder, the boom of coupling hitting coupling, tons of steel on tons of steel, it’s a train yard, a so-called classification yard, he knows, where train cars are towed up an incline and then released to roll of their own weight through the confusion of tracks (which are controlled from a central room where a schematic of the area is dotted with bright lights); a whole cargo train being pieced together car by car in the humid summer night, accompanied by the steady boom of coupling against coupling. They work while he lies in bed.

Every mammalian lifeform has a fixed number of heartbeats, a limited supply, a set store, like a canteen of water on a desert trek, a bag of sand on a balloon ride, around nine hundred million or so, nine hundred million beats, and if lives were measured in heartbeats, mice would live as long as elephants, because a mouse’s heart beats faster; human age, he thinks, lying there in the darkness, should be measured in heartbeats, you could say What’s his problem, he’s just a baby, he’s no more than five hundred million beats old; and if, according to some other calendar, each beat equaled a whole year, how many millions of years old would he be now? It would be like he was old before he was even born, like he was old before mankind even existed. He’s wasted his life. If he’d never been born, it’d make no difference. No one misses the unborn, and the unborn don’t miss life. He’s ready to read now. He likes to read before he goes to sleep, he prefers travel stories, tales of roads not taken, roads he’ll never take, untraveled trips, for just about five or ten minutes before he goes to sleep. A single book can take him half a year. He’ll read about a polar expedition, about what a relief it is when the temperature rises from minus forty to minus eighteen; in the humid summer night, he’ll lie there and read about it before going to sleep. The gun’s within reach of the bed. He’s ready. He turns on the reading lamp. The bulb comes to life with an ominous rattle, intermittently, as if it contains dizzy, dying fireflies instead of filaments: it nearly goes out, then brightens, then dims, then brightens a last time, flickers feverishly, then extinguishes once and for all. He’ll have to do without a book tonight. The lightbulb can wait until morning.

AFTERWORD

Few authors in postwar Norway have had a stronger and more direct influence on their contemporaries and successors. It’s an influence that has helped major talents find their voices and reduced lesser talents to mere epigoni. And it’s an influence that is, so to speak, inversely proportional to the bibliography. Five poetry collections and five prose works, that’s all Tor Ulven (b. 1953) published from the time he debuted in 1977 to the day he took his own life in 1995. Around a thousand and a half pages, including posthumous publications: a compact and concentrated whole, divvied out piecemeal, for the most part in small portions, like the lifework of a Cioran or a Vermeer.

His debut work, a poetry collection entitled Skyggen av urfuglen (The Shadow of the Primordial Bird), exhibits clear traits of surrealism. This was already a well-established interest (Ulven showed his own drawings at the World Surrealist Exhibition in Chicago in 1976!) that would last his entire life (his translation of René Char’s poems appeared in 1985), though in this first book it was still unripe: a promising bud rather than a full autumn crop. Indeed, when Ulven was in charge of putting together a collection of his selected poetry in 1993, he took only a few poems from this first work. The true poet emerged in the two following collections, Etter oss, tegn (After Us, Signs, 1980) and Forsvinningspunkt (Vanishing Point, 1981).

A six-year-long span of retreat and isolation was finally broken by what shoulg be considered one of Ulven’s major works, Det tålmodige (Patience), in 1987. Artifacts, ruins, fossils, junk, archeological finds, human remains (in every sense): it’s all there, all bundled together; durability contrasts with decay to form an overarching perspective, which is captured in the multifaceted title; patience emerging as the (one) thing that endures, an eternal constant, the observing human consciousness that, unaffected by time’s passage, remains unshaken as it describes the continuity of things, those insentient substances with no alternative but perpetual being, continuous existence. Regarded in this way, we could say that Det tålmodige brings Ulven’s poetic project to a head, thereby releasing the prose-writer in him.

Gravgaver (Burial Gifts) was published the following year, with the subtitle, or genre heading, if you will, of Fragmentarium (Fragments), a novel in pieces, which expands on the theme of decay from Det tålmodige in beautiful, musical prose sequences. These two works are separated by a single year, as if they’re standing there, back to back, two masterworks mutually supporting one another, Ulven’s last pure poetry collection and his first pure work of prose. Taken together, they form a melancholy magnum opus, whose thesis, in short, is that everything is already past, that everything we’re capable of understanding and reflecting upon has already happened, has already been. And at the same time: the past is present, the past is now. We live on the trash heap of history, occupied with ordering and organizing an overwhelming collection of memories, both our own and those of others. By the time something finally reaches us, it’s already gone. Understanding is afflicted with a time delay. It’s “[a] daily walk on top of five thousand two hundred and fifty-five leftover chickens, three hundred mutton thighs, an indeterminate number of pottery shards, a dozen loaded dice, a peacock, six hundred and thirteen mussels, a bag of copper coins, two hundred and fifty hairbrushes, fragments from a kingly helm, a guinea pig’s skeleton, a ceramic oven, the pieces of a wall, sundry turtle shells, a work station for making pipe bowls, among countless other things,” as Gravgaver puts it. To live in the now is synonymous with living in the past. Whether something happened five minutes ago or five thousand years ago, it all exists simultaneously. The past expands, the future contracts.

An intensely productive period followed the publication of Det tålmodige and Gravgaver, resulting in about one book a year until the time of Ulven’s death. The majority of these works are written in prose, with genre headings that alternate between “stories” (Nei, ikke det [No, Not That, 1990], and Vente og ikke se [Wait and Not See, 1994]), “prose pieces” (Fortæring [Consumption, 1991]) and “novel” (Avløsning [Replacement, 1993]). Søppelsolen (Junk Sun), which appeared in 1989, is a mixture of poetry and prose, while Stein og speil (Stone and Mirror), Ulven’s last complete work, published posthumously, offers a mixture of literary modes, even including some short plays. In addition to the posthumous poems and essays, a complete Samlede dikt (Collected Poetry, 2000) and a complete Prosa i samling (Collected Prose, 2001) have also been released, together with multiple books on Ulven’s craft.

*

The works an author translates provide clues to his or her linguistic and philosophical ballast. Put another way: Show me what you’ve translated, and I’ll tell you who you are. Together with the aforementioned Char translation, Ulven translated Fizzles by Samuel Beckett and La chevelure de Bérénice by Claude Simon. If we connect these points, we end up with a constellation we might well call ulven (the wolf). From Char he gets the imaginative sensibility and the over-the-top creativity, knowing no bounds. From Simon he gets the expansive syntax and colorful word pictures, the endless supply of images that invoke physical reality. From Beckett he gets the linguistic precision, the down-to-the-millimeter exactness, the brilliant pessimism, and last but certainly not least, the humor (which is often overlooked in Ulven’s texts, just as it’s often overlooked in Beckett’s, reverently shoved aside in favor of a form of awe for the gloom and doom that supposedly characterize them both, despite history’s overwhelming evidence to the contrary, namely, that the greatest pessimists are also the greatest humorists (and what else is there in life to laugh at than misery, tragedy, and suffering?)).

Like Beckett, furthermore, Ulven has a penchant for negatives (it’s no accident that the word “not” occurs in two of his book titles), often characterizing things as much by what they’re not as what they are, part of a negative proof — not of God’s existence, but of reality’s existence. The phrase “it’s not raining,” for example, occurs more than once in Replacement. People are treated in the same way. At this point, it’s difficult not to think of Schopenhauer, who inspired Ulven — he wrote an essay on the philosopher entitled “En form for ubehag” (A Form of Discomfort, 1988) — particularly his thoughts concerning aesthetic distance to the world. “Aesthetic,” in this sense, is understood to mean the state of being intensely present, but also sharply distanced, the individual reduced to a mere observer, so to speak, which for Schopenhauer was the very essence of genius: “the capacity to remain in a state of pure perception, to lose oneself in perception, to remove from the service of the will the knowledge which originally existed only for this service. In other words, genius is the ability to leave entirely out of sight our own interest, our willing, and our aims, and consequently to discard entirely our own personality for a time, in order to remain pure knowing subject, the clear eye of the world.”1 And what was it that Milton said? “They also serve who only stand and wait.” (From the poem “On His Blindness.”) At the same time, Ulven also recognizes that our observations and perceptions of reality are themselves creative, endlessly creative; that our will and representations are endlessly active in the world, a fact that makes the ideal of neutrality, or passivity, impossible.

As opposed to the strong tendency in literary traditions to attribute human qualities to nature, in Ulven’s texts a desouling rather than an ensouling takes place. When he describes a tree, he’s talking about the tree itself, how it’s shaped, how it looks silhouetted against the sky, how it’s perceived by the never resting, never not sensing, never not thinking I. It’s the mystery of the concrete. The tree’s existence is unfathomable enough without piling on a bunch of soulful or symbolic traits to boot! In this sense, there’s something rebellious in Ulven’s work, as when the contemplative stillness that forms his modus operandi suddenly gives way to a bout of anger, when the text abruptly “snaps,” as my daughter would say, and exhibits a biting, snarling fury, for example when one of the protagonists in Replacement vents his contempt for the subservient masses’ blind subsumption into the system, an emotion expressed by the surprisingly conventional image of mice on a wheel, although the very conventionality of the phrase underscores and strengthens the spontaneity of the outburst.

This reification, which is found throughout Ulven’s texts, also extends to people, whose basic existence is described in terms of the organic-mechanical process of which it actually consists. This idea is often expressed in striking aphoristic phrases like “To your / heart // you mean / nothing” (from Etterlatte dikt [Posthumous Poems]). This thought introduces a tragic dimension into our self-perception, revealing a fissure in what we’re used to perceiving as a whole. At the same time, one could almost say there’s something blissful about this idea, something that frees us from our traditional self-image, tears us loose from the stiffened humanistic forms of representation, and gives us a much-needed sense of meaninglessness with almost paradisiacal overtones (Ulven’s volume of selected poetry is called Det verdiløse [The Worthless], a title I read as decidedly positive.)

At this point, we’ve returned to the rebellious, if not to say the most radical, aspect of Ulven’s work. It’s not the absence of meaning that is the problem of Modern Man. The problem is that there’s too much. There’s far too much of it. In Replacement, we encounter a memory in the following way: “he”—who? someone! — sits beside the sea, stares out across the water and suddenly sees an object that he at first thinks is a bottle, or maybe a message in a bottle, then a cigarette case, which the wind blows toward land, until finally it resolves into a wooden board, a sodden, perfectly smooth board, nothing more and nothing less, which comes to rest against the beach, where it beats time to the waves. However, the object’s utter irrelevance — its meaninglessness — isn’t described in terms of disappointment (juxtaposed against the expectation of something exciting or adventurous), but just the opposite: it’s described as a relief, a release. As if it’s a blessing to discover that little piece of nothing drifting along. A board. A stupid piece of wood. A useless piece of driftwood. And that’s it.

No symbols where none intended. In Ulven’s texts, all phenomena, whether dead or alive, have the same meaning, the same weight, if you will. Everything is equally real, equally meaningful, or just the opposite: equally meaningless. It’s Ulven’s strategy for placing himself on the same level as his surroundings. He’s always equally precise, equally accurate, no matter what catches his eye or occupies his thoughts. In short, this linguistic precision represents in itself an embrace of the world. To describe this hand, this heart, this rock, this grass, this leaf in the grass, these dew drops on this leaf in this grass in this garden, to precisely express the existence of it all, is the true literary feat.

It’s not the world in a nutshell, but it’s the world in a backyard garden in Årvoll in Oslo. By placing such stark limitations on his repertoire of motifs, Ulven gives himself access to an enormous range of registers, a huge and richly varied series of approaches to the art of description. Great expansions result from great reductions. And he pushes the limits of both extremes, in terms of what it’s possible to sense (for example, to see), and what it’s possible to think (for example, about what we see) or to imagine (for example, as an extension of what we see). The source of Ulven’s relentless desire to find new and more meticulous ways to describe (the same) things, which forms an immutable constant in his work, the driving force behind everything he writes, is the intensity of the experience of living, that overwhelming, I’m tempted to say sickly presence, every single hour, every single minute of every single day of our lives.

*

The protagonist in Replacement, or the first one we meet, anyway, is a ninety-nine year old man. We know this because he’s twice as old as the bullets in the loaded gun he always keeps within reach, there in a bedroom that’s seemingly remained unchanged since his childhood days. The nameless — and “throatless”!—old man seems closely related to the dying old man in Beckett’s Stirrings Still. He begins as a “he,” who eventually becomes a “you,” and then later a “he” again. That is, if it’s the same person. If it’s not really a multitude of hes and yous, whose paths cross at random points in a continuous stream. At any rate, they bleed into one another: past, present, fantasy. An amorous excursion, a lovestruck young man on his way to meet his heart’s desire in the nighttime, while his parents think he’s safe in bed, gives way almost imperceptibly to a night watchman making the rounds in a shabby industrial building, a scene taken from the time the young man — assuming it’s the same man — must’ve worked for a security company. In this way, the text shifts effortlessly between different times, and possibly between different identities.

If it’s not imagination itself that is the actual protagonist here — the ghost in the reality machine, responsible for organizing and archiving this immense store of memories, belonging to who knows how many people: a consciousness that reveals itself through explicit reflections concerning the pressing task of processing the whole. The novel is filled with such small, corrective insertions: “if something asphalted can be called a ‘floor,’” or: “let us say,” or: “so to speak,” or: “in other words,” or: “if truth be told,” or “one might say,” as if it’s really the writing process, or the emergence of the thought process itself that we’re witnessing, not the events recounted. Language creates what it describes. In this way, a veil is drawn over events, the veil of observation and consciousness, which on one hand separates the people in the novel — and us as readers — from direct contact with experience, but on the other side enables a renewed contact with that same experience through Ulven’s linguistic precision: dark, vague occurrences become distinct objects of perception in the here and now. Immediacy disappears, precision remains.

Replacement abounds with the quotidian, the everyday, a lowest existential multiple, as it were, constructed through a series of ordinary tableaus showing people slogging their way through minor events, routines, trivialities, the day’s store of mundane activities: an evening stroll past a racetrack or a walk to and from the store; deliberations as to whether or not it’s worth the effort to stretch out an arm and turn off — or on — the light; a quilt sliding off the bed and lying like a shapeless deadweight on the floor; the urge to piss, which sneaks up gradually and then mercilessly takes priority over every other desire. Everything is anchored in this type of trivia. He (the nameless protagonist) needs a cigarette and hunts through his pockets and drawers for a pack, and then proceeds to hunt through his pockets and drawers for a lighter. Or he searches (just as feverishly) through the fridge for a beer, touchingly optimistic regarding the possibility of uncovering a surprise stash somewhere in the back, somewhere in the depths, somewhere down below. Or he lies in bed (as an old man) and studies a fly’s Sisyphean path around the inside of the ceiling light. Or (as a boy) he trembles in fear of the monster lurking beneath (the same?) bed and fantasizes, as if in a fever dream, of building a machine that’s capable of literally sweeping the monster away. Trifles are seen as the great battles of life. Elementary things are represented in visionary terms.

And then, what seems to be a story within the story: the intense fantasies and/or memories, it’s unclear which, about an unhappy, that is to say, an unfulfilled saga of love. Every now and then, the protagonist’s thoughts return to a woman he was once in love with (as a young man) and perhaps even lived with (as an adult), until she finally disappeared (committed suicide, most likely). Or are there two women? Perhaps it’s the other (the same?) woman, whom he (the same man?) met with in secret, a secret rendezvous characterized by a halfhearted attempt to reach out to one other, both of them struggling to connect, like two badly tuned radios, and to cool his blood, his mistress, if that’s what she is, cruelly asks, or even worse, asks because she perceives that his blood doesn’t need cooling, what he thinks his wife would say if she could see them like this.

Or is “she” merely a substitute for she, the italicized one, the one, that is, who got away, the one he couldn’t have, or else perhaps the italicized, the idolized her whom he couldn’t have, because she doesn’t exist, because she’s nothing more than the notion of what she might’ve been, if she’d really existed. He thinks about the things he could’ve said to her, which he can’t say to her, because “she” occupies the thankless role of the real woman, doomed to always lose out to the dream women.

Every now and then, however, a trace of tenderness rears its head in these moments, for example, in the painful scenes of the first stages of love, before the heart’s desires are realized, before dreams become reality; indeed, before one can even say they know the person whom they, for reasons yet unknown, are dying to be with, lose themselves in, become one with; painful, because one can’t avoid the foreknowledge of where it will all lead: “like when you’re standing outside a large amusement park in silence (and you can hear nothing but the distant sound of an orchestra tuning their instruments from somewhere beyond the trees), and you close your eyes and sigh in expectation, standing there before the main gate, where lightbulbs gleam brightly against the dark, before you go inside, where the few attractions will just become noisier and noisier, more and more vulgar, as the jostling crowd grows ever larger, the hawkers bolder, the entertainment simpler, the colors gaudier, the make-up shoddier,” and so forth.

Wreakage of a different kind, a different and thinner-skinned sensitivity, in the river of ruminations and memories. Whoever they are, however, these longed-for women also include the one the protagonist (or a protagonist) seemingly lives with, or at the very least who helps him, who takes care of the necessities, deals with practical matters, as they say, and who only produces irritation, if not to say disgust, if not to say hatred in him, emotions that presuppose a long mutual existence that’s spurred them to such heights (or depths). Or perhaps we’re just talking about the maid? At the same time, she’s an absent presence, she’s never there, it’s like she doesn’t exist, like she’s just made up of all the traces she leaves behind, the things she tidies up and purchases, the small changes she makes to the environment, like a chair that’s out of place, something that, once again, only serves to strengthen and deepen the helpless old man’s feelings of irritation, of disgust, of hatred.

That is, of course, if the entire novel isn’t simply a series of imaginary events, vague possibilities, an endless procession of could-have-beens, both poignant and angst-ridden, a series of possible milestones in the fictional unfolding of an unlived life placed under a microscope — or under operating-theater lights, ready for dissection — or under the dim glow of a ceiling lamp that’s flecked with the shadows of all the dead flies that have met their end there.

And yet, another woman — but is it her? or simply her? or neither of them? a third? — whom he, forty years after they met for the last time, considers contacting when he finds out that her husband has died. In this way, one person’s death flows into another person’s life and vice versa, all is connected, or: all is replaced, like threads on a loom, threads that, taken together, offer a certain view of life, of existence’s awesome underpinnings, its blind forward thrust, its unbroken flow, its ruthless, mechanical continuity. The boundary separating consciousnesses disappears. People leave the individual behind and enter a collection of damned souls, caught up in the rushing flood of thought. This is precisely what transforms Replacement into a great poetic work within the framework of a short novel. It’s the overwhelmingly large in the almost humbly small drama of existence personified by a hungover old man who, at this very moment, is rummaging through a chaos of expired groceries in search of a cold beer.

*

What else is there to say?

That Ulven, like every other self-respecting author, was an avid reader of Donald Duck.

That, ditto, he loved sad songs.

And that these extremes, which aren’t extremes at all, but are really one and the same thing, when you come right down to it — namely, a weakness for slapstick comedy and a streak of the melancholy — might give a pretty good picture of what Ulven stood for.

And I think that every great body of work has an aura, which can be difficult to pin down at times, but which nonetheless surrounds the body of their texts, a sum, perhaps, of their individual components, a sum of the writer’s distinct linguistic approach, a gleam of what might be called authority or originality, their unmistakable way of writing, which sooner or later transforms their last name into an adjective, so that one can ultimately talk about the Beckettian, the Célinean, the Bernhardesque, etc.

And I think that the greatest honor an author can achieve is to reach adjectival status.

And I think that the Ulvenesque has an aura that will shine for decades, no, for centuries to come.

STIG SÆTERBAKKEN, 2012

ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND THE TRANSLATOR

Widely considered one of the greatest postwar poets in Norway, TOR ULVEN (born in 1953) was also one of its greatest innovators in prose, influencing countless other fiction writers, not least Jon Fosse and Stig Sæterbakken. Ulven committed suicide in 1995.

KERRI A. PIERCE translates from German, Danish, Dutch, Portuguese, Spanish, Norwegian, and Swedish. She is the translator of Lars Svendsen’s A Philosophy of Evil, Mela Hartwig’s Am I a Redundant Human Being?, and other works available from Dalkey Archive Press.

NORWEGIAN LITERATURE SERIES

The Norwegian Literature Series was initiated by the Royal Norwegian Consulate Generals of New York and San Francisco, and the Royal Norwegian Embassy in Washington, D.C., together with NORLA (Norwegian Literature Abroad). Evolving from the relationship begun in 2006 with the publication of Jon Fosse’s Melancholy, and continued with Stig Sæterbakken’s Siamese in 2010, this multi-year collaboration with Dalkey Archive Press will enable the publication of major works of Norwegian literature in English translation.

Drawing upon Norway’s rich literary tradition, which includes such influential figures as Knut Hamsun and Henrik Ibsen, the Norwegian Literature Series will feature major works from the late modernist period to the present day, from revered figures like Tor Ulven to first novelists like Kjersti A. Skomsvold.

NOTES

1 Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Representation, Vol. 1, trans. E. F. J. Payne (New York: Mineola, Dover, 1966) 185–86.

Content

Tor Ulven
Replacement

REPLACEMENT

AFTERWORD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND THE TRANSLATOR

NORWEGIAN LITERATURE SERIES

NOTES