Moment of True Feeling (4 page)
A woman coming in the opposite direction broke into a smile in the middle of the street and began to run. He was frightened. Had she gone mad? Then he saw someone some distance off, walking toward herâand he too was smiling. Imperturbably smiling, they approached one another, preserving their smiles the whole way despite every obstacle, although the man stumbled over an empty wooden crate and the woman collided with a passer-by. Keuschnig couldn't bear the sight any longer and, conscious of pressure on his bladder, walked away. Now, he thought, they'll be putting their preposterous arms around each other, looking into each other's pitiful eyes, kissing each other's pathetic cheeks, left and right. And then imperturbably they'll go their senseless ways. Spooky! He had the feeling of having to lower his bottom jaw to let the accumulated saliva run out. He saw a child standing lost in thought; a bubble came out of its mouth and burst. He passed a man carrying a black attache case. You'd think he'd be ashamed! Keuschnig thought. When I see somebody like that, I could cross myself.âYet he himself was carrying just such an attaché case, and instead of throwing it into the nearest trash can he heroically went on carrying it. Heroes of everyday life. He couldn't get rid of the idiotic smile he had put on to ape people, and it was starting to itch. He didn't scratch with his fingers but tried to relieve the itch by making even worse faces. Even the infants under the parasols, with their mashed-carrot-colored cheeks struck him as fakes. Even they, he thought, are only acting as if. The truth is that they're absolutely fed up with their preposterous baby existence! When he saw an animal, he was amazed that it wasn't doing its business at that particular moment. Once he
thought: if anybody speaks to me now, I'll crack his skull for him. If anyone so much as looked at him, Keuschnig said to him in his thoughts: Watch your step! (Nevertheless, he couldn't see why no one spoke to him. When a Frenchman from the provinces asked him the way to the RUE DE L'ORIENT, he was grateful to be able to direct him, and his next few steps were winged.)
thought: if anybody speaks to me now, I'll crack his skull for him. If anyone so much as looked at him, Keuschnig said to him in his thoughts: Watch your step! (Nevertheless, he couldn't see why no one spoke to him. When a Frenchman from the provinces asked him the way to the RUE DE L'ORIENT, he was grateful to be able to direct him, and his next few steps were winged.)
To everything that crossed his path he wanted to say: Don't show yourself again! And instantly whatever it was did show itself again, in another form but with the same loathsome substance. He didn't catch sight of things; they showed themselves. He walked quickly for fear that someone would notice his ruthlessness. Yet when a woman with a conspicuously low-cut dress came toward him, he stared brazenly in an attempt to spy her nipples.âEverything seemed taken care of, as though in a game of puss-in-the-corner the last player had found a place and there was no further need for a supernumerary to be standing around. How boring he seemed to himself; how alone!
The sweet familiar after-feeling in his member, which ordinarily stayed with him long after he had been with Beatrice, had soon left him. Now he looked only
at the ground.
A peach stone that someone had just thrown away lay damp on the sidewalk; looking at it, Keuschnig suddenly realized that it was summer, and this became strangely important. A good omen, he thought, and after that he was able to walk more slowly. Perhaps there would be more such signs. The plate-glass windows of a café that had closed for the summer were whitened on the inside ⦠The wheels of a bicycle on top of a passing car flashed as they turned. The smell of shellfish came to him from the market stalls that
had closed in the meantime, and he breathed deeply, as though that smell had power to heal.
at the ground.
A peach stone that someone had just thrown away lay damp on the sidewalk; looking at it, Keuschnig suddenly realized that it was summer, and this became strangely important. A good omen, he thought, and after that he was able to walk more slowly. Perhaps there would be more such signs. The plate-glass windows of a café that had closed for the summer were whitened on the inside ⦠The wheels of a bicycle on top of a passing car flashed as they turned. The smell of shellfish came to him from the market stalls that
had closed in the meantime, and he breathed deeply, as though that smell had power to heal.
When at the foot of the hill he stepped out into the Place Blanche, there was suddenly so much space around him that he stopped still. “San Diego.” Had he heard that or only thought it?âIn either case, no sooner had SAN DIEGO entered his head than he clenched his fists and thought: Who said the world has already been discovered?
In the next moment, while standing motionless on the Place Blanche, he wanted to leave Paris immediately. But then he realized that though a journey might at one time have made some difference, it wouldn't any more. From this thing that had hit him, there was no possibility of flight. Besides, it hadn't hit himâit had just happened. It had long been due. San Diego and his fist clenchingâboth meant he would stay in Paris and not give himself up for lost. I'll show you yet! he thought.âEven so, the sound of a typewriter coming out of a travel bureau filled him with envy and yearning; the keys were being struck hesitantlyânow one letter, now anotherâas though someone were typing the difficult name of some city beyond the sea. And then the click of a calculatorâas though the waiting customer's bill for the plane fare and his stay in the faraway city were being made out.
A couple were standing on the sidewalk, both decrepit with age. The man rested his trembling head on the woman's shoulder, not as a momentary gesture but because he couldn't hold it up. With one hand the woman pressed his head against her shoulder, and thus inseparable they slowly crossed the square. Like man and wife, Keuschnig thought contemptuously, and yet for a moment he was
mollified by an intimation of something else. “You're not the world,” he said to himself, feeling strangely proud of the couple.âBut when he stepped into a cab a moment later the usual dog in the seat beside the driver barked at him as if he shouldn't have been allowed to get in, and at the old familiar sound of the diesel engine he experienced a murderous rage. Oh yes, now he was the world, and all at once his attempts to hush up the fact appeared to him in the form of an image: he had an apple out of which a bite had been taken, and kept trying to put it into a basket with others in such a way as to conceal the damage, but the apple kept rolling to one side, and the bitten part always ended on top. And that was the truth of it: already the driver was cranking down his window and shouting
“Salaud!”
at the traffic, already he was talking to him over his shoulder as to an accomplice. From now on, thought Keuschnig, I won't answer anyoneâI'll only SPEAK SIDEWAYS. Whimper sideways. All at once he sympathized with the dog for letting his tongue dangle from the side of his mouth. What massive nauseaâbeyond the help of smelling salts! A minute of silence! he thought, just one minute of silence, please, in this eternal hubbub of absurdity! A tumult had sprung up on a street corner, and now everything around him was one great tumult; no end in sightâbut the one thought in his head was the thought of an end.
mollified by an intimation of something else. “You're not the world,” he said to himself, feeling strangely proud of the couple.âBut when he stepped into a cab a moment later the usual dog in the seat beside the driver barked at him as if he shouldn't have been allowed to get in, and at the old familiar sound of the diesel engine he experienced a murderous rage. Oh yes, now he was the world, and all at once his attempts to hush up the fact appeared to him in the form of an image: he had an apple out of which a bite had been taken, and kept trying to put it into a basket with others in such a way as to conceal the damage, but the apple kept rolling to one side, and the bitten part always ended on top. And that was the truth of it: already the driver was cranking down his window and shouting
“Salaud!”
at the traffic, already he was talking to him over his shoulder as to an accomplice. From now on, thought Keuschnig, I won't answer anyoneâI'll only SPEAK SIDEWAYS. Whimper sideways. All at once he sympathized with the dog for letting his tongue dangle from the side of his mouth. What massive nauseaâbeyond the help of smelling salts! A minute of silence! he thought, just one minute of silence, please, in this eternal hubbub of absurdity! A tumult had sprung up on a street corner, and now everything around him was one great tumult; no end in sightâbut the one thought in his head was the thought of an end.
Suddenly he saw his face in the rear-view mirror. It was so distorted that at first he refused to recognize it. He wasn't looking for comparisons, but several animals came to mind. No one with that face could express thoughts or feelings. He looked at himself again, but since he was now prepared, as he had been in the morning outside the bakery, he couldn't
find the same face, not even when he grimaced while searching for it. But it had happened: with that one unplanned glance he had lost his acceptance of his own appearance. What self-control Beatrice must have needed! Women are said to be less squeamish than men. In any case, he thought, a person with a face like that should keep quiet. With such a mug you've got to have your nerve with you even to carry on conversations with yourself. Inconceivable that he would ever again say amiably to himself: “Come on, old fellow.” On the other handâand at this thought he sat up straight âwith such a face I can afford to have feelings which up until now have come to me only in dreams!âand instantly he remembered the brand-new pleasure it had given him to pee on a woman in a dream. He had been upset when he woke up. That wasn't me, he had thought. But such pleasure went with his newly discovered face; far from being unlike him, it was his very own self. He now understood that with this unmasked face nothing, nothing whatsoever, could be unlike him. “Not like me” had lost its validity as an argument. But by the same token he could now dispense with remorse. With such a face no excuses were possible. Keuschnig thought himself capable of anything, even a sex murder. At last he owned to himself that killing the old woman in his dream had been a sex murder.âSuddenly the cab driver's dog began to growl at him, and Keuschnig was afraid of himself. Time to get back to work, he thought. Good old office.
find the same face, not even when he grimaced while searching for it. But it had happened: with that one unplanned glance he had lost his acceptance of his own appearance. What self-control Beatrice must have needed! Women are said to be less squeamish than men. In any case, he thought, a person with a face like that should keep quiet. With such a mug you've got to have your nerve with you even to carry on conversations with yourself. Inconceivable that he would ever again say amiably to himself: “Come on, old fellow.” On the other handâand at this thought he sat up straight âwith such a face I can afford to have feelings which up until now have come to me only in dreams!âand instantly he remembered the brand-new pleasure it had given him to pee on a woman in a dream. He had been upset when he woke up. That wasn't me, he had thought. But such pleasure went with his newly discovered face; far from being unlike him, it was his very own self. He now understood that with this unmasked face nothing, nothing whatsoever, could be unlike him. “Not like me” had lost its validity as an argument. But by the same token he could now dispense with remorse. With such a face no excuses were possible. Keuschnig thought himself capable of anything, even a sex murder. At last he owned to himself that killing the old woman in his dream had been a sex murder.âSuddenly the cab driver's dog began to growl at him, and Keuschnig was afraid of himself. Time to get back to work, he thought. Good old office.
The afternoon had been going on and on, and now time became acute, like an organ one doesn't notice until it stops functioning. All at once there was so much of it that, instead of just passing, it took on an existence of its own.
Everybody was affected; now no one could take refuge in activity; and almost with a sense of liberation Keuschnig reflected that at last he wasn't alone in this predicament. What had previously been a mere organ of universal unity became independent, became something more than its functioning, and from then on nothing functioned. The day seemed to have grown too long, time was now a hostile element that threatened a somnolent civilization with catastrophe. It was as though everyday time were no longer in force, and as though this condensed, hostile time were meant for a human being only in the sense that a trap is “meant” for someone, and as though even an animal would be unable to smell it out. All at once time began to pass amid the buildings as though governed by an extra-human system, in a dimension different from the course of the streets or the riverbank parapet or the motion of construction cranes, different from the whirling of pigeon feathers falling from the roofs or of the seed capsules gliding between motorcars. It seemed to Keuschnig that this merciless, elemental time crawling along under the tall luminous sky had expelled all life from the world, that every manifestation of human beings had become a meaningless interlude. Some children were hopping about on a dance floor that had been knocked together for some long-past fete, and a few ridiculous leaflets that no longer meant anything to anyone were skittering this way and that. As though the sky now partook of an alien system, it became too high for the high towers of civilization in the foreground of the picture, and against the compact, menacing background the human landscape degenerated into a junkyard. The deep blue with which a time grown plethoric weighed on the world was the essentialâthe scattered
leaflets down below, in which only fear of life or death could beguile him (or anyone else!) to find the slightest meaning, were a secondary, minor factor. Keuschnig saw the sky arching over the Place de la Concorde as something incongruous and hostile, plunging its edges down at the Place. The street lamps on the Pont des Invalides glowed black before his eyes, as after long staring at the cloudless heavensâa memory of a past fete. Unable to confront the great open squareâno, not now!âhe left the cab before it reached the Esplanade des Invalides and ranâto what safety? Suddenly, as he ran, a warm raindrop fell from the clear, dark sky and landed on the back of his hand ⦠When, in the rue Fabert, Keuschnig saw the brass plate inscribed “Austrian EMBASSY,” he was able to “laugh again,” and back in his office, the moment a sheet of clean white paper emerged from the black roller of his typewriter, he had the feeling that things were back to normal ⦠Only once did he cower and hold his ears, his heart pounding deep in his body, as though outside, beyond the sheltering walls, something had erupted, against which the best decorated embassy was powerless. Heaven help those who are now defenseless, he thought, yet at the same time he hoped that this state of affairs would go on, because in his present, apocalyptic mood he had no personal feeling of himself, or at any rate so little as to believe he shared it with all others. But what if he were mistaken?âThat, Keuschnig thought, would be the end of a possibility, even if the apparently universal situation outside me were only my personal situation.
Everybody was affected; now no one could take refuge in activity; and almost with a sense of liberation Keuschnig reflected that at last he wasn't alone in this predicament. What had previously been a mere organ of universal unity became independent, became something more than its functioning, and from then on nothing functioned. The day seemed to have grown too long, time was now a hostile element that threatened a somnolent civilization with catastrophe. It was as though everyday time were no longer in force, and as though this condensed, hostile time were meant for a human being only in the sense that a trap is “meant” for someone, and as though even an animal would be unable to smell it out. All at once time began to pass amid the buildings as though governed by an extra-human system, in a dimension different from the course of the streets or the riverbank parapet or the motion of construction cranes, different from the whirling of pigeon feathers falling from the roofs or of the seed capsules gliding between motorcars. It seemed to Keuschnig that this merciless, elemental time crawling along under the tall luminous sky had expelled all life from the world, that every manifestation of human beings had become a meaningless interlude. Some children were hopping about on a dance floor that had been knocked together for some long-past fete, and a few ridiculous leaflets that no longer meant anything to anyone were skittering this way and that. As though the sky now partook of an alien system, it became too high for the high towers of civilization in the foreground of the picture, and against the compact, menacing background the human landscape degenerated into a junkyard. The deep blue with which a time grown plethoric weighed on the world was the essentialâthe scattered
leaflets down below, in which only fear of life or death could beguile him (or anyone else!) to find the slightest meaning, were a secondary, minor factor. Keuschnig saw the sky arching over the Place de la Concorde as something incongruous and hostile, plunging its edges down at the Place. The street lamps on the Pont des Invalides glowed black before his eyes, as after long staring at the cloudless heavensâa memory of a past fete. Unable to confront the great open squareâno, not now!âhe left the cab before it reached the Esplanade des Invalides and ranâto what safety? Suddenly, as he ran, a warm raindrop fell from the clear, dark sky and landed on the back of his hand ⦠When, in the rue Fabert, Keuschnig saw the brass plate inscribed “Austrian EMBASSY,” he was able to “laugh again,” and back in his office, the moment a sheet of clean white paper emerged from the black roller of his typewriter, he had the feeling that things were back to normal ⦠Only once did he cower and hold his ears, his heart pounding deep in his body, as though outside, beyond the sheltering walls, something had erupted, against which the best decorated embassy was powerless. Heaven help those who are now defenseless, he thought, yet at the same time he hoped that this state of affairs would go on, because in his present, apocalyptic mood he had no personal feeling of himself, or at any rate so little as to believe he shared it with all others. But what if he were mistaken?âThat, Keuschnig thought, would be the end of a possibility, even if the apparently universal situation outside me were only my personal situation.
For some days
Keuschnig had been working on a report for the Foreign Ministry, entitled “The Image of Austria in French Television,” and subtitled “Austria, a Studio Film.” Some television films based on stories by Arthur Schnitzler had given him the idea. The characters in these films had appeared only in bare interiors; the closest thing to the outside world was the inside of a hansom cab. Keuschnig started his article by saying that the image of Austria put forward by these films was expressed in their sets. By this, he didn't mean that typically Austrian objects figured in the sets; no, he meant that their very bareness seemed to express a view of Austria, that the characters moved in a setting that could have been anywhere. Austria was represented as a historyless no man's land peopled by historyless Everymans, and to judge by these films, just that was specifically Austrian. When a character entered in a state of excitement, his exciting experience hadn't occurred in any particular country but in the vestibule. Keuschnig now set out to prove that because the country never played a part and because the action was never inflected by so much as a passing glance at the landscape the characters seemed to RECITE their experiences
(possibly after memorizing them in the vestibule)âMEMO-RIZ E D embraces, the MEMORIZED expressions of two lovers looking into each other's eyes; MEMORIZED kissesâand that the films themselves ⦠(now what exactly did he want to say?), that because the characters in these films .. (was it possible that he too wrote memorized sentences?) ⦠were not really alive (what did that mean?), but ⦠had only MEMORIZED WAYS OF SIMULATING LIFE ⦠because, wrote Keuschnig, nothing can be experienced in or through a country whose only special characteristic is that it consists of a bare set ⦠that consequently these films picture Austria as a country in which the only stories people could possibly tell were SERIALS, which they represented as the story of their own lives! (but in what country or under what system did people not tell each other mere serial stories as though relating their own experiences?)âand that therefore these films â¦
Keuschnig had been working on a report for the Foreign Ministry, entitled “The Image of Austria in French Television,” and subtitled “Austria, a Studio Film.” Some television films based on stories by Arthur Schnitzler had given him the idea. The characters in these films had appeared only in bare interiors; the closest thing to the outside world was the inside of a hansom cab. Keuschnig started his article by saying that the image of Austria put forward by these films was expressed in their sets. By this, he didn't mean that typically Austrian objects figured in the sets; no, he meant that their very bareness seemed to express a view of Austria, that the characters moved in a setting that could have been anywhere. Austria was represented as a historyless no man's land peopled by historyless Everymans, and to judge by these films, just that was specifically Austrian. When a character entered in a state of excitement, his exciting experience hadn't occurred in any particular country but in the vestibule. Keuschnig now set out to prove that because the country never played a part and because the action was never inflected by so much as a passing glance at the landscape the characters seemed to RECITE their experiences
(possibly after memorizing them in the vestibule)âMEMO-RIZ E D embraces, the MEMORIZED expressions of two lovers looking into each other's eyes; MEMORIZED kissesâand that the films themselves ⦠(now what exactly did he want to say?), that because the characters in these films .. (was it possible that he too wrote memorized sentences?) ⦠were not really alive (what did that mean?), but ⦠had only MEMORIZED WAYS OF SIMULATING LIFE ⦠because, wrote Keuschnig, nothing can be experienced in or through a country whose only special characteristic is that it consists of a bare set ⦠that consequently these films picture Austria as a country in which the only stories people could possibly tell were SERIALS, which they represented as the story of their own lives! (but in what country or under what system did people not tell each other mere serial stories as though relating their own experiences?)âand that therefore these films â¦
Suddenly Keuschnig forgot what he had wanted to prove, and was glad of it. He tore up the paper. Then he looked around for more papers to tear up. For a while it cheered him to crumple them, tear them up, and throw them away. It seemed like some sort of vengeance. He ransacked the office for things to throw away, lined them up in front of him, and threw them one by one, after an elaborate windup even if they were only light envelopes, into a wastepaper basket. He tore up the picture postcards sent him by vacationing colleagues, and threw them away too.âActually I could prove the opposite by these same films, he thought. Only yesterday he would have tried to prove not only some point but also himself with a demonstration developing logically from sentence to sentenceânow he preferred
to go on reading the newspapers and treat himself to a painless afternoon. He even read the horoscopes, and felt himself growing more and more inconspicuous. Cozily irreproachable, he sat alone in the room, at most allowing himself an occasional glance through the window at the chestnut tree, among whose dark-green leaves the much-lighter-colored prickly nut husks were already in evidence. How right the newspapers were todayâhow he esteemed the commentators today for having opinions! Those people don't think about themselves, he thoughtâwhy couldn't he be like that? He was in the mood to underscore every line. In reading a story about “the sad lot of ⦔ he felt that he ought to follow the example of this reporter, who had selflessly risen above his own lot, which, Keuschnig felt sure, was just as sad as that of ⦠He was especially moved by the jokes. What courage one needed to think up a joke! How free from vanity one must be to look for the comical aspect of everything that happened to oneâbecause there HAD TO be a joke in everything! “Have you heard this one: somebody dreams that he's become a murderer?” “Yes, but where's the joke?” Was humor the solution?âIn any event, as Keuschnig read the evening papers in cozy inconspicuousness, he envied people in general their contempt for death.
to go on reading the newspapers and treat himself to a painless afternoon. He even read the horoscopes, and felt himself growing more and more inconspicuous. Cozily irreproachable, he sat alone in the room, at most allowing himself an occasional glance through the window at the chestnut tree, among whose dark-green leaves the much-lighter-colored prickly nut husks were already in evidence. How right the newspapers were todayâhow he esteemed the commentators today for having opinions! Those people don't think about themselves, he thoughtâwhy couldn't he be like that? He was in the mood to underscore every line. In reading a story about “the sad lot of ⦔ he felt that he ought to follow the example of this reporter, who had selflessly risen above his own lot, which, Keuschnig felt sure, was just as sad as that of ⦠He was especially moved by the jokes. What courage one needed to think up a joke! How free from vanity one must be to look for the comical aspect of everything that happened to oneâbecause there HAD TO be a joke in everything! “Have you heard this one: somebody dreams that he's become a murderer?” “Yes, but where's the joke?” Was humor the solution?âIn any event, as Keuschnig read the evening papers in cozy inconspicuousness, he envied people in general their contempt for death.
Then he noticed that he had stopped reading some time ago and was only looking at the desk in front of him: the typewriter, the neatly lined-up pencils, the fountain pen POISED in his hand. How sanctimoniously I have arranged these things! he thought. In doing so, I talk myself into a sense of security that doesn't exist. I pretend that everything will take its usual course and that nothing more will happen
to me, provided I get my tools ready.âWhat self-deception to set up things as INSTRUMENTS and entrench himself behind them, as though he were their representative and nothing else! Did the short-wave receiving set secure his future because he used it? Or was the OUT basket beside the door a guarantee that the office boy would actually find the reports and letters expected of Keuschnig ready at the right time?âA car braked on the square outside with such a screech that Keuschnig heard the howl of a dog on whose paw he had once stepped. Once again, from one second to the next, everything hung in the balance. He would finally have to start thinking about himself. But how would he go about it? He was born into ⦠My father was ⦠My mother had ⦠Even as a child I sometimes felt ⦠Was that the only way of thinking about oneself? If I die now, Keuschnig thought, I shall leave nothing but disorder behind me!âand picking up his fountain pen, he began to draw up his will, writing every word, even the figures,
in full,
so as to prolong the act of writing, which made him feel safe, as much as possible.âAs long as his pen was scratching, death seemed far away. He put the will in an envelope, on which he wrote: “To be opened only after my demise”âdeliberately avoiding the word “death.”
to me, provided I get my tools ready.âWhat self-deception to set up things as INSTRUMENTS and entrench himself behind them, as though he were their representative and nothing else! Did the short-wave receiving set secure his future because he used it? Or was the OUT basket beside the door a guarantee that the office boy would actually find the reports and letters expected of Keuschnig ready at the right time?âA car braked on the square outside with such a screech that Keuschnig heard the howl of a dog on whose paw he had once stepped. Once again, from one second to the next, everything hung in the balance. He would finally have to start thinking about himself. But how would he go about it? He was born into ⦠My father was ⦠My mother had ⦠Even as a child I sometimes felt ⦠Was that the only way of thinking about oneself? If I die now, Keuschnig thought, I shall leave nothing but disorder behind me!âand picking up his fountain pen, he began to draw up his will, writing every word, even the figures,
in full,
so as to prolong the act of writing, which made him feel safe, as much as possible.âAs long as his pen was scratching, death seemed far away. He put the will in an envelope, on which he wrote: “To be opened only after my demise”âdeliberately avoiding the word “death.”
He looked out at the Esplanade des Invalides: nothing characteristic, nothing for him. He forced himself to look at something to stop the pain in his heart: the construction shacks, for example, for the workers engaged in joining two Métro lines. They were so small that the workers came out backwards and stooped. So that's it, he thought. A good many of the leaves of the shade trees on the big square were already yellow and gnawed: Well well. Or the pale moon in
the eastern sky? Why not? A windowpane in the Air France bus terminal across the square was flashing sunlight into his officeâas usual, but a little earlier than the day before. No harm in that, thought Keuschnig. Aloud he listed everything that was to be seenâthat was his only way of perceiving.
the eastern sky? Why not? A windowpane in the Air France bus terminal across the square was flashing sunlight into his officeâas usual, but a little earlier than the day before. No harm in that, thought Keuschnig. Aloud he listed everything that was to be seenâthat was his only way of perceiving.
Then he noticed that on the same story as himself, a few rooms farther on, behind the flagpole, someone was standing at the window: a girl he hardly knew, a file clerk, who had been taken on as a holiday replacement a few days before. Paying no special attention to him, she was pouring water out of a small coffee cup on a pot of geraniums. A moment later she disappeared, then came back with her refilled cup. He noticed how high over the flowers she held the cup and how carefully she regulated the stream of water. Her lips were parted, her face strangely old. All at once it seemed to him that he was watching her doing something forbidden. He felt hot and dizzy, but it was too late for him to look at something else.âWhen she left the window, he hoped she would come back. She reappeared sooner than he had expected; this time she positively came running, she seemed excited. She gave him a quick sidelong glance, then poured more cautiously than ever; it took her a long time to tip her cup, as though there were some resistance to overcome. Suddenly, without changing her expression, she turned back to him, and this time her glance was long and sustainedâold, evil, ravaged with lust. His member went stiff, he gave a start and stepped back.âThen he forgot everything and went quickly down the corridor to her room. Inside she came to meet him. He paused to lock the door. Two, three movements and they were into each other on the floor; after two or three more she opened her eyes wide and
he closed them.âA moment later they were both laughing uproariously.
he closed them.âA moment later they were both laughing uproariously.
Keuschnig hadn't had the feeling of being with a unique, individual woman, and afterwards he felt free from the impersonal power that had gripped them both.âThey helped each other up. They sat on two chairs, she behind the desk, he in front of it, and exchanged conspiratorial looks. She was grave, smiled only once with set lips while looking at him, and soon grew grave again. He too was able to look at her as a matter of course, without strain, without fear of giving himself away. His glance had no further need of something to hold on to, some detail, some particular by which to recognize herâhe saw her all in one, noticing nothing in particular. If in that moment he had told her he loved her, he would, at least for the time it takes to draw a breath, have known what he meant by it. For the moment it was REAL, that's all there was to it. With her he had no need of secrecy, never again. Without fear he immersed himself in her, they had no secrets from each other, only a secret in common from others. For a few moments they had EVERYTHING in common. They let the telephones in the building blare, let the elevator hum, the door-opening device in the courtyard buzz, a fly in the room hum; nothing could divert them from their unthinking calm. He looked at the handwritten sign on the wallâPER ASPERA AD ACTA; it didn't strike him as ridiculous now, and he wasn't repelled by the cooing of the pigeon menage which had settled in the ivy on the opposite wall. He wouldn't have minded in the least if someone had been watching them all along. Let him watch!âThey needed no secrecy, and perhaps it would even give this other fellow an idea. He kept looking at her
and suddenly he thought: So now I have an ally! Though he didn't say a word, she nodded, held a finger in front of her mouth, then set it on her lower lip, as though to underline her meaning. They laughed again, surprised and almost proud. Then they talked together, and he didn't even mind when she said:
“When
I'm with a man â¦
when
someone touches me here ⦔âActually he was glad to be interchangeable as far as she was concerned. In leaving the room he kissed her hand.âBut when he thought of her again, back in his office, his breath caught, because he had no recollection of what it had been like to make love to her. There was no particular he could hold on toâno feeling of warmth or yielding softness. Then for the first time he felt slightly ashamed.
and suddenly he thought: So now I have an ally! Though he didn't say a word, she nodded, held a finger in front of her mouth, then set it on her lower lip, as though to underline her meaning. They laughed again, surprised and almost proud. Then they talked together, and he didn't even mind when she said:
“When
I'm with a man â¦
when
someone touches me here ⦔âActually he was glad to be interchangeable as far as she was concerned. In leaving the room he kissed her hand.âBut when he thought of her again, back in his office, his breath caught, because he had no recollection of what it had been like to make love to her. There was no particular he could hold on toâno feeling of warmth or yielding softness. Then for the first time he felt slightly ashamed.
When at about six Keuschnig stepped out on the square, on his way to the press conference at the Elysée Palace, he suddenly stopped still and propped his hands on his hips. He felt hostile toward the whole world. “Now I've shown you,” he said. “I'll get you down yet.”âWith clenched fists he headed for the Pont des Invalides, crossed the Quai d'Orsay with utter unconcern for the traffic. He felt an urgent need to break some resistance, to prove himself. Now he was sure that something remained to be done âbut where? The coins jangled in his pocket as he walked, but he only walked faster, ran, PURSUED. For a short time at least he had the feeling that he was all-powerful and could look down at the world. It had been made for him, and now he was forcing his way into it, to convert all its renegade objects to his way of thinking. “There you are, Mr. Seine,” he said patronizingly, as he hurried across the bridge. “Just keep up that senseless flowingâI'll get your secret out of
you yet.” Then he thought: I'm having an experience; and with that he was happy and walked more slowly. Agnes had often said to him: “You never tell me any stories.” Now he had a story to tell, how he had said: “Be still!” and for a few moments at least the world had obeyed. And he would add further particulars: steep streets had suddenly become level and whole rows of houses one floor lower. That would be the right kind of story for her, because for her “the world” was still a unit of cubic measurement.âAnd what if he were to tell her nothing, because he had nothing more to say?âThen at least he would have something for himself, a memory that might help him to envisage and deal with what lay inexorably ahead of him. I can be pleased, he thought with surprise: I am a person capable of being pleased. One more thing I had never thought of until today. Suddenly he wanted to
draw.
Moving one finger through the air, he drew the spiked-helmet roof of the Grand Palais, which he was passing on his way down the Avenue Franklin-Roosevelt â¦
you yet.” Then he thought: I'm having an experience; and with that he was happy and walked more slowly. Agnes had often said to him: “You never tell me any stories.” Now he had a story to tell, how he had said: “Be still!” and for a few moments at least the world had obeyed. And he would add further particulars: steep streets had suddenly become level and whole rows of houses one floor lower. That would be the right kind of story for her, because for her “the world” was still a unit of cubic measurement.âAnd what if he were to tell her nothing, because he had nothing more to say?âThen at least he would have something for himself, a memory that might help him to envisage and deal with what lay inexorably ahead of him. I can be pleased, he thought with surprise: I am a person capable of being pleased. One more thing I had never thought of until today. Suddenly he wanted to
draw.
Moving one finger through the air, he drew the spiked-helmet roof of the Grand Palais, which he was passing on his way down the Avenue Franklin-Roosevelt â¦
In Paris one can usually see the sky without raising one's eyes; even when looking straight ahead, one sees it at the end of many streets. Consequently Keuschnig noticed that clouds had now come into the sky, white immobile stripes high overhead, and under them, rather low and running at an angle to the stripes, other clouds, whose proximity made them seem somewhat darker, moving rapidly just above the rooftops and changing their shapes before he was able to fix them in his mind. Why, he wondered, am I so struck with the sky? It didn't exactly strike him; he merely looked at it with interest, but thinking nothing in particular. For a few steps it held his attention so exclusively that
afterwards he thought: I wish I could learn to prolong these selfless and yet full moments, when I observe nothing in particular but nothing escapes me. But his very next glance at the clouds soured him. He never wanted to look at anything again. Why couldn't everything finally disappearâeverything! He walked in the middle of the sidewalk with his hands on his hips. He would have liked to shout insults at everyone. Out of my way, you clever clever people! He would shout just one word at a woman, and she would have to think of it as long as she lived. He must find the word to which no one knew the answer!
afterwards he thought: I wish I could learn to prolong these selfless and yet full moments, when I observe nothing in particular but nothing escapes me. But his very next glance at the clouds soured him. He never wanted to look at anything again. Why couldn't everything finally disappearâeverything! He walked in the middle of the sidewalk with his hands on his hips. He would have liked to shout insults at everyone. Out of my way, you clever clever people! He would shout just one word at a woman, and she would have to think of it as long as she lived. He must find the word to which no one knew the answer!
At the far end of the Champs-Elysées, there was only one thing to catch the eye, the Arc de Triomphe. Looking through it from down here at the Rond-Point, one saw nothing but the western sky, which was reflected in the surface of the wide avenue. “If I looked through the arch from farther up the avenue, I would see the cranes being used to put up still more buildings in the Defense quarter of suburban Puteaux.”âI observe as if I were doing it for someone else! thought Keuschnig. But that was a brief diversion.
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