Moment of True Feeling (6 page)
The President took off his glasses and said: “I am a lover of change.” This remark was followed by a pause, and
Keuschnig was afraid the journalists wouldn't have any more questions. He leafed quickly through his notebookâthe sound was like that of the pigeons a moment before. Nothing relevant occurred to him. Mr. President, would you like to see blood? The television lights went out, and no sooner had he taken advantage of his last opportunity to do what other people were doing and put his hand over his eyes, than the President of the Republic vanished. (The how-manyeth Republic? Keuschnig thought. Once again, counting proved helpful. It seemed to him that he too was being counted, which at least gave him the satisfaction of feeling himself to be a contemporary.)
Keuschnig was afraid the journalists wouldn't have any more questions. He leafed quickly through his notebookâthe sound was like that of the pigeons a moment before. Nothing relevant occurred to him. Mr. President, would you like to see blood? The television lights went out, and no sooner had he taken advantage of his last opportunity to do what other people were doing and put his hand over his eyes, than the President of the Republic vanished. (The how-manyeth Republic? Keuschnig thought. Once again, counting proved helpful. It seemed to him that he too was being counted, which at least gave him the satisfaction of feeling himself to be a contemporary.)
He didn't want to go home yet. He felt that if he got there too soon Stefanie wouldn't be ready for him. (And today he too would have to rehearse, to rehearse the act of seeing her and the child again.) Maybe he would surprise her in some secret if he opened the door ahead of time. So he bought a paper at the stand on the Avenue Marignyâfrom my
friend,
he thoughtâand holding it over his head to shield himself from the rain, walked as slowly as he could without its getting on his nerves, this way and that way, through the streets of the 8th arrondissement.
friend,
he thoughtâand holding it over his head to shield himself from the rain, walked as slowly as he could without its getting on his nerves, this way and that way, through the streets of the 8th arrondissement.
In a bakery with little left to sell, a bakery girl was sitting alone, gazing round-eyed into space. He bought an oval loaf of bread, and she waited on him patiently. She gave him his change and started cleaning her nails as he was leaving. The sight gave him a feeling of lightness. He passed a lottery stand that looked as if it had been closed a long time; all he could see inside was a knitted vest on a hanger. In a laundry, pale-faced women were sitting with their hands in their laps, laughing now and then. In a restaurant the
tables were set but still unoccupied, except for one in the far corner, where the boss and his helpers were sitting with elbows firmly propped, pouring themselves red wine out of bottles without labels.âA bus came alongâjiggling straps, steam from the passengers' wet clothingâpassed and continued on, as though taking some part of him away with it. I'm going to think up something! Keuschnig thought. A sign by the door of the bus had said: SERVICE NORMAL.
tables were set but still unoccupied, except for one in the far corner, where the boss and his helpers were sitting with elbows firmly propped, pouring themselves red wine out of bottles without labels.âA bus came alongâjiggling straps, steam from the passengers' wet clothingâpassed and continued on, as though taking some part of him away with it. I'm going to think up something! Keuschnig thought. A sign by the door of the bus had said: SERVICE NORMAL.
He followed a woman who was pushing a shopping cart down the rue Miromesnil, curious to see what would happen if he just kept following her. Here it was so quiet he suddenly noticed how deeply he was breathing. He heaved a sigh. The few sounds to be heardâthe occasional scrape of the woman's high-heeled shoes, the buzz of a door buzzer farther away, the click of the almost simultaneously opening door, an apple rolling to the street from its pyramid in a COURS DES HALLES shopâseemed to give assurance of his own quietness. He still hadn't seen the woman's face, and that aroused him. He waited for her in front of a butcher shop; she had left her cart on the sidewalk, a bunch of parsley was sticking out. But then his gaze lost itself in the agglutinations of sawdust that had formed on the tile floor in the course of a long day, and when at last he looked up, the woman was turning into another street, where there was noise again. He followed her to the Champs-Elysées and into the PRISUNIC. It calmed him to go up and down stairs to the accompaniment of music and amplified announcements of PRISUNIC specials; his independent existence slipped away in the process.âAt the pet-food section the woman turned around while some cans of cat food she had bought were being put into a brown paper bag. By that
time his curiosity about her was nearly gone. She made a face, as if to say that she had expected no more of him. It wasn't him she saw but SOMEONE LIKE HIM. Only a moment ago, Keuschnig reflected, I was genuinely unhappy at the thought that in another minute this woman would vanish forever from my life. And now the pleasant feeling that I haven't missed anything.âRelieved, he had his picture taken at the Photomaton. The flashes of the color machine were so intense that the warmth touched his face like a soothing caress.âThen the PRISUNIC closed, and he had to go out into the street again.
time his curiosity about her was nearly gone. She made a face, as if to say that she had expected no more of him. It wasn't him she saw but SOMEONE LIKE HIM. Only a moment ago, Keuschnig reflected, I was genuinely unhappy at the thought that in another minute this woman would vanish forever from my life. And now the pleasant feeling that I haven't missed anything.âRelieved, he had his picture taken at the Photomaton. The flashes of the color machine were so intense that the warmth touched his face like a soothing caress.âThen the PRISUNIC closed, and he had to go out into the street again.
He sat down on a bench near the playground in the Carré Marigny, hoping for some accident that would finally give him an opportunity to think about himself, for as soon as he tried deliberately to think, his thoughts ceased to be credibleâthey were not his own. As usual in Paris, the rain had soon stopped, and the puddles in the sand were flashing under the setting sun. The pigeons had flown up into the trees. Sitting on his outspread newspaper, he looked straight ahead, because he didn't want to notice anything in particular. On the ground everything was so close at hand. Ahead of him only the dark foliage of the avenues of chestnut trees, behind them the roof of the Grand Palais, and off to the right the top of the Eiffel Tower: nothing to hem him in. The sun went down, and a moment later things began to glow as though from within, while at the same time the air between them darkened. For a time they glowed intensely, as though radiating their essence and energy. In the shimmering dusk details were blurred. A different system had descended. Then the glow was gone, but things were still as bright as before; they merely ceased to radiate brightness,
and the twilight between them became daylight again.âAnd now this light refused to pass. Everything persisted in staying the same. A hellish everyday world settled in, as though forever. This day, it seemed to Keuschnig, would never end. The unchangingly murmuring trees in the bleak, eternal light made his head ache. Objects seemed so immovable that the mere sight of them amounted to a concussion of the brain. He cringed away from them as from a blow. If he should try to start one of these swings moving with a kick, his foot would bounce back, for the swings like everything else in the playground were locked, clamped, screwed tight. They had little sand clocks fastened to them; the sand wouldn't start flowing until a child paid for the use of a swingânot today. Keuschnig cursed the dead light, which made him feel like his own ghost. He jiggled his hands in disgust. He wanted to complain about the world, which had again become so bare, so barren, so cold and wet, so cramped. Please, let it be night, he thought through the pounding in his head â¦
and the twilight between them became daylight again.âAnd now this light refused to pass. Everything persisted in staying the same. A hellish everyday world settled in, as though forever. This day, it seemed to Keuschnig, would never end. The unchangingly murmuring trees in the bleak, eternal light made his head ache. Objects seemed so immovable that the mere sight of them amounted to a concussion of the brain. He cringed away from them as from a blow. If he should try to start one of these swings moving with a kick, his foot would bounce back, for the swings like everything else in the playground were locked, clamped, screwed tight. They had little sand clocks fastened to them; the sand wouldn't start flowing until a child paid for the use of a swingânot today. Keuschnig cursed the dead light, which made him feel like his own ghost. He jiggled his hands in disgust. He wanted to complain about the world, which had again become so bare, so barren, so cold and wet, so cramped. Please, let it be night, he thought through the pounding in his head â¦
A woman with a full shopping bag walked purposefully across the Carré. Hey you, Keuschnig thought, look at me! Nobody wants to look at me ⦠In a little while, home in her hideous kitchen, she wouldn't shrink back from pouring nauseatingly golden-yellow oil into a pre-warmed frying pan. That sizzling, so preposterous you want to hold your ears, as she puts a grotesque piece of meat into the pan ⦠And then, as sure as death and taxes, the desolately homelike smell she would send out through the open window at the unoffending passers-by! Keuschnig imagined how, with one hand in a flower-patterned oven glove, she would inevitably go out to her mate, who, aperitif glass in hand, would inevitably be
waiting for her in the LIVING ROOM (or LIBRARY), and imperturbably inform him that dinner was ready. (Possibly she would only knock at the door of his STUDY, two shorts, one long.) The husband would get the inevitable corkscrew ⦠And with all that, Keuschnig thought, she was so shamelessly sure of herself, when you'd have expected such concentrated inevitability to make her sink straight into the earth! Suddenly he had a vision of things happening simultaneously all over Paris: in Saint-Germain-des-Près (TOURIST QUARTER) pizzas were being gouged and tugged about and hungry tourists were going from restaurant to restaurant reading menus, unable to make up their minds; in Ménilmontant (WORKING-CLASS QUARTER) workers were drinking their after-work beer at the Rendez-vous des Chauffeurs, an authentic WORKERS' BISTRO, where today as usual quite a few intellectuals had dropped in; in Belleville (AFRICAN QUARTER) groups of blacks, some in dashikis, all holding beer cans, were standing silent on the sidewalk; in Auteuil (POSH QUARTER) waiters in leather-upholstered PUBS were asking sons and daughters of the upper bourgeoisie whether they wished FRENCH or FOREIGN beer; and all over town idle pinball machines gleamed, while those in use rattled and clicked, the plane trees and chestnut trees on the boulevards murmured, the black coupling pipes between Métro cars wriggled when the train was in motion, lovers looked into each other's eyes, HAMBURGERS rested on soggy slices of onion in those WIMPY snack bars that were still leftâand all that, thought Keuschnigâas he stared with burning eyes into the same forever unchanging lightâyear in year out with the same inexorability, predictability, mortal tedium, and deadly exclusivity with which this
possibly perfectly nice woman, for instance, would now prepare an avocado vinaigrette for dinner.
waiting for her in the LIVING ROOM (or LIBRARY), and imperturbably inform him that dinner was ready. (Possibly she would only knock at the door of his STUDY, two shorts, one long.) The husband would get the inevitable corkscrew ⦠And with all that, Keuschnig thought, she was so shamelessly sure of herself, when you'd have expected such concentrated inevitability to make her sink straight into the earth! Suddenly he had a vision of things happening simultaneously all over Paris: in Saint-Germain-des-Près (TOURIST QUARTER) pizzas were being gouged and tugged about and hungry tourists were going from restaurant to restaurant reading menus, unable to make up their minds; in Ménilmontant (WORKING-CLASS QUARTER) workers were drinking their after-work beer at the Rendez-vous des Chauffeurs, an authentic WORKERS' BISTRO, where today as usual quite a few intellectuals had dropped in; in Belleville (AFRICAN QUARTER) groups of blacks, some in dashikis, all holding beer cans, were standing silent on the sidewalk; in Auteuil (POSH QUARTER) waiters in leather-upholstered PUBS were asking sons and daughters of the upper bourgeoisie whether they wished FRENCH or FOREIGN beer; and all over town idle pinball machines gleamed, while those in use rattled and clicked, the plane trees and chestnut trees on the boulevards murmured, the black coupling pipes between Métro cars wriggled when the train was in motion, lovers looked into each other's eyes, HAMBURGERS rested on soggy slices of onion in those WIMPY snack bars that were still leftâand all that, thought Keuschnigâas he stared with burning eyes into the same forever unchanging lightâyear in year out with the same inexorability, predictability, mortal tedium, and deadly exclusivity with which this
possibly perfectly nice woman, for instance, would now prepare an avocado vinaigrette for dinner.
He didn't want to be anywhere, he wanted nothing more. He wanted to abolish everything! “I don't believe in God!” he said, meaning nothing. (Those words had often popped out of him in the past.)
Night was falling and at last Keuschnig was alone. He stretched his legs, put both arms over the back of the bench, and thought: How gloriously alone I am! And really bared his teeth. One last thought: I not only have to see everything at once, now I want to. Suddenly the wind grew stronger, and Keuschnig lost himself â¦
After a while he noticed that for the first time that day there was perfect silence in his head. It was as though he had been having to talk all day, without stopping for breath. Now he only listened. The grass at the edge of the playground was flattened ⦠He listened. The wind died down. When it rose again and the trees set up a murmur, Keuschnig was aware of a new, calm life feeling. The grass stood erect and trembled. Behind the trees, on the Champs-Elysees, an unbroken procession of cars passed; now and then the sound of a horn, or a rattling and roaring when a motorcycle overtook a car. He had thought himself away, yet he was present.
Then he had an experienceâand while still taking it in, he hoped he would never forget it. In the sand at his feet he saw three things: a chestnut leaf; a piece of a pocket mirror; a child's barrette. They had been lying there the whole time, but then suddenly they came together and became miraculous objects. “Who said the world has already been discovered?” It had been discovered only in
respect to the mystifications some people used to defend their certainties from others, and surely there were no longer any pseudomysteriesâsuch as the mystery of Holy Communion or the mystery of the universeâto blackmail him with. All the sublime mysteries, no differently from the Mystery of the Black Spider or the Mystery of the Chinese Scarf, were man-made, designed to intimidate people. But these wishing objects on the ground in front of him did not intimidate him. They put him in so confident a mood that he couldn't sit still. He scraped his heels over the ground and laughed ⦠I haven't discovered a personal mystery in them, addressed to myself; what I've discovered is the IDEA of a mystery valid for all! “What names cannot accomplish as CONCEPTS, they do as IDEAS.” Where had he read that? He needed no mysteries, what he needed was the IDEA of a mysteryâand if only he had the idea of a mystery, there would be no need to hide his fear of death behind a lot of pseudomysteries! At this thought Keuschnig leaped for joy. Suddenly he felt so free that he didn't want to be alone any more. He would go up to someone and say: “You needn't have any secrets from me!” At the encouraging sight of those three miraculous objects in the sand, he felt a helpless affection for everyone, but he had no desire to be cured of it, because it now seemed perfectly sensible. I have a future! he thought triumphantly. The chestnut leaf, the fragment of mirror, and the barrette seemed to move still closer togetherâand with them all other things came together ⦠until there was nothing else. Magical proximity! “I can change!” he said aloud.âHe stamped his foot, but there was no ghost. He looked around, but no longer saw an adversary. Since there was no need to wish anything more
from the three objects, he scraped sand over them. He thought of keeping the chestnut leaf. To remember by? There was no need to remember: he threw the leaf away. Then he took a bite of his bread. Now I can let myself be hungry, he thought as he was leaving, because I've finally had an IDEA. He felt all-powerful again, but no more powerful than anyone else.
respect to the mystifications some people used to defend their certainties from others, and surely there were no longer any pseudomysteriesâsuch as the mystery of Holy Communion or the mystery of the universeâto blackmail him with. All the sublime mysteries, no differently from the Mystery of the Black Spider or the Mystery of the Chinese Scarf, were man-made, designed to intimidate people. But these wishing objects on the ground in front of him did not intimidate him. They put him in so confident a mood that he couldn't sit still. He scraped his heels over the ground and laughed ⦠I haven't discovered a personal mystery in them, addressed to myself; what I've discovered is the IDEA of a mystery valid for all! “What names cannot accomplish as CONCEPTS, they do as IDEAS.” Where had he read that? He needed no mysteries, what he needed was the IDEA of a mysteryâand if only he had the idea of a mystery, there would be no need to hide his fear of death behind a lot of pseudomysteries! At this thought Keuschnig leaped for joy. Suddenly he felt so free that he didn't want to be alone any more. He would go up to someone and say: “You needn't have any secrets from me!” At the encouraging sight of those three miraculous objects in the sand, he felt a helpless affection for everyone, but he had no desire to be cured of it, because it now seemed perfectly sensible. I have a future! he thought triumphantly. The chestnut leaf, the fragment of mirror, and the barrette seemed to move still closer togetherâand with them all other things came together ⦠until there was nothing else. Magical proximity! “I can change!” he said aloud.âHe stamped his foot, but there was no ghost. He looked around, but no longer saw an adversary. Since there was no need to wish anything more
from the three objects, he scraped sand over them. He thought of keeping the chestnut leaf. To remember by? There was no need to remember: he threw the leaf away. Then he took a bite of his bread. Now I can let myself be hungry, he thought as he was leaving, because I've finally had an IDEA. He felt all-powerful again, but no more powerful than anyone else.
What a strange day it was! He couldn't walk, he was running again. He should have been home at nine. He wouldn't make it on time, ahead of the Austrian writer, unless he took a cab. But then he thought: I've got to experience something more, and stopped in front of the chestnut tree, suddenly taking a great liking to this tree with the still-bright strip of sky behind it. I've earned the right to look at it, he thought, and cast a long look at its flapping leaves.âHe would experience more in a bus than in a cab. So he went over to the Avenue Gabriel and took the 52 bus, which runs from the Opera to the Porte d'Auteuil.
On the bus he thought: Maybe, if I feel as though I hadn't experienced anything in a long time, not until last night at least, it's because I had decided in advance what an experience is. As in a travel prospectus, a mere object stood for experience. According to the prospectus, “the campfire will be an experience”âand to my mind the water flowing in the gutter, the soft-smooth surface of the shoe polish in a new can, a freshly made bed, an elderly person who had preserved his curiosity represented experience.âI must get over needing guarantees of experience, he thought.
In the bus he was alone with a North African worker. The North African was drunk. The bus was going fast, because there was no one waiting at most of the stops.
When the driver took the sharp turn into the Avenue Friedland without slowing down, the man vomited in the aisle. The driver pulled up at the curb and without a word opened the door. The drunk spoke loudly in his own language, but without turning toward the driver. Keuschnig pretended to be looking out of the window. Not one of the three in the bus looked at either of the others. The North African began to shout. The driver turned off the motor. It's too late to say anything now, Keuschnig thought. Suddenly he noticed that the drunk was looking at him and speaking to him. He looked back blandly at him as if nothing were wrong. The North African fell silent and got out. The bus drove on. The driver didn't say a word, he seemed to need no backing up. When Keuschnig looked at the splattered vomit on the floor, glistening in the harsh white overhead light, he felt it was meant for him.âAt the next stop he left the bus, long before Auteuil. In getting out, he said to the driver:
“Monsieur, vous n'êtes pas gentil,
” but the words didn't come out right.
When the driver took the sharp turn into the Avenue Friedland without slowing down, the man vomited in the aisle. The driver pulled up at the curb and without a word opened the door. The drunk spoke loudly in his own language, but without turning toward the driver. Keuschnig pretended to be looking out of the window. Not one of the three in the bus looked at either of the others. The North African began to shout. The driver turned off the motor. It's too late to say anything now, Keuschnig thought. Suddenly he noticed that the drunk was looking at him and speaking to him. He looked back blandly at him as if nothing were wrong. The North African fell silent and got out. The bus drove on. The driver didn't say a word, he seemed to need no backing up. When Keuschnig looked at the splattered vomit on the floor, glistening in the harsh white overhead light, he felt it was meant for him.âAt the next stop he left the bus, long before Auteuil. In getting out, he said to the driver:
“Monsieur, vous n'êtes pas gentil,
” but the words didn't come out right.
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