Moving Parts Read Free Page A

score with which he was provided, an equally important second subject is emerging. The rhythm is familiar – that of cautious steps over the abyss; in it one senses the quivering of ropes strung between the masts of a circus tent, or a sailing ship. This rather unexpected response to the first subject, which was presented in the passage containing the circus fanfares, is introduced, let’s say, by the French horn – does it not roar out in the voice of a ship’s foghorn? Either way, the second subject has now been imposed on the narrator without a trace of decency or sympathy, since in the parts of the score that are supposed to give a sense of the whole, gaps have been left. It isn’t clear whether the one who appointed the narrator left him without guidelines through an oversight, or whether perhaps he neglected the details, preoccupied with some other, more important task. Or he simply couldn’t be bothered, and so deliberately shirkedthe effort of finding harmonies. In place of a round island yellow with sawdust and washed by lofty waves of admiration and awe, from the heights of the crow’s nest there can be seen somewhere down below the deck of a sailing ship tossing on the ocean waves. The planks of the deck have the same yellow color of untreated wood; the clamorous undulations of the audience closely resemble the sound of high seas. In essence we are still dealing with the same thing: that which is visible. Then what is the essence of the invisible structure, its foundation and its core? Maybe the ropes strung across the abyss; maybe the ocean currents in the depths; maybe the precipitous lines of the graphs of market reports in the columns of the Financial Times. F. cannot know this either, since others who are better informed also do not know. No handbook can resolve the matter; no trade journal will figure it out. F.’s hand falls limply to the floor, as if he were asleep, when suddenly a sob issues from his throat. This sob will be heard a floor above by the maid when she turns off her vacuum cleaner for a moment. Is this really the room left by the other two? There’s no doubt about it; never mind the details. Whichever of the numerous rooms on many floors it might be, it would always be the same one. His other hand pulls the tie over his head, reaches for his collar and loosens it with a single tug, ripping the button off. In this scene the pop marks the turning point, which has just passed. From this moment all is preordained, with no return and no escape. It transpires that the well-paid professional withthe ironic glint in his eyeglasses who was seen only a moment ago in the lobby and at the front desk – does not exist. The character lying tieless on a hotel sofa is not to blame for this. The fault lies with the troubles of life, with the dull plaster, the gray sky. It lies with hope or with the lack of hope – there’s no difference, since hope and lack of hope both lead to the same point.
    The narrator could assert that he saw with his own eyes the events that took place in the hotel lobby, and likewise the arrival of the cab. He watched them through the glass panes, over a beer, which at his request had been brought to him in the dining room, even though the tables were already being cleared after breakfast. But how was it with the interior of that room on some floor or other? This is a critical question, assuming the world actually exists, and does so reliably enough that we should not consider ourselves entitled to discuss uncertainties. And could the narrator drink his beer if the world didn’t exist? But in fact he didn’t drink it at all. He merely watched the foam settling in the mug.
    There now reappears the question of the rolls that the other two spread with butter not so long ago: it would be nice to know for certain that they at least actually existed. The narrator smirks when the word actually moves full sail into the dangerous straits