Imre Kertész - Fiasco

Then, as I recall, I was exceedingly amused, for instance, by the gesture, that self-assured, firm dismissive wave of the hand, with which the purpose of an endeavour I had undertaken, for motives which were problematic, and far from clear even to myself, was being expropriated, so to speak, only to be immediately destroyed; because the letter presumed, if I was following it correctly, that my sole reason for writing the novel was for it to end up in a publisher’s office where decisions are taken about these sorts of commodities. The comic aspect of this absurd loss of proportions was enough to set even my diaphragm aquiver. For I could not deny it, in the end I had taken my novel to the publisher. But that had been intended purely as a temporary resting place in a whole chain of events, which since then had already been overhauled by time and further events occurring within that time — such as this letter that had been delivered to me. “And so?” I ask myself, “Does that somehow obliterate what I have accomplished?” On the contrary, it has set a seal on it, because — and this fundamental factor had not escaped my watchful eye — that dismissive motion is, at one and the same time, also the first real, one might say, authentic proof that my novel actually exists. Yes, I may have told myself, the unstructured time which now lies behind me has gained its definite outlines precisely in the light of this letter; until now I have never seen my situation so simply — as one that, in point of fact, can be summarized in a single clear sentence: I had written a novel, and it had been rejected, presumably through ignorance and lack of courage, as well as evident spite and stupidity.

It may be — indeed, as I now know, it is quite certain — that I made a mistake when I left …

“Was that the doorbell?”

The old boy loosened the pliable wax plug in one ear.

“I already rang once before!” the old boy’s mother complained indignantly as she traversed the east-west axis of the hallway with brisk (and somehow martial) steps which belied her advanced age and, after swerving to avoid the hammered-glass door (which was now, as always, open, in view of the airlessness of the hallway), popped up in front of the filing cabinet (with due regard, naturally, to the previously described surroundings) (which it would therefore be superfluous to describe again here) (so let us merely make it clear that when we say the old boy’s mother popped up in front of the filing cabinet, this should be taken to mean that although she was, indeed, facing the filing cabinet, she actually popped up in front of the table — or, to be more precise, the table, the only real table in the flat) and (exchanging her street glasses for her reading glasses in a lightning-quick movement) was reading.

The old boy didn’t like it when other people started dipping into his manuscripts.

“I don’t like it,” he said, “when other people start dipping into my manuscripts.”

“Why?” the old boy’s mother asked. “Are they secret?”

“Well as a matter of fact …” the old boy scratched his head.

“I can see you are busy again with your private affairs,” his mother declared.

“Yes,” the old boy conceded.

“Did they reject your novel?” his mother enquired, no doubt more out of stringency than malice.

“I haven’t even written it yet,” the old boy muttered.

“But I see here that you wrote a novel and they rejected it!”

“That was another novel. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in an armchair?” the old boy ventured.

“And what’s this?” The old boy’s mother picked up from the edge of the grey file the likewise grey (albeit a darker grey) lump of stone that served as a paperweight, so to speak.

“It’s a lump of stone,” said the old boy.

“Even I can see that; I’m not senile yet, thank God. But what do you need it for?”

“I don’t exactly need it, if it comes to that,” the old boy muttered.

“Well then, what’s it for?”

“I don’t know,” said the old boy, “It just is.”

The old boy’s mother was seated in the armchair situated to the north of the tile stove, behind the 1st-class special ply contraption of 1st-class sawn hardwood (child’s mini-table) (which in regard to its actual function was more a kind of tiny smoker’s table):

“There are some things,” she said, “I could never understand with you.”

“Would you like a coffee?” the old boy ventured.

“Yes, I would. For instance,” his mother swept a glance around the room, from the bookcase-filing-cabinet centaur (if such a catachresis may be entertained) standing in the southwest corner, which had been created from a bookcase assembled from the base of a former linen drawer, across to the (relatively) modern sofa occupying the northeast corner, “you are capable of giving up every demand you have just to avoid having to work.”

“But I do work,” the old boy remonstrated (though not with an entirely clear conscience) (since he should have sat down long ago to writing a book now his had become his occupation) (or rather, to be more precise, things had so transpired that that had become his occupation) (seeing as he had no other occupation).

“That’s not what I mean,” said his mother, “But why don’t you find yourself a proper job? You could still easily go on with the writing.”

“But I’m no good at anything; you forgot to get me trained in some well-paid profession.”

“You always were the comedian,” his mother said.

“There was a time when that’s what I lived off,” the old boy reminded her.

“Why don’t you still write comedy pieces now instead?” his mother asked

“Because I don’t want people to laugh. It makes me envious.”

“That rubber seal needs to be changed,” the old boy thought to himself as he was percolating the coffee.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I came?” his mother asked.

Indeed, the old boy’s mother was not in the habit of calling at his place; rather it was he who was in the habit of visiting her (more specifically, once a week, between seven o’clock and half past nine on Sunday evenings) (the weekly intervals being complemented by daily telephone conversations during which the old boy was able to keep abreast of his mother’s state of health as well as the) (important or not so important) (but in any case significant) (events which had happened to her) (as well as to her personal belongings or household objects) (which current events gained significance precisely because it was to her) (or her personal belongings or household objects) (such as water heater, wall hangings, kitchen tap, etc.) (that they happened).

“Well, anyway,” the old boy’s mother continued, “I finally got a serious response to my advertisement.”

The old boy’s mother had, in fact — as may be gathered from this announcement — placed an advertisement in the newspaper.

Through the advertisement she had dangled the prospect of a room (a big room, however, in the green belt and with all mod cons) in exchange for an undertaking to look after her.

For the old boy’s mother had to make ends meet (or rather, to be more accurate about it, she was unable to make ends meet) from her pension.

To supplement her pension, the elderly lady did shorthand and typewriting for four hours a day at the head office of an export company.

But now, with the passage of time, not only the old boy but also his mother was getting old (albeit more slowly, to a lesser degree, and more reluctantly, than the old boy) (although she had been forced to acknowledge its symptoms nevertheless) (such as the backache she got while typing) (on account of which she had given it up — the typewriting, that is to say).