Imre Kertész - Fiasco

This anger which he felt, not so much for the porter as for himself, not to mention a confused urge, possibly vanity, not to abandon the arena without protest, without a trace, as if he had never been there — that, and not a purposeful rage, is what eventually exploded from Köves by the time the last of the applicants had gone, and before any newer ones had arrived:

“Right, so don’t let me in, but then don’t quote me the rules as being your authority, but your own rancour! This is my ID, there is no other, and you’d be amazed to know where I was given it and by whom! But now I’ll take it back to them and report that you won’t accept it — that you won’t accept the ID papers they have issued!” he yelled, and he was astonished to hear his own voice almost screeching as he carried on: “In any event I have to receive my pay, and if by no other way, then they will send it via the postal service! Which, of course, simply incurs unnecessary added work and costs for the firm, but then don’t worry! They’ll learn who lay behind it: you, and your overstepping of your official sphere of authority!” With that he snatched up his papers from the table, and he had already placed a hand on the doorknob when the porter’s voice caught up with him:

“Not so fast!” at which, slowly and reluctantly, Köves turned round: so was this how one achieved one’s aim here, by gambling away all one’s hopes?

“Just let me see that ID!” the porter urged, the features even surlier than before but now seeming as if they were covering up a certain hesitation. He looked in turn at Köves and the ID, as if he were comparing them, though of course no photograph of Köves was to be seen on the document; his hand also moved to reach for the telephone, but then he had second thoughts and instead suddenly snatched up his pencil to fill out Köves’s entry permit in big, clumsy lettering, then quickly ripped the form off the pad; not one word was exchanged, they no longer even looked at each other, as Köves took the paper from him and hastened out of the room.

Going up in the elevator — a continually circulating, endless chain of open boxes: a rosary, no: a paternoster, the name by which lifts of this kinds were commonly known suddenly occurred to him — Köves felt dull and tired, his heart was hammering, his eyelids kept on listlessly closing as if the victory he had just had gained had drained all his strength, although of course he was still in want of sleep and had also forgotten to eat breakfast. Was it always going to be like this? Would he always have to squeeze from himself such violent, self-tormenting passions each and every time he wished to move ahead? How was he going to control his emotions, and especially his sense of direction; after all, where was he actually headed? Which way was ahead? Still, Köves could not deny that his wretched victory — the wretchedness being precisely the fact that he felt it was a victory — had warmed his heart like a satin caress, nor was he able to suppress the quiet song of a vague satisfaction as though, within himself, he had stumbled upon hitherto unsuspected blind forces. He even forget to step out at the appropriate floor — as Köves was apprised by a notice board hanging in the vestibule, the cashier’s desk was located on one of the lower floors of the building — he suddenly realized that he was being warned by a sign that he should alight or remain calm in the head of the elevator shaft, where the elevator would switch over and begin its descent; Köves preferred to alight.

It looked as though, instead of the cashier’s desk, he had dropped in on the editorial office (if it was so hard to gain admission to the building, one would think they could take care that a person actually went about his business and could not wander around wherever he felt like, Köves supposed, with a measure of the scornful satisfaction of someone who has found a chink in a logic which went so far as to glory in its perfection. He found himself in an immensely long corridor illuminated by flickering strip lighting; from behind doors, which were in many cases wide open, could be heard the clacking of typewriters, snatches of voices, whether or excited or dictating articles, and a piercing ringing of telephones. His nostrils caught a whiff of the smell of fresh printer’s proofs, and Köves, clearly through tiredness, was overcome by an indefinable feeling, a dizziness, like someone visiting the scene of a recurrent nightmare. People passed him or came hurrying the other way; Köves looked at them curiously: some were wearing boots which still practically reeked of a caking of soil and dung; others, wearing shoddy suits and bearing expressions which were sombre, troubled, or determined, looked lost as they clutched sheets of paper between fingers below the nails of which an indelible oily grubbiness had infiltrated; he encountered no more than a few lanky, balding, bespectacled, stubble-chinned, hurried men with nervously twitching eyes, most of them in shirtsleeves, a cigarette stub in the corner of the mouth, whom Köves took to be actual journalists. Toward the end of the corridor, he saw a door marked Editor in Chief Secretary’s Office; on pressing down the door handle, he found himself in a light, airy room at the back of which someone was typing; near Köves a plump, blonde woman was seated behind a writing desk. Her haughty little double chin, well-groomed appearance, and trim clothing were the exact opposite of everything Köves had seen there up to this point, and, catching the whiff of an up-market perfume, he inhaled deeply, for the last time he had smelled anything similar was during his stay abroad. In response to the secretary’s question as to what had brought him there, Köves without more ado announced that he wanted to speak with the editor in chief.

“Who shall I say is asking?” the secretary asked.

“Köves,” said Köves, and the secretary leafed through a notebook.

“You’re not down here,” she said eventually.

“No, I’m not,” Köves acknowledged, “But I still want to speak with him.”

“What does it concern?” the secretary asked, to which Köves reacted, perhaps not entirely without acerbity:

“I’ve been given notice to quit.”

“I see,” said the secretary, exactly the same, though not in exactly same way, as the porter, looking at Köves not reprovingly but more with a degree of interest. “You’re the one who has come home from abroad. We know about you,” and at that, while the expression of curiosity on her face was extinguished just as incomprehensibly as it had lit up, she let Köves know that she would first have to come to an agreement with the editor in chief by phone, then the editor in chief would set a time point for an appointment, which he would inform her of, and about which she in turn would notify Köves — by telephone, if he had a telephone, and if he didn’t, by mail.

“That way it’s going to take a long time for my turn to come round,” Köves considered.

“It could be,” the secretary admitted, “but that’s the way it works,” adding that the editor in chief, unfortunately, was busy at the present moment.

“Doing what?” Köves asked, and the look that the secretary gave him was as if he had not arrived from abroad so much as straight from the madhouse.

“He’s working,” she said, “and he instructed me that he was not to be disturbed by anyone.”

“I’m sure he’ll make an exception for me,” Köves reckoned, heading straight for a padded door — and if this careful insulation and the shining brass studs around it had left him in any doubt, the imposing plate which adorned the door’s padding also enlightened him: Editor in Chief — at which the secretary shot out from behind her desk as if she had been stung by a bee: