Imre Kertész - Fiasco

“You can’t be thinking of going in, surely?!” she yelled.

“Too right I am,” said Köves, and kept on going, if not quite uninterruptedly, because he first had to get round the secretary, who now bobbed up between him and the door so as to block his path.

“Leave this instant,” she shouted. “Clear off from here!” Evidently she had completely lost her cool. “Do you hear me?!” and it seemed as though Köves had indeed not heard her, because although he took care not to tread on the secretary’s toes, he marched straight ahead with the secretary continually retreating from him (surely she’s not going to grapple with me or pull out a weapon, Köves niggled to himself). “Even columnists are not allowed to go in unannounced … not even the managing editor!” the secretary carried on, now with her arms outstretched as if to embrace Köves, although she was only defending the door with this desperate and, of course, useless gesture, as in the meantime the derrière she had thrust out behind her was almost touching the padding on the door. Köves was then again a witness to a turnaround that was the reward, so it seemed — always, or just at those rare, unpredictable moments of indecision, an operational glitch as it were — for extreme, indeed downright threatening stubbornness. Because on the drawn, quivering face of the secretary, who was by now practically crucifying herself on the door, there now appeared a hesitant look, then a smile of pained cordiality, and as if it had not been she who had shouted, indeed yelled at him just beforehand, in a sweet tone, albeit one still husky with agitation, she advised Köves:

“Take a seat for a minute, I’ll announce you right away,” at which she had already slipped behind the padded door, behind which — Köves noticed — stood a second door.

So he sat down. Something suddenly made him feel uneasy, and Köves puzzled out that it was the stillness: a typewriter which had been ceaselessly clattering in the background had fallen silent, and having only registered it in the way that one would, say, the rustling of tree boughs or the pitter-patter of rainfall in natural surroundings, which is to say he had not noticed it at all until now it had fallen silent. A tiny, high-pitched voice struck his ears from the same place; it seemed to be the sound of stifled female giggling, and he was just about to turn round when the secretary returned, and this time with the bland, official smile in place, as if nothing had happened between the two of them, she advised him:

“Be so kind as to go through,” and at that moment, though perhaps somewhat less busily than before, the typewriter struck up its clattering again.

As he stepped through the double door, Köves at first saw virtually nothing, and even later only a little; in the daylight that streamed in through the wide window, literally stabbing and unremittingly pricking his eyes, which already stinging from lack of sleep, all he could see behind an enormous writing desk was a compact lacuna, a dark form hewn out of the light as it were, that was nevertheless arranged in accordance with the forms of a human trunk, shoulders, neck, and head — obviously the editor in chief. The shadow was now augmented by an appendage, his outstretched arm, but due to the deceptive perspective caused by the light, Köves could not tell offhand where it was pointing.

“Take a seat,” he heard a voice which had a pleasantly deep ring but was slightly husky, maybe due to overuse or maybe heavy smoking. Since he saw just one chair on that side of the table, Köves sat down on it, although this chair was still facing the light, indeed, given that he was in a lower position through being seated, the source of the light was now apparent in the upper part of the window: the sun itself — albeit along with the editor in chief as well, of course. And because he had no idea where he should begin, what came to his lips straight away, even though, when it came down to it, there was nothing but the truth in its indecisiveness, was:

“I had to see you.”

“Very sensible of you,” could be heard from behind the writing desk. A tiny flame flickered then shortly after Köves heard this from behind a rising light cloud of blue-tinged smoke which within seconds had scattered in the light:

“My door is open to all,” and on hearing this firmly resonant declaration the whole obstacle race that Köves had run in order to get to this room melted into thin air, like the cigarette smoke just before, and Köves was surprised to find something melting inside him into an obscure sense of gratitude which suddenly filled him with confidence.

It also coloured his voice:

“Because I’ve been given notice of dismissal”—an apology, almost a smile was hidden in that, as when men talk over among themselves some nonsense which has occurred.

“I know,” Köves heard. “How can I be of assistance?”

“I’ve lost my bread and butter,” Köves explained.

“Your bread and butter?” came back, somewhat shocked, at least to Köves’s ears.

“What I mean is that I don’t have anything to live off of.” However much Köves might be embarrassed by his own words, it seemed he would have to speak clearly if he wished to be understood.

“I see, so that’s what this is about.” Now it seemed as if there was a touch of underlying impatience in the voice.

“Yes,” said Köves. “I have to make a living, after all.”

“Naturally, you have to make a living; we all have to make a living.” The head moved about while it was speaking, so that Köves was now slowly able to make out the outline of a jutting chin and a forceful, imperious nose. “But then, ultimately it’s not a matter of prime importance.”

“It becomes a matter of prime importance if you have nothing to live off of,” said Köves.

“Everyone in our country makes a living,” and now Köves sensed in the voice something final, brooking no denial, as if he had been put in his place. “As far as your dismissal goes,” the editor in chief went on, now with a somewhat more expansive intonation, “we weighed it up meticulously. To tell you the truth, we can’t really see how we could make use of you. Although,” and here the voice seemed to hesitate, but then continued all the same, “I won’t deny that we received a serious recommendation on your behalf.”

“From where?” the question seemed to slip out of Köves, but no doubt over-hastily, because it received no answer.

“We are not familiar with your work,” the editor in chief continued. “Besides, so I hear, you have spent a lengthy spell abroad; you may not even be acquainted with the line our paper takes.”

“But then,” said Köves, “it’s not just a matter of the line. With a paper,” Köves became quite animated, “other types of work can be found.”

“You’re making me curious,” he heard the editor in chief say, a remark that — not exactly hostile, but not too friendly either — again unsettled Köves. “What are you thinking of?”

“What indeed?” Köves tried to collect his thoughts as a suspicion was aroused in him that he was walking into a trap. “I can formulate proper grammatical sentences. I’m skilled at rounding out a story and supplying a punch line … maybe,” he added with a modest, self-deprecating smile, as if he wished to avoid the appearance of bragging, “well anyway, perhaps I also have some style.”

“So.” The word rang curtly, but Köves was unable to pick out any expression on the face haloed by the incoming rays from behind. “So in your view,” the voice established rather than enquired, “a journalist’s work consists of constructing proper grammatical sentences and rounding suitably pointed stories …”