Imre Kertész - Fiasco

“And what if it were the case?” she said later with the liberated, almost scornful confidentiality that, it seemed, their ineffaceable hours of intimacy had precipitated within her. “Should I put up with it? Accept being walked all over, trampled upon?”

But it was most likely daybreak by the time this took place, when the light seems to bring with it a restoration of the order which will sunder them and soon direct them to their distinct, widely separated places, and they eye each other strangely, almost with hostility, like people who by the sober light of day are counting the cost of a venture predestined to come to nothing — it was something like this that Köves felt, still dazed from the sudden awakening and hurried dressing, while the girl stood before him in an immaculate dress, a cloud of fresh scents around her, radiant and cool as (it crossed Köves’s throbbing head) a drawn sword, and urged him to get going, so they did not arrive at the ministry together.

“You’re horribly ambitious,” he said, or rather complained, as he searched for some final item of discarded clothing, maybe his necktie, maybe his coat. “You’re eaten up by ambition. What do you actually want?” he asked, probably not driven by any curiosity, more simply to occupy the awkward moments until he had finished dressing.

But the girl must have misunderstood him, because she gave him an answer, overstrung, irascibly, in confidence and scornfully, like before:

“Him,” she said. “I want him back,” suddenly turning her back on Köves, and he saw her shoulders heaving, followed a moment later by a choking sound that was instantly stifled. Yet when he tried to approach her: “Don’t touch me!” the girl exclaimed, then “Get going, go!” she added in a sudden fit of anger that Köves felt he did not deserve as he had done nothing to upset the girl, or if he had, then it was not deliberate: “Just so you don’t get the idea that I’m going to walk arm in arm with you to the ministry where your notice of dismissal is waiting!”

“Notice of dismissal?” Köves was astonished, not so much at the news in itself, more at its unexpectedness, startled solely by the setting, the timing, and the occasion. “How do you know?” he asked a little later, and of course he had not the slightest intention of setting off.

“I typed it yesterday morning.” The girl now turned round to face Köves, her voice milder, a look of almost embarrassed sympathy on her face.

Köves then soon found himself in a strange stairwell, then on the street, where he pondered for a few seconds which direction he should now take.

Not much later — it must have been midmorning, getting on for ten o’clock — Köves was standing in another stairwell and pushing once, twice and, finally, a third time on the bell of a battered door, which had no name-plate and had clearly seen better days, until an ill-tempered stirring could be heard from behind it and a bald, oval head, fleshy face, and morose pair of eyes appeared in the peephole, and then a high-pitched, brassy voice resembling a trumpet hooted at him:

“You?!..” Berg was amazed. A key then jangled, a lock clicked, and Köves found himself in a gloomy space — some sort of hallway it must have been, for one of his shoulders immediately bumped against one of a pair of cumbersome entrance-hall wardrobes of disparate sizes — from which he stepped through an open glazed door into a lighter, somewhat more spacious room. It was an odd room at first glance, and its oddity was not caused by the paler and darker blankets laid on the floor, which obviously served as a carpet, nor even by the two rush-bottomed armchairs and a stool which were fraying around the wooden frames, or the two bed-settees, already sagging like potholes, which were set alongside the middle of the wall, it was more something that was missing: it was only then that Köves saw that might have been meant to be among these things was the table he now spotted in front of a tile stove, which was standing in one of the far corners of the room and on which he could see a decrepit office desk lamp, which was shining even in the light of the morning, sheets of paper, a sharp and a blunt pencil, a red pencil sharpener, as well as a small metal tray, and on it, in single-file as if heading toward the stove, a green, a white, a pink, and a chocolate-coloured petit-four, along with a glass of water, then, in a recess between the table and stove, another rush-bottomed seat without a back — in all probability the one from which Berg had jumped to his feet, when Köves had started ringing at the door.

“To what do I have to thank for the … How did it come to mind that … How do you know the ring to give?” with great difficulty Berg got out his questions, evidently none too pleased at having to receive a guest.

“The same way that I knew the address.” Köves smiled tentatively, by way of an apology, as it were.

“So, you’ve come from the South Seas?” Berg asked.

“Yes,” Köves nodded, still a little uncertainly, as if he too were surprised by it. There was no denying that although he had started off from the typist’s dwelling with the initial intention of going to the Ministry of Production, if only to pick up his notice of dismissal, he had changed direction en route, it seems, because not long afterwards he found himself sitting in the South Seas and asking Alice to bring a substantial breakfast. One word led to another, and all at once there slipped from Köves’s mouth — due to sleeplessness, the experiences and unordered thoughts that were still whirling confusedly about in his head: in short, inattention — the question which had anyway long been on his mind: “How’s your … partner?” to which Alice had responded that if he was really curious, why didn’t he pay a visit? “Where?” Köves had asked, perhaps less surprised than the surprising suggestion would have justified. “At home,” Alice replied as unaffectedly as though Köves was a close friend who was constantly dropping in on them, and from the look she gave Köves seemed to discern a mute plea. He then recalled that Alice had complained for a long time, relating how Berg had not set foot outside his home for weeks, perhaps months now; and if she did not take home, and set down before him, his lunch and supper he would not eat but just die of hunger; and it was useless her telling him to get out sometimes, come down to the café, see something else than the four bare walls — all her talking was to no avail, for it was hard to get even a word out of him; he was more and more wrapped up in his thoughts. “About what?” Köves asked. “His work,” the waitress answered evasively and with a touch of uncomprehending nervousness over an activity somewhat alien to her, which on the spur of the moment put Köves in mind of Mrs. Weigand’s agitation in the way she was used to complaining about her son. To his dubious question as to what she was expecting him to achieve with a visit, all the waitress was able to say, with an unsure smile of unclear hope, was, “What a nice chat he had with you the other day …,” but still, he was there after all.

“People are worried about you,” he said, perhaps partly by way of explanation, with the hint of a smile, as if being simply the faithful bearer of that concern, but also with the required solemnity of one who was thereby fulfilling his mission.

It appeared, however, that Berg was not deceived:

“Some people may be worried,” he said in ringing tones, “but that’s not what brought you.”

“No,” Köves admitted; then, as though he were loath to admit it: “Cluelessness,” he added, with a slightly forced smile. “Am I disturbing you?” he asked next.