Magdalena Tulli - Flaw

The student’s uncertain footsteps zigzagged along by the walls of the apartment buildings as he returned with nothing. His steps mingled with others left a moment before by someone quicker than him. The snow, which was gradually easing up, still covered them partially till they became entirely illegible. In places the indistinct outline of a shoe looked more like the imprint of a dog’s paw. At the corner it even took on the shape of a raptor’s talons, only to turn back into the shape of a regular sole. Following this trail, the student found himself in the school yard at the very moment when his men were raising a cheer in honor of the new commander of the order guard, who held the rank of general. The general had a fearful scar over his eye and in his speech the bluster of the leading character whose privileges he had always lusted after. Would he now wish to take revenge for his earlier humiliations, for example, a certain episode in which he was beaten about the head with a pair of boots? But what boots? All his indignities had been eclipsed by the dazzling braid, along with the attached memory of a golden string of successes adorning his whole life. The stern marshal with the piercing gaze in the picture frame would not be ashamed of such a general. Even the fact that he had a slight lisp was of no special significance, since from now on all he had to do was issue commands, and commands always sound convincing. The command “left turn!” sufficed for all the guards to turn their backs on the student in an instant; there was nothing but a clicking of heels and the creaking of the snow. Even if he’d tried to protest against this turn of events, now it was unlikely he, as a mere civilian shivering from the cold, could ever shout over the singing of the guards, which, when the order was given, had risen above the school yard immediately following the cheers. An army belt strapped round his ordinary jacket, the student looked rather foolish. His clothing hung shapelessly on his stooping shoulders. Only the general’s eyes rested on him briefly. It was a cold, mocking gaze that was hard to endure, so the student turned and walked away.

In the morning it had seemed that the thread of his story line needed simply to be tightened for it to keep all the other ones in check. But now, frayed and snapped off in the middle, it is of no more use. If he only could, the student himself would rip it out of the warp of the story, toss it down, and trample it underfoot in fury and contempt. Betrayed by himself as well as by others, he had no one else to count on. That was why, as he left the grammar school, his footprints could lead only to the apartment building at number five. On the way he stopped once and from under a layer of snow dug out his stick, which he’d lost in the morning and which had been lying in the gutter all day. He hadn’t noticed it because he had been holding his head so high; nor had his men, who had also been bursting with pride. Now, as he walked along with eyes fixed on the ground, he spotted it at once. It must have fallen out of the streetcar when the refugees tripped over it during their arrival. It could be used as a walking stick. And that was what he did, because he was exhausted. But he also felt tormented, and hence ridiculous; and he was utterly mocked, and thus in despair, having been plunged into ridicule by a barely noticeable individual who had unexpectedly pulled himself from the depths of indignity. He had been able to do this only through a fierce tussle on the borderline between ridiculousness and despair. Because it is out of the despair of the ridiculous and the ridiculousness of the desperate that there arises such a change of roles; it is possible only when good fortune produces another character even more susceptible to ridicule. Self-love leads one to shun banality and secondariness, even if it means going it alone, even if it has to be at someone else’s expense; and it makes one yearn for special means of expression — the firm tone, the disdainful glint in the eye, the supercilious pose — as if for one’s own salvation.

The student still finds it hard to believe that a figure with no merits whatsoever to his name had, out of nowhere, become the commander of the guard. Could this possibly mean that promotion to commander of the guard meant nothing? Deprived not only of the gold braid but also of the guard that he himself had created, demoted by circumstance to a position even lower than the rank-and-file guardsmen, he had lost faith in his lucky destiny, and pride had gone out of him like the air from a pricked balloon. Alas, without faith and pride he was of no importance. There was no cause within view that he might take up, no place where his presence might still have any meaning. His high boots reminded him of events that aroused his repugnance, so he gladly left them on the mat outside the door, along with the remains of the stench that still clung to the soles. He pulled off his belt too. All he wanted now was to lock himself in his attic room. There he is, lying exhaustedly on the bedspread. From time to time he still belches from the lavish meal, but when hunger comes he will not find so much as a slice of bread at home. He lights a cigarette, his last one, and the air over the bed grows opaque with smoke. The student cocks his head and listens. Footsteps on the stairs stop at the floor below. So for the moment no one is coming for him. He would prefer it if later too it does not occur to the general to shut him up in the shelter beneath the cinema. But he does not know what he’ll do with himself if he is left alone. He blows out smoke and stares through the window for such a long time it brings tears to his eyes. Outside is a clear sky cold as ice.

The residents of the apartment buildings willingly acknowledged that the resolute steps taken by the new leader with the rank of general exposed the underlying indecisiveness of the former leader with no military rank whatsoever, revealing his excessive scruples, his weakness for utterly civilian sentiments, and his lack of a sufficiently clear conception of what was proper and what was reprehensible. He had not been a true hero, prepared to do whatever it took to achieve an end that justified the means; this much was easy to admit after the fact. The first of the bold decisions by which the general showed he was a man of action was to keep the refugees in the shelter beneath the cinema, since they already happened to be there, standing in a crush just as they had stood earlier in the street-car that brought them, as they waited for someone to let them out. If I am the general, I do not think especially highly of my idea, but I have to accept that for the moment no better one is to be found. Because even if, with an exceptional effort, the refugees were to be deprived of the property, so problematic for the public, that was their lives, little good would come of it — for what on earth was one then supposed to do with a quantity of useless bodies so great it made one’s head ache? They would all still be sprawling about in that space, and their lifeless inertia would just make matters worse. There would be even more of a hurry to find a way out of an even more troublesome situation. In the general’s view, leaving the refugees in the cinema was only a partial solution, though that alone was a great deal better than the timid procrastination seen thus far — than ducking the necessary steps — than relying on the benevolence of fate, in the hope that a solution would appear of its own accord. In the interests of order, all that needed to be done now was to round up the orphans.

Yet the hunt carried out noisily by the order guard was unsuccessful. The children were not found. They proved smarter than the guards; in addition, they had little to lose. The guardsmen captured only one little boy with mourning black on his sleeve and under his fingernails, and that by chance, as he was stealing sugar for his pals from some kitchen. Caught by the lady of the house and her neighbors, to begin with he fought like a wild animal, kicking and biting, till he ran out of strength. Later he allowed himself to be led to the general’s staff, which was operating from the café at number one, and there, staring dully at the floor, he confessed to the clerk interrogating him that he had crawled through a window after removing the pane. The rest of his gang was stationed on the rooftops, serving under the command of a leader armed with a real revolver. For the information he had revealed, the boy concluded by demanding a bar of chocolate. If he had been questioned further, it might have come out that after the interrogation he expected to be set free. It was his hope to return in glory to the roof, where he would distribute pieces of chocolate to those older than himself. The general ordered him to be locked up in the storage area behind the cloakroom. The notary, who was now participating in the work of the staff, heard the boy’s statement. He went home to check in his drawer, and his worrying suspicion was immediately confirmed.