Magdalena Tulli: Flaw

But if I am the notary, this is not my concern. One way or the other I don’t like to be late, so now I have to leave home. I have good reason to hurry from the apartment building at number seven. I’m escaping tears and shouts, cold compresses, rows over the little girl’s untied shoelaces; getting as far away as possible from my wife’s despair and fury, and especially from the maid’s unspoken complaints. The enjoyment of drinking one’s morning coffee in peace and quiet has proved unattainable in such circumstances, as the notary finally came to understand when he glanced into the kitchen before leaving. The maid, who had just been slapped by her mistress for her unforgivable negligence, was still sobbing as she prepared the chicken for the soup. If I am the notary, I’m angered by the quite extraordinary insolence concealed in her meek, teary-eyed gaze. What do you want from me? I’m already buried under a mountain of problems so much more important than the ridiculous wrong you’ve suffered. He knew where to go to ensure that even in such troublesome circumstances he did not have to start work without first drinking a cup of coffee — he was familiar with the café at number one. Though in fact, even if he himself does not see it clearly enough, he cannot start work at all. Characters generally have the sense that their future is by the nature of things uncertain. Each mention of going somewhere is by the nature of things shrouded in a mist of indefiniteness, which in itself is not an obstacle. After all, it also gathers in places where there is talk of things past. So if someone decides confidently to call by someplace for a moment or plans where they will go afterwards, they have to count on surprises. Until that moment comes, the future can be imagined any way one likes. The gaze will not search ahead of time for the locations that are being prepared. What has been disregarded on the quiet is not in evidence. Even if what has been disregarded is the most important thing, no decision or design lies behind this fact. It’s always just a tangled matter of falsified invoices and furtively acquired goods.

Those carrying out the work would prefer to confess to simple inattention, at most to having neglected their duties, rather than to intentional abuses. Yet if their indolence is the sole cause of their mishap with the notary’s office, where the hell have they put the safe in which the deposits were kept? The title deeds of several local buildings, promissory notes of various kinds, even boxes of jewelry? And above all government bonds, larger or smaller bundles of which were surely secured there for various local families. The absence of the safe has come to the fore now, and it’s hard to ignore. It goes without saying that they did not place it in the notary’s apartment at number seven. Where is it then? What have they done with it? Why have they hidden it? Were they intending to smash open the combination lock? Unceremoniously burn a hole in the armor-plated door with a blowtorch? I can no longer look on with forbearance at this scandalous disappearance. It needs to be said — loudly and clearly, so the master craftsmen and apprentices hear — that the safe must be found.

Yet in the meantime, in accordance with the plan the dark gray notary made of pure wool leaves the entranceway of number seven and heads off to work. The notary is cold; he has problems with his circulation, which is understandable given his weight. His fur collar, standing out proudly amid light autumn overcoats, inspires confidence, as does his profession. The image of the office remains vivid and sharp in his mind, unsullied by any doubt. Even the question of how he is to get there does not cause him any unease. The same way I do every day, he would reply, surprised that it is not obvious. By the streetcar. In his memory he retains the entire past that has fallen to his lot along with the somber three-piece suit and the gold watch chain, so how on earth could he forget his daily ride on the streetcar? As he passes the concierge, who crumples his cap in his hands, he will tip his hat absently, because he is polite even when distracted. He completes his short route unhurriedly and sits at last at a marble-topped table. Just for a moment. He places his order and picks up the daily paper. Yet luckily things will fall out in such a way that before the cup of coffee and the cream cake taken straight from the glass-fronted display case are brought to his favorite table in the corner, he will be called to the telephone. Otherwise he would have had to sink his teeth into the rock-hard rosette of whipped cream crowning a cake made of plaster. And though he is a serious fellow, responsible for home and office, for his staff, his family, and his servants, it would have crossed his mind at that moment that in reality there is nothing for him. Such an extravagant thought is in keeping neither with his vest nor with the dark gray overcoat the waiter took from him a moment ago. Over the fur collar there was no exchange of glances. In this way the two men mutually confirmed their understanding of the order of things; as the notary handed the waiter his coat and hat, with an impatient gesture he hung his umbrella over the other man’s arm as if it had been a coat hook, while the waiter’s gaze clung humbly to the garments with which he had been entrusted. Though in fact this is of no consequence, and it could even be anticipated that no more attention whatsoever will be paid to the waiter. If at this point someone wanted to exclude the notary’s office from events, they would first have to cause the notary himself to diminish in importance. To stop him being in command of this and other situations. Considering his social position and his presumed extensive network of professional and personal connections, it would seem at first glance that such a thing is quite impossible. And indeed it would not be easy to bring about. Whoever undertook it would be obliged to disturb the deepest foundations on which public order is based.

But those responsible for the petty abuses will stop at nothing; they use any method they can to avoid the catastrophe of being discovered, regarding every other kind of catastrophe as a lesser evil. The workmen in their overalls, accustomed to impunity and seeing it without any unnecessary qualms as an encouragement to continue their familiar machinations, are not held back by anything. Those disposing of the misappropriated materials are aware that a crash will level all the old accounts. When it has passed, they’ll be able to return to their underhand dealings with a clean balance sheet. Yet in bringing about such a disaster it will not be possible to avoid damage. This is a moment of danger for everyone, including them, the masters and apprentices, because they run the risk of leaving some incriminating trace, some incontrovertible proof of their having acted in bad faith. The steps they were obliged to take to deprive the problematic notary’s office of its raison d’être will turn out to be an act of sabotage. Nor would it be the first. No story has ever managed to be played out properly to its conclusion. Yet even if the matter were to be revealed, they will not give up so easily. They’ll issue unimpeachable affidavits for one another and write appeals, sticking to their version till the bitter end; they’ll try any stratagem, from tears to threats, aware that whatever happens there is no one who could take over their duties.

The telephone in the café will ring for the first time no later than a quarter after ten. It’s the notary’s wife. His broker called, she informs him resentfully, complaining that her head is splitting. In his view, her migraine is a trifling matter next to the serious problems portended by the message she is relaying. The notary listens, asks a question, and listens some more. His voice sounds calm, but his eyes dart about with increasing rapidity. The phone call from the broker has set him on edge, though it’s entirely possible that his wife has gotten the whole thing mixed up. It’s easy to check — all he has to do is reach for the receiver he just replaced on its hook. But the broker’s number is permanently busy. The notary calls his own office. It goes without saying that he won’t get through; he won’t even hear a busy signal, as if at the other end of the line there were no telephone, no receiver, and no hand to pick it up. The only thing left for him is the café table, to which he could easily return. But his appetite has abandoned him.