Gonçalo Tavares - Joseph Walser's Machine

“But I want to show you something. I have it here in the drawer. Look, it’s pretty, isn’t it? A gun. And it’s loaded.

“I want to talk about myself, my dear fellow, as I’ve already told you, that’s the reason I called you here, to talk about myself; and because you’re a good listener. All right then, I brought with me the necessary instrument for use in talking about myself: a pistol, an excellent pistol, a modern pistol, a loaded pistol, a pistol that has within it two deaths. That’s just a figure of speech, don’t be frightened, it has two deaths within it because it has two bullets: one for you and one for me, arithmetically speaking. But don’t be frightened, don’t be ridiculous, not now; I’m just using that as an example.

“Are you frightened? Oh, my dear friend, that was just a gunshot. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize that sound. After so many years of war, that sound still frightens you? That’s extraordinary. You, my dear Walser, surprise me, you still surprise me. You’re still carrying on with a naïveté that is absolutely remarkable. Everything is new to you. You’re made of different stuff, you’re from a different world, you’re from a different century. All right then, my dear sir, you know that I’m not like that. Know that for me, in fact, the idea of putting a bullet in my head has crossed my mind many times. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Klober the foreman, Klober the foreman wants to put a bullet in his head? That’s absurd, you’ll say, in your immense naïveté. That may be: but a day doesn’t pass that I don’t think about putting a bullet in my head. In one side, out the other: a bullet in my very own head. But look here, don’t get frightened because of me. I still haven’t decided anything, I’m here to talk to you because I still haven’t decided. That’s why I called you, I know that you’re a good listener, an extraordinary listener, and knowing that I knew it wouldn’t be a mistake to bring you here, on a sunny Sunday, making you leave your faithful wife, and your beautiful lover, thus leaving two forlorn women behind on Sunday, a crucial day for hatred, a day on which hatred is in urgent need of parks and nice weather, of idle strolls; it’s like this: I wouldn’t rob you of all the happiness out there just to get you to witness my suicide. It would be an affront to your finest quality, that of being a good listener, if I were to call you just to watch me do it. So, I’ll tell you something right away to ease your worries about my health. Well then, this gun now only has one bullet, the other was wasted, if we want to think of it that way; I fired off to the side; I missed, my dear Walser. I now have a single bullet in this pistol: it won’t do for two people, it’s easy to do the math, and I’ll say that it has drastically reduced the probability of one of us dying, here, in this room. But I’m going to include you in this game, Walser, my friend — perhaps a little too early. Nevertheless, I want you to realize something: the war ended some time ago; so, my dear Walser, you are looking at a man who has never killed anyone. Can you believe it? Believe it, please, I beg of you. Here we are, locked in here, there’s no one nearby, the machines are all running and I would never lie to you about such an important matter: yes, I may have betrayed a man at one time or another — I know that some were perhaps shot because of what I did or, at least, because of a sudden loss of memory on my part — but who isn’t guilty of that? And you, Joseph, know very well what I’m talking about. Although you distanced yourself from these matters, you’ve also got something of a résumé in this regard, don’t be so modest. But as I was saying: I have never killed a man. I’ve never aimed a gun. The substance of which the human body is constructed even nauseates me a little, I have to admit. The substance of the human body is much too inexplicable to me, and as such, I repeat, I cannot help but feel a little nauseated by men. Nothing excessive, of course: here I am, to this very day, having never shed blood, carrying on in my job, carrying on as Klober the foreman.

“But the hour is drawing nigh. I’m not going to ask you to shoot me, for a number of reasons. You’re a peaceful man, no doubt about it; forcing you to shoot me would be an act of violence against you. Your hands worry me as well. Let’s be frank: you’re a disabled man. You have a grotesque hand: missing its index finger, with a hideous swelling in the palm. I must admit that the first time I shook your hand after the accident it gave me goose bumps; I, who have seen so much worse than that. Perhaps because you’re my friend, who knows? It’s a minor defect, almost imperceptible, almost invisible, I’d say. Just one finger, a few inches, if we want to be precise about it, if we want to be obscene about it. Allow me a moment of levity, Walser, my friend, don’t be offended. These are my last moments of levity, and someone who’s dying has a right to one last dance. But I was saying that your hands worry me: that’s another reason I won’t hand the gun over to you. If you were to shoot me with your left hand, I would be offended: no one should kill a man with his weak hand. But you, Joseph, have two weak hands, and that’s what worries me. Honestly, it’s a small defect, the one you have, confined to the index finger on your right hand. But do you know what that finger is? It’s the finger that pulls the trigger, the finger that’s essential for shooting: it’s the finger — please excuse these final embellishments — but it is, indeed, the finger that’s essential for killing. That’s the one, there isn’t another one that can be the crux, the medulla, to use that beautiful word, aside from the finger you no longer have. It would be rude to insist that you shoot me with your deformed hand. I would be highlighting your defect, that absence there. It wouldn’t be the right thing for me to do. For that reason, I’ll be the one who shoots. I would have liked for it to be you, Walser, I say that in all sincerity. To be killed by another human being would make more sense, it would be more appropriate for this century. But no, all I want is for you to see me: it’s the most just and least offensive way for the both of us. Joseph Walser, my friend: your index finger was never missed so sorely as it is today. A damned amputation, my friend. And take note of the way these machines are, the way your machine is: look at what it took from you. It could have taken thousands of different things from your body, but it only took one, an apparently laughable one: your index finger.

“But don’t lose the historical perspective. Even when you’re inside an office, under lock and key — don’t forget about the key, it’s right here — but, as I was saying, even locked in an office, feeling too hot, and with the roar of the machines outside the door, even here, in this situation, we must not forget about History. And, my friend, your machine could hardly have been more precise than it was: in the middle of a war, what did it do to you, what did your machine do? Merely this: it took from you your most useful finger, the one that shoots, the finger that performs a final contraction just before someone in front of you disappears. The machines were mocking you, my dear fellow. We should be wary of the machines, I’ve told you that before. Their malice is far too precise. We’ll never be able to achieve anything like it, ourselves.

“I’m going to put, then, a bullet precisely in the middle of my head, I’m going to insert a detail into it, but an outside detail, a metal one. And then, perhaps, dear Joseph, you’ll be able to salvage it for your collection. What do you think?

“What an excellent word: medulla! That which is in the middle; and the head is in the middle, you see? Remember what I told you about the head being on top of the body? But no: in fact, it’s in the middle after all.