Laszlo Krasznahorkai - War & War

I am a video artist and poet, the interpreter told Korin over lunch next day at the kitchen table, and he would be most grateful if Korin remembered once and for all that it was art alone that interested him, art was his raison d’être , it was what his whole life had been about, and what he would soon be engaged in again after an unavoidable break of a couple of years, and what he would then produce would be a truly major piece of video art of universal, fundamental significance, a statement about time and space, about words and silence, and, naturally, above all, about sensibility, instincts and ultimate passions, about humankind’s essential being, the relationship between men and women, nature and the cosmos, a work of indisputable authority, and he hoped that Korin would understand that what he had in mind was of so immense a scope that even an insignificant speck in the human consciousness such as Korin will have been proud to have been acquainted with its creator, and will be able to tell people how he sat in the man’s kitchen and lived with him for some weeks, that he took me in, helped me, supported me, gave me a roof above my head, or so he hoped, that was what he so he fervently hoped Korin would say, because nothing could stop it now, the success of the venture was guaranteed and it was impossible that it should not be, for the project was all systems go, the whole thing was about to get under way and would be accomplished in a few days, since he would have a camera, an editing room and everything else, and what was more, the interpreter emphasized with particular care, it would be his own camera, his own editing room and everything else, and here he poured more beer into their glasses and clinked his against Korin’s a little wildlly, then drained his down to the dregs, simply poured it down his throat, his eyes red, his face puffy, his hand badly trembling so that when he went to light his cigarette it took several goes with the lighter before he found the end, and if Korin wanted evidence — he sprawled across the table — here it was, he said, then pulled a stern face and, rising from the chair, staggered into his room returning with a package and slapping it down in front of Korin, there, he leaned into his face, there is a clue from which you might be able to deduce the contents, he encouraged Korin, pointing to a dossier bound with a rubber band, there, open it and take a look, so, as slowly and delicately as if he were handling a fragile decorated Easter egg, terrified that one abrupt movement of his might destroy the thing, Korin removed the rubber band and obediently began to read the first page when the interpreter impatiently slapped his fist on the sheet and told him to go on, relax, read it through, he might at last begin to understand who it was that was sitting opposite him, who this man József Sárváry really was, and all about time and space, he said, then slumped back down in his chair, propping his head on both elbows, the cigarette still burning in one hand, its smoke slowly winding its way into the air, while Korin, feeling deeply intimidated, thought he’d better say something and muttered, yes, he understood very well, and was most impressed, since he himself was regularly engaged on a work of art himself, much like Mr. Sárváry in fact, for the manuscript that preoccupied him was a work of art of the highest caliber, so he was very much in a position to understand the problems of the creative imagination, only from a great distance of course, since he himself had no practical experience of it except as an admirer whose task it was to devote himself to its service, his whole life in fact, for life was worth nothing otherwise, in fact it wasn’t worth a stinking dime, the interpreter muttered as if to raise the stakes, turning his head away, still supporting it on his elbow, a statement with which Korin enthusiastically agreed, saying that for him too art was the only meaningful part of life, take for example the beginning of the third chapter which was utterly breathtaking, for Mr. Sárváry should just imagine, he had got to the stage of typing — and he begged to be excused for still referring to it as typing — the third chapter, the one about Bassano, in which it described Bassano and how the four of them continued toward Venice, the loveliest thing there, imagine, being the way it described them waiting for a passing stagecoach to pick them up while they walked slowly along the streets of Bassano, and how they were full of endless conversation debating what they considered to be the most marvelous creations of mankind, or perhaps when they talked about a realm of exalted feelings that might lead to the discovery of exalted worlds, or perhaps, still better, Kasser’s monologue on love and Falke’s response to that, and all the superstructure and supporting structures of their arguments, for that was roughly the manner in which their talk proceeded, meaning that Kasser developed the superstructure and Falke provided the support, but that Toót would chip in at times and Bengazza too, and oh Mr. Sárváry, the most wonderful thing about it all was that there remained a vital element of the story that was not even mentioned for some time, an element whose likely importance, once touched upon, became immediately apparent, and that was that one of them was injured, a fact about which the manuscript had said nothing so far, and only mentioned once, eventually, when it described them in the courtyard of the mansion at Bassano, at dawn, on the day when Mastemann, who had just arrived from Trento, was changing horses, and the innkeeper, bowing and scraping, led the horses in and told Mastemann that there were four apparently monastic travelers on their way to Venice and that one of them was injured but he didn’t know where or to whom he should report the matter, since there was something not quite right about the whole company, he whispered, for no one knew where they came from or what they wanted, beyond the fact that Venice was their destination, and that their behavior was very strange, the innkeeper continued in whispers, for they spent the whole blessed day just sitting about or going for walks, and he was pretty certain they weren’t real monks, partly because they spent most of their time talking about women, and partly because they talked in such an incomprehensible and godless manner that no mortal could understand a word of it, that is unless they themselves were of such heretical bent, and come to that, their very garments were probably a form of disguise, in other words he didn’t like the cut of their jib, said the innkeeper, then, at a gesture from Mastemann, backed away from the carriage and an hour later was totally confused when in departing, the gentleman, apparently a nobleman from Trento, said he would like to relieve the tedium of the journey by taking the four so-called monks with him if they wanted a lift, and what with the fresh horses having been harnessed, the broken strapping replaced, the trunks adjusted and secured on top of the carriage, the innkeeper rushed off as ordered, bearing this good news for the quartet without properly understanding — without understanding at all — why he was doing so, though much relieved by the thought that the four of them would be off his hands at last, so that by the time the carriage eventually rolled through the gates and set off in the direction of Padua he was no longer troubled by the effort of understanding but crossed himself and watched the carriage disappear down the road and stood for a long time in front of the house until the dust of the carriage vanished with them.

Pietro Alvise Mastemann, said the man giving a curt bow while remaining in his seat, then leaned back, his face expressionless as he offered them places in a manner that made it immediately obvious that the undoubtedly grand gesture of the invitation owed nothing to friendliness, readiness to help, desire for company, or curiosity of any kind, but was, at best, the momentary whim of a haughty disposition; and since this was the case the actual seating arrangements presented a problem for they weren’t sure where to sit, Mastemann having spread himself across one of the seats and the other being nowhere near wide enough to accommodate all four of them however they tried, for however three of them huddled together, the fourth, Falke to be precise, would not fit on, until eventually, after a series of attempts at finding some cramped position and with an endless shower of apologies, he finally lowered himself onto Mastemann’s seat, insofar as he was able to do that, meaning that he shifted the various blankets, books and baskets of food slightly to his right and having done so squeezed himself against the walls of the carriage while Mastemann did not move a muscle to help but casually crossed his legs, leaned back at leisure and gazed at something through the window, all of which led them to conclude that he was impatient for them to settle down at last so that he might give the driver the go-ahead — in other words this was the state of affairs in those first few minutes nor did it change much afterwards, so Mastemann gave the signal to the driver and the coach set off, but the carriage itself remained silent though the four of them felt that now was the time, if any, for introducing themselves, though the devil only knew how to go about that for Mastemann was clearly uninterested in conversation and the embarrassment of not having gone through that formality weighed ever more oppressively on them, for surely that should have been the proper thing to do, they thought, clearing their throats, to tell him who they were, where they had come from and where they were going, that’s what should have happened, but how to do this now, they wondered, glancing at each other, and for a long time saying nothing at all, and when they did finally break the silence it was to talk very quietly among themselves so as not to disturb Mastemann, remarking that Bassano was beautiful since they were able to see the picturesque massif of Mount Grappa, the Franciscan church with its ancient tower below, to walk the streets listening to the Brenta as it babbled by them and remark on how nice everyone was, how friendly and open, in other words, thank heaven for Bassano, they said, and thank heaven particularly that they had succeeded in moving on too, though the thanks in this case were due not so much to heaven, they glanced across at Mastemann, more to, in fact entirely to their benefactor, the gentleman who had offered them a ride and who, though they tried to catch his eye, continued to stare at the dust rising from the road to Padua, as a result of which they realized, and none too early, that Mastemann not only did not wish to speak, but preferred them not to speak either, that he wanted nothing at all from them — though they were mistaken in this — and was content with their sheer presence, pleased that they were there and that that was what he wished to convey with his silence, their presence being quite sufficient, and having reasoned so far they naturally concluded that it mattered little to Mastemann what it was they talked about, if indeed they did talk, and that made the whole journey more pleasant for them because having realized that they could continue the conversation they had been having in Bassano from precisely the point at which they left off, and were free therefore, Korin added, to develop the subject of love, the way love created the world, as Kasser put it, they continued to develop it while the carriage swept on and Bassano disappeared from sight altogether.