Laszlo Krasznahorkai - War & War

The interpreter’s lover looked at Korin and quietly asked him in English, What’s there on your hand , but Korin was so surprised that she said anything at all, and in any case she spoke too fast for him to understand, that for a while he was incapable of answering, just kept nodding and staring at the ceiling as if he were busy thinking, then put the manuscript aside and took the dictionary instead to look up a word he hadn’t understood then suddenly slammed it shut and cried out in relief that he had understood, that it was a matter of “what’s” and “there” not “Whatser,” or what the hell, of course not, no, he nodded, it was clear now: “what is there on your,” well, “hand” and he held both his hands out and inspected them but couldn’t see anything unusual on them, until it occurred to him what the woman wanted to say, and he sighed and pointed with his left hand to a scar on the right which had been there for ages, an old thing, he said in English, not interesting— no interesting —the result of an incident a very long time ago, at a time when he felt bitterly disappointed, and he was almost embarrassed to mention it now for the whole disappointment was so childish, but what happened was that he had shot through it— perforate with a colt , as he put it, peeking into the dictionary, but it was nothing, it didn’t cause him any problems and he had got so used to it he hardly noticed it anymore, though he would carry the mark around for the rest of his life that much was sure, as the young lady most certainly noticed, but what was a much bigger problem was that he had to carry this head around on this weak and aching neck, a neck that was groaning — he pointed to it and started massaging it with his palm and swiveling his head from right to left — under too great a burden, or rather the same problem kept recurring, for after a short transitional period of easement the old agonizing weight returned just as before so that he has felt, particularly in the last few days, as though the whole thing was genuinely ready to drop off, and having said this he stopped massaging and swiveling his head, picked up the manuscript again, shuffling its concluding pages while adding that he couldn’t in fact tell where it ended because the text had grown so dense and impenetrable, one couldn’t even decide precisely when it was taking place, at what point of history to locate it, for though the earthquake of 402 is mentioned in one bitter monologue, and a few crazy sentences take a melancholy turn in referring to the terrible victory of the Visigoths, to Geiserich, to Theodoric, to Orestes, to Odoacer and even, at the end, to Romulus Augustulus, mostly there were just names, said Korin, spreading his hands, references, flashes, and the only thing certain was that Rome was dying there at the Porta Appia, over, over, declared Korin, but was unable to continue because suddenly there was a loud noise outside, the drumming of feet, a rattling and banging, and some cursing as well — after which there was not much time left to meditate as to who it was, or what it was, for the drumming, rattling, banging and cursing soon revealed their source to be a man, bellowing on the staircase, crying Good evening, darling, a man abruptly kicking the door open.

No need to ask anything, just be happy, the interpreter hesitated swaying on the step, and while the great weight of bags and satchels he was carrying might have explained the swaying, for there were some round his neck and others hung on both shoulders, there could be no doubt about the real reason for his condition, for he was clearly drunk, the red eyes, the slow looks and the stumbling speech immediately betraying the fact, not to mention that he was in unprecedented good spirits and wished everyone else to know it, for when he surveyed the apartment and noticed the two figures emerging from among all the clutter of boxes and packages he started laughing so violently that he was quite unable to stop for several minutes, his laugher self-perpetuating, leading to more and more laughter until he fell back against the wall, quite helpless, the drool trickling from his mouth, but still could not stop himself, and even when, for one reason or another, he got tired and began to calm down, shouting at Korin and the woman — what’s up? how long you want to keep staring? — can’t you see this mass of bags and satchels I’m carrying — so that they ran to help relieve him of his load it was still all in vain, in vain to venture a step forward, for by the time he came to a second step and had run his eyes over the chaos of boxes and packages, the laughter seized hold of him again and he carried on laughing, while choking out the words, start over again, in English, pointing at the mess and falling flat on his face, at which point the woman went over to him, helped him up and, somehow supporting him, got him over to the inner room where he flopped down on the bed, right on Korin’s manuscript, dictionary and notebook as well as on the woman’s magazine, gave a grunt and immediately fell asleep, his mouth open, snoring, though his eyes weren’t fully closed so the woman did not dare move from where she was for she couldn’t be certain that this wasn’t a practical joke he was playing on them, a fact they never found out, because he was awake again, that is if he had really slept, a few minutes later and was bellowing once more— start over again —though this might have been a joke since he kept looking at the woman with a mischievous look on his face, eventually telling her to come closer, he wouldn’t bite her, don’t be afraid, let her sit down beside him on the bed and stop all that quivering because he’d smack her one if she continued like that, couldn’t she understand that the days of their poverty were over, and that from this time on she too should behave as though she had a few nickels to rub together, for nickels there were now, he declared, sitting up on the bed, though he couldn’t tell, he winked at her, whether she had noticed the fact, but their lives were changed in the blinking of an eye since he’d got his act together, since he’d gone down to Hutchinson’s and signed up for the “start over again” deal in which they change everything in a single day, replacing old things with new, and true enough he had exchanged all the old shit cluttering up the place and here it was, all filled up with the new, because, by God, did he need a change, and it needed a stroke of genius like the Hutchinson’s offer at Hutchinson’s store, an idea so brilliant in its simplicity that it simply said: rid yourself of this shit at a day’s notice, of every little trace of it, and completely re-equip yourself in the space of a day, and as soon as that was done then you could really start, in order to do which you need nothing more than to pick a convenient moment for the change, and he did find such a moment and did change, and not a moment too soon, for everything here was going downhill all too fast and he had had enough of counting dimes, wondering if he had enough change to buy something from the Vietnamese downstairs; enough, he had decided: he had made the decision, took hold of himself and had yanked himself out of the mire, changed and seized the moment of opportunity, that was the shortest, most efficient way he could put it, he said, stumbling over his words, and now, he sprang from the bed and started toward the door, he would find Korin and they would, he raised his voice, celebrate, so hey, where is our little Hunkie hiding, he bellowed into Korin’s room, as a result of which Korin quickly emerged and said, Good evening Mr. Sárváry, but he was already being dragged away, the interpreter joyfully demanding to know where the damned bag was, then, after a cursory search, finding it himself by the front door, pulling out a couple of bottles, he raised them high in the air and shouted in English once more: start over again , so the woman had to fetch three glasses, a none too easy task, for first they had to look through the mess to find the boxes with glasses in them, but when they eventually did so the interpreter opened a bottle and poured half into the glasses and half on the floor, then raised his own glass to the alarmed Korin who was desperately trying to smile, saying, To our new lives! concluding the toast by clinking glasses with the cowering woman and declaring And let bygones be bygones! after which he made a sweeping gesture, dropped his glass without noticing it, and simply gazed into the air to signal that he was about to make a ceremonial announcement, a signal that was followed by a long period of silence eventually broken by nothing more than a simple: that’s over, that’s over , then he dropped his arms, his eyes cleared for a second, he shook his head, shook it again, asked for a new glass, filled it, ordered the woman to come closer, put an arm round her shoulder and asked her if she liked champagne but did not wait for an answer, pulling from his pocket a small package that he placed in her hand, tightening his grip on her at the same time, then leaned closely into her face, looked in her eyes and, in a whisper, asked her whether she liked the good life.