Wolfgang Hilbig - 'I'

With surprising calm W. replied: Never! There will be no quid pro quo from me, and the State needn’t pay a pfennig on my behalf. There is no child. . that’s a fabrication!

There is no child. . I see! Well then. . if you say so! As the grey gentleman continued, W. searched his face for a flicker of emotion he could read somehow — there was no emotion. — You know, we can imagine that you don’t earn much, especially now that you’ve gotten yourself moved out of the assembly hall and into the boiler room, that’s a setback. It makes you vulnerable when you suddenly have to pay child support too, that’s why we’re concerned. And we also know you could achieve more as a writer than in the boiler room. . (W. asked himself whether the man had said: Achieve more for society. .)

More valuable things than down there in the boiler room, the gentleman went on after a pause. But of course you’d earn even less, at first, anyway. Naturally, as you will have noticed, the payments have already begun. .

Once again, W. interrupted him, speaking as though in a soundproof chamber, once again, the State doesn’t need to pay me a pfennig. .

Of course not, said the gentleman, of course it doesn’t need to, whatever are you thinking? Did you really imagine we hadn’t thought of that? You don’t get a pfennig, of course, the payments go de facto to the mother of the child. But, as you probably know, she’s run up big debts with the State. . and she doesn’t have a clean slate, either! But she’ll give us what we need sure enough! So practically no money changes hands, you understand, we’ve just got to keep the receipts going strong. And as far as your quid pro quo, the only thing would be. .

There won’t be any quid pro quo from me, none!

That’s all we ask. Don’t you understand, the only quid pro quo is that you keep mum about it. That you genuinely keep mum about the whole business. . not a word to anyone about this baby! That you genuinely act as if you didn’t have a child. . then you’ll be acting exactly in our interests.

W. hadn’t thought himself still capable of anything like bafflement: Now what am I really supposed to do, in your opinion — should I acknowledge the child, or should I keep quiet about it?

The gentleman sighed, as if overtaxed by the difficulty of the explanation he was about to provide: The best thing is for you to act exactly as usual. . really, that’s the best thing!

No. . said W.

Yes it is. . said the gentleman, it’s not that hard, just act as if we didn’t even exist!

No, said W., for me you really don’t exist!

Wonderful! said the gentleman.

You don’t! It’s not: as if you didn’t exist, it’s: that you don’t exist! said W.

What a subtle distinction! Isn’t it silly of us to take it all so seriously? I’ll think about it, I’ll let you know the upshot the next time we see each other, maybe here in Room 17, maybe somewhere else. .

No, said W., don’t expect me to get involved with you. As far as I’m concerned, the issue is closed!

That’s perfectly all right, he said, it’s high time we closed it then. I’d much rather talk literature with you, that’s my issue, properly speaking. The matter is closed, no more child issue, no more Harry Falbe. .

I’ll be going now. . if you don’t mind!

That’s fine, he said, I didn’t want to keep you, you’re a busy man. With us, mind you, you’ll sometimes have to act as if the things that don’t exist were really there.

W. hoisted himself up out of the armchair and was on his way to the door when the man behind the desk called him back again: One more thing! I’m going to shout something down the stairs after you, please don’t get me wrong. It’s best you act as if you hadn’t heard it at all.—W. left without a parting word; as he went down the staircase a door flew open upstairs; he quickened his steps but could not escape the voice shouting across the town hall lobby: Don’t do a thing for us, it’s all for your child! And don’t forget to do something for yourself!

That wasn’t the last of it for the day. On into the evening he’d tried to come to grips with that morning’s conversation. . the whole thing was a nightmare! He hadn’t gone back to work afterwards; until long after dark he’d sat at home, impervious to his mother’s hesitant questions, trying to gain back some sense that he was living in reality. . Who was that person actually talking to this morning? Certainly not to me. . his only hope lay in questions like that. The whole story has nothing to do with me. . the matter is closed, no more child issue, no more Harry Falbe. . no more Room 17.—Only when it had grown dark outside the kitchen windows and the influx of street noise had ebbed did he feel like himself again. As twilight fell in the rising autumn mist, the trundle and screech of vehicles on the street had seemed oddly urgent and theatrical, like the clamour of already sleepy children who feel it necessary, from sheer exhaustion, to make an especially vivid display of high spirits. . what a strange simile. Now the noise faded off towards the centre of town; his mother had finally left him alone and gone to bed in the belief that he wanted to work on his writing; the sort of reason for which he’d withdrawn from her all summer long, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere.

This evening he’d had that same abstracted and unapproachable demeanour. . now, as the doorbell rang, he knew at once that they were back. — The gangling young man outside had to be a novice; at first glance he hardly seemed to have much self-confidence. He leant his entire length upon the doorjamb, bending slightly over W., but seemed to face him only halfway, remaining in communication with another person evidently waiting on the landing below, invisible to W. Only the slight creak of the wooden steps made this person’s presence felt. . and the young man leaning on the doorjamb spoke louder than necessary — the person below had to be able to hear the words — so that W. was afraid his mother would hear. He was requested to appear at the town hall again two days from now, once again in Room 17, and in the morning again, if that suited him. . Remember: Room 17! And if you forget, then just ask for the boss.

It doesn’t suit me, said W., I’m not going to talk to you at all any more. This is the last time, I refuse. . if you come in, I’ll make you a coffee, then we can talk more quietly. And you can explain the whole thing to me. . I’ll tell you my position, you can have it in writing if you want. And that will be the end of our conversations.

Nonsense, said the young man, you haven’t even talked to me yet!

Now the light went out in the stairwell; W. turned it on, reaching his hand past his lanky visitor’s lower arm to grope for the switch; with the light back on he saw the lanky man smile as though to ask W.’s indulgence for the trouble he was forced to cause him — or as though sorry about the trouble W. was causing himself — and at the same time, as though unintentionally, place his foot between the threshold and the opened door.

That’s nonsense, he said, if we want you to, you have to come.

Fine, said W., then force me if you want, but I’ll never come of my own free will!

No, that’s nonsense! called a voice from the landing below (W. attempted in vain to identify it as the voice of the breezy gentleman from that morning). Tell him there’s no way we’ll do it in his flat! He can’t want his mother to find out about this paternity affair. Do we want her there when we have to ask him the last time he and this so-called Cindy. . no!

Though actually we know that, said the young man next to W.

You’ll never be able to prove it! said W. I never. .

He was interrupted by the rattle of a latch; upstairs, on the next floor, a door had opened, someone was about to go out into the hall; there was only an old woman living up there. — Go back inside immediately! a male voice commanded from the third floor; W. realized that a third sentry had been posted upstairs. Get back in! Don’t leave your flat when we’re here. And don’t even think of eavesdropping at the door again! — The old woman’s hasty shuffle was heard, the door closed.