Satantango (22 page)

Nothing But Work and Worries

The document, having been corrected at eight-fifteen, was handed over to the clerks for the preparation of the draft a few minutes later, and the problem seemed all but insoluble. But they showed neither surprise nor anger, nor did they complain, not in the least: they simply looked at each other in silence as if to say — you see! the latest, undoubtedly convincing evidence of the tragically rapid general decline. It was enough to glance at the sloping lines and scratchy hand to see that the work before them was quite clearly an essay in the impossible because, once again, they had to bring some clarity, some fitting intelligible order to some “depressingly crude scrawl.” The incomprehensibly short time at their disposal combined with the distant prospect of producing a usable document made them feel tense and yet urged them on to some heroic effort. Only “the experience and maturity of long years; the years of practice that demand respect” explained how they were able to detach themselves in a moment from the maddening racket of their colleagues dashing around and chattering — so that in a matter of moments they could focus their entire attention on the document. They soon got through the opening sentences where they only had to clear up a few common ambiguities, those clumsy attempts at subtlety that clearly betrayed a layman’s touch, so the first part of the text might be said to have passed fairly smoothly into a “final draft.”
Though only yesterday I stressed, several times, that I regard the writing down of such information as unfortunate, in order that he should see my willingness — and, naturally, as proof of my faultless devotion to the matter in hand — I am prepared to carry out his commission. In my report I take particular note of the fact that you have encouraged me to be strictly honest. At this point I should remark that there can be no doubt about the suitability of my workforce, and I hope to convince you of that tomorrow. I consider it important to repeat this only because because it is possible for you to read the following improvised draft in ways other than intended. I particularly draw your attention to the condition that in order for my work to continue and to have a functioning basis it is vital that I alone should be in contact with my workforce, and that any other approach will lead to failure.. etc etc . . .
But as soon as the clerks got to the part relating to Mrs. Schmidt, they immediately found themselves in the deepest difficulty, because they didn’t know how to formulate such vulgar expressions as
stupid
,
big-mouth
and
cow
— how to retain the import of these crude concepts so that the document should be true to itself while at the same time retaining the language of their profession. After some discussion they settled on “intellectually weak female person primarily concerned with her sexuality” but they hardly had time to draw breath because next they immediately came across the expression
cheap whore
in all its awful attendant crudity. For lack of precision they had to abandon the idea of “a female person of dubious reputation’, of “a woman of the demi-monde” and “a painted woman” and a mass of other euphemisms that seemed alluringly attractive at first glance; they drummed impatient fingers on the writing desk across which they faced each other, painfully avoiding each other’s eyes, finally settling on the formula, “a woman who offers her body freely” which was not perfect but would have to do. The first part of the next sentence was no easier but with a handy flash of insight they took the dreadfully colloquial
she hopped into bed with any Tom, Dick or Harry, and it was a matter of pure chance if she didn’t
and turned it into the relatively useful “she was the epitome of infidelity in marriage.” To their genuine surprise they found three sentences one after the other that they could type up as the official version without any change, but after that they immediately hit another difficulty. However they racked their brains, however they lobbed potentially useful phrases back and forth, they couldn’t find anything suitable for
the haunting compost smell that rose from her like a blend of cheap cologne and something rotting
and were on the point of giving up and passing the job back to the Captain on the excuse that there was something urgent waiting at the office when a shyly smiling old typist lady brought them cups of steaming black coffee and the pleasant scent calmed them a little. They started thinking again, considering new variants when — avoiding another stab of terror — they agreed not to torture themselves any longer but settle on “she tried unconventional means of covering up the unpleasant smell of her body.” “It’s dreadful the way time flies,” said one to the other when they finally managed to finish the part referring to Mrs. Schmidt, the other man glancing with concern at his watch: too true, too true, there was only a little over an hour left before lunch. So they decided to try and deal with what remained at a slightly quicker pace, which in fact meant nothing more than that they tended to agree on less satisfactory solutions more readily than they had before, “though it is only fair to say that the results were at the same time, far from hopeless.” They were delighted to observe that using this new method they got through the Mrs. Kráner parts much quicker.
That foul old bag of poisonous gossip
became the more reassuring “a transmitter of unreliable information” and the phrases
seriously, someone should think about sewing her lips together
and
fat slut
were solved without undue difficulty. It was a special joy to them that there were sentences they could simply lift and use in the official version and they started to breathe more easily when they reached the end of the text about Mrs. Halics because the person here — charged with religious fanaticism and certain peculiar traits — was characterized by certain old slang expressions that were child’s play to translate. But on seeing the parts relating to her husband, Halics, a passage full of horrifying obscenities, they realized that the greatest difficulties still lay ahead for whenever they thought they could see through the dense texture of the witness testimony they had to admit that, having finally reached the limits of their combined talent for re-invention, they were utterly stumped once again. Because while they could just about manage turning
wrinkled drink-sodden dwarf
into the simple “elderly alcoholic of small stature” they had — shame or no shame — no idea where to start with
stuttering buffoon
, or
utterly leaden
, or indeed
blindly bumbling
; and so after long agonized discussion they silently decided to leave the terms out, chiefly because they suspected the Captain wouldn’t have the patience to read right through the whole document and that it would therefore find its way — in a properly regular way — into the files anyway. They leaned back in their chairs, exhausted, rubbing their eyes, annoyed to see their colleagues chattering and preparing for lunch, making some minimal order in their files, slipping into carefree conversation with each other, carrying on, washing their hands and a few minutes later leaving in twos and threes through the door leading into the entrance hall. They gave a sad sigh and, admitting that lunch would be “something of a luxury now’, took out buttered rolls and dry cookies and started munching them while getting on with the job. But as luck would have it even this minimal pleasure was denied to them — the food lost its flavor and chewing became a form of torture — because when they encountered the file on Schmidt it was clear they had arrived at a new level of difficulty; the obscurity, incomprehensibility, and carelessness, the conscious or unconscious attempt to blur everything they had to sort out, amounted to what they agreed was “a slap in the face to their professionalism, industry and struggle” . . . Because what did it mean to say that something represented “
a cross between primitive insensitivity and chillingly inane emptiness in a bottomless pit of unbridled dark
’?! What sort of crime against language was this foul nest of mixed metaphors?! Where was even the faintest trace of striving for intellectual clarity and precision so natural — allegedly! — to the human spirit?! To their greatest horror the whole passage about Schmidt consisted of sentences like this and, what was more, from now on the witness’s handwriting, for some inexplicable reason, became simply illegible, as if the writer had grown progressively more drunk . . . Again they were on the point of giving up and resigning because “it’s really dreadful the way, day after day, people put such impossible stuff in front of them, and what thanks do we get?!” when — as once already that day, the delicious smell of coffee, delivered with a smile, persuaded them to reconsider. So they set about excising phrases such as
incurable stupidity
,
inarticulate complaint
,
irreconcilable anxiety petrified in the dense darkness of a reduced inconsolable existence
, and other such monstrosities, until, having reached the end of the character testimony but still wincing with pain, they discovered that all that remained untouched were a few conjunctions and two predicates. And because it was clearly hopeless trying to resolve the actual contents of what the witness had intended to say they took the cavalier course of reducing the whole febrile mish-mash to a single, sane sentence: “His limited intellectual capacity and his tendency to cower before any display of strength makes him peculiarly suitable for the carrying out, at the highest level, of the act in question.” The passage relating to the unnamed personage known simply as the headmaster was no clearer, in fact it seemed even more obscure, if that was possible: the confusion worse, the infuriating attempts at subtlety still more infuriating. “It seems,” one of the clerks noted with a pale face, shaking his head and pointing to a dirty scrap of paper for the benfit of his tired colleague slumped behind the typewriter, “it looks as though the half-wit has completely gone off his head here. Listen to this!” And he read the first sentence.
Should anyone contemplating the advisability of leaping off a high bridge be in any doubt or prone to any hesitation, I advise him to consider the headmaster: once he has considered this ridiculous figure he will immediately know that there is simply no alternative but to jump!
Incredulous and exhausted, they stared at each other, their faces reflecting their utter exasperation. What is this! Do they want to ridicule us out of a job?! The clerk slumped at the typewriter gestured silently to his colleague as if to say, leave it, it’s not worth it, there’s nothing anyone can do, just carry on.
And as concerns his appearance he looks like a scrawny, dry cucumber left too long in the sun, his intellectual capacity below even that of Schmidt, which is truly saying something
. . . “Let’s write,” the one by the typewriter suggested, “of worn appearance, lacking ability . . .” His colleague clicked his tongue annoyed. “How do the two statements relate to each other?” “How should I know? What can I do about it?” the other snapped back. “It’s what he wrote and we have to convey the content . . .” “Oh, all right,” his colleague replied. I’ll go on.” . . .
he deals with his cowardice through self-flattery, hollow pride, and enough stupidity to give you a heart attack. Like all self-respecting jerk-offs, he tends to sentimentality, and clumsy pathos,
etc etc. Given all this it was plain that there was no point in seeking compromise, they had to make do with half-solutions, and, occasionally worse, with work unbefitting their calling, and so, after another long discussion they agreed on: “Cowardly. Of sensitive disposition. Sexually immature.” Having dealt so brutally with the headmaster, they couldn’t deny that their troubled consciences were slowly turning into fiery pits of guilt, so they approached the Kráner section with their hearts in their mouths, both of them growing ever more irritable as they saw how quickly the time was passing. One pointed furiously at his watch and indicated the rest of the office: the other just made a helpless gesture because he too had noticed the general sense of movement that suggested there were only a few minutes of official work time left. “Could it be possible?” he wagged his head. “A man is just getting down to a job when the bell rings. I don’t understand. The days fly by in a constant whirl . . .” And by the time they had converted the annoying phrase
a chump who puts one in mind of nothing so much as a slovenly ox
to “a powerfully built ex-blacksmith” and found an acceptable equivalent for
a dusky slob with an idiotic expression, a danger to the public,
all their colleagues had gone home and they had to accept various mocking farewells, and signs of mock appreciation without a word because they knew that if they stopped working for just one moment they would be tempted to give vent to their anger and declare to hell with it! — with all the serious consequences that entailed. Around about half past five, as they painfully finished the final draft of the Kráner section, they allowed themselves a minute’s cigarette break. They stretched their numbed limbs, grunting, they rubbed their sore shoulders and smoked the cigarettes through without a word, “All right, let’s get on with it,” said one. “Listen. I’ll read.”
The only one who presents any danger is Futaki
, the text began.
Nothing serious though. His tendency to rebel only means that he is all the more likely to shit himself eventually He could add up to something but can’t free himself of his stubbornly held beliefs. He amuses me and I’m sure we can count on him more than anyone