Satantango (3 page)

We Are Resurrected

The clock above their heads shows a quarter before ten but what else should they be waiting for? They know what the neon light with its piercing buzz is doing on that ceiling with its hairline cracks and what the timeless echo of those slamming doors is all about; they know why those heavy boots with their half-moon metalled heels are clattering down those strangely high, tiled corridors, just as they suspect why the lights at the back have not been lit and why everything looks so tired and dim; and they would bow their heads in humble acknowledgment and with a degree of complicit satisfaction before this magnificently constructed system if only it were not the two of them sitting on these benches polished to a dull glow by the rumps of the hundreds upon hundreds who have occupied them before, obliged to keep their eyes on the aluminum handle of door Number Twenty-Four, so that, having gained admittance, they should be able to make use of the two or three minutes (“It’s nothing, just . . .”) to dispel “the shadow of suspicion that has fallen . . .” For what else is there to discuss except this ridiculous misunderstanding that has arisen on account of procedures initiated by some no-doubt-conscientious but over-zealous official? . . . And so the words prepared for the occasion tumble over each other and begin sparring round as in a whirlpool, having formed the occasional frail, if painfully useless, sentence that, like a hastily improvised bridge, is capable of bearing only the weight of three hesitant steps before there’s the sound of a crack, when it bends, and then with one faint, final snap collapses under them so that time and time again they find themselves back in the whirlpool they entered last night when they received the sheet with its official stamp and formal summons. The precise, dry, unfamiliar language (“the shadow of suspicion that has fallen”) left them in no doubt that it was not a matter of proving their innocence — for to deny the charge or, conversely, to demand a hearing, would be a waste of time — if only the opportunity might arise for a general chat where they might state their position regarding an all-but-forgotten matter, establish their identities and perhaps modify a few personal details. In the past, seemingly endless, months; ever since a stupid difference of opinion so slight it’s hardly worth mentioning, had led to their being cut off from normal life, and their earlier, now clearly frivolous, views had matured to a firm conviction, and if opportunity arose they could answer correctly any questions regarding such general ideas as might be grouped together under the heading of a “guiding principle” with startling certainty and without any torturous inner struggle; in other words they were beyond surprise now. And as regards this self-consuming and constantly recurring state of panic they could take courage and put it down to “the bitter experience of the past” because “no man could have got out of such a hole without some injury.” The big hand is moving steadily closer to twelve when an official appears at the top of the stairs, his hands behind him, moving with light steps, his whey-colored eyes clearly fixed ahead of him until they are drawn to the two strange characters sitting there, when a faint flush of blood enters his gray, hitherto dead-looking face and he stops, raises himself on tip-toe, and then, with a tired grimace, turns away again to disappear down the stairs, taking a moment only to look up at the other clock hanging beneath the NO SMOKING notice by which time his face has returned to its normal grey. The taller of the two men assures his companion, saying, “The two clocks say different times, but it could be that neither of them is right. Our clock here,” he continues, pointing to the one above them with his long, slender and refined index finger, “is very late, while that one there measures not so much time as, well, the eternal reality of the exploited, and we to it are as the bough of a tree to the rain that falls upon it: in other words we are helpless.” Though his voice is quiet it is a deep, musical, manly voice that fills the bare corridor. His companion who, it is obvious at a glance, is as different “as chalk from cheese” from the individual radiating such confidence, resilience and firmness of purpose, fixes his dull button-like eyes on the other’s time-worn, suffering-hardened face and his whole being is suddenly suffused by passion. “Bough of a tree to the rain. . . .” he turns the phrase over in his mouth as if it were fine wine, trying to guess its vintage realizing somewhat indifferently that it is beyond him. “You’re a poet, old man, you really are!” he adds and marks it with a deep nod like someone frightened by the idea that he has inadvertently stumbled on some truth. He slides further up the bench so that his head might be at the same level as the other man’s, sinks his hands into the pockets of the winter coat that seems to have been made for a giant and searches among the screws, sweets, nails, the postcard of the seaside, the alpaca spoon, the empty frame of a pair of spectacles and some loose Kalmopyrin tablets that are to be found in there until he discovers the piece of sweat-soaked paper and his brow begins to perspire. “If we don’t put the lid on . . .” He tries to prevent the words escaping his lips but it’s too late. The creases on the taller man’s face grow deeper, his lips tighten and his eyelids slowly close since he too finds it hard to suppress his emotions. Though they both know they made a mistake that morning in immediately demanding an explanation and bursting in through the marked door and not stopping till they reached the innermost room: not because they received no explanation, they never even met the boss, since no sooner had they got there than he simply told the secretaries in the outer office (“Find out who these people are?”) and they found themselves outside the door. How could they have been so stupid? What a mistake! Now they were piling one mistake on top of another since even three days were not enough to recover from such bad luck. Because ever since they had been released to take a deep breath of the air of liberty and to cover every inch of those dusty streets and neglected parks, the sight of homesteads declining into autumnal yellow made them feel practically new-born, and they had taken strength from the sleepy expressions of the men and women they passed, from their bowed heads, from the slow gaze of melancholy youths leaning against a wall, the shadow of some as-yet undefined ill fortune had followed them around, like something without a shape, and they could glimpse it in a pair of eyes that flashed up at them, or a movement here or there that would betray its presence as admonitory, inevitable. And just to crown all this (“Call me Petrina, I call that terrifying . . .”) the incident last night at the deserted station when — who knows, who could have suspected that someone else might want to spend the night on the bench next to the door that led to the platform? — a spotty-faced lout of a lad stepped through the revolving doors and, without a moment’s hesitation, strode over to them and pressed the summons into their hands. “Will there never be an end to this?” the taller one had asked the dumb-looking messenger and it is this that now comes to his shorter companion’s mind when he timidly remarks: “They are doing this deliberately, you know, in order to . . .” The taller one smiles wearily. “Don’t exaggerate. Just listen closely. Pay more attention. It’s stopped again.” The other man jerks back at this as if suddenly caught in some guilty act, is embarrassed, makes a waving movement and reaches for his improbably large ears, trying to smooth them down while flashing his toothless gums. “As fate dictates,” he says. The taller man regards him with raised eyebrows for a while then turns away before registering his abhorrence. “Ugh! How ugly you are!” he exclaims and turns back from time to time as if he could not believe his eyes. The jug-eared one shrinks despondently away, his pear-shaped little head hardly visible above his turned-up collar. “You can’t judge by appearances . . .” he mutters, wounded. At that moment the door opens and a man with a squashed nose and the look of a pro-wrestler steps through with a considerable amount of fuss but instead dignifying the two characters who rush to greet him with a glance (and saying, “Please come with me!”) marches past them and disappears behind a door at the end of the corridor. They stare at each other indignantly (as though they had reached the end of their tether), hang about for a while, desperate and ready to do anything, just one step from committing some unforgivable act when the door snaps open once again and a little fat man sticks his head out. “What are you waiting for?” he asks mockingly, then, with a wholly inappropriate gesture and a harsh, “Aha!” flings the door wide before them. The large office inside is like a stockroom with five or six plain-clothes men bent over heavy shiny desks, above them a neon light like a vibrating halo, though there is a distant corner where the darkness has been squatting for many years, where even the light filtering through the closed slats of the blinds vanishes and disappears as if the dank air beneath were swallowing it all. Though the clerks are silently scribbling (some of them are wearing black patches on their elbows, others have glasses slipping down their noses) there is a constant whispering sound: one or other of them quickly casts half an eye at the visitors, squinting at them, sizing them up with barely concealed malice, as if speculating when they might make the one wrong move that will betray them, when the worn old overcoat might flap aside to reveal a flea-bitten butt, or when the holes in the shoes might reveal socks in need of darning. “What’s going on here!” the taller one thunders as he crosses the threshold of the stockroom-like space ahead of the other, for there in the room he sees a man in shirtsleeves on all fours on the floor feverishly looking for something under his dark-brown desk. He keeps his presence of mind though: he takes a few steps forward, stops, fixes his eyes on the ceiling so as tactfully to ignore the embarrassing position of the man he must talk to. “Begging your pardon, sir!” he begins in his most charming manner. “We haven’t forgotten our obligations. Here we are ready to comply with your request as expressed in your letter of last night, according to which you wish to have a few words with us. We are citizens, honest citizens, of this country and therefore would like — voluntarily, that goes without saying — to offer you our services, services that, if I may be so bold as to remind you, you have been kind enough to draw upon for a good many years, albeit in an irregular fashion. It will hardly have escaped your attention that there has been a regrettable intermission in these services which meant you have had to do without us. We guarantee, as employees of your institution, that, now, as always in the past, we reject shoddy work and indeed any other kind of disappointment. We are perfectionists. Believe us, sir, when we say that we offer you the same high standard of work to which you have been accustomed. Delighted to be at your service.” His companion nods and is clearly moved, barely able to prevent himself from grasping his comrade’s hand and giving it a firm shake. The chief meanwhile has got up off the floor, gulps down a white pill and, after struggling a little, manages to swallow it without a sip of water. He dusts off his knees and takes his place behind the desk. He crosses his arms and leans heavily on his worn old fake-leather folder, glaring at the two strange figures before him who are standing vaguely at attention, looking at something over his head. His mouth twists in pain and settles all the lineaments of his face into a sour mask. Without moving his elbows he shakes a cigarette free of the pack, puts it in his mouth and lights it. “What were you saying?” he asks suspiciously, his expression puzzled, his feet twitching a nervous little dance under the table. The question hangs uselessly in the air while the two apparent derelicts stand stock still, patiently listening. “Are you that shoemaker fellow?” the chief tries again and continues blowing out a long plume of smoke that rises above the tower of files on his desk and begins to swirl around him so it is minutes before his face becomes visible again. “No, sir . . .” the jug-eared one replies as if deeply insulted. “We were summoned to appear here at eight o’clock . . .” “Aha!” the chief exclaims with satisfaction: “And why did you not appear on time?” The jug-eared man looks up accusingly from under his brow. “There must be some misunderstanding, if I may . . . We were here precisely on time, don’t you remember?” “As I understand it . . .” “No chief, you don’t understand anything!” the little fellow cuts him off, suddenly full of life: “The thing is that we, that is to say the man next to me and I, sure, we can do anything. We can make you furniture, farm your chickens, castrate your pigs, deal with your real estate, and repair anything, even things thought to be beyond salvation. You want us to be market traders — that’s fine. We can do anything you want. But come off it!” he snarls. “Don’t make us laugh! You know very well our job is to supply information, if I may put it like that. We’re on your payroll, if you care to remember. Our position, if you know what I mean, is . . .” The chief leans back in exhaustion, slowly examines them, his brow clears, he springs to his feet, opens a little door in the back wall and calls back to them from the threshold: “Just wait here. But no monkey business . . . you know what I mean!” Within a couple of minutes a tall, blond, blue-eyed man, rank of captain, appears before them, sits down at the table, carelessly stretches out his legs, and gives them a benign smile. “Do you have any papers?” he inquires politely. The jug-eared one searches in his enormously large pockets. “Paper? Certainly!” he announces in delight: “Just a moment!” He produces a slightly rumpled but perfectly clean sheet of writing paper and puts it down in front of the captain. “Would you like a pen too?” the taller man inquires and reaches for his inside pocket. The captain’s face darkens for an instant then opens in a cheerful smile. “Very funny,” he grins. “You two certainly have a sense of humor.” Jug-ears modestly casts his eyes down. “True enough, you don’t get anywhere without it, chief . . .” “Yes, but let’s get to the point,” the
captain grows serious: “Do you have papers of any other sort?” “Of course, chief. Give me a moment . . . !” He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out the summons. Flourishing it in the air with a gesture of triumph he puts it down on the table. The captain glances at it, then his face reddens and he bellows at them: “Can’t you read!? Fucking idiots! Which floor does it say?” The question is so unexpected that they take a step back. Jug-ears nods furiously. “Of course . . .” he answers for want of anything better to say. The officer tips his head to one side. “What does it say?” “The second . . .” the other replies and, by way of explanation, adds, “I beg to report.” “Then what are you doing here!? How did you get here!? Have you any idea what this office deals with?!” Both men shake their heads, feeling weak. “This is the RP section — Register of Prostitutes,” the captain bellows at them leaning forward in his chair. But there is no sign of surprise. The shorter man shakes his head as if to say he doesn’t believe the captain, and purses his lips in thought, while his companion stands beside him with his legs crossed apparently studying the landscape picture on the wall. The officer props an elbow on the table to support his head and starts massaging his brow. His back is as straight as the road to righteousness, his chest is deep and wide, his uniform crisply washed and ironed, his perfectly starched blindingly white collar in splendid harmony with his fresh, rosy-cheeked countenance. One lock of his otherwise immaculately wavy hair is hanging over his sky-blue eyes and lends an irresistible charm to his whole appearance, an appearance that radiates a childlike innocence. “Let’s start,” he says in a stern, southern sing-song voice, “with your IDs.” Jug-ears produces two ragged-edged packages from his back pocket and pushes aside one of those big towers of files so that he might smooth the package out before handing it over but the captain snatches it from his hand with the impatience of youth and flicks through the pages military fashion without even looking at them. “What do they call you?” he asks the shorter man. “Petrina, at your service.” “Is that your name?” Jug-ears nods in melancholy fashion. “I would like to have your full name,” says the officer leaning forward. “That’s it, sir, that’s all there is,” Petrina answers with wide-eyed innocence then turns to his companion and whispers, “What can