War & War (39 page)

Imgun … ptfie … ble … thrme,
Korin declared.

In other words he wished to announce that he would put five bullets through himself, that there would be five shots in all, that is to say he would inflict five wounds on his own body, and while he had to confess that he hadn’t quite thought through where and when he should do this, he felt here and now was a perfectly acceptable place and time, for there was no particular time that seemed to him more fitting, nor a particular place, so this would do and since he had said everything he had to say, there was no point in looking further so he might as well stop right here. There’d be one in the left hand, he said, one in the left foot. There’d be one in the right foot and one, if he could manage it, in the right hand. The last, the fifth … he started then left off, and did not finish, but put down the glass in his right hand, reached into the outside pocket of his coat and pulled out a gun. He undid the safety catch, raised his left hand, raised it right up until it was above his head, then, from below, raised the barrel and pulled the trigger. The bullet actually penetrated the hand and lodged in the ceiling between two neon lights but Korin collapsed and lay flat out on the floor as if it had entered his head not his hand. Back in the booth it was as if the loud report had been accompanied by lightning. The two beggars leapt to their feet in terror and started touching themselves all over in case someone had taken a shot at them, then they adjusted trousers, skirts, coats and other garments, and sat down in their chairs as though obeying an order. They stared at the bar, their eyes wide-open with fright, but neither of them dared shift an inch, but sat there petrified, and it was clear that they would not move from there for quite some time, so frightened were they. The man in front of them had not moved a muscle or responded to the shot in any way, only turning his head when Korin collapsed and was stretched out, the gun having bounced three times across the floor until it stopped at the foot of the counter. He watched for a while, as one might watch the lid of a saucepan that had fallen to the tiled floor of a kitchen, then he stubbed out his cigarette, buttoned his coat, turned, and slowly walked out of the buffet. There was a long silence under the neon lights, the kind of silence you get when you suddenly find yourself under water, then a door behind the counter slowly opened a fraction, and a red-faced man with tousled hair stuck his head through the gap. He stayed there a while, only his head remaining hanging by the door, then, since the noise was not repeated, he opened the door wide and took an uncertain step toward the counter—behind which, invisible to him, lay the figure of Korin—then, anxiously glancing one way then another he started buttoning his fly with one hand. “Is there a problem?” a cracked female voice asked from behind the door. “I can’t see anything …” “I told you, it came from the street! Get out there and take a look!” The man shrugged and was on the point of stepping out from behind the counter to the entrance to check what had actually happened out there since everything seemed to be in order inside when he froze in mid-movement as the ashtray on the edge of the counter caught his eye. The instant he did so he stopped fiddling with his fly and his hand stopped and rested on one of the shirt buttons: it was obvious that something was dawning on him, that a fury was rising in him because his red face was becoming redder and redder. “Fuck it!” He stood quite still and closed his eyes, then his fingers started to form themselves into a fist that he brought smashing down on the counter. “What’s up?” the woman croaked uneasily from behind the door. “The filthy, fucking, son-of-a-bitch scum!” the man pronounced, accentuating every word with a thrust of his head. “He has fucking run off, the bastard! What’s up, dear Detti, is that he’s split, our stinking filthy son-of-a-bitch guest has quit, fucking run off! Our dear guest … the only serious thing in days … and …” “He’s not in the john?” The man was almost dizzy with fury and had to hold on to the counter to steady himself. “A priest too,” he growled to himself. “And not just any old priest, but one from Jerusalem! How could I be such a fool! The rat! A filthy common rat! Priest from Jerusalem! Hah! Yes, and I am Donald Duck in Disneyland!” “Béla, don’t get yourself riled so! You haven’t even checked in the …” “Listen, Detti,” the man scowled over his shoulder, “stop going on about the john and all that shit, when this filthy, stinking rat has chiseled us! And left not a stinking penny behind, you understand!? He has been eating and drinking the whole day and not paid a single penny, you understand, Detti, not a penny!?” “Sure I understand, Béla sweetheart, I understand it all,” the woman kept trying to calm the man, possibly from some bed, “but there’s nothing to be gained, you’ll not get the stinking money back by winding yourself up into a state … Take a look in the john, won’t you?” “And all along I had this feeling,” said the man, his fingers practically white on the counter, “I said to myself, listen Béla, the guy might be lying his head off? How the fuck would a priest from Je-rus-al-em get here anyway! How could I have swallowed all that shit, Detti?” “Really, Béla sweetheart, you should really …” The man just stood there swaying and it was a full minute or so before he could let go of the counter, straighten up, wipe his hands across his face as if wanting to erase the lines of bitterness engraved there, and was about to return to the woman, the lines of bitterness still unerased, when his eyes lit upon the petrified figures of the two beggars beside the entrance to the john. “You still here, you two shitface no-good abortions, still cooling your asses?” He bellowed at them but it was like kicking a dog, nothing came of it, nothing followed the voice, in other words rather than going over to them and chasing them out onto the street, he returned to his place behind the counter, a sad and broken figure, and quietly closed the door behind him.

The buffet was quiet again,

Korin lay by the counter, unconscious.

Moon, valley, dew, death.

Later they took him away.

Also by László Krasznohorkai Available from New Directions

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