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《The Shoe Tester of Frankfurt(Excerpt)》
Excerpt-1
Shortly after breakfast I leave my apartment, carrying two vas bags. Each bag tains three pairs of shoes that I have personally tested; the bag in my left hand also holds six evaluatios, each between two and two-and-a-half pages long. The summer m is warm and almost excessively bright. The swallows fly straight up the walls of the apartment houses and theher turn sideways over the roofs or soar on into the blue. Id like to stay right there and at least watch them, if I t imitate them. But I have an appoi. Im supposed to meet Habedank at ten. At Ebert Platz I take the number 7 train to Hollenstein, where the Weisshuhn Shoe Factory is located, not far from the station. Ill meet Habedank in the managers offid give him the shoes along with the reports. Well chat for about three quarters of an hour—first twenty minutes about the test shoes, and the rest of the time about electric trains. Then Habedank will hahree or four pairs of new shoes, and Ill go home. Ive known this routine for years, but I still get a little nervous every time. It goes bay particular ceit, which I sense a little more acutely during these expeditions than usual, when Im just at home. I ied this ceit from my mother. We both believe that its not worth looking at the world for aire lifetime. I used tle against the effects of this ceit, but not anymore. Naturally I have to make a special effort when Im with Habedank. He shouldnt notice my ceit at all. He thinks that Im aric train hobbyist just like he is, that to this day I read the same teical magazihat he does, primarily about early Trix and Fleisn products. He doesnt realize that Im just drawing on the same store of knowledge frozen from my childhood days, and all just for him, time after time. Its also possible that Habedank will tell me one of his tedious stories, which I listen to with perfunctory sympathy. Three weeks ago he took nearly ten mio tell me about the end of his vacation. On the whole trip from Italy to Germahought he was about to run out of gas. But then he made it bae without i. That was/is his eory. I sat still in front of his desk for ten minutes and laughed with delight when he reached the end and exclaimed: It turned out there was enough gas! Imagihere was enough gas! My ceit entails a nearly tinuous collision of humility and disgust. The two forces are of nearly equal strength. On one hand, I sense my humility admonishing: Its precisely the most idiotic stories of your fellow man that you should listen to! At the same time, however, my disgust taunts me: If you dont escape right away, youll drown in the vapors of your fellow man. Whats infuriating is that this stant colliding never allows either side to win. So the two forces just go on running the same collision course over and over. And those are my feelings as I find myself approag Habedanks office. I tell myself that Im prepared for anything and right away I have to laugh at myself. Habedank and Oppau, one of the firms buyers, succeeded in making the office a no-smoking zohats why Frau Fischedick, another buyer who still smokes, paces up and down outside the office, smoking and grinning. She holds up her arms and waves at me. I observe that Frau Fischedick wants to be in the office when I speak with Habedank. She puts out her cigarette and goes in shortly after I do.
Habedank is sitting at his long black desk; when he sees me he stands up.
Ah there he is! Our master tester! he calls out.
My ceit triggers a hint of a smile. I walk across a soft gray carpet. The walls are lined with a series of i lighting fixtures. The window blinds are closed; the room is cast ily dimmed light. Herr Oppaus desk is on the left; Frau Fischedicks is on the right, in front of Habedanks. When he opens his jacket I catch sight of a hand-sized bloodstain on the chest of his shirt. I stare at Habedank; Habedank stares at me.
Unfortunately someoook a shot at me, says Habedank.
Who? I ask.
A fired tester.
Oh, I say.
Herr Habedank, Herr Habedank, says Frau Fischedick.
How do you like the bloodbath? asks Habedank and sinks bato his swivel armchair.
Dont believe a word he says! says Frau Fischedick.
Herr Habedank is one of the many people who have earned a natural death, says Herr Oppau.
Sav that last remark, I sit down in the visitors chair and place my evaluations on Habedanks table.
A felt-tip pen happeo leak in my shirt pocket, says Habedank.
I dont know what to say to that. Habedank leafs through the evaluations. I reato my bags and take out a pair of hand-stitched wingtip brogues as well as the cordovans, and explain at length why I sider them to be the best of the latest batch. Habedank, Oppau and Frau Fischedick listen to my report. I let myself believe that its a pleasure hearialk about shoes. Presumably its no act that I talk about shoes as if they were extensions of my own body. He who is forced to live as I do, without having seo this life, frequently escapes by wandering around and about and therefore places the highest value on shoes. I could say that my shoes are the best thing about me, but all I do is think that thought. My entary on the remaining shoes, which strike me as poorly cut, is short. Its always the same thing: the shoes are t?
oo narrow, the seams are too stiff, the stitg is in the wrong places, what they gain in elegahey lose in fort. Habedank runs his fingers over the shoes as I describe them. For a moment I have the impression that my efforts are meaningful and important. I dont know any other work where one individuals sensations (a surrogate for those of others) play such a decisive role. After I finish my entary, Habedank opens his draulls out a checkbook. For every evaluation, the Weisshuhn Shoe pany pays me two hundred marks. That means that Habedank shoves a check for twelve hundred marks across his desk. Afterwards he reaches behind him and places four pairs of new shoes on the desktop. I tell by their form which cutters they e from. I stow the shoes in my vas bags. Now it only be a matter of seds before Habedank asks me to join him for a cup of coffee. Thealk about electric trains from the 1950s.
Unfortuhe firm has to eize, he says instead.
I dont know what to say to that, and wait for his sentence.
What I mean is, says Habedank, that iure Ill only be able to pay you fifty marks per walking unit, in other words for every pair of shoes.
That seems rather drastic, I say.
The situation has ged.
So suddenly?
Yes, says Habedank, we now have some pretty powerful petition. The luxury market is doing very well, and others have caught on.
Aha, I say.
To make up for that, youll be allowed to keep the shoes you test, says Habedank.
Now the office is quiet. Suddenly it dawns on me why Frau Fischedid Herr Oppau never left the room. They wao hear how Habedank would say this—no, they wao see how I would take the demotion. But theres nothing to see. I only wonder if Habedank is really trying to tell me I might as well give up the job. But then why did he hand me four new pairs of shoes? Evidently the firm still values my future work, though only at a quarter of the old price, if I ighe in-kind gift. But what am I supposed to do with all those new shoes? Ill have to either hoard them ive them away.
Im sorry, says Habedank, the pay redu wasnt my decision, Im just supposed to tell you.
I nod. The truth is, Im not really surprised. This is the kind of situation that has given rise to my sense of living without inner authorization. Ive experiehem frequently. I dont even have any desire to repeat the words Ive often thought following similar experiences, and which I could think again now. Misfortune is b. I wait to see if Habedank will ask me to join him for a cup of coffee in the cafeteria. But today there is no invitation—evidently because Habedank has some degree of sympathy for my situation. He sches a piece of cellophane and drops it on his desktop. The crumpled ball slowly crackles back open. Just when Id enjoy listening to the crag, I stand up and say to Habedank: Y９9lｉｂ?oull have the new evaluations in about three weeks.
A mier Im waiting for the train that will take me home. A disabled man is buying a of beer at a french fry stand. The man has no arms, only hands attached to his shoulders. Four steps away, two crows are trying to peck open a plastic bag full of garbage. Using his right shoulder-hand (or should I say hand-shoulder?), the disabled man presses the against his ned opens it with his teeth. The ao open the plastic bag, immediately sending e peels, yogurt cartons and pizza boxes flying around the train platform. The public display of misery is disgusting, but it gives expression to my own horror as well. Is there a general dee or isnt there? I see several valid arguments on both sides. I stare at the trash and decide: there is a general dee. I await the day when all living things will fess their embarrassment. A mother with a stroller appears at the foot of the stairs leading up to the train platform. The child is gnawing on a balloon with his sharp little teeth. The teeth slide off the rubber and make a kind of gnashing creak—a sound I couldnt stand just a few years ago. Therain es humming along. The mother with the stroller waits for me to open the doors to the car for her. I dont know how it happehat Im no longer bothered by the sound of teeth rubbing against rubber. I see it as a sign of hope. Evidently some forms of opposition occasionally dissolve of their own accord. That could mean that Im getting closer to the day when I will live with inner authorization. I retract my finding and e to a new clusion: there is no general dee. I dont dare alert the mother to the potential fright that threatens her child should the balloon pop. An observation like that would have to be delivered both jokingly and admonishingly. But I t find the right words to elegantly bi and warning and at the same time ceal my own ay. Just last night in bed, shortly before falling asleep, I knew I had two train tickets left in my wallet; I now remove the sed one and i it into the ticket validator. How carefully we prepare the ground for major misfortune! Presumably Ill have to give up the job with Weisshuhn. The humiliation of w for onbbr>ly a quarter of the old honorarium is too much even for a tolerant man like me. Presumably I wont be meeting Habedank anymore. Ill put the four pairs of shoes he gave me through the usual paces ahem ba the mail, together with the evaluations. At Ebert Platz I get off the train with the iion of quickly vanishing into Gutleut Strasse, when suddenly I see Regine heading my way. She holds out her hand and kisses my cheek. Regine is only a little youhan I am. Im amazed at her youthfulness. She asks what Im doing these days and I give an evasive answer, which she notices right away.
You dont have to pretend with me, she says.
Fine, I say.
You still dont want to tell me what youre up to?
I just lost a job, I say.
Oh, says Regine.
Excerpt-2
Years ago Rbbr>egine and I both worked as interviewers; for a while we even worked together. I remember oernoon when she spent a whole hour asking me all about facial tissues, and afterward I quizzed her on plastic suitcases. Unfortuhe agency did away with the long interviews and replaced them with street polls. We were expected to stand outside schools, department stores, and gover offices and survey people about tax polid TV guides. her of us wao do that, and so we went our separate ways.
Are you w these days? I ask.
Im taking a course to be a death panion, says Regine.
Oh, I say, uo suppress a laugh.
Its a serious matter, says Regine.
Id like to ask her what they tea such a course, but dont dare.
Is it going well? I ask instead.
Retly they wao se for the first time to apany a woman who was y-one years old, but she sent me away after half an hour.
Now we both laugh, avoiding each others eyes.
She probably thought you were death in person e to take her away, I say.
I did that way.
After all, someone whos dyis everybody whos going on living, I say.
You talk, says Regine, as if youd already died once.
Of course I have, many times, havent you?
We laugh, and I dont know if Regine fully uands my last remark. She holds out her hand and says goodbye.
Give me a call, she says in parting.
I dont need a death panion, I want to call out after her, but at the last moment I hold my tongue.
A little later it occurs to me that Regine and I actually died oogether. First I had interviewed her about vacations and long distaravel, theerviewed me about ed food and ready-made dinners. After that we were pletely exhausted and lay down on her carpet. We drank half a bottle of wine and goofed around until our eyelids started to droop. When we woke up we undressed and slept together. Then a strahing happened. Regine was lyio me, studying her orso. Shed turned quiet and sad, but it took me a while to cat. She asked me to look at her breasts. Thats all Ive been doing the whole time, is what I think I replied. Well evidently you werent paying enough attention, she said. What are you getting at? I asked. Didnt you notice that my nipples arent doing what theyre supposed tine roud of her big long nipples. Duriiterludes they would grow erect, which she always sidered to be a sign of her vitality. Now they were bent to the side or folded over or pressed into her areolas. I had noticed the ge but didnt think it meant anything. Only gradually did it dawn ohat Regine hysically distressed. I went so far as to say she shouldnt take her nipples so seriously. And at that point we first fell silent and theogether as a couple.
Inside my apartment I open the windows, lie down on the floor and swit the TV. I catch a film about blue-footed boobies in the Galapagos Islands. These are large, white-feathered birds with blue feet. They resemble geese and move in a similarly clumsy manner. On the Galapagos Islands they find ideal breeding grounds, says the speaker. The birds on the ground, the surrounding water is and ri fish. The birds are called boobies because of how they have to move their luxurious bodies during the long run-up required for takeoff. The blue-footed boobies appeal to me; at the moment Id like to be one myself. I wouldnt mind being called a booby on TV, either, since as a blue-footed booby Id finally have nothing more to do with words and their meanings. Or perhaps the animals amazing white bodies make me think of Margots little white body. It could also be that running intine is to blame for my sudden desire for a woman. I turn off the TV. A button pops off my shirt and rolls a ways on the floor. I watch it until it flips over and stops moving. Through the walls I hear the children in the apartme door calling each other asshole and dumb jerk. They must be more or less like the children that made Lisa sick. Id like to call Lisa and ask her how shes doing, but I wouldnt like for Reo pick up and for me to have to talk with her. I dont move, listening to asshole, asshole shouted door. Among the new shoes Habedank gave me is a pair of barely affordable haed loafers made of genuine kidskin. They feel fantastic. Its a little after 3 p.m. Presumably Margot doesnt have any ers now and is eating a bowl of soup in the middle sink. The cat will be curled up sleeping in the sink on the left. I leave the apartment aots. Shell probably be surprised to see me again so soon. I folloanese woman whos eating a peach as she walks. The peach is small, it fits the Japanese womans hands, which are also small, and it fits her mouth, which is so small that it hardly even strikes you as a mouth. After a short while the peach is eaten up; the Japanese woman is holding the pit in her small hands. Or is it called a stone? If Im not mistaken when I was little I used to call it a stone, but then I started calling it a pit more and more often. Or was it the other way around? Why did I ge from stoo pit, when from todays perspective there was absolutely o do that? The Japanese woman s her peach pit in a tissue. I have to tur, but because I want to see what the Japanese woman will do with the peach pit (stone), I act a little like Im just loafing and looking around. O wondrous awe for that which is fn! The Japanese lady doesnt have the ce to simply toss the peach pit (stone) onto the street or into some garden. She stashes whats left iiny purse, which could just as well be called a peach pit pursette. Im only a few steps away from Margots. I t hide my excitement—a silent twit my knees gives it away. In the display window of Margots salon, all three ubes are lit. I see the door open and out steps Himmelsbach. That wasnt supposed to happen. Himmelsbach walks off to the right, so he doesnt notice me. In one fell swoop its clear I t go see Margot now, too. I probably wont ever be able to again. I t tell whether Himmelsbach had his hair cut or not. Quietly and fruitlessly I rail against the furtiveness of life. One er later it occurs to me that without this furtiveness I would have been dead a long time ago. This tradi leads me to a momentary insight into the stuff of my insanity. If you go crazy someday, I think, it will mean that youve finally been cut by these stantly opening and closing shears. Himmelsbach is wearing a dark slouch hat with a wide brim. Playing the artiste—what ridiculous affectation! Unfortunately I get jealous, right here oreet. At the same time I feel sorry for Himmelsbach. He looks more down and out than i days. For a while I follow him aimlessly. Maybe hell off take his hat, then Id know for certain. Under no circumstances is he allowed to see me. And I have no desire to talk with him either. I t let him see that Im brooding over him and Margot. The best thing would be if he sat down somewhere, took off his hat, and mulled aated for a bit. But Himmelsbach does and doesnt mull: those are my habits, not his. His pants look as if hed borrowed them. Himmelsbach reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a few sunflower seeds. He breaks them one by oh his incisors, using his fingernails to extract the white kernels. Regrettably, I ask myself if Margot is a woman who augments her ih occasional prostitution. But to tell the truth, I dont want to think about problems at all. Ive already dohat too often in my life, I feel too old for it now. I look for some distra. Id like to at least wander around the emba and look up at the occasional tree and observe the light among the leaves. But the emba isnt readily available, so I have to tent myself with ordinary neighborhood streets. Under no circumstances may I let things get to the point where the only time I find my life bearable is when Im wandering around. From the way Himmelsbach is walking, I t tell whether hes just slept with someone or not. For the time being I try to split myself into two people, into a sober rambler whos lost both his work and his woman on the same day, and an active dreamer who doesnt want to hear anything about that. The split succeeds, at least for a while. Already Im struck by the strong smell of the linden blossoms that must be around here somewhere. Shortly after that a cockeyed dog es up between two parked cars. I didnt know that cockeyed animals eveed. The dog trots up to me; I o more look him in the eye than I could a cockeyed human. Im very grateful to him for the distra hes providing me. Im also grateful to a schoolteacher, for the same reason. Shes standing at a streetcar stop with a dozen children. Suddenly the teacher says to her pupils: Dont take up so mu, line up more eically! That remark immediately predisposes me against the teacher. I mao work up an inner indignation such as I havent had in a long time. Line up more eically, I mumble to myself, words like that are the foundation of misery. The teacher is treating the children like umbrellas or folding chairs that be stowed here or stashed there as needed. Is it any wohat people refuse to sent to life from childhood on? Then the split in my sciousness starts to wear off. The experiences I have disowned e back bit by bit. Now my rambling about is no more than a bizarre play of melancholy and numb rigidity. I admit it would be painful if I couldnt see Margot again. I curse her, but that doesnt help. Dear Margot, did you have to hurt me with Himmelsbach of all people? I remember a saying I used to think when I was sixteen years old about nurses, secretaries and hairdressers: Dumb girls fuck good. I didnt e up with it, I was only parroting it, at that time I had no idea about nurses, secretaries, hairdressers or any other women. I try to foist the memory of this saying onto my split doppelg?nger, unfortunately without success. The saying only causes me to groan; no one else knows. What Id like most of all is to ght tot and tell her? what an indescribable simpleton I was when I was sixteen. And now Ive lost sight of Himmelsba the whole mess. I ask myself whether the moods that pass through me are part of my life or not. Im so dazed and feeble that I run into a parked car with my right knee. Im put off by two children who y path saying chostead of chocolate. Could this be the beginning of insanity? All the same, I dont want to plain or admonish. plaining and admonishing are the favorite occupations of y-five pert of humanity, and my ceit wants nothing to do with them. I only want to give brief expression to my daily damnation and then go on living. No, its not the damnation; its the days peculiarity I want to get rid of. Just how is it possible that Im longing for a hairdresser Ive met at most a half dozen times and whom I hardly know beyond her first hat Im jealous of a photographer whos half on the skids, and that Im m for a job that didnt keep me fed anyway, and all that on a single day? It seems to me I t go home uhe influence of this peculiarity. I sit down on a wooden bend stare at the nearby brambles, which I admire because they vey nothing except their own enduring. Id like to be like these brambles. Theyre there every day, they resist by not disappearing, they dont plain, dont speak, they dont need anything, theyre practically invincible. I feel a yearning to take off my jacket and toss it in a high arto the brambles. Perhaps that way I might ect with some part of their enduring strength. Even the word brambles impresses me. Maybe that is the word for the collective peculiarity of all life, the word Ive been searg for all this time. The brambles express my pain without putting any strain on me. I look at the dusty tangle of their leaves, flecked with bird droppings that are either running down or have already hardened, I look at the many brahat have been knocked or torn off by children but persevere undisced, and at the nerve-rag litter that collects around the roots but still doesnt diminish the shrub. When the daily peculiarity starts to get the better of me, Ill e here and toss my jacket into the brambles. Id like to see the jacket lying among the branches as a sign. A pletely clear image and still no one will reize it. Ill stroll past my jacket whenever I want and be able to marvel at how it remains as invincible as the brambles, despite the fact that it grows older and less handsome with every new pain it absorbs. And I will admire the jacket as my surviving doppelg?nger and so free myself from pain, at least for the time being. I t fully rule out the possibility that I might be going crazy at this moment. Whats clear in any case is that if I ever really throw my jacket into the bramble..s I will have gone crazy for sure. I havent reached that poi. I enjoy imagining a play-craziness desigo help me live uurbed. Now and then the pretend craziness should pass over into a genuine one—just for a few moments—and amplify my distance from reality. Naturally Id have to be able to return to the game at any time, as soon as the genuine craziness stopped. Presumably this will prove that people only be happy if they choose betweeend craziness and genuine craziness whehey want. In any case Ive frequently observed that people are naturally predisposed to mental illness. Im surprised so few people admit that their normalcy is merely feigned. Even the family walking past me right now is collectively crazy. A husband, wife, and grandma are making fun of a child. The child is still a baby; hes sitting in his carriage and t do a thing. He t hold his head up, t grab things, t really open his mouth right, t swallow. Every time the child t do something (right now hes drooling), the husband, wife randma squeals with pleasure. They dont realize that the delight they take in the child is really mog and crude, though if they looked they might see that the childs fleeting gaze is searg for a faraway refuge. Strangely, my observation of the family lets me find my way back to reality. Only the child sinks deeper into his carriage, one millimeter at a time. I y jacket and head home. The crazy family walks away, giggling.
My apartment is sitting there quiet and clueless. I dont feel miserable wheer the kit. The telephs, I wont pick up. I take off my jacket and cut a slice of bread. I very much like the way the bread tastes. I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. Just as Im about to put them bay glasses slip out of my hand onto the stoile of the floor. The edge of the left lens is chipped. I put on my glasses and look at myself in the mirror. Its instantly clear that I woting any new glasses, and that the little chip will bee a sign. I go to the telephone and pick up after all. Its Susanne.
I found a letter from you, she exclaims, that you wrote me eighteen years ago.
Eighteen years ago? I ask tonelessly.
Yes, she says, eighteen years ago in August this is how you addressed me: Dearest Susanne…
But we werent involved eighteen years ago, were we?
No, says Susa least nothing happened.
So what does the letter say? Is it embarrassing?
No, says Susanne, love is embarrassing for you, but not for me.
Her answer perplexes me; I say nothing.
Shall I read it to you?
No, I say, its enough for me to read it later.
Youll soon have a ce to do that, says Susanne, because I want to invite you to a little dinner party Im having for a few friends and colleagues.
Do I know them too?
One or two of them, says Susanne, for example Himmelsbach.
Oh God, I say, that old stuffed shirt.
You t call him that, says Susanne, laughing. Someone I used to work with will be there, too. Shes now a sales manager for an upscale retirement home, that must be a dreadful job.
Susanne lists who else is ing. As I listen to her I sink into a kind of internal numbness. I wonder whether I was with Susaeen years ago or if I only wrote her letters. I t remember.
Do you prefer red wine or white? Asks Susanne.
Red, I say.
Susans the time and date of the dinner several times. I write them both down on the edge of a neer. Im sure that I dont want to read the letter I wrote her eighteen years ago. Now Susanne is talking about what shes going to cook. I listen to her and chew on my bread without making any he taste of the rye softens the peculiarity of the fact that I will soon be sharing a table with Himmelsbach.天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》