taking notes he would first yank off his tie, then slowly unbutton his shirt so he could stroke his youthfully hairless chest while pacing and ruminating) for he was going to bed.
At first, of course, the change did not appear to be very significant, even if there were some conspicuously unpleasant signs; if until now I had been able to proceed in the dark with total confidence because I felt the same, slightly slippery ground under my feet and, even without seeing anything, could hear the roar and crash of the waves from about the same distance, and feel about the same amount of salty spray on my skin, thus being free to enjoy the tempest as well as give myself over to my fantasizing and recollecting, all I had to do now was to make sure I stayed on course, not stray from the embankment, to accomplish which the sense of direction possessed by my feet proved sufficient, with a little help from the foamy waves; but then, while waiting for a fierce gust to subside, a wave struck me in the face —which in itself wouldn't have been too serious, because I didn't get all that much water down my neck and, though the water was certainly not warm, my coat wasn't soaked through either, and actually, it was all rather amusing, and if the wind hadn't kept me from opening my mouth, I probably would have laughed out loud—then at that very same instant I was struck again, harder this time, and that did make me lose confidence.
My guess was that until now I must have been walking in the middle of the embankment, but now, having waited in vain for the wind to subside, I edged toward its inner side, more protected from the sea, there to attempt to proceed, but the attempt failed, not only because the wind wouldn't let me and would have swept me away if I had given in to it, but also because after taking just a few steps in that direction I thought I had gotten to the edge of the embankment, with its sharp and extremely large stones; nothing to be done here, I realized —the embankment was narrower than I had thought, and it could not protect me from the waves—but even so, I did not do what might have been sensible in the circumstances: it didn't even occur to me to turn back, since I knew from the guidebook that even at high tide the water here rose only twelve centimeters, and that, I figured, could not be fatal, so I had simply reached a dangerous stretch, I told myself, the embankment probably curved here, that's why it was narrower, or for some reason dropped down, and if I just got past this dangerous bit, I would soon see the unfamiliar lights of Nienhagen and be safe again.
Suddenly the wind died down.
Still, I can't say I harbored any resentment toward Frau Kühnert; of course she wasn't talking so unbearably loudly because she was angry: even if our relationship had become unusually close over the last few weeks, I was always careful to maintain a proper distance, which, I believe, would have made it impossible for her to display so openly any feelings or emotions, if indeed she had them; the truth was, she couldn't speak quietly.
She seemed unaware of any intermediary tone between complete silence and unrestrained shouting, a unique trait —what else could it be called— that probably had as much to do with the tragic relationship between her and her husband, with whom she did not speak at all, as with the fact that she worked as a prompter in the Volkstheater, one of the most prestigious theaters in the city: in other words, she made her living by holding back an otherwise very pleasant, full-bodied, well-articulated voice, which nonetheless retained enough power to reach and be clearly understood in the farthest corners of the stage: no doubt about it, it was her voice that defined her life, and her ugliness was merely a rather comic addition, which I don't think she was fully aware of, since to her only her voice mattered, though she could seldom use it in its natural, normal range.
I myself had several occasions to
At first, of course, the change did not appear to be very significant, even if there were some conspicuously unpleasant signs; if until now I had been able to proceed in the dark with total confidence because I felt the same, slightly slippery ground under my feet and, even without seeing anything, could hear the roar and crash of the waves from about the same distance, and feel about the same amount of salty spray on my skin, thus being free to enjoy the tempest as well as give myself over to my fantasizing and recollecting, all I had to do now was to make sure I stayed on course, not stray from the embankment, to accomplish which the sense of direction possessed by my feet proved sufficient, with a little help from the foamy waves; but then, while waiting for a fierce gust to subside, a wave struck me in the face —which in itself wouldn't have been too serious, because I didn't get all that much water down my neck and, though the water was certainly not warm, my coat wasn't soaked through either, and actually, it was all rather amusing, and if the wind hadn't kept me from opening my mouth, I probably would have laughed out loud—then at that very same instant I was struck again, harder this time, and that did make me lose confidence.
My guess was that until now I must have been walking in the middle of the embankment, but now, having waited in vain for the wind to subside, I edged toward its inner side, more protected from the sea, there to attempt to proceed, but the attempt failed, not only because the wind wouldn't let me and would have swept me away if I had given in to it, but also because after taking just a few steps in that direction I thought I had gotten to the edge of the embankment, with its sharp and extremely large stones; nothing to be done here, I realized —the embankment was narrower than I had thought, and it could not protect me from the waves—but even so, I did not do what might have been sensible in the circumstances: it didn't even occur to me to turn back, since I knew from the guidebook that even at high tide the water here rose only twelve centimeters, and that, I figured, could not be fatal, so I had simply reached a dangerous stretch, I told myself, the embankment probably curved here, that's why it was narrower, or for some reason dropped down, and if I just got past this dangerous bit, I would soon see the unfamiliar lights of Nienhagen and be safe again.
Suddenly the wind died down.
Still, I can't say I harbored any resentment toward Frau Kühnert; of course she wasn't talking so unbearably loudly because she was angry: even if our relationship had become unusually close over the last few weeks, I was always careful to maintain a proper distance, which, I believe, would have made it impossible for her to display so openly any feelings or emotions, if indeed she had them; the truth was, she couldn't speak quietly.
She seemed unaware of any intermediary tone between complete silence and unrestrained shouting, a unique trait —what else could it be called— that probably had as much to do with the tragic relationship between her and her husband, with whom she did not speak at all, as with the fact that she worked as a prompter in the Volkstheater, one of the most prestigious theaters in the city: in other words, she made her living by holding back an otherwise very pleasant, full-bodied, well-articulated voice, which nonetheless retained enough power to reach and be clearly understood in the farthest corners of the stage: no doubt about it, it was her voice that defined her life, and her ugliness was merely a rather comic addition, which I don't think she was fully aware of, since to her only her voice mattered, though she could seldom use it in its natural, normal range.
I myself had several occasions to
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