want to walk any more. The blue signal light down in the railroad cut would go on shining uselessly all night ⦠Surrounded by chairs piled on tables, they drank cognac in the one café that was still open. The writer told Keuschnig how a certain bass guitarist had amazed him by never losing his rhythm. âHe must have made his peace with the world,â said the writer, who. had just broken a cigarette while putting it in his mouth. A dog barked in the silent streets around the Porte de Passy, and another, up the boulevard, almost at the Porte dâAuteuil, answered, as dogs in the country do at night. In one of the totally dark buildings a toilet light went on and a moment later went out again. Though it was after midnight, a shutter was rolled down. The comfortable apartment houses now gave the impression of impregnable fortresses. The roar of cars could be heard from the Boulevard Périphérique, but none came this way. Was that a rat running across the street on light-colored legs? The sidewalk glistened like the steps of the Métro ⦠By this time Keuschnig was tired and nothing else.
On the way home his fatigue turned to fear and fear made him ruthless. He walked so fast that the corpulent writer fell behind. In his fear he even forgot to see SIGNS. The bare tree roots on the unpaved path beside the railroad cut were terrifying in themselves. When he reached the house in a panic, the two women were sitting on the front
steps with their heads together, talking softly. Hostile in their security, they paid no attention to him. Guitar music was coming out of the open door.
They didnât move aside when he went past them into the apartment. Their only response to his grazing them was to talk louder. He wished them dead.
He sat down in the dining room. The dirty dishes were still on the table. Thoughts pell-mell, in complete sentences, but all unutterable. Unthinkable that he would ever again draw breath to say a word. But equally repellent that he should go to bed now. Like a sick man, he could neither stand nor lie, only sit motionless, leaning forward. He wanted to close his eyes, so as to see nothing moreâbut for that heâd have needed lids for his whole body. He couldnât help hearing the women on the steps talk about him in the third person pluralââmen like Gregorââas though he didnât count any more. Some people passed the ground-floor window talking Spanish in the silent night, and he experienced a fleeting moment of longing and appeasement. The writer came in panting and sat down facing him on the floor. How ridiculous! He knew the writer was there, but didnât look up. In the presence of this man with his affectation of omniscience, innumerable little worms began swarming in and out of every opening in Keuschnigâs body; an intolerable itch, especially in his member and nostrils. He scratched himself. Dried ear wax detached itself from his auditory passages and fell somewhere ⦠Now I would like to see someone INNOCENT, he thought; someone I know nothing about; neither where he comes from nor what heâs like.âFrom the writerâs mouth he heard a smacking sound,
as though his tongue were detaching itself menacingly from his palate, preparing to speakâand then he really heard him clearing his throat. Donât speak! âOnce I get the hang of it,â said the writer, âI can make do with your gestures. But when your situation gets really critical, youâll have to start talking.â Keuschnig only bared his teeth. The writer wanted to leave but couldnât get up off the floor. He rolled back and forth for a while, then called the women to help him. They picked him up, the three of them went out. They didnât say a word in front of Keuschnig and they didnât laugh. Once outside, they talked without interruption.
Keuschnig stayed there motionless, until he heard the guests departing from the seated
On the way home his fatigue turned to fear and fear made him ruthless. He walked so fast that the corpulent writer fell behind. In his fear he even forgot to see SIGNS. The bare tree roots on the unpaved path beside the railroad cut were terrifying in themselves. When he reached the house in a panic, the two women were sitting on the front
steps with their heads together, talking softly. Hostile in their security, they paid no attention to him. Guitar music was coming out of the open door.
They didnât move aside when he went past them into the apartment. Their only response to his grazing them was to talk louder. He wished them dead.
He sat down in the dining room. The dirty dishes were still on the table. Thoughts pell-mell, in complete sentences, but all unutterable. Unthinkable that he would ever again draw breath to say a word. But equally repellent that he should go to bed now. Like a sick man, he could neither stand nor lie, only sit motionless, leaning forward. He wanted to close his eyes, so as to see nothing moreâbut for that heâd have needed lids for his whole body. He couldnât help hearing the women on the steps talk about him in the third person pluralââmen like Gregorââas though he didnât count any more. Some people passed the ground-floor window talking Spanish in the silent night, and he experienced a fleeting moment of longing and appeasement. The writer came in panting and sat down facing him on the floor. How ridiculous! He knew the writer was there, but didnât look up. In the presence of this man with his affectation of omniscience, innumerable little worms began swarming in and out of every opening in Keuschnigâs body; an intolerable itch, especially in his member and nostrils. He scratched himself. Dried ear wax detached itself from his auditory passages and fell somewhere ⦠Now I would like to see someone INNOCENT, he thought; someone I know nothing about; neither where he comes from nor what heâs like.âFrom the writerâs mouth he heard a smacking sound,
as though his tongue were detaching itself menacingly from his palate, preparing to speakâand then he really heard him clearing his throat. Donât speak! âOnce I get the hang of it,â said the writer, âI can make do with your gestures. But when your situation gets really critical, youâll have to start talking.â Keuschnig only bared his teeth. The writer wanted to leave but couldnât get up off the floor. He rolled back and forth for a while, then called the women to help him. They picked him up, the three of them went out. They didnât say a word in front of Keuschnig and they didnât laugh. Once outside, they talked without interruption.
Keuschnig stayed there motionless, until he heard the guests departing from the seated