Moving Parts by Magdelena Tulli Page A

possible.
    Inside the apartment a telephone is ringing. It rings for a long time, insistent and plaintive. Nobody answers and it would seem that no one is home. Yes, one of the keys fits the lock. In the corner of the hall a colored rubber ball lies on the floor. The Fojchtmajers packed only the most essential things and left without warning, abandoning to their fate the sheets drying in the attic after being laundered, let’s guess, by the concierge’s wife. The concierge himself was drunk and didn’t even see them pulling away in their black automobile. In the hallway afew suitcases were left behind, along with a hatbox and an umbrella. They were unable to pack much into their cases and had to part with their phonograph and record collection, their Encyclopedia Britannica set, their twenty-four-place china dinner service, a fur that gives off the oppressive smell of mothballs, and albums of family photographs. Even the most essential equipment that they finally managed to pack, at the last minute had to be partially abandoned for the sole reason that the luggage would not fit in the car. Setting aside one suitcase after another, those about to leave no longer remember what they packed in which case. They hope that when they come back . . . According to the principles governing the plot, they never will come back.
    Upon cursory inspection, their apartment seems unexpectedly comfortable – much more so than the room with the balcony that the narrator occupied in the wing of the hotel set aside for permanent residents. The narrator notes the hard-wood floors smelling discreetly of polish; the lofty, sunny interiors; and the bathroom with a window and a large china tub. He can imagine their satisfaction when they first moved into this apartment, no doubt a good few years ago – long enough for them to have grown attached to its virtues. But now, it seems, they left it at a moment’s notice. The narrator lifts the telephone receiver and calls the internal number of the hotel’s front desk – he’s set on taking the apartment. As a consequence he wants to check out of the room with the balcony. From thereceiver there comes nothing but a hollow silence suggesting in the best instance a problem on the line. It will be even better this way, without unnecessary formalities, the narrator concludes upon reflection. In the drawing room, on the turntable of the phonograph that those departing forgot to turn off, a record is still spinning with the irregular hiss of the needle. They were fond of American jazz bands. On a side table there is a circular tray; on the tray an open bottle of brandy and three emptied glasses, one with a trace of red lipstick. In a vase there is a pink rose, perhaps chosen by the person who also brought the matching box of chocolates lying next to it. So there was someone who came to bid them farewell, probably a man. Why should it not have been the owner of the trumpet living upstairs? A newspaper left behind contains reassuring news from the previous day. Clearly they gave it no credence. An inscribed cigarette lighter, a gift from the staff at Fojchtmajer’s printing press on some special occasion, had been hidden under the newspaper and remained there. If Fojchtmajer doesn’t buy himself some matches, he’ll have to ask strangers for a light.
    The narrator goes into the bedroom and opens the wardrobes; on the shelves he finds Fojchtmajer’s silk shirts and underwear, all ironed and folded in neat piles. He checks the springs of the top-quality mattress on the large double bed, sits on the armchairs that stand nearby in bright covers, and feels the incomparable softness for which they were chosen. They may not have been happy, but they didn’t complain; the softnessof their armchairs reconciled them with their life, though not entirely and only up to a certain moment: After all, they had begun to look for a way out. In a framed photograph mounted over one