Perlefter by Joseph Roth Page B

mastered to perfection. In his youth he had been a longshoreman in Odessa. Back then he could still break thick paving stones on his knee and balance a Cossack sabre on his fingertip, crack a hazelnut between his fingers and uproot young trees with one hand. He was so strong thathe was compelled to demonstrate his prowess, and since dock work did not strain him enough he supplemented it through fights in saloons and quiet alleys. On Sundays he appeared as a wrestler in a circus and followed the rules just as minimally as the laws of the country, which he despised, because he was one of those unusual people for whom the state was a stupid institution that robs liberty. Consequently Leo Bidak had not only the authorities for enemies but also professional associations, and as he had never belonged to the Association of Athletes he was considered in the sports world to be a querulous outsider who won all the prize competitions without paying any contributions, enjoying all the privileges without subjecting himself to the obligations. In addition, Bidak was a favourite of the crowd, who had no qualms when he made a mistake and forgave all his illegal moves while others who did the same were booed out of the arena. And so Leo Bidak had to fend for himself, a rebel within his own profession, unclassifiable in any category or species, lonely and mighty, averse to society and his own confederates, against both worlds. He was short and fat; his hands were round and soft with short fingers like those of a child, and yet his grip was firm. These hands were like iron when they were clenched into fists. I once saw Bidak’s palms and was amazed at their clear and simple lines, the likes of which I have never encountered in anyone else. There were three heavy furrows, two lateral creases and a long line. Everything else was smooth, like a palm of sanded skin. According to the rules ofpalmistry Bidak had at least 150 years to live, without sickness, without pain, without complications. His hands were tools; when he wasn’t working or hitting they hung there limp from his strong round wrists like a pair of hammers.
    Even his face was simple. It consisted of a low forehead, tiny blue eyes, a short nose, a small but wide chin and two strong cheeks, on whose surface muscles could be seen flexing. Behind the forehead lived the simplest of minds: the eyes had nothing else to do except look out for danger; the nose needed only to smell, the mouth only to eat. Even Leo Bidak’s hair was only there to meet the requirements of nature. It had no colour. It was neither thick nor thin, neither hard nor soft, and Bidak wore it as God let it grow, falling down over his forehead or cut very short, depending on whether or not he had money to go to a barber.
    For Bidak had no money, and he earned only a little. The wages he made at the circus he drank and gambled away. Three dice of human bone rattled constantly in his right trouser pocket. He won at games only when he was drunk; he lost when he was sober, and that is why he never came into money, because he spent whatever he had. He lost on the street whatever else he put up – paper, watches, a pencil, smooth pebbles, keys and tools. He needed the stones to practise marksmanship. He had such skill with slingshots that he could hit a specific windowpane on a moving train. On free afternoons he went out into the fields through which the train crossed, lay down in the grass and made amental note when he heard a train coming to hit the third or fourth or fifth windowpane of the third to last car. He always hit it. That behind the windowpane people sat he knew. That he might unknowingly hit one delighted him much. Sometimes he flew a kite made out of newspaper. He carried a ball of hard dark-blue twine in his pocket, twine that he, with his small, wide and sharp teeth he could chew through and with which he could sew his clothes and also his boots.
    For a time he was a driver for a distillery, and