On the other hand, that is after all what they pay her for – to take the entire load upon herself, relinquishing all rights, accepting the brunt of her mistress’s anger without a word of complaint, taking on her own shoulders the weight of that lady’s unhappiness and disappointments. It’s obvious that she is not paid for peeling vegetables – the very idea of such extravagance is laughable. Cooking, cleaning, and ironing shirts seems a natural addendum to the whole, tasks assigned without emotion and without additional compensation. Peeling vegetables for her employers, she secretly asks herself the painful question of why it was not given to her to be someone else. In fact, it’s understandable that this question rankles; it was added like a label to the bolt of linen from which her apron was made. But there will be no answer. A maid is a maid, a wife a wife, and that’s an end of it. The costume creates the character and takes it into possession, never the other way round.
If things are to move forward, a sign marking the notary’s practice should be looked for. It ought to be a brass plate visible from far off, gleaming like gold, engraved with an appropriate inscription indicating to all passers-by, whether or not they need to know, the place where the paralegals are at work – inspiring confidence with their immaculate white shirts and their black oversleeves worn shiny from use; bustling about, utterly engrossed in their pressing paperwork; sprawling at their desks, smoking one cigarette after another, constantly reaching for the telephone. But the signplate showing the place where this establishment is supposedly located is nowhere to be seen. It is neither here nor over there; it does not appear on any of the buildings. Neither at number seven, where the notary’s private apartment is located, nor at number one, where there is a café. At number three the photographer has his studio and apartment; at number eleven is the pharmacy, where they know everyone’s aches and pains. At number nine the work-weary policeman lives on the back courtyard; while at number five the student rents a cramped little room in the attic. At number eight the washerwoman is cooped up in the basement with a washtub in which someone else’s underwear is always soaking in soapy water. At number two there is the bakery, and at number four the movie theater, though it has been closed down and the building in which it was housed is up for renovation; in the meantime, a spare set of keys is kept in neighborly fashion by the photographer at number three, in a drawer beneath a pile of unclaimed pictures. And the hotel at number ten? It’s inexpensive but quite decent, just right for middle level businesspeople. It goes without saying that if the notary’s signplate were to appear at all, any address would be good, except for numbers six and twelve, where the boys’ grammar school and the local government offices stand facing each other. Then what has happened to the plate? It seems that out of forgetfulness, or perhaps deliberately, it has not been put up at all.
What an unpleasant surprise, what an inconvenience and cause for consternation! Of course, the lack of a sign does not necessarily mean the annihilation of the office. It is assumed to have existed since time immemorial, at the very least since when the notary married his boss’s somewhat unstable daughter, in this manner becoming a partner. His father-in-law’s funeral was magnificent, and the procession started precisely from in front of the office. It’s just that it is hard to point the place out. Without a signplate, the office still continues to exist in its discreet fashion, hovering noncommittally somewhere in space, as a putative background for the vest with the gold watch chain and the overcoat with the fur collar, which the youngest paralegal is obliged to take deferentially from his employer when he appears in the doorway. Insofar as the door was ever hung in its frame; insofar as there was even a frame. It’s impossible to keep it a secret from the men in overalls that accomplished facts almost immediately become immaterial, which in their eyes renders preparatory labors futile and encourages furtive economies. And it is only thanks to such economies that their work turns out to be so extraordinarily profitable. In their nonchalance, they had been certain ahead of time that the office would not be needed; now they find themselves in a bind. It’s too late to repair the mistake. There arises the worry that they will try instead to derail the story to cause it to bypass the office along with its costly and toilsome interior decorations. For the most mundane reasons, this establishment will remain what it is – a hazy notion.
But if I am the notary, this is not my concern. One way or the other I don’t like to be late, so now I have to leave home. I have good reason to hurry from the apartment building at number seven. I’m escaping tears and shouts, cold compresses, rows over the little girl’s untied shoelaces; getting as far away as possible from my wife’s despair and fury, and especially from the maid’s unspoken complaints. The enjoyment of drinking one’s morning coffee in peace and quiet has proved unattainable in such circumstances, as the notary finally came to understand when he glanced into the kitchen before leaving. The maid, who had just been slapped by her mistress for her unforgivable negligence, was still sobbing as she prepared the chicken for the soup. If I am the notary, I’m angered by the quite extraordinary insolence concealed in her meek, teary-eyed gaze. What do you want from me? I’m already buried under a mountain of problems so much more important than the ridiculous wrong you’ve suffered. He knew where to go to ensure that even in such troublesome circumstances he did not have to start work without first drinking a cup of coffee – he was familiar with the café at number one. Though in fact, even if he himself does not see it clearly enough, he cannot start work at all. Characters generally have the sense that their future is by the nature of things uncertain. Each mention of going somewhere is by the nature of things shrouded in a mist of indefiniteness, which in itself is not an obstacle. After all, it also gathers in places where there is talk of things past. So if someone decides confidently to call by someplace for a moment or plans where they will go afterwards, they have to count on surprises. Until that moment comes, the future can be imagined any way one likes. The gaze will not search ahead of time for the locations that are being prepared. What has been disregarded on the quiet is not in evidence. Even if what has been disregarded is the most important thing, no decision or design lies behind this fact. It’s always just a tangled matter of falsified invoices and furtively acquired goods.
Those carrying out the work would prefer to confess to simple inattention, at most to having neglected their duties, rather than to intentional abuses. Yet if their indolence is the sole cause of their mishap with the notary’s office, where the hell have they put the safe in which the deposits were kept? The title deeds of several local buildings, promissory notes of various kinds, even boxes of jewelry? And above all government bonds, larger or smaller bundles of which were surely secured there for various local families. The absence of the safe has come to the fore now, and it’s hard to ignore. It goes without saying that they did not place it in the notary’s apartment at number seven. Where is it then? What have they done with it? Why have they hidden it? Were they intending to smash open the combination lock? Unceremoniously burn a hole in the armor-plated door with a blowtorch? I can no longer look on with forbearance at this scandalous disappearance. It needs to be said – loudly and clearly, so the master craftsmen and apprentices hear – that the safe must be found.
Yet in the meantime, in accordance with the plan the dark gray notary made of pure wool leaves the entranceway of number seven and heads off to work. The notary is cold; he has problems with his circulation, which is understandable given his weight. His fur collar, standing out proudly amid light autumn overcoats, inspires confidence, as does his profession. The image of the office remains vivid and sharp in his mind, unsullied by any doubt. Even the question of how he is to get there does not cause him any unease. The same way I do every day, he would reply, surprised that it is not obvious. By the streetcar. In his memory he retains the entire past that has fallen to his lot along with the somber three-piece suit and the gold watch chain, so how on earth could he forget his daily ride on the streetcar? As he passes the concierge,
who crumples his cap in his hands, he will tip his hat absently, because he is polite even when distracted. He completes his short route unhurriedly and sits at last at a marble-topped table. Just for a moment. He places his order and picks up the daily paper. Yet luckily things will fall out in such a way that before the cup of coffee and the cream cake taken straight from the glass-fronted display case are brought to his favorite table in the corner, he will be called to the telephone. Otherwise he would have had to sink his teeth into the rock-hard rosette of whipped cream crowning a cake made of plaster. And though he is a serious fellow, responsible for home and office, for his staff, his family, and his servants, it would have crossed his mind at that moment that in reality there is nothing for him. Such an extravagant thought is in keeping neither with his vest nor with the dark gray overcoat the waiter took from him a moment ago. Over the fur collar there was no exchange of glances. In this way the two men mutually confirmed their understanding of the order of things; as the notary handed the waiter his coat and hat, with an impatient gesture he hung his umbrella over the other man’s arm as if it had been a coat hook, while the waiter’s gaze clung humbly to the garments with which he had been entrusted. Though in fact this is of no consequence, and it could even be anticipated that no more attention whatsoever will be paid to the waiter. If at this point someone wanted to exclude the notary’s office from events, they would first have to cause the notary himself to diminish in importance. To stop him being in command of this and other situations. Considering his social position and his presumed extensive network of professional and personal connections, it would seem at first glance that such a thing is quite impossible. And indeed it would not be easy to bring about. Whoever undertook it would be obliged to disturb the deepest foundations on which public order is based.
But those responsible for the petty abuses will stop at nothing; they use any method they can to avoid the catastrophe of being discovered, regarding every other kind of catastrophe as a lesser evil. The workmen in their overalls, accustomed to impunity and seeing it without any unnecessary qualms as an encouragement to continue their familiar machinations, are not held back by anything. Those disposing of the misappropriated materials are aware that a crash will level all the old accounts. When it has passed, they’ll be able to return to their underhand dealings with a clean balance sheet. Yet in bringing about such a disaster it will not be possible to avoid damage. This is a moment of danger for everyone, including them, the masters and apprentices, because they run the risk of leaving some incriminating trace, some incontrovertible proof of their having acted in bad faith. The steps they were obliged to take to deprive the problematic notary’s office of its raison d’être will turn out to be an act of sabotage. Nor would it be the first. No story has ever managed to be played out properly to its conclusion. Yet even if the matter were to be revealed, they will not give up so easily. They’ll issue unimpeachable affidavits for one another and write appeals, sticking to their version till the bitter end; they’ll try any stratagem, from tears to threats, aware that whatever happens there is no one who could take over their duties.
The telephone in the café will ring for the first time no later than a quarter after ten. It’s the notary’s wife. His broker called, she informs him resentfully, complaining that her head is splitting. In his view, her migraine is a trifling matter next to the serious problems portended by the message she is relaying. The notary listens, asks a question, and listens some more. His voice sounds calm, but his eyes dart about with increasing rapidity. The phone call from the broker has set him on edge, though it’s entirely possible that his wife has gotten the whole thing mixed up. It’s easy to check – all he has to do is reach for the receiver he just replaced on its hook. But the broker’s number is permanently busy. The notary calls his own office. It goes without saying that he won’t get through; he won’t even hear a busy signal, as if at the other end of the line there were no telephone, no receiver, and no hand to pick it up. The only thing left for him is the café table, to which he could easily return. But his appetite has abandoned him.
In the opposite corner of the room, the student is leafing through the local newspaper in search of anything he can find about the disturbances whose recent memory fills him with pride. The fracas blew like a storm through the central districts of the city, passing by at a distance the glass display case containing the cakes and sparing it. No one here saw these disturbances, and thus they had as much meaning as the notary’s office, about which it can only be said that somewhere or other it probably exists. The memory of the affray fell to the student’s lot, along with the metal emblem pinned to his lapel. Without confirmation in the form of broken glass crunching underfoot, without store windows boarded up to deter looting, accomplished facts carried little value. To become reality, they needed suitably dramatic descriptions and the necessary lofty tone. Anger is a symptom of distress and so requires pathos.
But whose distress are we talking about? This question might be asked by the owners of the broken windows, who know only their own worries, because after all they are the ones who will pay for new windowpanes. The answer is precisely the distress that comes from overly tight sleeves, seams digging into tender flesh, pants that are too short, a frayed buttonhole. But when the towering wave of anger comes along, among those it sweeps away there are always a handful of well-dressed figures. The wave will lift up highest of all precisely those whom fate has favored from the beginning. Those whose jackets lie on them as if custom-made, and whose underwear even is no disgrace. Unencumbered by the comicality that blights the lives of many, the student is at ease in his jacket with the emblem pinned to the lapel. Unfortunately though, his pride is tinged with bitterness. More could be explained by a family photograph. To understand what it was all about, it would suffice to notice the hang of his father’s cheap Sunday suit. His upbringing was patriotic but his soups were watery, and for supper it was bread and jam. One should also know about the pain of humiliation when, before the honest gaze of steel gray eyes the color of the best lamb’s-wool sweater, the more imposing doors slam shut.
If I am the student, I believe that what’s needed is to abandon unnecessary scruples and to strike at whatever is unshapely and badly made; it should be swept away and burned without so much as a by-your-leave, so as to bring order. And also to restore the world’s pure glow, by the light of which the virtues of true perfection will finally be able to shine. In the meantime, consoled by a mug of beer on an empty stomach and reasonably satisfied with the newspaper reports, whose tone has the strained quality of breaking glass, he ordered bacon and eggs for breakfast. He belched once and twice, and the remainder of the thoughts that had previously lain heavy on his stomach were given release. Rising over the table, they acquired the agreeable silkiness of cigarette smoke. On one side of the student was the notary, whose thoughts to the contrary dropped heavily to the floor, where they snaked about beneath the tables. On the other side, his head empty, sat the photographer who owned the studio across the square. He was drumming his fingers on the tabletop and staring at the outdoor space crammed into the rectangle of the window frame like a thin and slightly dusty white passe-partout. He was frowning and narrowing his eyes. The city landscape outside the window, it seemed, still lacked sufficient depth of field.
Meanwhile, the matter that just a moment before had caused so much disquiet made itself felt again: the phone rang a second time. In the conversation with the broker few words were exchanged, and on the notary’s end these were mostly monosyllables. The subject of the conversation was a sudden drop in stock prices across the board, while the Swiss franc had moved decidedly upward. The cause was a political crisis of a catastrophic nature; this was last-minute news too recent to be in the morning papers. The higher the Swiss franc rose, the less was paid for the banknotes in rainbow colors that were the national currency and that one ought to stick with out of a sense of patriotic duty. The trading tables, however, indicated that everyone was racing
to get rid of them. And this was only the beginning. In the next couple of hours all the prices on the stock market, including those of real estate, threatened to collapse. It would be the kind of event succinctly known as a crash. This most unpleasant-sounding word was repeated twice. Though of course conditionally, without absolute certainty. Then what shall we do? Shall we sell or shall we hold out awhile, counting on a recovery? This question, on the face of it extremely simple, forced a hurried choice between hope and common sense. It was not easy to deliver the answer. The notary cleared his throat twice before he bid farewell to hope and made all the sensible decisions. Afterwards, he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and stared unseeingly into space.
In the passe-partout of the window, images of confusion appeared. Passers-by were carrying loops of sausage, slabs of bacon, and sacks of flour or sugar or potatoes. Their eyes glistened. Here and there, groups of grammar school boys elbowed their way through, the same unhealthy gleam in their eyes; because of the unusual political situation, they had been sent home. The notary’s son was among them; he came briefly into view in the crowd, right in front of the café window. Drifting with the flow, his glasses misted over, he swept by and vanished, already hidden by those following behind. Above the noise of the street, which was louder than usual and swelling like a fever, there rose the hoarse voice of a newsboy, and the first copies of a special edition appeared in people’s hands. The waiter was sent out for the paper; before he returned, the piercing yelp of a dog was heard, and a police whistle rent the air. The newsboy – a teenager in short pants who was the son of the washerwoman – shot out of the throng and fled as fast as his legs would carry him, though no one was chasing him. But the conundrum of these events was nothing compared to the conundrum of the general situation; the contents of the special edition of the newspaper, which the waiter finally deposited on each of three tables, seemed incomprehensible.
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