Read Online Moving Parts by Magdelena Tulli - Free Book Online Page A

the order of the entire paragraph, like the edge of a page torn out along with some of the text – the remaining fragments of sentences suddenly lose their meaning and come face to face with emptiness. In consternation, the narrator understands only that he has to withdraw and try again, but that means he does not understand anything, and it even seems to him for a moment that here there is nothing to understand. Before he collects his thoughts the automatic light switch turns off. The narrator’s job is to push forward no matter what. He does so, illuminating his way with his cigarette lighter; shadows jump ahead of him into dark corners. In this manner he comes to a grille barring the way. In his bunch of keys, none fits the lock: The grille evidently does not belong to this story. Next to it, on either side, there are old hotel sofas piled on top of one another. Their pink stuffing, dirty and wadded, with crumbs of memories stickingto it, pokes out of bursting seams. The narrator averts his gaze in disgust. He looks down the inaccessible hallway and can see nothing unusual in it: On both sides of the grille, in this story and that one, there are the same low ceilings, the same shabby walls, and puddles under the moist joints between pipes. Having satisfied his curiosity, he retreats. He finds it hard now to keep his bearings and to maintain clarity in his weary mind; it is only the familiar sight of the fire extinguishers and the windup telephone that brings temporary relief. The attic filled with old copies of the Financial Times also appears in its former place, and even the window at the head of the stairs; by simply cracking open the trapdoor in the attic floor it’s possible to glance at the terrace, where a restless Feuchtmeier is just on the point of putting his glasses on the edge of the table, and Mozhet is looking up at him in surprise.
    The narrator leaves without waiting for the already familiar continuation. Now he is walking cautiously. Most important is that his gaze should not stray, taking with it the entire series of subsequent sentences; as long as he is passing the dark red fire extinguishers in the cold light of the neon lamps everything is just as it should be. It would seem that it’s simply a matter of attention. Concentration is needed to keep a tight rein on the forces of disorder, to impose the necessary rigor, and to prevent objects from descending into the anarchy to which the unstable criteria of order incline them. But soon the narrator comes upon the chest full of limp, dirty green gas masks. He picks oneup and breathes in the smell of perished rubber. A few yards further on, some steps appear; and here once again are those old hotel sofas and the grille, stubbornly blocking the way. The gas mask falls from his hands and hits the ground with a pathetic slap. Now he admits he’s lost; he decides at once to call the front desk from the windup ebonite phone. He recalls the professional smile of the desk clerk and her impeccable diction. Without pleasure he also remembers the good day he was wished, and the jar filled with candies that no one takes. There’s no lack of words – the narrator has at least as many of them on hand as there are candies in the glass jar; but he can find no word with which to start. And for this reason, in the end he doesn’t even reach for the receiver. The condition of the plumbing and wiring indicates that the maintenance staff never visits the lower floors. Not even the maids come down; the gas masks must have been lying here for years, probably since what was once called the Cold War by the papers of the day, which are still moldering in faded and tattered piles against the walls. In the nature of things the daily routine does not reach far; there exist domains outside the responsibility of the hotel management. Nevertheless, the narrator’s mind cannot come to terms with the impossibility of summoning the elevator. Yet that