Read Online The Motion Demon by Stefan Grabinski, Miroslaw Lipinski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stefan Grabinski, Miroslaw Lipinski
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SMALL, NERVOUS MAN in a threadbare coat, travelling suitcase in hand, forced his way through the crowds filling the station hall at Snowa. He seemed in a great hurry, elbowing roughly the peasant herds and throwing himself like a diver into the whirl of human bodies, as, from time to time, he fixed an uneasy glance at the clock reigning over the sea of heads.
It was already a quarter to four in the afternoon; in ten minutes the train for K. would be leaving. High time to buy a ticket and find a seat.
Finally, after superhuman exertions, Mr Agapit Kluczka forced his way through to the cashier area to stand in line and patiently wait his turn. But the slow movement forward, a step per minute, made him most restless, and soon those around him noticed a distressing tendency on his part to rush the travellers. Eventually, breathless, red like a beet, with drops of sweat covering his face, Kluczka reached the desired window. At this point, however, something unusual occurred. Instead of ordering a ticket, Kluczka opened his wallet, explored its interior, muttered something under his nose, and departed through the exit passage from the cashier.
One of the travellers, whose toe Kluczka had stepped on quite heavily during his trip to the window, noticed with no small indignation the whole puzzling manoeuvre and did not fail to berate him as he was leaving:
‘You’re crowding and pushing forward like a madman. One would think, God knows, that you’re in a great hurry—and yet you leave the cashier without a ticket! Pooh! Crazy, crazy! Perhaps you left your house without taking any money?’
But Kluczka’s mind was elsewhere. Having symbolically ‘acquired’ a ticket, he rushed with a nervous step through the waiting room to the platform. Here, a throng of passengers was already awaiting the arrival of the train. Kluczka walked impatiently back and forth along the platform a couple of times, and then, offering an open cigarette case to a porter, asked:
‘Is the train late?’
‘Only by a quarter of an hour,’ the railwayman informed him, taking out with a smile a cigarette from the row offered him. ‘It should arrive in two minutes. So, sir, are you finally going to take your train ride to Kostrzan?’ he asked, winking his eye playfully.
Kluczka became somewhat confused; his face reddened, and, turning on his heel, he trotted lightly beyond the second track. The porter, who knew him well, shook his head indulgently, waved his hand, and, taking his spot by the entrance to the waiting room, began to drag at his cigarette with pleasure.
Meanwhile, the train arrived. The wave of travellers swayed with unanimous rhythm, hurrying to the cars. So began a typical bousculade , the tripping over packages, the squeezing through the throngs—a crush, a hubbub, a tumult.
With the wild energy of an experienced player, Kluczka threw himself into the midst of the first line of attackers; along the way he knocked down a grey-haired old woman making her way to a compartment with two huge bundles; he toppled a nanny with an infant, and gave a black eye to some elegantly dressed gentleman. Unperturbed by the downpour of curses that fell upon him from the direction of his victims, Kluczka triumphantly entered onto the steps leading to a second-class car, and in one sprightly spring found himself in a long, narrow corridor. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, smiled victoriously, and glanced maliciously at the surging flocks of passengers below. But after five minutes of delight at being in an ‘occupied’ space, he heard the whistle for departure and on his face a sudden transformation occurred: Kluczka became alarmed. And before the final response from a bugle, signalling departure, he grabbed his suitcase from the net, flashed like lightning by the backs of the amazed travellers, and got out through the back door facing the warehouses opposite the station.
At that moment, the train moved. Above Mr Kluczka’s head the windows
It was already a quarter to four in the afternoon; in ten minutes the train for K. would be leaving. High time to buy a ticket and find a seat.
Finally, after superhuman exertions, Mr Agapit Kluczka forced his way through to the cashier area to stand in line and patiently wait his turn. But the slow movement forward, a step per minute, made him most restless, and soon those around him noticed a distressing tendency on his part to rush the travellers. Eventually, breathless, red like a beet, with drops of sweat covering his face, Kluczka reached the desired window. At this point, however, something unusual occurred. Instead of ordering a ticket, Kluczka opened his wallet, explored its interior, muttered something under his nose, and departed through the exit passage from the cashier.
One of the travellers, whose toe Kluczka had stepped on quite heavily during his trip to the window, noticed with no small indignation the whole puzzling manoeuvre and did not fail to berate him as he was leaving:
‘You’re crowding and pushing forward like a madman. One would think, God knows, that you’re in a great hurry—and yet you leave the cashier without a ticket! Pooh! Crazy, crazy! Perhaps you left your house without taking any money?’
But Kluczka’s mind was elsewhere. Having symbolically ‘acquired’ a ticket, he rushed with a nervous step through the waiting room to the platform. Here, a throng of passengers was already awaiting the arrival of the train. Kluczka walked impatiently back and forth along the platform a couple of times, and then, offering an open cigarette case to a porter, asked:
‘Is the train late?’
‘Only by a quarter of an hour,’ the railwayman informed him, taking out with a smile a cigarette from the row offered him. ‘It should arrive in two minutes. So, sir, are you finally going to take your train ride to Kostrzan?’ he asked, winking his eye playfully.
Kluczka became somewhat confused; his face reddened, and, turning on his heel, he trotted lightly beyond the second track. The porter, who knew him well, shook his head indulgently, waved his hand, and, taking his spot by the entrance to the waiting room, began to drag at his cigarette with pleasure.
Meanwhile, the train arrived. The wave of travellers swayed with unanimous rhythm, hurrying to the cars. So began a typical bousculade , the tripping over packages, the squeezing through the throngs—a crush, a hubbub, a tumult.
With the wild energy of an experienced player, Kluczka threw himself into the midst of the first line of attackers; along the way he knocked down a grey-haired old woman making her way to a compartment with two huge bundles; he toppled a nanny with an infant, and gave a black eye to some elegantly dressed gentleman. Unperturbed by the downpour of curses that fell upon him from the direction of his victims, Kluczka triumphantly entered onto the steps leading to a second-class car, and in one sprightly spring found himself in a long, narrow corridor. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, smiled victoriously, and glanced maliciously at the surging flocks of passengers below. But after five minutes of delight at being in an ‘occupied’ space, he heard the whistle for departure and on his face a sudden transformation occurred: Kluczka became alarmed. And before the final response from a bugle, signalling departure, he grabbed his suitcase from the net, flashed like lightning by the backs of the amazed travellers, and got out through the back door facing the warehouses opposite the station.
At that moment, the train moved. Above Mr Kluczka’s head the windows
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