That wasn’t the last of it for the day. On into the evening he’d tried to come to grips with that morning’s conversation. . the whole thing was a nightmare! He hadn’t gone back to work afterwards; until long after dark he’d sat at home, impervious to his mother’s hesitant questions, trying to gain back some sense that he was living in reality. . Who was that person actually talking to this morning? Certainly not to me. . his only hope lay in questions like that. The whole story has nothing to do with me. . the matter is closed, no more child issue, no more Harry Falbe. . no more Room 17.—Only when it had grown dark outside the kitchen windows and the influx of street noise had ebbed did he feel like himself again. As twilight fell in the rising autumn mist, the trundle and screech of vehicles on the street had seemed oddly urgent and theatrical, like the clamour of already sleepy children who feel it necessary, from sheer exhaustion, to make an especially vivid display of high spirits. . what a strange simile. Now the noise faded off towards the centre of town; his mother had finally left him alone and gone to bed in the belief that he wanted to work on his writing; the sort of reason for which he’d withdrawn from her all summer long, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere.
This evening he’d had that same abstracted and unapproachable demeanour. . now, as the doorbell rang, he knew at once that they were back. — The gangling young man outside had to be a novice; at first glance he hardly seemed to have much self-confidence. He leant his entire length upon the doorjamb, bending slightly over W., but seemed to face him only halfway, remaining in communication with another person evidently waiting on the landing below, invisible to W. Only the slight creak of the wooden steps made this person’s presence felt. . and the young man leaning on the doorjamb spoke louder than necessary — the person below had to be able to hear the words — so that W. was afraid his mother would hear. He was requested to appear at the town hall again two days from now, once again in Room 17, and in the morning again, if that suited him. . Remember: Room 17! And if you forget, then just ask for the boss.
It doesn’t suit me, said W., I’m not going to talk to you at all any more. This is the last time, I refuse. . if you come in, I’ll make you a coffee, then we can talk more quietly. And you can explain the whole thing to me. . I’ll tell you my position, you can have it in writing if you want. And that will be the end of our conversations.
Nonsense, said the young man, you haven’t even talked to me yet!
Now the light went out in the stairwell; W. turned it on, reaching his hand past his lanky visitor’s lower arm to grope for the switch; with the light back on he saw the lanky man smile as though to ask W.’s indulgence for the trouble he was forced to cause him — or as though sorry about the trouble W. was causing himself — and at the same time, as though unintentionally, place his foot between the threshold and the opened door.
That’s nonsense, he said, if we want you to, you have to come.
Fine, said W., then force me if you want, but I’ll never come of my own free will!
No, that’s nonsense! called a voice from the landing below (W. attempted in vain to identify it as the voice of the breezy gentleman from that morning). Tell him there’s no way we’ll do it in his flat! He can’t want his mother to find out about this paternity affair. Do we want her there when we have to ask him the last time he and this so-called Cindy. . no!
Though actually we know that, said the young man next to W.
You’ll never be able to prove it! said W. I never. .
He was interrupted by the rattle of a latch; upstairs, on the next floor, a door had opened, someone was about to go out into the hall; there was only an old woman living up there. — Go back inside immediately! a male voice commanded from the third floor; W. realized that a third sentry had been posted upstairs. Get back in! Don’t leave your flat when we’re here. And don’t even think of eavesdropping at the door again! — The old woman’s hasty shuffle was heard, the door closed.
What do you mean, never! the man on the lower landing said much too loudly. Do you really believe we can’t pin the child on you? Oh yes we can, even if you never laid a woman in your life.
Fine then, said W., see you in two days. . I’ll be there!
At that the lanky young man unstuck himself from the doorjamb, but remained standing where he was, staring wordlessly until W. realized that he was supposed to disappear. He did, but peered out through the letter slot; only when the stair light switched off did footsteps approach from upstairs; in the meantime a car had started up in front of the house, a door slammed, the engine revved, and the car screeched off down the street; in every respect the soundtrack of a B-movie.
Further summons had followed, the details exhaustingly repetitive, he could no longer tell the meet-ups apart (suddenly this term for his appearances at the town hall had crept in), though each time it was a different grey-suited gentleman he met. . all about the same age. . no, it might actually have been the same one each time. The meet-ups interwove and intertwined, the conversations held there became more and more banal and insignificant. . Spare me the details!
Soon the washed-out fog of the grey autumn and winter days, sinking over his path to the town hall and back, had covered the town for good. . and in this dusk it was lost to him. In the oppressive, vaporous light he soon saw nothing but shadows meeting, or barely crossing paths, nodding at one another over their shoulders, touching hands conspiratorially as they came out of the doors, as they went in the doors, exchanging furtive words amid poorly feigned coughing fits. He himself was one of these shadows, he had soon forgotten which one. . which one had gone to the town hall for a chat, which one returned from the town hall, angry at statements they’d chatted about. . and he was angry at his shadow that remained in the town hall, sitting there and chatting. . Don’t make me say any more!
Even on that first evening visit, of which he still had an approximate picture, they hadn’t actually negotiated with him, but with an imaginary character, with a notion of him they’d concocted in their minds. The lanky fellow leaning on the doorjamb, hadn’t he all too clearly spoken over his head. . into empty space? Not into empty space; he’d addressed his words to a ghost which invisible to W. had risen from the wall behind. . the lanky man had spoken with a figure that filled W.’s shadow in the background. This shadow was a projection. . yet made entirely of his being: of thoughts he hadn’t yet discovered in his mind, of nerves he hadn’t yet needed, of sensations he hadn’t yet experienced within. . and perhaps this projection commanded a language which he hadn’t yet spoken, but which had lingered in him at the ready. And he knew he’d be able to understand it, if only he yielded to it.
They had completely passed him over, then, with those words they spoke in his direction from different sides; what he’d been until that evening, they had disregarded, merely using him as an interposed medium for their thoughts on the one side and on the other side, and in so doing they had spoken to — and brought to life — a structure within him of whose existence they could have had but a purely theoretical notion. . perhaps every person harboured this structure, or every person of a certain character profile to which W. belonged? All they’d had to do was complete him to accord with this structure. . they’d filled his customary stock of signs with more complete contents. . previously he had lived in the delusion that complete contents should suffice, but they had found the heightened form.
They needed him in different places at once, they needed him in different times at once; this was possible only when chronologies were imposed upon the circumstances in retrospect; life was thereby transformed into a theory; apparently there was a structure within him that coped quite well with that. They had spoken to him from different floors, and he had functioned. — Now they needed only to seal him off from the voices of his former life, so that he would hear them from a distance, while teaching him to speak in different voices, in feigned voices. . he could recall the desire to speak in a feigned voice from his very early childhood. Could this be about rekindling certain influences from his early childhood?—W. vaguely recalled that as a child he’d always been fleeing from his mother. . and thus, perhaps, unconsciously seeking his father?