CHAPTER SEVEN
Change of direction
Not much later — it must have been midmorning, getting on for ten o’clock — Köves was standing in another stairwell and pushing once, twice and, finally, a third time on the bell of a battered door, which had no name-plate and had clearly seen better days, until an ill-tempered stirring could be heard from behind it and a bald, oval head, fleshy face, and morose pair of eyes appeared in the peephole, and then a high-pitched, brassy voice resembling a trumpet hooted at him:
“You?!..” Berg was amazed. A key then jangled, a lock clicked, and Köves found himself in a gloomy space — some sort of hallway it must have been, for one of his shoulders immediately bumped against one of a pair of cumbersome entrance-hall wardrobes of disparate sizes — from which he stepped through an open glazed door into a lighter, somewhat more spacious room. It was an odd room at first glance, and its oddity was not caused by the paler and darker blankets laid on the floor, which obviously served as a carpet, nor even by the two rush-bottomed armchairs and a stool which were fraying around the wooden frames, or the two bed-settees, already sagging like potholes, which were set alongside the middle of the wall, it was more something that was missing: it was only then that Köves saw that might have been meant to be among these things was the table he now spotted in front of a tile stove, which was standing in one of the far corners of the room and on which he could see a decrepit office desk lamp, which was shining even in the light of the morning, sheets of paper, a sharp and a blunt pencil, a red pencil sharpener, as well as a small metal tray, and on it, in single-file as if heading toward the stove, a green, a white, a pink, and a chocolate-coloured petit-four, along with a glass of water, then, in a recess between the table and stove, another rush-bottomed seat without a back — in all probability the one from which Berg had jumped to his feet, when Köves had started ringing at the door.
“To what do I have to thank for the … How did it come to mind that … How do you know the ring to give?” with great difficulty Berg got out his questions, evidently none too pleased at having to receive a guest.
“The same way that I knew the address.” Köves smiled tentatively, by way of an apology, as it were.
“So, you’ve come from the South Seas?” Berg asked.
“Yes,” Köves nodded, still a little uncertainly, as if he too were surprised by it. There was no denying that although he had started off from the typist’s dwelling with the initial intention of going to the Ministry of Production, if only to pick up his notice of dismissal, he had changed direction en route, it seems, because not long afterwards he found himself sitting in the South Seas and asking Alice to bring a substantial breakfast. One word led to another, and all at once there slipped from Köves’s mouth — due to sleeplessness, the experiences and unordered thoughts that were still whirling confusedly about in his head: in short, inattention — the question which had anyway long been on his mind: “How’s your … partner?” to which Alice had responded that if he was really curious, why didn’t he pay a visit? “Where?” Köves had asked, perhaps less surprised than the surprising suggestion would have justified. “At home,” Alice replied as unaffectedly as though Köves was a close friend who was constantly dropping in on them, and from the look she gave Köves seemed to discern a mute plea. He then recalled that Alice had complained for a long time, relating how Berg had not set foot outside his home for weeks, perhaps months now; and if she did not take home, and set down before him, his lunch and supper he would not eat but just die of hunger; and it was useless her telling him to get out sometimes, come down to the café, see something else than the four bare walls — all her talking was to no avail, for it was hard to get even a word out of him; he was more and more wrapped up in his thoughts. “About what?” Köves asked. “His work,” the waitress answered evasively and with a touch of uncomprehending nervousness over an activity somewhat alien to her, which on the spur of the moment put Köves in mind of Mrs. Weigand’s agitation in the way she was used to complaining about her son. To his dubious question as to what she was expecting him to achieve with a visit, all the waitress was able to say, with an unsure smile of unclear hope, was, “What a nice chat he had with you the other day …,” but still, he was there after all.
“People are worried about you,” he said, perhaps partly by way of explanation, with the hint of a smile, as if being simply the faithful bearer of that concern, but also with the required solemnity of one who was thereby fulfilling his mission.
It appeared, however, that Berg was not deceived:
“Some people may be worried,” he said in ringing tones, “but that’s not what brought you.”
“No,” Köves admitted; then, as though he were loath to admit it: “Cluelessness,” he added, with a slightly forced smile. “Am I disturbing you?” he asked next.
“As you can see,” Berg cast a sullen glance at the table, “I’m working,” placing a hand on his papers as on a restless animal. Making his way round the table, he dropped his heavy, but not disproportionate body down onto the stool and, like a gaoler over his prisoners, ran his eyes, fleetingly, but severely and appraisingly, over the petits-fours:
“You’re writing?…,” Köves asked after a short lull, quietly and, involuntarily, with a degree of sympathetic tact.
Berg, spreading his arms a little and grimacing, made the irritated admission:
“Yes, I’m writing,” like someone who had been caught in a shameful passion that he himself deprecated.
“And what?” Köves probed further, after allowing another considerate pause to go by, to which Berg, in wonder, raised a glance, as it were, looking past Köves:
“What?…,” the question came back, as if this were the first time he had thought about it. “The writing,” he then declared, and now it was Köves’s turn to be surprised:
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“What would I mean?” Berg shrugged several times in what amounted to serene helplessness, any pretence at making an effort suddenly peeling off him, as if Köves were no longer making him feel uneasy: “One is always writing one’s writing,” he carried on, “or at least always should be writing it, if one writes.”
“Fair enough.” Although Berg seemed to have forgotten to offer him a seat, Köves nevertheless set himself down in the armchair diagonally opposite Berg, cautiously smoothing down the rush ends sticking into his thigh from its frame. “Let me put it another way: What’s the writing about?”
“Mercy,” Berg responded promptly, without a moment’s hesitation.
“I see,” said Köves, although he couldn’t really have seen as he followed it straightaway by asking: “And what do you mean by ‘mercy’?”
“The necessary,” came the answer, as swiftly as before.
“And what is necessary?” Köves plugged away, as though sensing that the moment was favourable and wishing to make use of it.
“You’re again posing the question badly,” Berg motioned, his hand suddenly dropping, like an irrevocable decision, cutting a swath through the petits-fours, his glance darting over the table, most likely in search of a serviette (there was no way of knowing, but maybe he imagined he was in the South Seas), which of course he did not find, so he was only able to clean his presumably sticky fingertips by fastidiously rubbing them together. “You should ask what’s unnecessary.”
“Right,” Köves conceded to Berg, as though it were a riddle he had posed: “What’s unnecessary?”