However, he suddenly jumped to the side. He had almost stepped on a large, amorphous mass. It was a man. And he was dead.
CHAPTER XXII
1
Someone had purposefully placed the man there. Sometimes soldiers would leave the bodies of guerrillas or conspirators out in the middle of the road — for some time, even days on end — for the whole population to see.
The corpse was lying face down and the blood on the asphalt beside its head was already dry. He had been killed there, at this exact spot.
No uniform: he was wearing black pants, a black belt, and a gray shirt. Walser bent over slightly to see his face. Maybe it was someone he knew. He bent over some more: nope, no one he knew. It was a man. Just a man, he murmured.
The man didn’t have any shoes on. Certainly someone had stolen them from him. The world goes on, and this detail, the absurd absence of the man’s shoes, proved it. Someone had stolen from the corpse.
And now Walser felt pride for his city. It goes on, it endures, it survives. It’s intelligent, this city, he thought.
He wasn’t ashamed; Walser hadn’t felt that kind of propriety for some time. There was a corpse on the street that no longer needed shoes: someone had stolen them; all was well. It would be irrational to leave shoes there, on a dead man’s feet. An intelligent city, he thought again.
Meanwhile, some people passed by; one of them walked over and looked at the corpse. “Another one,” the man said; Walser nodded in agreement and the man walked away. Another person came close by but didn’t slow down; he said nothing and maintained his pace.
Joseph Walser kept looking. He looked at the corpse’s hands. First at the left hand, then at the right hand. The dead man’s palms were facing up.
Instinctively, Walser counted the fingers on each hand. Five fingers. Two perfect, complete hands. More than that: they were clean: without a single spot of blood or dirt on them. Clean and normal. The hands of a living man, you could say.
He kept looking at the dead man’s perfectly intact fingers. He smiled, and had the urge to say out loud, to anyone who was a part of that silent spectacle: How can a man be dead if his hands are still intact? How can he be dead if he has five fingers on each hand?
He laughed to himself at the absurdity of it. An obscene affront to existence and events: the corpse had two perfect hands!
Another thought passed through Walser’s head: just as the thief had stolen the dead man’s shoes, Walser could snatch the dead man’s right hand, take it with him, and switch it with his own. What would the dead man want with all those fingers, since he’s already dead?
Walser looked around him, as if to see if anyone was watching, and, for a second, felt like his plan was viable: he would steal the dead man’s right hand and run off.
But no, it wasn’t possible; in that situation, jealousy was a waste of emotion. The man was dead; Walser was not in fact confronted with this man, even though he was only a few inches away. “He’s gone,” said Walser.
A very sensible word to use when speaking of a dead person: gone, gone away from here. The man had taken a trip. But how is it that someone so passive could travel? Travel after death—Walser tried to smile.
But then a minor detail caught his attention: the belt. The corpse’s back was facing him, so only the back of the belt was visible, but it would certainly have a buckle.
His thoughts had already embarked down another path, they had been normalized, if we can put it that way. The shock of coming upon a corpse in the middle of the street had worn off. Walser’s organism had returned to normalcy.
He was now observing different details, his attention was elsewhere: his collection didn’t contain a single piece that had belonged to a corpse that he’d seen with his own eyes. And there it was: the corpse. And one with a belt; a belt that certainly had a metal buckle. Walser was now concentrated on how to steal the belt from the corpse, right there, in the middle of the street.
He looked around: nobody there. He bent over impulsively and pushed the corpse onto its right side; it was easy; he pushed harder and was able to roll the corpse over completely. Its face had been disfigured by a bullet, but Walser barely even glanced at it. He stood up again, straightened his back, and looked around. Someone was walking toward him from the end of the street. Walser stood still.
The corpse was now face up. One side of his face was deformed, but there were still some individual features left. Walser looked at the dead man’s face. A stranger, that one.
Meanwhile, the person at the end of the street had walked over to him.
“It never stops,” said the man.
Walser didn’t respond, and the man bent over to take a closer look at the corpse’s face.
“A bullet,” he said. “Do you know him?”
Walser responded that he did not.
“May I ask you for a favor,” Walser asked suddenly. “It’s his belt. Can you help me?”
“That’s stealing,” said the man. “I’m a soldier.”
Walser was now frightened.
“This man is dead,” he said.
“Even so. It’s theft of private property.”
The two of them were alone. They remained quiet for a few seconds.
“Don’t be afraid. I’ll help you,” said the man, finally.
“… just need you to lift the torso,” said Walser.
Walser bent down and began to unfasten the belt. The other man also leaned over the corpse and lifted its torso a few inches off the ground, so that Joseph could pull the belt through its loops. But the man soon let go of the body, without warning.
“It’s heavy.”
They both stood up; someone was coming.
2
It was a woman. She didn’t stop. On the contrary: she picked up her pace.
The two of them bent over again, and again the man lifted the torso of the corpse off the ground. Walser pulled on the belt and finally removed it. The man sat the corpse back down. “It’s heavy,” he repeated, while brushing off his hands.
Walser thanked him and rolled up the belt.
“What’s your name?”
“Joseph Walser,” Walser replied, embarrassed.
“Hinnerk Obst,” said the other man, introducing himself.
The two men shook hands.
CHAPTER XXIII
1
For the last few days, Joseph Walser had sensed something strange going on with his wife. They spoke very little; communication between them had always been difficult — neither of them was much of a talker, and what did they have to say to each other anyway? However, it had grown worse over the last three days. During that time, Margha had said, at most, and in a hushed voice, “yes,” here or there, in response to concrete requests.